“Well, she learned from you,” Big says.
The Man slaps him with the back of his hand, snapping Big’s head back and knocking the Ray-Bans off his face. Big slowly turns back to face his father.
“Feel better?” Big asks.
“Not particularly.”
“Well, at least now they’re all in one place.”
“If that dipshit Cherub had done his fucking job, I wouldn’t care where they were.” He pulls a cellphone out of his coat pocket and dials the angel’s number. It rings, but no one answers.
“He may still be incapacitated,” Big says.
“From a fucking explosion?” The Man hangs up and shoves the phone back in his pocket.
“Well, think about who did it to him.”
“Point,” the Man says. “Knowing your sister, she probably had more than C4 in those satchel charges. Find him. And keep track of them. We’re going to have a shit show any hour now, once everyone else figures out we’ve got the only Chronicler worth a damn and descends on this place like locusts. I want to have him secured before that happens.”
Big gives him a mock salute, changing into a twelve-year-old boy in a British private school uniform. “Aye-aye, cap’n.”
“Keep that shit up and I swear I will find a way to hurt you.”
“Talk dirty to me, daddy,” Big says. “It turns me on. Being pulled back into your orbit is punishment enough, believe me.” He dissolves in a cloud of green smoke that blows away on the wind.
Killing Big would be easy, but hurting him is difficult. He still wants the little shit around—after all, he is the boy’s father—or he’d have taken him out already. And having him handle petty administrative crap is useful. Soon, though, he won’t need him.
“When I remake this world, I am going to rip you into shreds, you little shit,” the Man says. He goes back to watching the van through his binoculars as it speeds away into the night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE SAFE HOUSE Amanda takes them to is west of Los Angeles in Thousand Oaks. The Santa Monica Mountains—hills covered in scrub brush and chaparral that catches fire a couple of times a year—block it from the ocean, and the air sits heavy and still. White, upper-middle-class suburbia. Country clubs, BMWs, lots of hidden secrets.
Amanda pulls into the garage of a four-bedroom house on a quiet cul-de-sac and closes the garage door behind them. Fitz wonders if anyone has the slightest clue that this is anything other than normal.
“This place like the last one?” he asks as they exit the van into the garage. Amanda doesn’t exactly have a good track record on safe houses.
“Should be safer,” Driver Amanda says. “It’s new and no one should know about it. I bought it and started getting it prepared after Bacchus hit the last one. If it had been ready in time, I never would have taken you to see Big.”
“He’s your brother,” Fitz says. “Not like you thought he’d betray you.” He looks over at Sam. He wonders if she’s thinking the same thing about him.
Amanda snorts. “I don’t know about that. Sibling rivalries between us are pretty epic. How’s that arm feeling? You need to know where the painkillers are?”
She says it without judgment, but Fitz feels a sudden wave of shame anyway. His arm is throbbing from where it was yanked out of its socket, but he doesn’t want to get high anymore. Doesn’t want to numb things. All they ever do is cover things up, hide the truth from him. Sure, if he hadn’t had them he’d probably be a burnout like Jake, pushing a mop in a strip bar bathroom, but he’d still be him, right?
“Nah, I’m good,” he says, heading into the living room. Like the previous safe house it’s spacious and comfortable, with recliners and a sofa, but still has a bomb shelter vibe to it.
“Well, I’m not,” Jake says. “I got a bum hip hurts somethin’ fierce. Got any oxy?”
“Down the hall. First door on the left,” Amanda says. “Just don’t kill yourself.”
“Much obliged.” He gets to the garage door and turns to Fitz. “You’re tryin’ to go clean, I get it. But you should know if you’re just starting, cold turkey’s the wrong way to do it. Especially when you’ve got all this other shit hanging over your head.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sure, sure,” he says. “Enjoy the shakes. They’re a hoot.” He disappears down the hall and Fitz can hear him clumping around in the back of the house.
“That’s the other Chronicler? Should we be worried?” Sam says.
“The hell do you think?” Fitz says.
“He’s not the only one,” Amanda says. “He’s just the closest and the sanest.”
“How come they aren’t going after him, then?” Fitz says. “Or the others?”
“Because he cannot hear us anymore,” Medeina says. “Zaphiel looked at him and many others before we chose to pursue you. They are either deaf to our calls or mad beyond repair. You are broken, but you are not beyond use.”
“Way to make a fella feel wanted,” Fitz says. “So he can’t pick up god radio at all?”
“He may be able to,” Medeina says, shrugging. “But if he can, it is so faint and distant to him that he might as well be like anyone else. Once, many years ago, he was a Chronicler for the ancient gods of the Americas, those who were here before the Europeans invaded. But they didn’t know what to do with him, and he was too weak to help them much.”
“So what happened to him?”
“They became more and more desperate,” Medeina says. “When they could find no way back to the firmament, they each tried to grow their power here on Earth. They became louder to him, more insistent. They used his meager gifts until there was nothing left of him. And when he was no longer of use, they discarded him.”
“Like a broken toy,” Fitz says.
“The gods like to break their toys,” both Amandas say.
“You would know,” Medeina says.
“What does that mean?” one Amanda says. “I’m not a god.”
“Oh? Then what are you? You embody a concept, you give shape to an idea. You exist through the power of belief as any of us. If you’re not a god yet, you will be soon enough.”
They both stare at Medeina. Fitz can’t tell what’s going on behind those eyes, but he doesn’t think it’s good. He’s about to ask them what’s going on, but they turn away as one.
“I have work to do,” they say in unison and go down the hall deeper into the house.
“That was creepy,” Sam says.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Fitz says. He turns to Medeina. “You think she’s an actual god? Like you?”
“We all start somewhere,” Medeina says. “People change, grow, make new stories. It would make sense that new gods would appear.”
“Like the Man,” Fitz says.
“El Jefe is troubling,” she says. “I do not know what to make of him.”
“She’s his dad,” Fitz says.
Medeina’s eyes grow wide. “He is a father god?”
“Yeah. Least, it looks like it. Is that bad?”
Her eyes go distant. “I must speak with her about this,” she says and follows the Amandas.
For the first time in the last twenty-four hours, Fitz is alone with another human being. He turns to Sam, wanting to relish the fact that she’s not a god, not trying to kill him. It’s like nothing has changed. But try as he might, he can’t hang onto that feeling.
“So what happened?” he says. “What’s with Medeina? I still don’t trust her. I’m still not sure this is a great idea.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know if it’s a great idea, either. But I don’t think she’s working for Blake or Zaphiel anymore. I think... I think she’s a little lost.”
Fitz remembers the look Sam gave her a few minutes ago. “When she said that thing about outliving her usefulness,” he says. “That what you’re talking about?”
She nods. “Yeah. I mean, it’s like she’s waking up to the fact that nobody believes in her anymore. I don
’t know what’s going on in her head. Hell, you probably have a better idea of that than I do, but it just seems like she’s lost her purpose.”
“Jesus,” Fitz says. “A god having a mid-life crisis. How the hell do we deal with that?”
“I don’t think buying her a Porsche and hooking her up with a cute bartender is gonna work,” Sam says.
“I wonder if she’s the only one,” Fitz says. Probably not. Probably a lot of them are starting to clue in to the fact that a lot of people don’t give two fucks about them. What happens when a god doesn’t have believers? He doesn’t think they’re going to fade away; after all, Medeina’s been around with nobody believing in her for a thousand years. But belief’s part of it. She’s said as much herself. Without belief they’re nothing.
Maybe when they all got kicked out of their homes, the clock started ticking. Maybe they’re running out of time.
“Tell me what happened,” Fitz says, hoping there’s a clue in what happened to Sam that might make this all make sense.
She tells him about waking up and overhearing Blake’s plan to murder her, the conversation with Medeina when they were sent to find Fitz, and how she passed the knowledge of who she was and why she was looking for Fitz to her. Sam doesn’t mince words, doesn’t elaborate. Straight data, no bullshit.
“She murdered a lot of people,” Fitz says when she’s done.
“I know. She’s... conflicted.”
“You don’t say? She’s trying to murder me one second and then she’s trying to team up with me another. And what about you?”
“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” she says, looking away. “Well, I was going to. When Blake told me to.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Probably would have been easier for everybody if I had,” she says. She holds up her hand when Fitz starts to protest. “I’m just sayin’ that I wouldn’t be here, that’s for damn sure. Why’d you do it, Fitz? Blake was family. He took care of you.”
“Shit, I don’t know.” Fitz lowers himself into one of the recliners, his shoulder throbbing. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty about refusing more painkillers. “I wanted something that was mine, ya know? Yeah, he gave me what I needed. I’m not saying he didn’t. But none of it felt like it was my own.”
“Christ, Fitz, he paid you, didn’t he?”
“Look, I was strung out half the time, all right? Just—I know I screwed up. Does it matter now? Even if I hadn’t stolen the money, I’d still be in the shit.”
“I know,” Sam says. “But I trusted you, man. You didn’t just shit on Blake, you shit on me.”
“I’m sorry,” Fitz says, getting louder. “I’m sorry I broke your trust. I’m sorry I stole from Blake. I’m sorry I got pegged as some fucking prophet and I’m running away from crazy goddesses with spears who like to murder everybody. I’m sorry my only chance to get out of this seems to be the spirit of the Internet and a burnt-out tweaker getting high upstairs. All right? Are we good now?” He’s yelling now, gripping the sides of the recliner in bunched fists. “Does that help?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “That helps.” She lowers herself into another recliner. “So now what?”
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “I guess I go up and talk to Mister Miyagi up there and get him to give me the wisdom of the ancients or some shit. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll be a montage.”
Something in the back of the house crashes and Sam bolts out of her chair, gun in her hand. She’s halfway up the stairs before Fitz even stands up. He draws his own gun, then thinks twice and puts it away. What the hell’s the point? You can’t kill gods with it.
He follows after Sam as quickly as he can. His shoulder is really throbbing, and after the car crash his back and legs aren’t feeling so hot, either.
Like the other safe house, this one has an infirmary, and the problem’s obvious as soon as he gets there.
The Amandas have put Jake on a gurney. One of them is holding him down as he thrashes and the other’s prepping a stomach pump. Half a dozen empty pill bottles roll around on the floor and Jake’s moaning, “Not gonna do it,” over and over again.
Fitz has been where Jake is now. He’s tried to kill himself plenty of times. When the voices got too bad, when his head filled up too much too fast. Figures the old man’s probably tried a time or two himself. Can’t say he blames him, but Christ on a crutch it’s shitty timing.
Medeina stands in the hallway watching the proceedings, confusion on her face. She turns to Fitz, clearly troubled. “This is common?” she says.
“Can be,” he says. “I know you’ve seen hospitals. You tried to kill me in one.”
“Not that. Not the place.” She sweeps an arm toward the Amandas trying to keep Jake alive. “That. What they are doing to him.”
“He’s trying to kill himself,” Fitz says. “They’re trying to keep him alive. You’ve seen people die.”
She shakes her head. “Not like this. I have seen them die at my blade, or at the teeth of a bear, or struck by the lightning I have called into the forest. I understand that. But not this.”
“You said it yourself. The gods were done with him and they discarded him. That’s what people do when they’re all used up. You’ve seriously never seen a suicide before?”
“This kind of death is not my domain.”
“Could use another hand in here,” one of the Amandas says.
Fitz shoves his way past the goddess to help. “What do you need?”
“Help me get him on his side. If he vomits, he could aspirate and choke to death.”
Fitz helps roll Jake onto his left side as the other Amanda starts to feed the tube down into the old man’s nose. The old man thrashes on the gurney, but there isn’t a lot of fight in him. Fitz has had his stomach pumped enough times to know that it’s never pleasant, and he feels sorry for the guy.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Fitz says.
“Don’t wanna,” Jake says. “Can’t do this again. Just want it to be over. Why won’t you just let me die?”
“I need you.”
“That’s what they said, too.”
THREE HOURS LATER and Fitz is exhausted. The Amandas did most of the work, but he stayed with the old man throughout the whole ordeal. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve had it done, you never get used to it. Jake was unconscious for most of it—probably didn’t even know he was there—but Fitz didn’t want to leave him.
He’s going to ask him to relive the most painful parts of his life for him, the least he can do is help watch over him.
“How soon’s he going to wake up?” he says. He’s stretched out in one of the chairs in the living room.
This Amanda shrugs. The other one is back in the infirmary taking care of Jake. “He’s in pretty bad shape. We’re running some tests now, but I can already tell you just by looking at him that he’s dehydrated, kidney function’s shot, and we’re lucky he hasn’t had a heart attack.”
“So not any time soon,” he says.
“Not if we want him to live very long.”
“Do we?” Medeina says. “He is only useful insofar as he can train the Chronicler. Beyond that, what good is he?”
“Ya know, for a second back there you almost seemed vaguely human,” Fitz says.
“She’s right,” Amanda says.
“Aaaand there goes the other one.” He turns to Sam. “How about you? You want to get in on the psycho god action we got going over here?”
“They do kind of a have a point,” she says. “Sorry.”
“The fuck is wrong with you people?”
“Hear me out,” Amanda says. “We have him here to show you how to use your power. But you have already tapped into it. You just need to understand it more, so that it comes when you call it.”
“So, what, that means he’s disposable? No. In fact, fuck, no.”
“I don’t think you need him as much as you think you do,” Amanda says.
“H
e wants to die, Fitz,” Sam says. “When you get what you need from him, I think you need to let him.”
Fitz closes his eyes and rubs at his face, feeling the stubble scratch against his palm. He’s barely slept, he hasn’t shaved. His clothes smell like gasoline and smoke. His arm is throbbing and should be in a sling, and all the cuts and bruises he got in the crash sting and ache. This is all too much.
“Not tonight,” he says. “Keep him alive tonight. When he’s awake, I’ll talk to him. Figure out what he wants to do.”
“And if he wants to die?” Amanda says.
“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HE TELLS HIMSELF he doesn’t want to do this. That he’s just doing it to take the edge off. Get some sleep. But the truth is that he does want it. He’s been telling himself it’s a bad idea, that he needs to keep his head clear, but Jake was right. Cold turkey’s no way to go.
Fitz crushes six Ativan, three oxys and snorts them off the kitchen counter. If he needed to be awake, he’d toss some Adderall into the mix for a nice, low-grade speedball. But he needs sleep, and at this point he doesn’t really care if the gods come for him as long as they let him get some fucking shut-eye.
He crashes in one of the bedrooms, out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.
The nightmares start almost as quickly.
A wash of dread hits him, overwhelms his mind. Terrifying but completely normal, with that peculiar sort of dream logic where everything makes sense. He runs across a desert of black sand, the sun dim and far away. Boats on fire row upside down above him in a hideous purple sky as statues of Greek and Roman gods erupt from the ground at his feet.
The panic is so overwhelming that it takes a while for Fitz to realize this is a dream. He’s had panic dreams before, but not like this. They’re always some nameless dread, voices that he now knows are the gods whispering nonsensical things to him.
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