Harsh Gods

by Michelle Belanger

  If Lil was being domestic, it had to be a trap.

  The Lady of Beasts moved through my kitchen like she owned the place. She raised her cup and took a sip.

  “When I checked on you, I realized it was an entirely different thing,” she said bemusedly, and she clucked her tongue, lips curling in an ironic grin. Her eyes were fixed on me. I followed the direction of her gaze—and immediately grabbed one of the pillows from the couch. I dropped it over my lap.

  “For fuck’s sake, Lil,” I cried. “Privacy? Decency? Are they even in your vocabulary?”

  “Zaquiel,” she cooed. “You act like I’ve never seen your little soldier before.” Her grin widened as she craned her neck, pretending to peer beyond the barrier of the pillow. “Well, not-so-little soldier,” she amended. She took a long, luxurious swallow of her coffee, gray eyes dancing with salacious delight.

  I launched the pillow at her head. Her hand snapped up. She caught it. She didn’t even spill the contents of her mug.

  “Do you ever quit?” I demanded through gritted teeth.

  “No,” she said, and laughed. She returned fire with the pillow and bounced it off my chest. I choked back a series of unpleasant words that leapt to my throat. Angling my hips self-consciously, I swung my legs around and sat up on the couch. The fabric of the pajama pants was really thin.

  Fuck my life.

  “Don’t stand up too fast,” she warned. “You might get dizzy. Not enough blood to go around.”

  I snarled at her.

  “Why, Zaquiel, I was referring to the blood loss from last night.” She fluttered one hand against her cleavage like some blushing Southern Belle.

  “It’s too early for this shit,” I grumbled, dragging my fingers through the tangle of my hair. Half of it was sticking up at right angles to the rest, thanks to the way I’d been lying.

  “It’s nearly one in the afternoon,” she replied. “You slept hard.”

  I smacked my hand into my forehead with a groan. “Come on, Lil. Really?”

  She grinned, showing all her white teeth.

  “I need a fucking shower.”

  “Cold?” she suggested with a smirk.

  “Shut. Up,” I snapped, stomping past her to the bathroom. Her maddeningly sexy laugh followed me down the hall. Lil could be such a brat… and I think I’d kind of missed it.

  Shoving that thought aside to pick apart later, I got the water going. Cranking the heat as high as I could stand it, I peeled off my T-shirt and pajama pants and dropped everything on the floor in a heap. Little flakes of dried blood drifted onto the tiles.

  Yuck.

  Steam billowed from the shower, helping to clear my head. I pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the needling spray. One thing I could say about my apartment building, we never hurt for good water pressure.

  I lathered up and scrubbed away the dirt and gore. There was a scar above my femoral—white, already fading. I tried to pretend that didn’t bother me. Not that inhuman healing was a bad thing—it was the cost at which I’d accomplished it. Taking a life just to keep myself going? That was a habit I wanted to avoid.

  Replays of the fight flickered behind my eyes in wretched, gruesome color—the expression locked upon the woman’s features, the way her skin had blanched as I drained away her life. My brain wasn’t a fan of sparing me in flashbacks. I had a near-photographic memory—one more reason the amnesia was such a kick in the teeth.

  I tried focusing on the feel of the water as it sluiced over sore muscles. That helped a little. I bent at the knees so I could tilt my face up to the spray. Some day I would get an apartment with a shower tall enough for me. Some day.

  Turning, I wiped water away from my nose. The growth of beard bristled against my palm and I grimaced. Fuck it. I grabbed my razor, tired of people staring at me like I was an escapee from a mental hospital anyway. I made two passes over my chin. By the third stroke, the disposable made it clear that it wasn’t up to the task. I tossed it back into the shower caddy.

  Once I finished with the shower, I dragged my old electric razor out from under the sink. I had to take a spare towel and wipe at the mirror to see what I was doing. Even so, the glass steamed up again almost immediately. I buzzed away the worst of the whiskers, grabbed the shaving cream, and bicced the rest. Then I examined my handiwork in the streaking mirror.

  Aside from a couple of nicks on my jaw, I almost looked human again. Well, like a human-shaped person, at least. My hair was still a haystack, but I’d deal with that when I had time for a barber. Whisper Man came first.

  Wrapping a towel around my waist, I grabbed my pile of clothes and slipped down the hall. I hoped there was something clean back in the bedroom—though given how little motivation I’d had lately, there was no guarantee.

  Digging around in the “kind-of-clean” and “mostly-clean piles,” I found one black T-shirt with a Ravenclaw logo, and a reasonably fresh pair of jeans. Socks and boxers required some serious excavation, but I found a few pairs tucked away in the furthest reaches of my dresser.

  I really needed to get off my ass and clean this shit.

  “Zack!”

  Lil’s tone was particularly strident.

  “What?”

  She marched to the head of the hall and stood there, gray eyes flashing.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  I blinked stupidly at her. “Getting dressed?”

  She brandished something at me. It was about the size and shape of a No. 2 pencil.

  Shit!

  “A pen cup?” Her voice cracked with emotion. “You’re keeping this in a pen cup? Have you taken leave of what little sense you have left?” The crisp afternoon light angling through the kitchen window caught the carved and yellowed bone of the Stylus—the icon of the Anakim primus.

  “Oh, that,” I said, trying for nonplussed. “Where the fuck else can I keep it?”

  She threw her hands up in aggravation. “A bank vault? A lead-lined case, at least? Mother’s Tears, Zaquiel, I’d have never handed it back to you if I thought you’d be this careless. Do you know the kind of trouble this thing can cause?”

  “Could we discuss this once I have pants on?” I slammed the bedroom door and locked it before she could argue—because Lil always argued. It was one of her superpowers, right along with the ability to ooze sexy pheromones. I hastily finished throwing on the clean clothes I’d managed to acquire, stepped out into the hall—and stopped dead.

  Lil was standing so close to my bedroom door, I almost crashed into her. She looked up at me, one hand on her hip and the Stylus pointed accusingly.

  “I swear you need a babysitter,” she huffed.

  I plucked the icon from her outstretched hand. She didn’t resist, and she certainly could have. Striding past her, I headed toward my computer desk. Lil trotted after me, working to keep up with my long legs.

  Moving the cup back to its carefully chosen place on my desk, with a certain gravitas I slipped the Stylus among the bristling collection of pens, take-out chopsticks, and mechanical pencils. Then I turned to face her wrath.

  “How long did it take you to see it?”

  Her brows stitched. “I noticed it just now.”

  “Don’t you think you should have sensed it the minute you walked through the door?” I persisted. I was actually proud of this work—it was the best fix I’d come up with, given the few tools and memories I had left.

  “You warded it,” she said, realization dawning. Lil’s eyes narrowed, flicking across the lines of my desk. “The pen cup. The whole desk.” What she didn’t bother pointing out was the fact that she typically picked up on wards the instant she encountered them.

  I’d managed something so subtle, even she hadn’t noticed it without me pointing it out. I counted that a smashing success.

  “I haven’t just been sitting around and fucking off,” I told her. I gestured to the laden shelves around my living room. “I’ve got notes and theories scribbled in the m
argins of practically every book here. I’ve been reading. Learning what I can.”

  “Funny,” Lil said. “From the sticky notes on your computer, it looks more like you’ve been playing something called Assassin’s Creed.”

  “Got to do something to amuse myself,” I responded defensively.

  “Normal people go out and have sex,” she quipped.

  I glared at her. She glared back. We stood and had a glare-off as the seconds ticked by. To my surprise, Lil broke first. She loosed a sigh of exasperation.

  “You’re missing my point, flyboy,” she persisted. “It needs to be locked away.”

  “Where, exactly?” I demanded. “I can’t think of any place safe enough. I get a bank vault, and then what? I die. Who gets their hands on it after that? It’s not like I can leave it to myself. I don’t know where I’ll turn up next, or even if I will.” I caught my breath as that last part came rushing out. It wasn’t something I’d admitted out loud till just then.

  Fear.

  The attack outside of Lake View had really driven the point home. I was afraid of dying—of getting lost once this body was dead. Immortality didn’t count for shit if I couldn’t remember how it worked, and I wasn’t certain that I did any more.

  Lil blinked up at me, and my face must have held some intimation of my troubled thoughts. Her own expression shifted through so many different emotions, it was difficult to parse. Finally, she huffed a sigh, pushing a thick lock of red hair back from her eyes.

  “I see your point, Zaquiel,” she conceded, “but power attracts power. You’ve got two icons in this city now, and they both tie back to you. You need a better strategy than a warded pen cup.” She started saying something else, but then the phone rang. We both comically overreacted to the unexpected noise from my kitchen.

  “I bet that’s the padre,” I said, willing myself to relax. Then I remembered that he didn’t have the number for the new landline. The voice on the other end was still familiar. It was Bobby Park of the Cleveland PD.

  “Zack?” he said. “You answered.” He sounded startled. “I was going to leave a message.”

  “I can hang up and let you call back,” I offered, half-serious.

  Bobby laughed, though it seemed more from nerves than appreciation for my rapier wit.

  “Nah. This is fine. I called to ask a favor. You free later tonight?”

  Despite the fact that I hadn’t talked with him in at least three months, he spoke with the easy familiarity of an old friend. I knew we’d been acquainted before Dorimiel ate my brain, but I’d never asked how, and he’d never offered. That might have been a bad call on my part.

  I didn’t want another surprise like Father Frank.

  “That depends,” I said. I paced with the handset as Lil curiously examined the wards traced lightly along the edges of my desk. “What do you need?”

  There was a pause on the other end, and I could readily imagine the trim little officer rubbing the back of his head where his black hair was buzzed short. It was a nervous gesture, and I’d seen it often enough.

  “Case came in last night, and your name came up,” he started. “This guy was all cut up—”

  “I didn’t do it,” I said a little too quickly.

  “Hunh?”

  “You’re talking about the Davis thing, right? That guy came like that,” I said. “You can ask Potts and Roarke.”

  Lil gave me a querulous look from the sidelines. I gestured for her to mind her own business.

  Bobby laughed, more awkward, less nervous.

  “Jeez, Zack. Jumpy much?”

  “Sorry. Kind of had a rough night.”

  “Kind of?” Lil mouthed with an exaggerated expression. I scowled, then put my back to her. I curled my wings around myself, knowing she could see them—though I doubted she’d take the hint.

  “Hey, don’t sweat it,” Bobby said reassuringly. “I was putting off calling anyway. If this is a bad time—”

  “It’s not going to get any better,” I said, running my thumb over a spot where I’d nicked my jaw.

  Lil snorted behind me. I ignored her.

  “So what do you need from me?” I asked as Bobby fumbled for a response.

  He sighed, the handset making it sound like a windstorm. “The guy at the Davis house, he had these weird letters carved in his chest. You saw them, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, not certain I liked where this was going.

  Park hesitated, like he expected me to say more. When I didn’t, he said, “I was wondering if you could read them, is all. They look an awful lot like something from another case that has me and my partner stumped.”

  “Hmph,” I muttered. I left it at that.

  “Could you come in, take a look at the photos? Off the record, of course,” he added. “It’ll be like old times.”

  Old times?

  That was interesting. From messages I’d left myself last November, I knew I had a history with Park. While he was working on the Scylla investigation, he’d hinted that he sometimes did me favors. With the amnesia, I hadn’t known what to expect from that, and frankly, I hadn’t trusted the implication. When I hadn’t pursued it, he’d let the matter drop. That, too, might have been a mistake.

  “Sure. All right,” I agreed. “When?”

  Lil hissed sharply to get my attention. With mounting irritation, I waved her away, still trying to pretend my conversation with Bobby was some variation of private.

  “In an hour?” he ventured. “Or—you know—whenever you can make it. I’ll be here most of the night.”

  I glanced at the clock. Close to two thirty. I’d promised Father Frank that I’d try to translate Halley’s papers.

  “Got a couple of things I need to tie up here, but I’ll swing around,” I responded.

  Suddenly Lil reached up behind me and grabbed one of my wings. She dug her fingers in, right at the joint. Jerking, I almost yelped into the phone. I didn’t even know she could do that. Turning as best as I could, I shot her a warning glare. She stood, holding the stack of Halley’s scribbled pages in one hand, the other locked firmly on the joint.

  “Let go,” I hissed.

  “I didn’t catch that last bit,” Bobby said.

  “Couple hours, Bobby,” I answered quickly. “You still at the station on Chester?” I tugged my wing, but Lil held firm. It was the weirdest sensation. I fought down an unreasonable swell of panic.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Good,” I said in a rush. “See you then. Gotta go.” I hung up before he could ask anything further, reached around, and swatted at Lil’s hand.

  “Is this the language?” she demanded.

  “What the hell, Lil?” I cried. “Let go of me.”

  “This is Luwian,” she said, shaking the pages in my face.

  My wing was starting to cramp where she dragged on it. I tried to flex and pull away, but she had me in some kind of joint lock. If she didn’t let go soon, I was going to retaliate, and I didn’t fully trust myself to pull my punches.

  “Lil, seriously—you need to let go right the fuck now.”

  “I think you’re dealing with one of the Rephaim,” she insisted.

  Instantly I forgot about the wing.

  15

  “Rephaim?” I said, almost choking. “What makes you say that?”

  She’d finally let go, and I struggled with an urge to massage a muscle group that had no real substance in the flesh-and-blood world. I settled for twitching the invisible appendage in her face instead. From the way Lil wrinkled her nose, it was payback enough.

  “These are Luwian hieroglyphs,” she explained, ignoring my continued antics as she spread the topmost paper out on the kitchen counter. She plunked down her coffee mug to anchor a curling corner. “This bit is a name,” she said, tapping a nail over an iteration of the symbols that had caught my attention the night before. “Tarhunda.”

  “Terhuziel,” I corrected automatically.

  “No,” she responded
in a tone she might reserve for a thick-headed toddler. “Tarhunda. The Luwians didn’t have that suffix your people are so hung up about.”

  “I look at those three symbols, and I see Terhuziel.”

  “I thought you couldn’t read it,” she replied.

  Things got awkward then. Explaining that I’d sucked the knowledge out of the head of a dead homeless woman infringed upon my vow to keep the Eye a secret. I struggled for a moment, then gave up with a silent fuck it. The names were so close, it probably didn’t matter anyway.

  “Why, can you read it?” I managed.

  Lil piqued a brow, but for once she let it slide. “You boys weren’t the only ones knocking around back then, you know. You just act like you were.” There was no real heat to it. “When you were babbling last night, you said the language reminded you of Hittite. I wanted to take a peek.”

  “I wasn’t babbling,” I objected—though I didn’t even remember bringing up the Hittites.

  “You were totally babbling. In shock, and then you passed out cold. You’re lucky I didn’t do something embarrassing to you while you slept.” She shot me a look that was full of mischief, adding dramatically, “Or did I?”

  I drew myself up to my full six foot three and gave her my most formidable glare. It fizzled without even a whimper.

  “You’re thirty-something and wearing a Harry Potter T-shirt, Zack,” she said dryly. “I fail to be impressed.”

  “Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards,” I responded, waggling my fingers in a gesture of make-believe summoning. Lil sighed and shook her head.

  “Spare me the road trip through your geekdom.” Still, it got a chuckle. Bolstered by that, I grabbed a clean mug from the drying rack and poured myself some coffee.

  “What about these Luwians? I’m an expert on the ancient cultures in that part of the world, and the name’s not ringing any bells.”

  The coffee let me know that I was three steps short of starving. I rummaged around in my empty fridge, searching for anything not covered in mold that might pass for breakfast. I had to settle for one of the protein bars left in the pantry.