by Lyn Benedict
“When the Aztecs crashed. In the sixteenth century, when the Spaniards came, complete with sorcerers as well as soldiers, Tezcatlipoca was spread thin across his region. Focused in different directions. I’m not sure what the sorcerers did—Tepeyollotl doesn’t remember—but he shattered. Became only the parts, separate and fading. Tepeyollotl, the jaguar god, the earthquake bringer, is all that’s left of Tezcatlipoca, and he’s mostly animal instinct.”
“So Azpiazu can outthink him,” Sylvie said. “Tepeyollotl’s curse was powerful but simple. A reaction to a slight—”
“Killing of his acolyte by a sorcerer,” Cachita said. Her pacing slowed. “Yes. He reacted at once. He didn’t think about it. He hates sorcerers.” Outside in the yard, in the overgrown grass, cats howled. Cachita flinched.
“He can hear us?”
“I’m not sure if they’re his spies or just reacting to his interest in me,” Cachita said.
“Assume spies,” Sylvie said. “Safer that way.”
“Well, I’ve no secrets from him,” Cachita said. “He’s been in my head, in my dreams, in every thought I ever had. Go ahead and speculate. Why not? It’s not like he’s easily offended or something. Not like he curses those he thinks are betraying him.”
Sylvie got up, found a can of soda in Cachita’s barebones kitchen, and passed it over to the woman. She was close to hyperventilating. Cachita pushed it away, and Sylvie said, “Take a sip or two. Calm down. You’re not betraying him. You want Azpiazu dead. So do I. We’re just trying to spare Tepeyollotl from making the trip to this plane.”
Cachita said, “It’d be easier if we just called him when we found Azpiazu.”
“No, Cachita,” Sylvie said. “No, it really wouldn’t. There’s nothing easy about a god’s presence on earth.”
She looked mulish, and Sylvie fought down the urge to argue. She could press that point later. The more urgent problem was Azpiazu. “He’s going to need another woman,” Sylvie said. “The spell is broken, right now.”
“You don’t think he’s just running,” Cachita said, coming back to the topic Sylvie needed her to focus on. “You think something else is happening.”
“Yes,” Sylvie gritted. “Wales, my consultant, says the magic he’s using is too strong, getting stronger.”
Cachita licked her lips. “Magic is like any force. Struggle with it, and you get stronger. Isn’t that all it is?”
“The weight he’s lifting is a godly one,” Sylvie said. “Not exactly easy to build up to. Even if it’s a broken god.”
Cachita stepped to the papered-over window, leaned her head against it, then slunk toward Sylvie, as wary as one of the feral cats outside. She crouched near Sylvie’s chair, and said, voice a bare whisper, “Thing is. I thought. I thought I was getting used to him. To his words. The feel of him in my mind. In my dreams. But maybe”—another glance toward the walls of the house, another pitch lower in tone—“maybe he’s getting weaker.”
Sylvie let her breath out, not in the hiss of epiphany she wanted but a slower thing, soundless, careful as Cachita was careful. But it would explain Azpiazu’s strength. And it matched with what Wales had told her, what she knew herself.
Magic was a shifty kind of thing. Most magic was about creating a link between two objects, the better to manipulate one. But the thing was, the binding went both ways. If Azpiazu had been less clever, he’d be suffering as the god had intended. But instead, he was a tricky, malevolent bastard, used to transforming materials he had to hand.
She and Wales knew he was using the women to filter the curse power that was pouring out of the god’s intent. Turning it to his purpose. Maddening enough to Tepeyollotl. But if he was doing more. If the filter also pulled . . .
Tepeyollotl was bleeding power to his enemy.
Azpiazu was sucking up the strength of a god.
Sylvie’s blood cooled in her veins. The humid air in Cachita’s house seemed suddenly as clammy as an underground crypt. She wiped at the nape of her neck, stole back the soda, and pressed it to her face.
“Sylvie?”
If Azpiazu was siphoning off a god’s power, bit by bit by bit, that was bad enough. That could turn a human magic-user into something very horrific indeed. It should be a self-correcting problem. A human had limitations, couldn’t control a god’s power, couldn’t bear its weight.
But Azpiazu was an immortal. And more. He had a plan.
An immortal who shared a god’s power became a demigod. Like Erinya. A Fury in the cause of Justice.
Azpiazu didn’t seem like the kind to take orders.
Sylvie felt the last piece drop into place. “Soul-devourer.” They’d bandied the term back and forth enough. Now she understood what it meant. Azpiazu wasn’t just taking power. He was taking souls.
Back in Chicago, she’d stopped Lilith from stealing a god’s power, from replacing him as a god. The easiest way to become a god: kill one, replace it.
Sylvie thought that with filtered god-power, with his own store of souls, Azpiazu might have found his own way to budding godhood. He wouldn’t be Tepeyollotl’s servant. He’d be his rival. His enemy. His equal.
* * *
THE SILENCE IN THE ROOM LINGERED, BROKEN ONLY BY THE COOLING hiss and pop of the carbonated drink in Sylvie’s hand, by the rustle of cats moving through the high grass outside. Chasing lizards, Sylvie thought. Recalled the two-headed reptiles she’d seen around Azpiazu, in the ’Glades, and in the city.
A god’s power, bent in two directions. A god’s power bending to two wills. No wonder the smaller animals were warping around it. It was only a matter of time before bigger changes were apparent. Before the world started yielding in a massive way to Azpiazu’s will.
“You know something,” Cachita said. “You know what he’s doing.”
“Fucking up the world,” Sylvie said.
“That’s not an answer,” Cachita said. “Share and share alike.”
Sylvie wanted to keep Cachita out of it but doubted Tepeyollotl would allow it. “What do you know about gods?”
“Mythologically, or practically? ’Cause I don’t know how standard Tepeyollotl is.”
“Gods have power,” Sylvie said. “Varying amounts, but all of it more than a human can ever hope to touch. Under normal circumstances.”
“Azpiazu—”
“Yeah,” Sylvie said. “But there’s more to gods than power. That’s a lot of it. That’s the shiny part. The thing people always think about. Power. Omnipotence. Give or take a few degrees. But they’re also about collecting souls. It’s so important to them that all the pantheons have an agreement not to touch each other’s people. To divide up the nonbelievers. We’re more than property to them. We’re assets of some kind. Gold bullion.
“The curse laid on Azpiazu was supposed to do more than just make him suffer. It was supposed to mark souls for Tepeyollotl to claim. He’s a forgotten god mostly. Broken. He needs souls to heal. To regain his strength. His place in the worlds. He’s dependent on the atheists. The unclaimed ones. But Azpiazu got fancy.”
“He’s stealing Tepeyollotl’s power and the souls,” Cachita said. Her cheeks blushed hot with rage. “You should have called me, Sylvie. I should have summoned Tepeyollotl. It would all be over. And instead, you fucked this up and went it alone, and now you’re telling me Azpiazu’s trying to be a god? He’s a serial killer, Sylvie. Is that really someone we want to deify?”
“We’re not summoning Tepeyollotl. No matter what,” Sylvie said. “I will shoot you dead before you can if it comes to that. And he’ll have to find another agent.”
Cachita reeled back. “I don’t understand—”
“In Chicago,” Sylvie said. “A month or so back. You read about the hurricane midcountry.”
“Yes.”
“The freak accidents. The weird shit that people don’t want to talk about.”
“Over a hundred people died, I remember,” Cachita said. “Wait.”
“Gods,” Sylvie sai
d. “Ready for the kicker? That was a squabble. One god restraining himself as best he could, and some petty infighting. The sky rained blood, Cachita.
“If you bring Tepeyollotl down, and Azpiazu’s as close as I think he is to godhood . . . It’ll be all-out war. They might not be as powerful as the ones in Chicago, but they won’t have any intention of playing nice. If god presence can create a hurricane on a landlocked lake, you want to see what warring gods can do in Florida?”
Cachita wrung her hands, knotted them in her hair. “I don’t know what to do, Sylvie.”
“Listen to me. Trust me.”
“You let Azpiazu escape you.”
“But we saved Maria Ruben.”
“She doesn’t matter!”
“She matters to her family,” Sylvie said. “Just because you’re dealing with gods doesn’t mean you can give up being human. Trust me. I can stop him. I can kill him.”
Pure bravado. She didn’t have a clue. Wales would have to come up with something. She’d hurt Azpiazu before. Minor injuries. But it was only a matter of getting the right degree to make them major ones. Mortal ones.
We kill the unkillable, her voice murmured.
Cachita’s voice left all trace of frightened vibrato behind. “All right. You’re in charge. But I’m sticking close. If I think you’re wrong, you’ll have to shoot me.”
The answer quivering on Sylvie’s lips, burning like salt in a wound, gave way to startled cursing when her phone rang shrilly in her pocket. She yanked it out. “What!”
“Sylvie,” Alex said. If Cachita had found her nerve, her iron core, Alex had lost hers. Tears drenched her voice. “Sylvie. You gotta come now. Back to the office. Please.”
“Alex,” Sylvie said. “Are you hurt? Are you—”
The phone disconnected on a whimper.
Naked terror.
Not the ISI, then. Not the police.
Sylvie thought of Maria Ruben, safe and sound in the hospital. Out of Azpiazu’s reach. But Alex . . .
“Time to move,” she told Cachita. “I think Azpiazu’s come calling.”
Cachita dithered unexpectedly, gesturing at her PJs, at her bare feet, her face blanching at the sudden call to arms.
Sylvie said, “My office. As soon as you can.”
“Shadows, wait!”
She didn’t. In the Magicus Mundi, patience was rarely a virtue.
15
Negotiations
THE TRAFFIC BETWEEN CACHITA’S QUIET SUBURB AND THE SOUTH Beach strip was dense enough that Sylvie honestly regretted not buying a motorcycle instead of a truck. Her hands danced on the wheel; her stomach soured.
She should have made sure Alex didn’t go to work until the office was magically secured again.
She jerked the truck through a gap, changed lanes in a flurry of horns, and put the pedal down. The first sight of her office made her heart jump; she’d forgotten about the bullet she’d put into the window. For a single moment, Sylvie thought maybe that was what had Alex so upset. The cracked window, the signs of violence. That happy image couldn’t hold.
If Alex had been concerned about the violence, she would have asked about Sylvie’s well-being. Not begged her to come home.
Sylvie stopped the truck, left it skewed in front of the office, heedless of traffic. The blinds had been drawn down; sunlight reflected off the front door, turning it mirror opaque when she needed it to be clear. To give her even that tiny warning as to what she might find.
She put one hand on the holster, another on the latch. Pushed. The door wasn’t locked.
Alex looked up, face pale to her very lips. Her bright makeup looked garish on her bones. “Sylvie—”
Her attention was already drawn elsewhere, to the unexpected presence in the room. Not Azpiazu after all. Erinya. The Fury stood with her back against the wall, her claws leaving deep gouges in the plaster. Curls of paint and plaster dust made bright confetti on her dark boots.
“I didn’t mean to,” Alex blurted. “I’m so sorry. She surprised me, and I was on the phone with him. I said his name.”
Sylvie closed her eyes. Demalion.
Erinya bared all her teeth. “He ghost-jacked a body. Just like Patrice. Trying to escape the inevitable. Where is he, Sylvie?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“I’ll find him myself.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Erinya’s eyes burned bloody and bright; Alex ducked her head and whimpered.
“Yeah,” Sylvie said. “That’s right. You aren’t as good at scenting humans as your sister. And his scent’s changed.”
“Tell me.”
“No,” Sylvie said.
“I won’t tell you either, so you can just . . . just . . . go away!” Alex’s defiance—brave, but stupid—started out strong, went shrill when dark feathers spiked along Erinya’s spine, when her head lowered and went bestial.
“Oh god, please!” Alex yelped, and before Sylvie could move to step between them, Erinya backed down. Shook the Fury aspect off, looked . . . chastened.
“I’ll get it out of Sylvie, then,” Erinya said.
“You know you won’t,” Sylvie said.
Erinya threw a chair at the wall; it slammed into the plaster and stuck for a moment, dangling by a leg thrown with enough force to become a spear. When the chair landed, Erinya crashed onto it, shredding the heavy wood and leather to matchsticks.
“You all right?” Sylvie asked Alex. Let Erinya destroy the furniture, keep her occupied. “Not hurt?”
Alex shook her head.
It was an unlooked-for boon. Sylvie had seen Erinya yank information from a woman’s mind, leaving trauma and coma behind. But she hadn’t hurt Alex.
Sylvie doubted it was out of respect for her. “Go home, then. Lock the doors. Be careful, Alex. I thought Azpiazu had come to get you. He still might. He still needs another element to his spell.”
“Atheists,” Alex said, “right? Unclaimed soul. I’m safe, then.”
Erinya snarled, a vibrating hum in her throat something like a growl, something like a swallowed howl. Pure frustration.
Was that why?
Alex believed so deeply that the Fury couldn’t interfere with another god’s worshipper? Sylvie couldn’t believe it. Alex had never been religious, gently mocked those who were.
“She’s marked,” Erinya said.
That said it all. Alex hadn’t chosen to believe; she’d been chosen. And it had happened under Sylvie’s nose.
“Marked?” Sylvie asked. “How. When. Who.” It came out rapid-fire. Furious. Gods were too damned greedy.
“None of your business,” Alex said. Her chin came up. Her color slowly returned.
“Eros,” Erinya said. Slapping back at Alex the only way she could. Spilling her secrets. “He touches something, then he wants to keep it. Greedy boy. When he saved her life, he claimed it for his own.”
“Can I break the mark?”
“I don’t want you to!” Alex snapped. “Okay, Syl? It doesn’t hurt me. It doesn’t hurt anything. It doesn’t do anything. It’s just there. And hey, it’s apparently protecting me.”
“You want to be someone’s possession?”
“We all are, one way or another,” Alex said. Erinya skulked around behind her, trying to get access to the laptop. Abruptly Sylvie realized why Alex hadn’t run from the Fury in the first place. Not just because it was a fool’s instinct to run from a creature who chased. But to stay and protect the data. Demalion’s contact info.
Alex slid the laptop under the desk, shielding it as if Erinya’s setting eyes on it would be enough to give her the information she sought.
All of Sylvie’s borderline rage at Alex fled. Scared nearly witless and still thinking. Still trying to do the right thing. “The mark doesn’t hurt?”
Alex bit her lip, rubbed off some of the foundation at her cheek. A blushy bruise, like the press of a fingertip, lay at the crest of her cheekbone. “Where he kissed me to heal me.�
��
“It doesn’t hurt?” Sylvie asked again. More intently.
Alex blushed, obscuring the mark altogether. “No. It . . . I get dreams sometimes.”
“Nightmares?”
Erinya scoffed. Alex’s lips curved. “No. Very definitely not nightmares.”
Sylvie raised a brow. “Oh.”
“Oh, yeah,” Alex said. The blush on her cheeks spread downward, and Sylvie turned back to Erinya.
“So you’re sticking around until I give you the information you want, right?”
“Yes,” Erinya said. “I can be patient.”
“Got a mangled chair and a bunch of memories that say otherwise. How ’bout I give you something else to do. We’re hunting a would-be god.”
Erinya laughed. “I should strip-mine your mind, take the information. You refuse to belong to any god. You’re fair game.”
“But not easy game,” Sylvie said. “I kicked you out of my head before. And that was when I didn’t have someone to protect. C’mon, Eri. Help us hunt.”
“No,” Erinya said. “I don’t get what I want? You don’t get what you want.”
She and Sylvie bared teeth at each other in unwilling stalemate.
* * *
THE DOOR OPENED, AND CACHITA CAME IN, HEAD DOWN, MUMBLING something urgent, rummaging through her purse, utterly oblivious. Sylvie hung her own head in exasperation. She’d warned Cachita they might be facing Azpiazu, and this was how the woman entered the room?
Cachita looked up, and Sylvie’s disgust faded. Cachita’s eyes had gone from warm brown to panic black. When she brought her hand out of her purse, it came clutching a shark-tooth-shaped dagger, black obsidian, gold handled, and sharp enough that her fingers were already bleeding from brushing up against it.
The blood against the blade changed the feel of the room. Tiny tremors traveled the walls; beneath Sylvie, the floor seemed to rise and fall as if the office were suddenly asea.
“Hey, no!” Sylvie said. Cachita hadn’t come in distracted. Cachita had come in halfway through her Tepeyollotlsummoning ritual. “Cachita, stop it. It’s not Azpiazu! It’s not—”
Too late, really. The room shifted and blurred, took on the thick, heady scent of tropical jungles; a jaguar’s cough roughed the air. Erinya morphed so quickly, Sylvie found herself shoved into the wall to make room for Erinya’s full Fury shape.
