“And so you gave your allegiance to Blake.”
“Yeah. He helped me when everybody else left me for dead. Paid my medical bills. Got me back on my feet. He’d seen me in the ring. Was following my career. Said he had an eye for talent and he could use somebody like me.” She thinks about how he brought her back, gave her a job, gave her a purpose. Did the same for Fitz. “He likes broken things, I guess.”
“So you lost your purpose and gained a new one,” Medeina says. “Interesting. I wonder if I can do the same.”
“Are you going to kill me?” Sam says suddenly, her hands balling into fists. If Medeina tries it, Sam is going to make damn sure she regrets it. “Does Blake really want me dead?”
“No, I will not kill you. And Blake does not want you dead; Blake is already gone, and you do not follow the man you think you do.”
Sam tries to parse that out and when she thinks she has it figured out it still doesn’t make sense. “The fuck does that mean?”
“The thing wearing your employer’s skin is a god. I know that because I, too, am a god. I know the ways of gods and the things we do.”
Sam tries to process that. Can’t. “Back up,” she says. “What’s this I’m a god crap?” She’s known some pretty major whack-jobs in her time but no matter how stoned or egotistical someone was, she’s never known them to pronounce that they’re gods and sound like they believe it.
“There was a time when mortals would not question us.” Medeina looks at her feet, her voice tinged with regret. “But then, there was a time when we would not need to be questioned.”
“Well, I’m questioning you now.” This woman is different, she knows. Deceptively strong, creepy as all fuck. And... something she can’t place. A sense of being around someone Important. But a god? Crazy, sure, but no god. “You’re batshit insane, aren’t you? Who are you really?”
Medeina turns to her, her eyes flashing angrily, and Sam instinctively steps back. There is a roll of thunder in the distance. “You know nothing,” she says. “I would strike you down where you stand if I did not think you were useful to me.”
Her voice shifts, a low booming bass that hammers through Sam, shaking her bones. “I am the goddess Medeina,” she says. “I am protector of the forest, keeper of the wild ways. I gave birth to the woods, grant succor to the animals. I am both the hunter’s friend and his bane.”
Fear grips Sam and she drops to all fours as waves of panic hit her. A sudden wind whips up around them. Blood drips from her nose and a thin film of red fills one eye from a burst capillary.
“Jesus, fuck,” Sam yells, her hands clasped over her ears. “Fine. Okay. You’re a god. Stop it. Please.” The winds die, the vibration beating through Sam’s bones quiets. She lies on the ground, trying not to throw up. How the hell did this woman do that? Sam looks for hidden speakers, subwoofers, anything to explain what she just experienced.
“I know very little of the one who wears your employer’s skin,” Medeina says as if nothing had just happened. “He tells me his name is El Jefe, but I suspect he has many names. I watched him murder a god several thousand years old, and though I did not believe it at first, I knew it to be true. When one god dies, the rest of us can feel it, even if we do not always know what it is we’re feeling. We know a light has gone out, a universal flame been snuffed. He is more terrible and powerful than I imagined, this El Jefe.”
Sam tries to get to her feet, but the vertigo is too strong. Is she hallucinating? Did this crazy woman slip some drug to her? Sam’s taken a lot of drugs over the years—nothing like what Fitz has done, but she’s no lightweight—and this is like no bad trip she’s ever had.
She doesn’t want to admit it, but she believes her. Has to believe her. Look what she just did. But what about the rest? Can she believe that, too?
“You’re telling me my boss is a god named after the bad guy in a Peckinpah movie?”
“Have you not noticed that he is not the same man he was earlier today?” Medeina says. “His manner of dress, perhaps? Or what he says? His actions and attitudes?”
Sam stares hard at her, not sure how much to say. Maybe this is a test of loyalty to Blake, though that makes even less sense. Is he wondering if she’s got what it takes to actually take down Fitz? Only he’s never done that before. Blake doesn’t play head games, at least not like that. She looks at the Triumph parked at the curb and feels the weight of the strange key around her neck. She wipes blood from her nose.
“I’ve noticed.”
“And there’s more, isn’t there?” Medeina says. “His Agents, his unusual commands, his desire to have me kill you.”
“None of that means he’s a god,” Sam says.
“Where did those Agents come from?” Medeina says. “Where did they go?”
Sam has to admit that she doesn’t know. “He could have hired them. Called in some favors I didn’t know about.”
“You believe I’m a god, but not Blake? You cling to that so hard. Why?”
“If you’re not blowing smoke up my ass, then Blake’s dead,” she says. “And I don’t want him to be dead. I don’t understand what any of this is about. Why did some god kill him? Why’s he after Fitz? Why are you involved in all this?”
“You have questions,” Medeina says, reaching down to Sam and touching her forehead.
When Sam was a kid, she used to get migraines. This is a bit like that. Blazing pain punches through Sam’s head, and her mind fills with knowledge about the gods’ fall, about Medeina’s taking up with Zaphiel, about the way the Cherub had treated and discarded her, about the struggles the gods were having in a world that no longer wanted nor saw any need for them.
About Fitz.
Just as suddenly the pain is gone. This time she does throw up. Retches onto the sidewalk until there’s nothing left in her system. Sam’s vision swims in front of her, the sidewalk a blurry, vomit-covered mess.
“You understand now,” Medeina says.
“Yes,” Sam says and spits bile out of her mouth. Her heart should be hammering in her chest. She should be shaking, freaking out. But instead, a quiet calm settles over her like a warm blanket.
It feels like the calm she used to get during a bout. Where other fighters would get all worked up, fill themselves with nervous energy, tapping into that to swing harder, move faster, Sam went the other direction. For her it was all about control, about peace and calm and not being attached to the outcome.
It was about certainty.
She knows Medeina has given her very specific and limited knowledge. The basics, fleeting glimpses. At first she wonders if this is some kind of mind control, but then realizes that if it was, she wouldn’t even be asking that question. She knows what Medeina wants and why she’s here, but she’s not a convert.
“You tried to kill Fitz,” Sam says. “At the hospital.”
Medeina nods. “I may yet kill him. Before it was anger. Now it may simply be necessary.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Sam says. “He’s a fuck-up, but he’s a good guy.”
“El Jefe wants him,” Medeina says. “I don’t think humanity, or the gods, can afford to let that happen.”
“So you want to bring him to your side? Like the other gods are trying to do?” Sam marvels at how easily that question rolls off her tongue when ten seconds ago she would have checked herself into a psych ward just for thinking it.
Medeina’s brow creases in uncertainty. “I don’t know, yet. I don’t know that I want that power, either.”
“That leaves killing him.”
“No,” she says. “There are other ways. But I won’t know until we find him.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“SAM!” FITZ YELLS, dropping the old man and running to her. She’s on the ground, rolled into a ball, clutching her chest, a grimace of pain on her face.
But no blood.
This is a trick, Fitz thinks, but he can’t stop himself. He still trusts her and he’s not going to let all this kill
her.
“Tell me you’re wearing a vest,” he says. “And that you’re you and this isn’t some weird magic god disguise.” He pulls the .45 from his waistband and points it at her head. “Because if you’re not you, I will paint the fucking street with your brains.”
“I’m me,” she says through gritted teeth. She lifts her shirt to show the vest. It’s thin, but it’ll stop anything smaller than a .357. She’s used it before. Anything bigger than what Amanda shot her with would probably have gone through.
“Where’s Blake?” he says. “And what do you mean, you know what’s going on?”
“Blake’s not here, yet,” she says. “But he will be. And he’s not Blake. He’s a god called—”
“The Man,” Fitz says, “Yeah, I know.”
“I was gonna say El Jefe, but now that you put it that way that name makes a lot more sense. Anyway, he’s not trying to kill you, either. He’s trying to convert you, and to do that he wants to make you think he’s a better option than throwing in with the other gods.”
He helps her to stand. “How the fuck does he expect to do that?”
“He’s going to have Medeina kill me and make it look like she did it on her own. And then you’ll go running to him, or something.”
“The fuck? Okay, come on. You’re coming with us. We’re getting you out of here. If she gets here, she’ll kill all of us.”
“No, Fitz. It’s not like that. I’m here with her. She wants to help you.”
Fitz backs away from her, gun pointed back at her head. “No,” he says. “I don’t know what she’s told you, but she tried to kill me. She killed a fuckton of people at the hospital. She was working with Zaphiel, and now she’s with the Man. And you fucking brought her here?”
“She’s not bad, Fitz. I talked to her. She showed me—well, not everything, but enough to know she’s on the level.”
“Did she show you what she did in the hospital? Did she show you all the corpses? Their heads chopped off?”
She nods. “Yeah. I’m not saying she doesn’t have problems—”
“Problems? Jesus Christ. You’re, like, some kind of acolyte for her, aren’t you? Goddammit, Sam.”
“No! I want to help you. If Blake gets hold of you, it’s gonna be worse than anything.”
“He’s not Blake anymore, Sam. Don’t call him that. Fuck. I—” He stops when he sees Medeina step out from the back exit of the bar. He turns to her and pops off two rounds from the gun. He starts looking for those red spider threads that connected him to Zaphiel and Big Money, but he can’t see them.
One bullet hits Medeina in the left shoulder and the other one goes high to dig a pit into the stucco of the strip bar wall. She looks down at the hole in her shoulder as it begins to seal, pushing the bullet out to plop onto the ground with a faint metallic thunk.
“I am not here to murder you, Louie Fitzsimmons,” she says, “but to keep you from El Jefe.”
“Well, that’s a refreshing change.”
The Amandas have gotten Jake into the van and have been watching the exchange. Either Amanda has a plan, Fitz thinks, or she’s waiting to see how things pan out.
“He will be here soon,” she says. “He means to have me—”
“Kill Sam and blame you to get me to work for him. Yeah, I heard.”
“He believes he understands you enough to know that you will follow his lead when that happens.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“I believe he may be a god of pure arrogance.”
Fitz looks back at the Amandas for some indication of what he should do. No help there. They stand with guns drawn, but they’re not interfering.
“I don’t trust you,” he says to Medeina. “You tried to kill me. You murdered a bunch of innocent bystanders. I don’t know if you’re going to try to kill me again.”
He turns to Sam. “But you, I trust. So tell me, what do you think? No bullshit. No hallelujah crap about her. I need to know you still have your own brain.”
“I think she won’t kill you, but I don’t know for sure. I do know that she’s scared of Blake and more scared of what he’ll do with you.”
“Can I trust her?” Fitz says.
“Honestly? I don’t know. But I think you can.”
Fitz lowers the gun. “Both of you, get in the van.” He looks back at the Amandas. “You got a problem with that?”
“I don’t know that I can protect you against her if she is that close.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“What’s with the twins?” Sam says.
“Spirit of the Internet, or something. It’s a long story. I’m still a little fuzzy on it myself. Let’s get the fuck out of here before Blake shows up and I’ll fill you in.”
Two Chroniclers, one leg breaker, a god and a couple cyborg Terminator clones who are embodiments of the Internet pile into the van. It sounds like a joke, but Fitz can’t figure out the punchline.
Fitz wedges himself into one of the backseats in the van next to Jake. The man is curled up in on himself as much as he possibly can be, but his mutterings have quieted somewhat.
“Where to now?”
“I have a safe house,” Driver Amanda says, “but I don’t know if we should go there.”
“Can any other gods find us there, like the last one?”
“They shouldn’t be able to, no, but—” Fitz catches her eyes flicking back to Medeina and Sam.
“I don’t think it matters anymore,” Fitz says. “And how sure are you about other gods not finding us? Bacchus found the last safe house; what makes you think he won’t find the new one?”
“Bacchus is dead,” Medeina says, voice flat.
“What?” Fitz says. “Gods can die? How?”
“El Jefe killed him at the museum after you escaped. I do not know how. He stabbed him and Bacchus exploded into light and died.” She looks at the Amandas in the front. “Did you not feel it?”
Amanda frowns. “I felt something. That was Bacchus dying?”
“Yes. You are new. You’ve never felt a god die before?”
“Hang on,” Fitz says. “I’m still stuck on gods can die. What did he stab him with?”
“His fist? A knife? I’m really not sure. His hand burst into light and punched through Bacchus as if he were paper. Then he dissolved into ash and ichor. The god of wine is no more.”
“What the hell is ichor?” Fitz says.
“The golden blood of the gods,” Medeina says. “It is the fluid that courses through our veins.”
“Huh. Okay. Well, this puts a new spin on things.”
Fitz wonders, with this hit-or-miss power to tell gods what to do, to change their realities, if he can kill them. It’s never occurred to him that that might be a possibility.
“Gods die. It is rare, but it happens. Sometimes it is prophecy, sometimes it is murder. And sometimes we merely outlive our usefulness.”
Fitz catches Sam glancing over at Medeina when she says that. There’s something there. He’ll have to ask her as soon as he can get her alone.
“Great,” he says. “How do I kill one?”
She looks at him as though he’s insane, which all things considered is usually a safe bet with Fitz. “Why would you want to kill a god?”
“Hello, Murder Chick who tried to kill me. Self-defense, maybe? Get them off my back? Zaphiel and Blake aren’t going to be the only ones looking for me, soon. Hell, there are probably already a bunch of the fuckers in town looking for me now.”
“Undoubtedly,” Medeina says. She looks wary, and Fitz thinks for a moment she’s not going to tell him how to kill gods. He can’t blame her, of course. What if he turns that knowledge on her?
She looks at him with blank eyes and it’s like he can see the gears working behind them. “Every god dies differently. Some with a sacred artifact, some during Apocalypse. Some are murdered by their children, or their parents, or their siblings.”
“They can be killed with symbols,” Driver Amanda says
from up front.
“How so?”
“Destroy them with who they are,” she says. “All gods are the embodiment of something. Defile what they are, use it against them.”
“So, if somebody were to kill you they’d, what, burn the Internet down?”
“A virus,” Sam says. “I have a laptop that’s always getting shit from spam emails. That kind of thing?”
“Possibly,” Amanda says. “And for Medeina, it would probably be something to do with her forests.”
“Y’all are a bunch of fuckin’ idiots,” Jake says from his huddle in the corner. “Fuckin’, fuckin’ idiots.”
“You got something to add, old man?”
“I ain’t helping you. Any of you. I was laying low. I was safe. Then you have to come along and fuck it all up.”
“We came to rescue you, man,” Fitz says. “We’re the good guys.”
“Oh, screw you. Good guys, my ass. You all just want a piece of me.” He stabs a gnarled finger at Amanda and Medeina. “Gods wantin’ me to sing their fuckin’ songs, and then they beat me when I can’t. And you.” He shoves the finger into Fitz’s chest. “You’re the goddamn worst of the bunch.”
“Hey, man. I’m in the shit here.”
“Yeah, you’re in the shit and so you drag some poor, busted-down husk like me back into all this. What am I? Bait? Is that it? Gonna lure the gods around with me and then the Big Bad Prophet’s gonna come in and, fuck, smite ’em? You got any fuckin’ idea what you’ve gotten yourself into?”
“No,” Fitz says. “I don’t. That’s why we were looking for you. I need to understand what I do and how I do it and you’re the closest thing to Obi-fucking-Wan Kenobi I can get my hands on.”
Jake laughs, a high-pitched braying like a donkey. “Wow. Seriously? I’m the best you can do? You are so fucked.”
“Tell me about it,” Fitz says.
“WELL, IT’S ABOUT goddamn time,” the Man says. “I thought they’d never leave.” He stands on the roof of a warehouse a block from the strip bar watching through a pair of binoculars as the van drives away. He turns to Big Money, currently in the form of a short, Pakistani man with a terrible comb-over, Ray-Ban sunglasses and an Armani suit. “Your sister has turned out to be a colossal pain in my ass.”
Mythbreaker Page 16
