Green forced a polite smile and held out her hand, unsure what else to do in the presence of goddesses.
"Lovely to meet you all."
Frigg swept her eyes over her prospective new daughter in law from head to foot, obviously unimpressed.
"Can you not afford to buy her clothes, my son?"
It was a bit rich, coming from someone dressed like a wood elf, and in this temperature.
"I buy my own clothes." Green stared back, not to be intimidated.
"So I see. Were you aiming at the Inuit look - or are you ill?"
Baldur swept Green to his side, furs and all, and faced his mother.
"Mother, enough. Can I offer you a seat?" He gestured to Hodr’s couch, which looked as if it had been picked up at a thrift store. Frigg cast a look as if she was being asked to sit on a hessian sack.
"Thank you." Isis sank on to the couch like a queen, ignoring the crumbs from Hodr’s substantial breakfast. "Green, come and sit beside me. And Ishtar, I think there is room for you too..."
"I will sit here." Ishtar disposed herself in Hodr’s armchair by the fire, and spread her heavy skirts to the heat. She smiled lazily at Green, her eyes hooded.
"I hear that you defeated our Set in single combat. Truly, you are a Valkyrie come again."
Green shook her head in denial, wishing she’d put on some makeup. "I still don’t know how I did it. I just stood there, and he kind of evaporated. I didn’t really do anything."
"You are too modest," said grey-eyed Isis, taking her hand. Green noticed that her skin was as cool as water, and her grip vice-like. "Your courage was remarkable. Now tell us," she turned to Baldur and Hodr, who perched on the wooden dining table. "How did this come to pass?"
"It seems that Green has free will," Hodr explained. "Alone among mortals."
Frigg snorted.
"Rubbish. No mortal has free will. They all think they do - otherwise they would not perform for us as they do. But if I snap my fingers, she will do my bidding. You are mistaken."
Isis said coolly, "Why not snap your fingers, my dear, and see?"
Frigg rose from her armchair, brushing distastefully at the dust on her green skirt.
"Come to me." She gestured peremptorily to Green. "Come, and prostrate yourself before me, girl, if you would mate with my son."
Baldur was on his feet. "Do not speak to my future wife like that, mother!"
"Wife?" she whirled on him. "You already have a wife. This token will never be your wife, or anything else that matters. And let me remind you that she has no future - in a moment, they will all be gone, as if they had never been."
"In a moment?" Green whispered to Hodr, horrified. "I thought you said we had twelve months, more or less..."
"A moment to us is a hundred years to you - don’t pay her any mind," said Hodr gruffly behind his hand.
"Come then!" Frigg bent her bright eyes on Green, and beckoned imperiously. "Make your obeisance before me, mortal."
Isis and Ishtar watched, unmoving. Green stood up.
"No thanks," she said, and walked to the kitchen. Four sets of eyes watched her as she poured another cup of tea, then went and sat down again beside Ishtar. Isis patted her knee in approval.
"So Hodr is right. You see, you cannot control her."
Frigg folded her hands in her lap, sulky.
"It is no use being angry, sister. It is as it is. We must think what use we can make of this news," Isis said, sipping her own cup of tea - a beverage she didn’t often drink in Asgard. Beside the others, she seemed a bastion of reason.
Artemis spoke for the first time, her voice harsh and deep.
"I for one am glad. It is time that humans broke the chains we laid on them." Green examined her curiously. She was the first immortal she’d ever met who wasn’t good looking. But if Baldur was right, immortals could choose their appearance...and Artemis had chosen to look like this? Her face was square and rough hewn, her hair black and shaggy as a hill pony's winter coat. Her nose was curved like a Roman general, and the steel grey eyes had a savage, gleeful light. She was no oil painting. "She is free. So should they all be."
"But we made them," Frigg objected, simmering.
"We made them, and now they make themselves." Artemis shrugged off her fur cloak, which looked like it’d been made with bone needles and the skins of a dozen different animals. "It is good. Get used to it."
Green looked at her with respect. This was her kind of goddess. Plain, forthright, and sticking up for the right of women to do whatever the hell they liked. She was glad not all goddesses were beautiful. Why the hell should they be?
"I think we are all forgetting something," Ishtar remarked, playing with the golden amulet on her wrist, set with rubies. "Green may have free will, and good luck to her - but this world has only a short time to live. She and all her fellow mortals will soon be as if they never existed, and the Game will begin again without them. Is not this conversation academic?"
"That’s exactly why you’re here," said Baldur.
"It doesn’t need to be." Hodr shook himself like a bear, scattering stray hairs in all directions. "What if the Game ends - and there is no new Game. What if the mortals are left to enjoy their earth - and your kind...”
“Our kind," interposed Frigg.
“…amuse themselves elsewhere?"
The four goddesses looked at him as one, eyebrows raised.
"You must be joking." Frigg stared at her son, astonished. "Have I not told you - have you not learned the history - of what happened before the Game? Would you wish that upon your own kind?"
Hodr’s normally cheerful expression dimmed.
"I’m half mortal, mother, and banished to earth. Mortals are my kind now."
"My dear," Ishtar gave a rich laugh. "You cannot end the cycle. There would be a rebellion."
Isis nodded.
"Whoever wins the Game - and I must tell you, it seems likely at this stage that it will be Set - will want to shape the next one. He will not want the old tokens cluttering the board."
Green looked from one to the other. They were unbelievably callous.
"I told you," said Frigg tartly, looking at Baldur. "If you want to change the world, you must play the Game, and win. Then you will have power. But no, you knew best. You decided to anger Zeus - and here we are, with three hundred days - less than that, I think - to completion. Checkmate. At least, for her and her kind. You had best mend your fences with Naina."
She waved a dismissive hand at Green, who glared back. Frigg seemed like the mother in law from hell. Or Asgard. Whatever.
Artemis interposed, her gruff voice like sandpaper against the melodious voices of the other goddesses.
"But it depends on who wins, does it not? You say it will be Set - but do any of us want to be ruled by that black snake? No? Then let us make sure it is not Set - let us not stand aside like milkmaids watching the cow kick the bucket over and wringing our hands."
"Baldur," said Frigg, "is in no position to be elected to the High Seat. He does not even play the Game - despite my repeated warnings."
"I was not thinking of Baldur," Artemis said dismissively. Muddy slush dripped off her boots on to Hodr’s relatively clean floor: Green could see Hodr stealing glances at it - probably thinking, why didn’t she leave them the hell outside! "It is time that the High Seat was occupied by a female arse. We have had enough of male arrogance. Would not a woman do a better job?"
"Hear hear!" said Green loudly. The more she saw of Artemis, the more she liked her. Not that it would make much difference, if the world was going to end anyway. Still, it was slightly cheering to think that the future might be feminist - if there was a future.
"You, for instance?" Ishtar looked Artemis up and down, from the shaggy black hair that looked like it had been cut with garden shears, to her filthy boots.
"You think you would look better in the High Seat yourself, sister?" Artemis' fierce gaze swept from Ishtar’s elaborate, plaited hairstyle to her complicated dr
aperies with a sneer.
Frigg looked from one to the other, and then to Isis, grey-eyed, self-contained.
"It could be done," she said slowly. "But the deciding vote will be cast by the one who wins the Game. And neither you, Ishtar, or you, Isis - or you, Artemis - have enough souls, or are likely to. It is Set who leads the Game - and as you say, the world he would make would be a dark one. My son would have done better - if he had paid attention and stayed in the game - but as it is...”
"That is water under the bridge, sister," Artemis spat impatiently. "Leave your nagging for a moment and think. Separately, we cannot win the Game, Set is too powerful. But together..."
Green grinned.
"Girl power," she said. "I like it."
She felt eight eyes turn to her as one - amused, sceptical, hostile.
"And what," said Frigg, speaking for all, "is your contribution, mortal?"
Green stared back, unfazed. Before, she’d been afraid to meet a set of goddesses from who knows where. But having met them, and seen them sniping at each other, she realised that they were just typical middle-aged women, at bottom. She could deal with them. Since the last episode with Set, she felt braver, somehow.
"So just to clarify - whoever wins the Game is going to try to put a stop to this doomsday shit - but to win the Game, you have to win the most souls. How do you win souls - do you just sort of reap them, or something?"
Frigg sighed. It was like having to explain basic arithmetic to a child. "Each of us who plays the Game chooses a suit - like your hearts or clubs, but tied to an energy source - love, faith, war, reason, the natural world - there are many, and we choose according to our nature. When a token comes under the influence of a particular immortal, it takes on the colour of that suit. When the token dies, its composition is weighed and analysed - and then it is assigned to a Jar. The immortal who influences the most souls wins."
"It is more complex than this," Isis added dryly. "But in essence, my sister is correct. When we play the Game, we compete for influence. Set’s suit is blind faith, Ishtar’s, love and desire, and my own is reason, mind over instinct. As you will have gathered, no one of us can match Set’s power over mankind."
Green cupped her chin in her hand.
"So it’s a popularity contest, and you’re all losing."
"Yes."
“Can I make a suggestion?”
Chapter 19
Orpheus - the artist formerly known (by his mother) as William James Miller - pushed the mike away from him, and set the 1959 Les Paul Standard carefully back on its stand. The other band members stopped playing, in a cacophony of misplaced chords and tangled drumbeats.
"There’s something missing," he said, running a not-too-clean hand through long dark hair. "We gotta nail it this time."
Little Stevie the drummer flung down her sticks.
"Fucking hell, Orph - we’ve been through this a fucking hundred times already. I’m fucked."
Robbie leaned on his bass.
"What then?" His voice was pure south London, though the rest of the band hailed from Detroit. "Sounds just fine to me."
"Just fine?" Orpheus whirled on his heel, hands on narrow hips. "Just fine’s not good enough, man. It’s got to be great. We can’t afford another flop or we’re fucking history."
The girl with the bright red hair walked into the middle of the set.
"I hate to break this up, boys, but Stevie’s right - this is the hundredth time you’ve been through this song. Actually, it’s the thirty-fifth time, but after thirty who’s counting."
Stevie threw her arms up in the air, appealing to heaven.
"I don’t know what you want from us, man. What do you fucking want? I just play drums. That’s it. If I’m not good enough for you, just fucking fire me. Just don’t put me through another fucking rendition of Peace and fucking Love."
Orpheus stomped out of the recording studio and into the attached kitchenette. He reached into the fridge, grabbed himself a Budweiser and tipped it over his mouth, half of it slopping down the front of his tight black tee-shirt. The red haired girl followed him, rolling her eyes, while the rest of the band took a much-needed rest.
"He’s a fucking prima donna," complained Stevie, scratching her armpit, "He should be in the fucking opera."
"Fucking oath," Robbie laid his bass down carefully and stretched his legs, contemplating a burgeoning belly. "I don’t know about you, but I wanna go home. How long’ve we been here? If I have to eat another Chinese takeaway, I’ll kill myself."
In the kitchen, Orpheus stomped to and fro, muttering to himself while he gulped his beer. He smelled of stale sweat and cigarettes.
"They wouldn’t know a fucking hit if it fucking sat on them."
"Or if it hit them?" said Ruby, getting herself a diet lemonade. The would-be rock star stopped in his tracks and gave her a dirty look.
"That was fucking lame."
"Can’t any of you get a fucking sentence out without fucking swearing?" She grinned and leaned up against the formica bench, a picture in torn black fishnets and an oversize purple sweater. "They’re just about ready to quit, Orpheus. You’ve got to go a bit easier on them."
He glared at her with bloodshot blue eyes, breathing heavily. "Yeah right. We’ve had three flops in a row, another sinker and the company’ll throw us off the books. I know this one could be a big hit, babe - if we just get it right. But every time we play it there’s something missing. I don’t know what the fuck it is but I know it when I hear it."
Ruby shrugged.
"Sleep on it. Maybe it’ll come to you. Got to admit, it sounds pretty good to me - but then with your voice, honey, anything sounds good."
Orpheus looked gloomy. "There’s a million guys got a voice, babe - that’s not going to get me on the cover of the Rolling Stone. Look at Bob Dylan. Couldn’t even fucking sing and he’s the greatest rock idol since Elvis."
"Yeah," said Ruby, scratching her ear. "I don’t really dig Elvis. But whatever. You look good, you know. Girls like you."
Orpheus thrust out his lean hips, clutched his groin and struck a pose.
"You think?"
She smiled provocatively. "Oh yeah. Sexy as hell. Just don’t eat too much Kentucky Fried or you won’t fit into those tight pants though, honeybunch."
He examined his abdomen critically, and ran a hand over the just-burgeoning curve of his belly. "But I like Kentucky Fried. It’s got a secret recipe."
"You got to choose, honey - either the chicken’s finger lickin’ good or you are."
She moved in close and stroked his lightly furred chest, flat and defined. "No flab here."
"That’s right," he said proudly, cupping her butt in both his hands and pulling her in even closer. "Or here. Tell you what, let’s call it a day, get the fuck out of here and go home. Then maybe we can check out each other’s love handles..."
Orpheus’ flat was a grimy mess. Guitars - at least five of them - amps, a drum kit, biographies of the Rolling Stones, Nirvana and Guns n Roses, scraps of paper with his characteristic scrawling music notation all over them, empty bottles. She picked her way through to the tiny bedroom and collapsed on the single bed.
"You think you could spring for a double sometime?"
"Maybe - if you’re going to be hanging around much longer I might think about it."
She kicked off her heels. "Wild thang...I think I love you."
Orpheus struck an air guitar pose, and the incredible voice soared out, too strong for this cramped, wretched space.
"But I wanna know-ow-ow for sure."
It was four o’clock in the morning when Ruby opened sticky eyes. She needed to pee, but put the moment off when she’d have to fumble her way through the flat, bumping her ankles on Orpheus’ shit, to find the miniscule bathroom. She flung her arm over Orpheus’ snoring nakedness, and smelled their mingled sweat and sex from the tangled sheets. Her favourite rock star might be growing a bit of a paunch, but he was still dynamite in the sack.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she sniffed. There was a strange smell in the room - not just sex, or last night’s beer, spilled on the shabby carpet. She sneezed. Whatever it was, it was getting up her nose.
Ozone. Like a hot, stormy afternoon in the tropics, when it’s about to pour, and the air is heavy with moisture and electric current. Something else too - perfume? If one of Orpheus’ female fans had found her way in here, somehow, she’d wring her skinny neck. And water. Ruby couldn’t explain how she knew it was water - but she could almost hear it, a waterfall running through the centre of the room. She switched on the bedroom lamp. If there was someone out there, she needed light. Orpheus screwed up his face and turned into the pillow, creasing up one side of his lean face. He really wasn’t that sexy when he was snoring - but he was damn cute. She touched his cheek, and headed out to check. She must have been imagining it. There was no one. She peed and went back to bed, fitting herself snugly along Orpheus’ lean body.
"He’ll do," said Isis, de-materialising back into Hodr’s tiny house. At least it was tidy.
"He’ll need some work," said Ishtar, her tongue briefly running over her full lower lip. He looked good naked, the musician. True, he would run to fat if he kept eating junk - but she would see to it that he didn’t.
"Then we will give him a makeover." Isis shook herself, shaking the sour dust of the dirty little flat from her white gown. "He has the ingredients for what we have in mind - looks, talent, and that voice - did you hear it?"
Frigg drew out a crystal bottle of perfume, and sprayed it into the air. Hodr’s flat would smell like a garden, when morning came. "The girl’s proposal has some merit, I will admit. Still, it is a gamble - that with the help of a mere musician, and a stringy boy at that, light will triumph over darkness."
"You’d better hope so." Artemis scratched her armpit. "Just as long as they know which is which."
Chapter 20
The man in the white sarong, with the film-star good looks and emerald-green eyes, leaned forward across the mahogany desk and thumped it, hard. An expensive fountain pen jumped out of its stand and fell on to the floor.
The Wildcard Page 9
