Temper: A Novel

by Nicky Drayden

  Then I keep folding, until I’m tucked into the flimsy paper sleeve that is Auben’s body. I’d spent seconds, maybe a minute on the cosmic scale, but when I open my eyes, I’m surrounded by hundreds of amazed onlookers. Thousands. Kasim extends a hand up to me. I take it, and carefully step down through the ether until I’m once again on firm ground.

  Above, the moon hangs differently than before, like a smooth white marble—no pitting, no craters, no seas of gritty, gray dust. Untouched and pristine, compared to the ruin below—the city bowl burnt down to embers. Smoldering. For all the scorn I have for this place, it doesn’t stop my heart from lurching. So many memories were made inside the walls of our comfy.

  “Don’t worry,” Sesay says, her small hand pressing firmly against my back. “The casualties are few. Most everyone was already halfway up Grace Mountain, ready to witness a miracle. You did not disappoint.”

  I blink her into focus, noticing that while one hand still reassures me with her touch, the other is held in the tight grip of her twin, Daki. I notice Kasim’s hand still clutching mine. I notice my congregation, the majority of them paired off, standing shoulder to shoulder, basking in the pleasure that is absolute proximity. I see so many faces that I’ve shared countless communions with. How much time has passed for nearly all of Akinyemi to be here?

  As much as Akinyemi draws me, I get the creeping feeling that this is where we truly belong. The city bowl is a carpet of smoldering ruins—shattered streets, broken buildings, comfy walls reduced to stacks of rubble, and whatever foul memories had haunted this place . . . they’ve been destroyed, too. I’m eager to build something here, something that’ll surpass even the greatness of our charmed city. But a foundation of trust must be laid before we can construct new homes and communities. Respect needs to be repaired before we can repair the ruin of our schools and businesses. Faith must be restored—but not faith in me. Even a poor, secular-raised, self-important kid from the poorest comfy in the Cape could plainly see that I just made a giant space marble out of moon dust.

  No, I need them to have faith in each other.

  I open my mouth, and with a bellow that will cause nothing more than their hearts to stir, nothing more than their convictions to tremble, I say, “My people, we have work to do.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Chimwe says, pressing me through the security doors of the Diligence Care Facility for the Terminally Separated. Except for the guards posted at the doors, you’d never know it was an institution. Inside is bright and cheery, lots of natural light, and the entrances to the residents’ rooms resemble the exteriors of little beach cottages. It’s quiet, quaint, cute. It helps with morale. Not as much as we’d hoped—Death isn’t one to be deterred by a few copper planters and a fresh coat of paint, but sometimes, sometimes, he’ll at least get a little distracted by such things, buying a few weeks, months, even years for loved ones who aren’t quite ready to say goodbye.

  Chimwe knocks on the door of one of the cottages, then lets himself in. Stacks of used canvasses, towers of clay pots, and buckets of dried paint all stand tall in the cramped living room. The sweet smell of ink stings my nose. A figure in a ragged patchwork jacket crumples over a desk, working. Diligently, of course. We weren’t quiet entering, and yet he still hasn’t looked up.

  “Uncle Pabio?” I call, his name like a rusted razor cutting through the flesh of my throat. I’ve been away. I’ve been busy. Answering prayers, healing the sick and wounded, balancing my words upon defting sticks at all hours. And it seems that I’ve overlooked that there’d be some six-and-zero pairings, former six-and-one twins with envy being their lone vice. Basically, the Cape is lousy with bratty little godlings, always underfoot, watching Kasim and me closely, and creating havoc when we let the leash slack. But we need their help. There is yet so much work to do, bandaging together cultures and subcultures upon subcultures so that they can heal together and emerge as something stronger than before.

  Like I said, I’ve been busy, but I still should have made time for this.

  Uncle Pabio looks up, he turns and his visage lights up like the iridescent feathers of a peacock. He smiles. “Auben,” his voice scratches.

  I look to Chimwe for reassurance. Ey nods, and looks markedly more relieved than when ey’d come calling for me. Ey hadn’t been able to get Uncle Pabio to eat or drink or even acknowledge em for the last few days. The death spiral was starting, and if Uncle Pabio didn’t eat soon, his diligence would consume him instead.

  I step toward the figure my mind still has trouble recognizing as my uncle. His smile has become an expanse of pitted gum line, but it still warms me like nothing else. “Show me what you’ve been up to,” I say, keeping the small sack of food I’m holding just out of his sight. I don’t want to spook him.

  “Yes, yes!” he says. He tries to stand, but hasn’t the strength to keep his legs under him. “Come. Come. Come see my latest.” He turns his arm for me to see. Detailed tattoos of his characters light up his forearm, iridescent inks standing brilliantly against his brown skin.

  “It’s magnificent.” I bide my time as he explains his creations to me, and only once his eyes have softened do I attempt to make my move. “Chimwe says that you promised to eat if he got you these inks.”

  “Yes,” Uncle Pabio says, a nod of his head. “I did eat.”

  “I don’t think he meant eating just the once,” I say.

  Uncle Pabio nods, but I’m already losing him. He’s picked up his needle again and dips it into a striking metallic green ink.

  You’re wasting away, I want to tell him. Eat, please, for me and Kasim. For Chimwe and Chiso. Eat because we still need you, and because it’s just too soon for any of us to have to say goodbye to a loved one again. But that is not how you reason with someone driven to the brink of madness by the compulsion to create. I must speak to him through his art.

  “Uncle Pabio, if you were choosing a canvas, would you not take care that it was properly stretched, adequately primed?”

  “Of course,” he says, listening, but not looking up.

  “Well, your skin is your canvas now, and you must care for it as such,” I say. “Water to keep it hydrated and supple, and food to keep the muscle firm and taut beneath.”

  “And fresh air,” Chimwe says, catching on. “So that the art may be appreciated by the world, and not confined between these walls.”

  “Mmpph,” Uncle Pabio says, not an overwhelmingly positive response, but it was a response nevertheless.

  I rummage through his art supplies and find a tin cup full of dry brushes. After removing the brushes, I pour water from his pitcher into the cup and set it beside him. Then I pull a still-warm samosa from my sack and set it upon a mostly clean paint palette. I watch carefully as Uncle Pabio begins to work sips and small bites into his creative process.

  Chimwe lays eir hand on my shoulder. “Thank you,” ey whispers into my ear, and I feel the need in eir voice as deeply as I do in my own.

  “I’ll sit with him awhile, if that’s okay,” I say to Chimwe. “You can get back to work, if you need to.”

  “You’re sure?” Ey raises a weary eyebrow. My poor cousin can barely keep eir eyelids propped open, ey’s so exhausted. All those years ago, back in our dorm room, Chimwe had claimed to be able to run a business in eir sleep, and between running our city by day and parenting eir sweet-but-unruly six-month-old twins by night, some days it seems like ey’s doing just that.

  I nod. “We have some catching up to do,” I say.

  But just as Chimwe is about to leave, the door creaks open.

  Kasim enters, carrying a greasy lunch sack. We lock eyes, and though it’s been ages since I’ve harbored Icy Blue’s power, I freeze up all over. Things between us have been . . . awkward. And not just I’m a god, you’re a god kind of awkward.

  “Oh,” Kasim says. “Chimwe told me Uncle Pabio wasn’t eating.”

  Uncle Pabio smiles and fully opens his mouth, revealing a mash of potatoes, onions, neon pa
int flecks, and what looks like brush bristles.

  “Um,” Chimwe says, brows nearly reaching eir hairline. “I’ve really gotta go. Those diapers aren’t going to change themselves!” And then ey’s gone, door swinging closed behind em.

  “I’ll come back later,” Kasim says, looking so uncomfortable in his skin. I wonder if it’s from the ill fit of his human suit, or from being trapped in the same room with me.

  “No,” I say. “It’s okay. Sit.”

  Kasim does, carefully. We both feel it, the draw to each other, like those two yam halves yearning to be whole. The need is there. Hands to Grace, the need is there, but there can’t be a true connection yet, because our edges are too ragged, and we’ve still got rotten spots to root out. For right now, close is close enough. I break a wad of red clay in half and lay a piece in front of Kasim.

  Along with our uncle Pabio, the man who both inspires me and keeps me grounded, we sit shoulder to shoulder to shoulder at his cramped little desk. I press my fingers into the clay, warm it in my hands, and then, together, we create.

  Acknowledgments

  To my super-secret writing group, Crytopolis. Maybe it really exists. Or maybe it’s a figment of the imagination. Maybe they read an early draft of Temper and helped make it shine. Maybe they’re just a bunch of thread-worn sock puppets I carry around with me in a duffel bag. So to Julia, Patrick, Patrice, David, Jane, Elle, Sharon, Fred, Rebecca, Steve, and Matthew, a very special thanks to you. Maybe their names have been changed to protect the innocent. Or maybe they haven’t.

  Thanks to Gabby, Bogi, Chinelo, and Yewande for allowing me a peek at the world through their eyes. Thanks to Dan for the history lessons on Twitter and a nice chat on alternate histories.

  To Dad for becoming a wonderful beta reader, and Mom for being my personal cheer section. To Tony for the wonderful Plated meals, especially on days when it’s hard to find time to eat. To Alex, my wonderful writing partner. To Dana the dog for spending fifteen-and-a-half years right by my side. And to all my family and friends, thank you for your encouragement and patience through my transition from a writer to a published author. It’s been a ridiculously wild ride, and having you in my corner has kept me on the tracks.

  To Jennifer, my amazing agent, and David and the crew at Harper Voyager for turning my words into an actual thing I can hold in my hands. You are all magic workers.

  To my readers and fan(s) (I’m pretty sure there’s at least one of you) for sharing my stories and caring about my characters, for laughing and crying, and hopefully not losing your temper. Thanks for being right there on the page with me.

  About the Author

  Nicky Drayden’s writing credentials include more than thirty short fiction sales to magazines such as Shimmer and Space and Time Magazine, and she is the author of the critically acclaimed novel The Prey of Gods. She is a Systems Analyst and resides in Austin, Texas, where being weird is highly encouraged, if not required.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Praise for Nicky Drayden’s THE PREY OF GODS

  “This dense and imaginative debut is . . . a book like no other, with a diverse cast that crosses the spectrum of genders and races, and a new idea (or four) in every chapter.”

  —B&N Sci-Fi and Fantasy Blog

  “You’ll need to clear your schedule as soon as you get your hands on a copy of Drayden’s debut novel! . . . Drayden has certainly made herself an author to watch out for.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 41/2 stars, Top Pick

  “Prey of Gods delivers on every promise in beautifully unexpected ways that leave you breathless, a little dizzy, and wanting more. . . . Exquisite, fast-paced, and excellent fun.”

  —Fran Wilde, award-winning author of Updraft, Cloudbound, and Horizon

  “Drayden’s delivery of all this is subtly poignant and slap-in-the-face deadpan—perfect for this novel-length thought exercise about what kinds of gods a cynical, self-absorbed postmodern society really deserves. Lots of fun.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  “Drayden has knocked it out of the park with this novel. . . . An excellent piece of fiction that is levels above any of the summer reads coming out.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “Thanks to a rip-roaring story and Drayden’s expansive imagination, it all coheres into the most fun you can have in 2017.”

  —Book Riot (Best of 2017)

  “Nicky Drayden’s debut novel The Prey of Gods is a surprising cornucopia of genres and characters taking place in a futurist South Africa. . . . It’s a little bit surreal, a little bit weird, a lot of fun and wholly impressive.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A fantastic mix of science fiction, horror, fantasy, and humor, The Prey of Gods is a unique novel that defies categorization. . . . Fun and engaging, The Prey of Gods is an unforgettable read.”

  —Bustle

  “Ancient gods, gene-tech, and gripping action—I love so much about this book.”

  —Cat Rambo, author of Beasts of Tabat and Neither Here Nor There

  “One of the biggest pleasures of this book is the plurality of its voices and story lines, and the way Nicky Drayden skips and weaves between them. . . . It’s a book full of energy and momentum, strange wit and sensitivity. It is a LOT. And it is wonderful.”

  —Vulture (Best of 2017)

  “The Prey of Gods was a very entertaining novel filled with wonderfully imaginative ideas, and it was very competently written. . . . I really enjoyed reading it, and I would definitely recommend it to whoever is looking for a diverse novel full of action and inventive creations.”

  —Black Girl Nerds

  “The Prey of Gods is an ambitious blend of folklore, bioengineering, and science fiction. . . . With luck, readers will remember Drayden’s novel when nomination season rolls around.”

  —SF Site

  “You may wonder exactly what kind of speculative fiction it is. . . . Trust me: This stuff is good, call it what you will.”

  —Seattle Times (Notable Book of 2017)

  “In this debut novel from accomplished short story writer Nicky Drayden, the mythic and the mechanical mesh as smoothly as servo gears in a security droid. That’s due largely to Drayden’s understanding of the creatures that occupy the space between those two: human beings.”

  —Austin Chronicle

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  temper. Copyright © 2018 by Nicky Drayden. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Harper Voyager and design are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers LLC.

  first edition

  Cover design by Richard L. Aquan

  Cover illustration © Thea Harvey

  Map by Eric Gunther. Copyright © 2018 Springer Cartographics LLC.

  Background art for half title and title page © ririro/Shutterstock

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-249305-7

  Digital Edition AUGUST 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-249306-4

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