The Goddess Embraced

by Deborah Davitt

  Leave him to my worms, and come to us!

  In the rubble-strewn streets of Athar, Orcus managed to raise his head as the great wolf snarled down at him. The frost-cold breath snuffled near his left ear-hole, and then Fenrir Vánagandr growled, I should end you now. You merit it. And while Pluto’s worms will finish you off, slowly and painfully, I do not have time to wait for them to do their work. Another growl. But if I end you here and now, the energies will level what is left of this city. Artemis’ death has already harmed the people here enough.

  The teeth closed on Orcus’ neck anyway, and then the wolf darted away, dragging the death-god by the scuff of his neck, like an errant puppy, or a fallen deer. Every third stride fleeted them through the Veil, but no matter how Orcus twisted and turned, he couldn’t free himself . . . and the wolf’s jaws clamped down all the more tightly. He could feel the worms eating their way through his body, and through his core-self, as well. The body could be repaired—the tattered bowels, the missing genitalia hardly mattered, and though the nerves screamed in protest, he could ignore them. No, the real problem was how Pluto’s attack continued to bore and burrow through his real self, devouring him until he’d have nothing left but his Name. If even that.

  Back into the mortal realm, and the curving teeth left his neck, and Orcus’ ravaged avatar fell to the ground, tumbling to a halt as Fenris sprang away, lunging to attack a mad godling in the air. Orcus looked up at the sky, seeing all the godlings, the crackling arcs of energy, and turned his head, seeing the thousands of fallen cedar trees. He could taste the energy signatures hovering in the air, and knew that Dionysus had died. And he could smell Stormborn’s blood. Her weak, mortal flesh. She would be such a lovely treat to break, with her delicate conscience and her weak heart. And her power—stolen from those who had a right to it—would renew him.

  On the other hand, there were several thousand energy tendrils between him and her at the moment, and the dragon she rode still looked uncomfortably healthy. Not worth the risk, Orcus decided. He needed easier prey. And with Pluto’s worms still roiling in his guts, and Fenris distracted by the fighting, Orcus slipped into the Veil. He had an inkling of where he might find a softer target. This one didn’t have a power akin to his own. But he’d be able to devour enough of Apollo of Delphi to recover from his wounding. His gelding. And then . . . then he’d see about finding other prey. As many as he could. If the mortal realm was sundered and undone, he intended to be as powerful as he could in the Veil. Oh, yes.

  To the south, Illa’zhi finished throwing a line of Persian troops a mile or so up into the atmosphere, allowing them to achieve free-fall before hitting the ground. Sekhmet waded through the Immortal ranks, her swords in her hands and a look of feral glee on her leonine face as she cut down the flesh and slew the spirits that inhabited the bodies. Zhi, Shadeslore called from the reactor building. I need you here. The radiation levels are getting uncomfortably high.

  The efreet condensed his form from a two-mile high pillar of swirling smoke and flame into a smaller cyclone, and moved himself through the Veil to his mortal lover’s side. He caught the flare of surprise in her as he appeared inside the fractured reactor building, and then he coalesced, pouring himself into her, shielding her from the radiation. Zhi—

  Oh, come, this is hardly the first time I’ve been inside of you. Though the first time so publically, yes. The efreet studied his surroundings. The roof had been torn away by the missile, and the reactor itself was water-cooled. He did not understand the machinery, but he could sense steam escaping the system, and that the steam contained more than just water vapor. It contained gases such as krypton and xenon—neither was particularly flammable, and they could suffocate his flames. There was also energy sizzling through the air. Gamma radiation, in particular, stood out to him, and he hastily examined Shadeslore’s mortal body. Good. Your spells and your devices have held off the worst of it.

  Can you do anything about the radiation?

  The materials are all earths. Melting them will not diminish their half-life. It will only release more of their material as particulates into the atmosphere, and spread the radiation further. Zhi considered the problem. I can absorb the energy from the area, before removing the materials that create the energy into the Veil. You can redirect what I do not eat. That should help matters. He considered the machinery again. How odd, that so much energy could come from rock. Fire of another sort.

  Far to the northwest, the Corycian Cave on Mount Parnassus had been a place of worship for Pan and the Muses for centuries, but humans had taken refuge here for millennia even before that. They’d huddled here, fearing the bears and cave lions, during the last ice age. They’d brought their women, children, and herds here when the Persians had invaded, five centuries before Caesar’s reign. The ceiling had been carefully painted and incised with symbols etched into the living rock. Layers of them. Some of them were so ancient that they were no more than daubs of ochre outlining the forms of human hands. Wards, many of which were imbued with the power to turn away sight, and avoid spirit senses. The Parnassians had done their best to ensure that no sorcerer, summoner, or errant spirit could find this refuge. And now, a god hid here.

  If he peered out the cavern’s entrance, Apollo could just see Delphi’s ruins. He bit his fingers. He didn’t remember coming here. He was supposed to be in the Alps, fighting a godling. He was supposed to die today. But if they can change things, then I can change things, and I won’t die.

  He didn’t understand how they were changing things. He’d never been wrong before, though he’d rarely cared to look more than thirty or forty years ahead. That had been about how long the average human life lasted, back in the day. Looking any further ahead had been a waste.

  Until this century, when a sensation had come to him that it was all going to end. He’d started looking. And he’d been as bound to the fate he’d seen, as that fate had been bound to him. Apollo bit his fingers again, gnawing on his own essence. If he stayed right here, and did nothing, he might survive. And that was worth anything. But on the other hand . . . he had no priests left. Apollo of Rome was dead. And he had one god-born remaining. One conduit. Sophia Caetia.

  Useless, of course. The world was ending in six weeks.

  Unless it didn’t.

  There you are, a familiar voice said, and Apollo’s head jerked up. Orcus limped into the cave, leaning on his scythe. Apollo stared. He hadn’t seen this coming. One of Orcus’ legs was missing just under the knee, and had been stripped of its flesh. His robe couldn’t conceal that his portly belly hung open in tattered rags of flesh, or that his black, oily blood continuously dripped down, scorching the earth. Boils moved under what was left of his skin, and Apollo could see why, as a worm erupted out of one, with a surge of black blood and pus . . . and then turned and bored its way back into Orcus’ chest. This was Pluto’s handiwork, clearly. There are so few Hellene gods left, and we Romans never cared about this place. It was in Hestia’s mind, however, when I ate her. Orcus’ red eyes gleamed. I thought you’d come here, Apollo.

  Apollo of Delphi edged away from the cavern’s opening, and nodded, jerkily. Pluto seems displeased with you. You shouldn’t have harmed Hestia.

  I don’t recall you trying to stop me. She had something I wanted. And now . . . pretty boy . . . so do you. You’re a god of healing. You’re going to help me staunch my wounds.

  Apollo had no answer. He’d left Olympus in a daze. And now, as Orcus leaned in, with his scythe in his hands, he had one clear, unmistakable surge of prophetic sight. If he stayed where he was, Orcus would devour him for his power, to stabilize himself. And the Roman death-god would do it as casually as snuffing a candle. Need to hide, need to hide, need to hide . . . . Apollo’s thoughts gibbered. And once more, his thoughts turned towards Sophia Caetia. No. Not hide. Not entirely. If I put myself in her, I can hide, and then take her as my avatar. New conduit. New body. Her spirit, becoming part of me. Get new god-born, new conduits on her, whe
n I’m done hiding. Yes. That’s the answer.

  And as the scythe tipped back a little, Apollo turned himself into a sunbeam and blasted past Orcus at the speed of light, heading for Jerusalem. Orcus hissed, and turned, trying to follow, but light travels in a vacuum at close to two hundred thousand miles a second. By the time Orcus’ body turned, Apollo was already at his destination.

  Sophia looked up as a wave of dizziness hit her. Disorientation. She wasn’t sure where or when she was. But the room was warm, suddenly, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt warmth like this. Like the summer sun, baking into her bare body as she lounged on the shore of the Aegean. It should have been a welcome sensation. It wasn’t. “Who’s there?” Sophia asked, and realized that, horrifyingly, that she should have known before her visitor entered. She twisted back and forth, looking for the intruder that she could sense, more than see, and a recollection assailed her. She rolled up on her bed and slid a hand into the hole she’d cut, carefully, into her mattress, just along the edge. She fished around in the springs, and her fingers closed around the scissors. They hadn’t been sharp when she’d stolen them. She’d worked them against the stone wall of her room until the rounded edges were sharp and pointed.

  It wasn’t much of a weapon. But then, it didn’t need to be. “Who’s there?” she repeated, shakily. She knew now, of course. She remembered it all. But she was bound to play this out.

  Why, it’s me, my own, said a male voice, which was like sun-warmed honey, and light burst into the room, blinding her, and she turned away. She didn’t want the sun. This was from the second set of visions. The doctors were supposed to get tired of her screaming, and cut away her voice, but they hadn’t. They were supposed to get tired of her prophecies, and give her a shot to make it stop, except they wouldn’t now. Something was . . . different. Something had made them different. And Sophia didn’t think it was all because of her boots.

  Apollo coalesced in her room. Don’t tell me you haven’t missed me, the voice cajoled, and Apollo giggled, reaching out to stroke her hair and face. The godslayer isn’t here this time.

  She flinched away, fingers tight on the scissors. “What do you w—” The words failed on her lips, and, to her own shock, she heard herself say, “Nevermind. You’re going to tell me all about how pretty Cassandra was, before you let Ajax and Agamemnon rape her and let Clytemnestra murder her, all because she told you no. And then you’re going to tell me that you want to make me your new avatar.” For an instant, she was solely in the present. And it was glorious.

  Apollo of Delphi blinked. The words had been hovering on his lips, but her own had shattered that future in an eyeblink, and replaced it with a dozen others, spinning ephemerally around him, and he didn’t know which to pursue. Orcus wishes to devour me. Actually, he wishes to devour as many of us as he can. He latched onto the only thread he could see that led away from her expression of contempt. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wishes to eat your sister, too. You can help save her, Sophia. A hint of seduction in the words. Apollo had once been good at this game, before his madness. They’ve been changing things. You’ve felt it. You’ve seen it. He leaned forwards, conspiratorially. If they can change things, so can I. I don’t have to die. He died in the now, and I died in the future, but the now-me doesn’t have to die. And you’re going to help me with that, sweet Sophia. And when you help me . . . you’ll be helping your sister. This will work so much better, if you’re willing, my Pythia.

  Sophia sat for a moment, her body and mind numb. This was worse than she’d seen it. Parts of the words were the same as her recalled vision, but now dozens of futures flickered around her, each dying as each millisecond passed. A cloud of them, all possible. All horrible. “Sigrun? Sigrun’s in danger?” A thousand more images flowed through her mind. Her life with her sister. Decades of arguments, all out of order. The tired, desolate look in Sigrun’s eyes, as the valkyrie had come to understand that the world could not be saved. Her shrouded form, walking the black road. Sophia had rarely doubted that this future would occur. But now . . . now that future could be in danger. It could wink out. Her breath came in shallow pants as panic seized her.

  She will be. Orcus will take her when he has enough power to do so. Me first. Then her. Apollo dangled the temptation in front of her. You’ll be able to help her. Well, I will. You’ll be my avatar. You’ll hold my essence. And we’ll be together forever, Sophia. Isn’t that nice?

  And that was where Apollo’s temptation failed. Sophia began to shake her head, imperceptibly at first. “I’ve . . . never had a choice before,” she said, wonderingly, and then began to laugh, until the force of it made her double over, and tears stung her eyes. “Sigrun will live on. I can see it. I’ve always seen it.” A sensation of peace began to fill her, and she held up her scissors. Apollo eyed them quizzically. They couldn’t possibly harm him.

  And your answer is, then? Impatience in his tone.

  Sophia smiled, almost giddy. “My answer? My choice?” She paused, savoring it. “I say fuck you, Apollo of Delphi. I die free.”

  The look of comic shock on his face warmed her heart, and gave her almost a full second to get her hand up, sharpened metal in hand, and stab herself in the throat.

  It hurt. Sophia had expected pain, and had known that if she gave herself any time at all to think about it, she’d falter. She wouldn’t strike cleanly. She couldn’t force herself to move it, to saw at herself, as she’d tried to prepare herself to do, during the moments when the medications had mostly kicked in, and were doing what they were supposed to do, for a non-god-born.

  No! Apollo lunged for her, and they fought and struggled, right there on her bed. He was trying to reach into her body with his power, to heal her, to push himself into her and consume her essence, while her body yet lived. Sophia fought. The blood pouring down from her throat was hot, and for a blind instant, she thought she was back on the hillside, and the centaurs were about to break her all over again. Sigrun! Sophia screamed, or tried to. She’d cut her own vocal cords, rather than her carotid artery, and it was taking every bit of her mystical resources to keep the . . .

  . . . centaurs from stripping her clothes off . . .

  . . . Apollo from pulling the blade out . . . .

  . . . fighting the doctor as he brought the needle down, with its last injection of morphine . . . .

  Siiiiiiigruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun!

  A hundred miles to the north, Sigrun was still fighting mad godlings. The wound in her chest had closed over, but it still hurt like fire. She’d taken a half-dozen tendrils, over the course of the day, and Zhi had just arrived, in a pillar of flame and smoke, and engulfed one of the smaller godlings, consuming it, even as Mladena staggered back, the russalka’s gray skin fluctuating between alabaster and shale as the energies she’d absorbed assailed her from the inside out. We’re down to two of the medium-sized ones and three of the small ones, Sigrun assessed, tiredly, just as Fenris leaped up and caught another small one in his powerful jaws. Loki!

  She and Loki managed to wrestle one of the larger ones into submission, and Pluto raised a hand that had been mostly skeletalized at this point, trying to draw the creature’s power out of it.

  And that was the moment that Sophia’s scream echoed through Sigrun’s head, overwhelming all the other usual background voices. Hold it! Loki told her, as her grip on the godling slipped, and a tendril of black energy whipped out, and embedded itself in her chest where Artemis’ arrow had been. Sucking. Draining. Consuming. Fight, Naglfar, fight it!

  Zhi swarmed in, and Nith snarled, attacking the creature with his frozen breath, but to no avail. The second scream rent at her soul, and Sophia’s anguish and fear hurt as much as the consuming tendril did. Sigrun!

  Sigrun tried to tell herself that her sister’s madness made her paranoid at best. That the scream didn’t matter. She knew better, however. Sophia hadn’t called to her since the centaurs. And even on that day, Sophia had used a telephone. I must go to her! Si
grun called to the others, but she knew that she couldn’t. Not now. Not while there were still godlings here to be fought.

  A third time, the scream rang through her head. Sigrun, he’s trying to take me, and I won’t let him! I die free!

  Sigrun froze, and the mad godling she was holding in place sundered completely. Go, Loki told her, after the shockwave passed. We can handle the last three. Go to her!

  She didn’t even wait for Nith. I will kill him, I will kill him, I will kill him, was the mantra her mind chanted as she threw herself in shadow-form through the night sky to Jerusalem, to just outside her sister’s window, where she poured herself through the cracks like a fine mist.

  Apollo of Delphi, standing over the bed, his hands red with human blood, looked up and saw death behind him . . . and his eyes went wide. Apollo hurled himself away at the speed of light, but there was nowhere on this side of the planet where the sun-god could hide. It was night, and this was a matter of pure vengeance. And Sigrun was currently supreme in her domain. While she was wounded, she had also just absorbed some of Artemis’ powers— the powers of Apollo’s own twin—and a substantial amount of raw power from various mad godlings. Their hunger and malice clamored inside of her, and Sigrun raced after Apollo, flickering through the night. She could see traceries of guilt and blood-debt trailing after him like wisps of cloud, and the dying bond that connected him to Sophia. And thus, she tracked him to Mount Parnassus, and when he re-materialized, Sigrun appeared right behind him.