by Kevin Hearne
“You come back, sensei,” she said, poking me in the chest to make sure I was getting the message. “You can’t leave me dangling like this now that you’ve started. It would be like buying a kid an action figure and then telling him he can’t take it out of the package.” Her green eyes met mine and I found myself tongue-tied, even though I knew I was supposed to say something reassuring. A few awkward heartbeats passed, and then she gave up on waiting for me to speak. She grabbed my shirt front and pulled me toward her, delivering a quick buss on the cheek. Her scent lingered as she withdrew, a dark-wine-and-floral shampoo with a top note of strawberry lip gloss. She turned her back immediately and strode to her car, shoulders hunched up high as if she expected me to scold her for something. She opened the back door for Oberon to jump in and then circled around to the driver’s side, climbing into the car without looking at me.
I squatted down and chuckled, hugging Oberon around the neck. Be good, I told him. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and then we’ll go find a new place to live.
Oberon said.
I think that can be arranged. I escorted him to the car and he jumped carefully into the backseat. I shut the door behind him and waved as Granuaile drove off.
I sighed happily, replaying her kiss and still enjoying the faint traces of her scent, while simultaneously feeling guilty for even permitting it. I hoped she would do that again someday, and I berated myself for wishing it.
A last meal of the world’s finest fish and chips awaited me due north at Rúla Búla, so I shook myself out of my trance and walked that way, determined to savor my last few hours in Tempe.
“Hey, Siodhachan!” a man’s voice boomed from behind me, and I ducked instinctively and pivoted on my heels to meet an attack. My right hand flew to the camouflaged hilt of Fragarach over my right shoulder, but I relaxed and left it sheathed when I saw there was no threat. A fit-looking African man was standing in front of Trippie Hippie and laughing at me. “Wow. You’re even more paranoid than the last time I saw you.”
I felt acutely embarrassed not to recognize someone who knew my true Irish name. He looked friendly, but I had no idea who this guy was.
Chapter 10
“Come to Jesus,” the man said, smiling hugely, with his arms open and inviting embrace. He wore a tie-dyed T-shirt in predominantly reds, yellows, and greens, with a white peace sign screen-printed on the front of it. He had on a pair of relaxed-fit blue jeans, and his Chuck Taylors were classically black. He appeared to be an affable sort, and his voice and rugged good looks reminded me of that guy from the Old Spice body-wash commercials.
I still couldn’t place him, and it was supremely annoying because I should have been able to. Random strangers don’t know my Irish name—most of my current friends don’t know it either, including Granuaile. And it’s not like he just made a lucky guess: Siodhachan hasn’t exactly been in the top one thousand baby names for quite a long time. Whoever he was, he had to truly know me from the old days, or he had a connection with someone who did. I almost took a look at him with my faerie specs, but then I hesitated. What if he really was Jesus? If I looked at him in the magical spectrum, my retinas would fry like eggs. I chose to inquire verbally instead.
“Would you like to speak to me in Aramaic?” I asked him in that language. “I can’t recall the last time I spoke it. Can you?”
He switched to Aramaic without difficulty. “Of course I can,” he replied. His smile remained broad and highly amused. “We spoke it together in England when we were moving around all that treasure of the Templars and planting false clues. You know, I have really enjoyed the results of that little visit to the planet. The theories have been endlessly creative, and it’s put food on the table for many a nearsighted scholar.”
“Jesus, it really is you!” I rose from my crouch and accepted the offered hug, and we pounded each other’s back in a properly masculine fashion. “This is excellent, man; you look good. Who came up with this look for you?”
Jesus gave a small jerk of his head over his shoulder at Trippie Hippie and switched to English. “One of the patrons in this store gave it to me. Wanted to update my image,” he explained.
“What’s not to like, right?” I asked, returning to English myself. “I imagine this is a far sight more comfortable than the half-naked crown-of-thorns routine.”
“That’s an understatement. But I especially appreciate that he imagined something closer to my original skin color. It doesn’t get much better.”
“No doubt. I was just on my way to grab some lunch. Fancy a bite?”
“You buying?” Jesus grinned.
“Sure, I’ll pick up the tab. How long have you been here?” The light turned green again and we walked north up Mill Avenue.
“I arrived just before you showed up,” he said. “Heard from my mother you wanted to have a beer.”
“That’s right, I told her that. She was very kind and blessed some arrows for me. And I’m flattered that you decided to accept my invitation.”
“Are you kidding?” Jesus snorted. “I’m grateful to you. I tell you truly, nobody ever wants to just hang out with me. If they’re not asking for explanations or intercession, then they’re sharing too much information. ‘Why, Jesus? Help me, Jesus! Oh, Jesus, that feels good, don’t stop!’ That’s all I hear all the time. You’re the only guy who asks me to go have a beer anymore.”
“There was someone else you used to drink beers with?”
“Bertrand Russell.”
“Oh. He of little faith? Well, I’m glad I could give you an excuse to come on down.”
“I must tell you that I have an ulterior motive,” Jesus said. “I would not wish you to think later that I had told a half-truth by saying I have simply come down for a beer. But business can wait.”
We passed an extraordinarily sunburned man in wraparound sunglasses busking with his guitar. He was strumming “They’re Red Hot”—an old blues tune about hot tamales—and singing the infectious lyrics in a gravelly voice. His open guitar case rested on a planter beside him, and Jesus wagged his head back and forth a little bit and got his shoulders into it too. “What a delightful riff,” he said. “Do you know who wrote this song?”
“I believe it’s by Robert Johnson, a Mississippi Delta blues man.”
“Truly?” The Christian god stopped dancing and looked at me. “The same one who went down to the crossroads?”
“The very same.”
He laughed and continued walking north, shaking his head. “My adversary is thumbing his nose at me, I think. It is enjoyable, though, to be surprised like that. These brains can’t handle omniscience, so I’m a little slow on the uptake.”
Behind us, the guitar player suddenly stopped playing and said, “What the hell?” I looked back to see him staring openmouthed at his guitar case, which was inexplicably—miraculously—filled with dollar bills. He whooped and hurriedly closed his case.
“I think you just made his day,” I said.
“It was easy enough. Small green pieces of paper.”
We arrived at Rúla Búla and I opened the door for my companion, waving him in. We sat at the bar directly opposite the door and ordered our beers. I asked for a Smithwick’s; Jesus thought it was a good day for a Guinness. We both ordered the famous fish and chips, and I asked to see the whiskey menu.
“They have a menu specifically for whiskey?” Jesus said.
“Oh, yeah, and it’s amazing stuff. They have some liquid courage back there that’s over sixty years old. Want to do a shot with me?”
“No, I’d better not,” Jesus said, waving his palms crosswise in front of him.
“Aw, come on, I’m buying.”
He paused, then said, “Well, all right, I suppose it’ll be a new experience.”
Awesome! I’d just bullied Jesus into doing a
shot with me. Nobody would ever believe it, but I didn’t care. We ordered the insanely expensive stuff, seventy-five dollars for a 1.75-ounce pour of premium Irish whiskey, because if you’re doing a shot with Jesus, you don’t buy him scotch. We raised our glasses to Irish brewers everywhere, and the smoky liquid burned us smoothly as it fell down our throats.
“Wooo!” he said, slamming his shot glass down and coughing a bit. “That’s good stuff.”
I agreed heartily. “Shall we do another one?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” Jesus said quietly, his eyes growing round. “This is one of those situations where I have to stop and ask myself, what would I do?”
I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, and after adding considerable varnish to the idea of seeking out new experiences, we set aside the idea of shooting more whiskey and settled instead on pounding a couple of Irish Car Bombs, because he had never pounded one before.
We were pleasantly pickled by the time our fish and chips arrived, and we tucked in right away to try to absorb a little bit of the alcohol.
Jesus made yummy noises after a couple of bites and said, “Now, this right here is food for the gods.”
“Really? Did you mean to use the plural?”
Jesus winced. “Am I that transparent? I used to whip out these awesome parables on the spot, tied ministers up in knots for centuries trying to explain them to their flocks, but put a couple of drinks in me and I lose all subtlety.”
“So you want to talk to me about the gods.”
“One in particular, actually, but, yes,” he said, dipping a chip into a pool of ketchup. He noshed on it for a moment before continuing. “These are just too good. I think everyone should give them a try, don’t you?”
“The world would be a happier place, I cannot deny it.”
“Done,” Jesus said.
“Beg your pardon? What’s done?”
“Hey!” a man sitting two seats down to my left exclaimed. “Where’d these fish and chips come from? I didn’t order these.”
“Me neither,” a young woman said, sitting behind us in the dining room with a male friend. “But it looks like we both got some.”
Other patrons were all discovering that they had fish and chips on their tables that they had not ordered and could not remember their waiter delivering. The wait-staff gradually became aware that customers had food on their tables that hadn’t been added to the bill. They asked one another who delivered them, then disappeared into the kitchen to ask the cook to explain, and shortly came back out looking for the manager. It was all very odd. I turned back to Jesus and he had a small smile on his face.
“You’re looking a bit smug there,” I observed with a grin.
“Miracles are so much more fun when people aren’t expecting them of you.”
“Yes, I’ve often amused myself with some mischievous bindings for the same reason.”
The Prince of Peace chuckled and said, “I know. Now, where was I? Oh, yes! The god I wish to speak to you about is Thor. You and some confederates are planning to kill him, yes?”
“Well, um,” I said, caught off guard. “Yeah,” I finished lamely. It’s not the sort of thing I would normally admit, but you can’t lie to Jesus. “Though I’m hoping to confine my participation to serving as a sort of extraplanar taxi service. I’m the get-there-and-getaway car. I’m not really interested in killing him.”
“I tell you truly, it is an unwise course of action, and it were best for you to set it aside.”
“You are concerned about my personal welfare?”
“Yes, that is part of it. In most of the futures I see, you do not survive.”
That statement nearly sobered me up all by itself. I put a brave face on it and said, “Well, I’ve had a pretty good run at surviving. I think I’ll be okay.”
“Ah.” Jesus nodded, pausing to chew his fish before dabbing at his mouth with a napkin and continuing, “You are thinking of your deal with the Morrigan.”
“Heard about that, did you?”
“Aenghus Óg’s howling in hell can be heard all the way to heaven. And how do you think the Morrigan’s aegis will help you in Asgard? She can travel there, but she cannot usurp the role of the Valkyries. If you fall, they will hardly let you dwell in Valhalla. Nor will Freyja take you to Fólkvangr. They will let Hel take you to her realm, and there you will stay. There will be no journey to Tír na nÓg.”
“Well, that gives me something to think about for sure, but more in terms of strategy and tactics than in terms of giving up.”
“You are not persuaded by self-preservation. Hmm. All right, then, consider this: Killing Thor will invite retribution from his pantheon not only against you but also against all your friends and family. And the gods of other pantheons will feel compelled to strike against you in solidarity with the Norse.”
“They will? But everybody hates Thor—at least, all the people who truly know him. Isn’t it just as likely they’ll send me brownies or gift baskets of ambrosia?”
Jesus looked thoughtful. “You may have a point there. If you will forgive my coarse language, I believe the politest term I have heard him called by another god is a giant douche.”
“I hear ya,” I said, nodding. “He is a douche canoe. But he gets great PR with the mortals. They think he’s their protector, some kind of hero, but he really should be sent out to sea and set on fire in a proper Viking burial.”
Jesus sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. “The gods will not stand for it, Siodhachan, even though they despise him. You have to consider that this action will make them all aware of how vulnerable they are. They will react poorly.”
“Does that include you?”
“I will remain above the fray,” he said. He paused, seeming to reconsider, then decided with a small shake of his head that he’d spoken correctly. “There is none who can assail me. But there are friends of mine who might get hurt.” He raised his eyebrows significantly and tilted his head in my direction. “You are one of them.”
“Really, you’re my friend? My buddy Jesus?”
He chuckled. “Certainly a drinking buddy, if nothing else. And you are also a respected elder.”
“Ugh, an elder? You’re making me feel creaky here.”
“Will you not accept my advice? Forgo this business with Thor. It is unsavory and beneath your character.”
“I wish I could,” I said. “But I cannot forswear my oath to a friend. That would also be beneath me. At great personal risk to his existence, he helped me dispatch a coven of witches who trafficked with hell. I cannot break faith with him now.”
Silence fell as Jesus paused to consider. He sipped his Guinness and wiped off the foam mustache with a napkin, then said, “That is indeed a weighty consideration. I cannot advise you to break your word. I was hoping you might exert yourself to be released from your obligation.”
“I suppose I could try. But I know already that Leif will insist I follow through. There is nothing he wants more than this.”
“You are resolved, then, to seek out this violence and set in motion waves that will ripple across the planes?”
“I wish you wouldn’t put it in those terms. It’s not like I make a habit out of picking fights. The fights just seem to be picking me recently. There are several looming on the horizon that I’d truly like to avoid. I really don’t want to mess with Bacchus or any of the Romans. Or the Greeks, for that matter. They’re true immortals, and they scare the pants off me. Oh, and these other guys who seem to have painted a target on my back—maybe you know something about them. Have you ever heard about an organization calling themselves the Hammers of God?”
A thoughtful crease appeared between Jesus’s eyes. “Are you speaking of the old Swedish witch hunters?”
“No, they’re contemporary witch hunters, based in Russia.”
The crease deepened. “Hold on a moment. They sound like assholes.”
I blinked, uncertain I’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardo
n?”
Jesus grimaced and pointed at his head. “It’s this tiny human brain—I have to have a filing system for all this information or I can’t keep track of it all. It sounds like these guys would be filed under Assholes Who Do Evil Shit in My Name.”
“Jesus. I mean, wow. That’s the name of one of your files?”
“One of my largest, unfortunately. But I have it broken down into subfolders. Here we are. Assholes Who Think They’re Entitled to Judge and Kill People in My Name.” He closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again. “Yes, now I know who you’re talking about. The Hammers of God is an organization of mixed faiths who use Kabbalistic sorcerers as their shock troops. What about them?”
“Well, I think you’ve already answered my question. I wondered if they enjoyed your official sanction.”
“No. They definitely do not.”
“Interesting. They occasionally slay a demon or two, don’t they?”
“Yes, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day. Look, it’s difficult to find fault in them when they eliminate beings that don’t belong on this plane. But they have defined evil so broadly that they often attack those who do more good than harm. There is no charity or patience within them, and they have made no allowances for the possibility of redemption.”
“I see. I don’t suppose you’d pay them a visit for me and tell them to lay off, would you?”
He abruptly looked behind him at the door leading out to Mill Avenue, cocking his head as if he’d heard a noise on the street. Then he turned back to me with a grin on his face and said cryptically, “I don’t think that will be necessary,” before downing the rest of his Guinness in a few long swallows.
Understanding dawned on my face as Rabbi Yosef Bialik entered the restaurant aggressively, followed by nine more Hasidic Jews who all had bushy beards and impressive peyos curling down from their hats. People stopped eating and stared. Hasidic Jews were an unusual sight in Tempe, and these particular fellows had black, grim expressions to match their black, grim clothing. They didn’t look like they had come in search of kosher Irish food. In fact, they ignored the host, who asked, “How many today?” and spread themselves out in the entry area to stand in three columns: four in the center column and three on either side.
