Nevermore: A Cal Leandros Novel (8 page)

I shoved one hand deeper in my jacket pocket and kept the other ready if I needed to grab a weapon. “At least I can tell you about the two I know for a fact exist—proof positive thanks to G . . . to our friend’s party, the one that put me off any kind of party for the rest of my life.” I yanked the ponytail holder from my hair with my free hand and let it fall. I dropped my chin enough to let the smoke-tainted, sweat-dried mess of it partially cover my face—ink-colored grass for a lion to disappear behind and conceal the pain of remembering Robin. I couldn’t tell the story without him exploding out in vivid colors with his smug sarcasm and mocking arrogance; I wouldn’t be able to hide him away any longer.

I wouldn’t have this story to tell if it hadn’t been for him and his black belt in persuasion. It hadn’t ended well, that particular gathering of booze, more booze, and optional orgy. It had been enough to give anyone a newfound distrust of gods, alcohol, and believing a puck when it wasn’t a life or death situation.

Beyond the rest of that, thanks to Thor, I was now a brand-new if not a sympathetic puker, then a profoundly sympathetic gagger.

The asshole.

“Like I said, Thor’s an alcohol-soaked idiot. He also bleaches his hair and is covered with a bucketful of spray-on tan. Orange. The guy’s a god and he can’t do better than looking like a giant Cheeto. Pathetic. I’d say he’s a dick, but I don’t think he has enough brain cells to
be a dick.” I curled my lip in relived disgust as I recalled the heap of his body. Facedown—his most common position we came to discover as the party progressed—he was in a pile of vomit and blocking the door to Robin’s condo.

“If he tried to kill you, he’d only pull it off by tripping and falling on you. Making the huge assumption the asshole was ever upright long enough, a minute or so out of the day, to fall on anything. But if he did, you’d smother under all that mass of muscle gone to flab. I guess Odin cut off his supply of godly steroids.” I looked up at a flock of crows, blackbirds, I couldn’t tell. They were shadowy sketches flying overhead between my line of sight and the lit up windows. Their cries were as harsh as metal against metal. They reminded me of who came next in the story.

“And then there was the other one . . . you don’t want to fuck with that one,” I warned. I had, that went without saying, but he’d started it and for once that was the truth. As a rule, if you weren’t me, a mix of overconfidence and attitude to spare, you didn’t want to cross him.

No, you did not.

Loki,
God
of Chaos and Mischief—and use the proper title, I was informed, when speaking to a god the likes of him. He did add that it should be unquestionably evident that there were no gods the likes of him—I felt the floor shake slightly as he said that and he was the epicenter.

“Loud and clear, no gods like you. I got it.” Blah blah blah. My hand was hovering in midair anyway, so I used it to give him a thumbs-up on his MVG, Most Valuable God, status. Number one fan. BFF. Getting on to more important issues. “Congrats. Now could I just get past—”

“You could show the proper groveling respect especially when you are nothing but a disgusting puddle of goat semen same as all Auphe.” The explosion of verbal abuse interrupted me midsentence as he continued talking over me with a detached tone, unhurried pace, and disciplined words formed for the same purpose as bullets, to wound or kill.

“You.”
He said it as if it were the highest insult conceivable, the others cotton-candy, sticky-sweet next to it. “You are also a pile of squirming maggots that feed on feces and rotting flesh, an intestinal parasite alive solely due to the same essence of life you steal and siphon from the soft innards of others. Worthy of nothing was my kind, save the most agonizing of deaths his limitless imagination could weave.”

The guy was wordy.

Detailed, too.

As I’d been reaching past him—plenty of room, didn’t crowd him or anything—to tap a server with a tray of the best gourmet sliced sausage on the face of the earth, I thought that was one helluva overreaction. And not to mention—no, let’s mention it—my hand was getting tired as it hung in the air, dodging back and forth to get to the tray while he blocked me each time. Seemingly without moving. Impressive—if you weren’t as hungry as I was. In that case, it was irritating as hell and nothing more.

“Okay then, soft innards. I’ll keep that in mind. I sound like a pretty nasty guy. Thanks for the enlightenment. I’m a better person for it. Owe it all to you,” I said with as an insincere and wickedly angled slide of my lips to show all my teeth as I could manage . . . and then a few more. “Now, moving on. Loco, you are wiener blocking me in the worst way.”

“I am
Loki
,
God
of Ch—”

I tuned him out. Use his proper title, he insisted? I didn’t know the guy by sight. How would I know his name or his title? Robin might party with gods on the regular, but I didn’t, and that meant I didn’t know him from Adam—yeah, I knew that was a Sleipnir of a different color, but the point held true. This guy could’ve had his own Facebook page—did they still have those? If they did, his face could’ve been plastered over every inch of it, and it wouldn’t have mattered. I wasn’t a thirteen-year-old girl. I wasn’t into social media crap. And if he was, I was humiliated for him.

Relationship status: Turned myself into a mare and snap! Bred by Hot Stallion

Location: Straw-filled stall shared with goat. I specifically said no roommates

Update: Bundle o’ interspecies mutant joy on the way!

That was not for me.

I had a life to live and lives to take.

When it came down to it, how the hell did he expect me to know he, the
god
Loki in case anyone missed the multiple “gods” he was throwing around, was real? Half of human documented mythology were lies and the other half a confused snarl of mostly untrue gossip. Robin had said two gods were coming to this thing. I didn’t bother to ask or care which two they were. Niko would’ve, there was no conceivable reality in which he hadn’t, and likely had to resist with everything in him to keep from carving their names in Norse runes a hundred times or so into our walls with his katana. Mythology was his one true love, not mine.

I was there for two entirely different reasons: the food and to hopefully satisfy my dick before it started demanding flowers and dinner before letting me jack it in the shower or my bed or the couch . . . or in Niko’s car as I waited in a parking lot in Jersey while he hauled baskets of heavy-duty dual-function garbage/body disposal bags. It’d been over a month since I’d gotten any and neither of us, my dick or me, were too damn happy about that.

In complete innocence, it did happen—occasionally, I was there for the free food and to, if lucky, get laid. That was what I had in mind, nothing else. Did either of those call for the wrath of a god—a Norse god especially who considered eating and screwing a holy sacrament? Did it make any of this my fault? Deserving of some incredibly long-winded and disgustingly descriptive name calling?

Nope.

As far as I’d known or cared before this cluster fuck had started, he was a random guy, with an unblinking serial killer stare as cold as arctic ice and a face void of
expression as a blue ribbon prize-winning embalmed corpse. A potentially random tightly controlled sociopath who kept his industrial-sized freezer stocked with well-seasoned, Donner approval stamped, jerky covered skeletons
or
a plausibly random tightly controlled homicidally insane psychotic freak who was one
“thirteen items in a
twelve items lane”
killing spree waiting to happen . . . but, bottom line, just a random guy. That he had the oxygen-sucking, light-devouring black-hole aura of someone who used blood-covered ice picks in his dental hygiene regime was not my problem. I didn’t care. I cared about only one thing.

He had happened to be in the vicinity of my targeted sausage, that’s all.

If I’d known he was a god, and I didn’t, until he opened his mouth, as it wasn’t stamped on his forehead, I’d have guessed Native American or Mayan from the waist-length black hair and the copper tint to his skin, not Norse. I’d always assumed Norse gods would be pale and pasty, bearded, and wearing leather and lice-infested mangy fur. His introduction clarified that misconception for me. It could’ve clarified it considerably faster, but with the threats and insults and repeated reminders making certain I didn’t forget the god part, I was halfway to Alzheimer’s and no memory to speak of before he wound it all up with another repetition of his résumé.

“Right.
Loxley
.” I snapped the fingers of my free hand. “I’m not good with names. Remembering them. Caring about which one goes with which person . . . or god. I’m not good at giving a shit in general. Sorry.” I wasn’t sorry and the disinterest in my voice showed that clearly. “I had no idea who you were. I’m not on Twitter, Tweeter. Whatever that shit is. But keep working at it. I’m sure someone will eventually, no idea, ‘buddy you’? ‘Stalk you’?” I shrugged. “Yeah, I’m not up on the terms of preteen communication. Good for you that you have the free time and no fear of being put on a cyber watch list for possible sexual predators.”

With a thoughtfulness so mocking that I was surprised
Scout and Boo Radley weren’t around to applaud, I tapped his chest, covered by a deep red shirt and a casual black suit jacket, to advise, “You know what would’ve been a good idea? In the area of more recognition, less furry Norse panties in a twist? A name tag. You should’ve worn a name tag.”

“I wore mine.” I spread my leather jacket to show a black T-shirt with reddish-orange, pepperoni-colored letters that spelled out:
IF YOUR DEATH
DOESN’T ARRIVE IN 20 SE
CONDS OR LESS, LAST R
ITES ARE FREE!
“See?” I let the jacket fall back. “Problem solved.”

As for the rest of it . . .

It wasn’t the first time being part Auphe had gotten insults and threats aimed my way, hardly. But the “use my title, worthless peon scum. You are the lowest of the low among the repulsively slimy, gooey classification of parasites and much more deserving of being crushed beneath my boot” attitude, that I didn’t hear too often. And when I did it was because we were already trying to kill either a rabid psycho trickster, an ex-angel serial killer, a resurrected cannibal who’d once eaten thousands, or a Black Death–causing antihealer back and ready to destroy every living creature worldwide. I expected snotty narcissistic raving from them. What was a good fight without some trash talking?

But this?

When all I’d wanted was a slice of herb-and-cheese bread with a piece of sausage on it?

Yeah, that attitude was not making for a good mood—and the fact the sausage was getting farther away because of this shit-fest was making it worse. I managed to snatch a handful of the little suckers before the server escaped and popped them in my mouth. Better. It didn’t erase my temper, but it didn’t increase it either.

“What a pity Goodfellow didn’t have slices of soft-skinned infant and brie instead of pork for you,” Loki said, silky and smooth. His expression remained as empty as if he didn’t consider revealing his repulsed and possibly violent emotion warranted the effort on his part.
I
wasn’t worth the effort. Killing me was on the
table, yes, with a garnish of high probability. Reacting to me other than that? Allowing me that minute amount of satisfaction that I affected him or his emotions? No, he wasn’t the type to give away the smallest of glimpses inside his head. “The local hospital maternity ward must be running low on births. How your palate must be suffering.”

The baby-eating thing, that was what pushed him over the edge of the usual verbal abuse. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it because it was true. An Auphe would’ve eaten a baby if it was feeling too lazy for a genuine hunt. While I wasn’t an Auphe now, there’d been times I had been. During the two years I’d spent at their summer home, in the several episodes in which I’d have a flashback where I was finally home but would forget that I was—forget which of the two was actually home. Fighting through the nearly thousand days that had been the vacation of my fucking life. Both the living it and the time after that it took me to recover after my escape from that hell.

That didn’t mean I had done
any
kind of shit that he was saying, but the sins of the father bullshit wasn’t as bullshit as I wanted it to be. I hadn’t done . . . babies. I hadn’t done that, but I’d lost enough control during Tumulus and after Tumulus both, enough to forget who I was for a while, long enough to do other things. Bad ones. I didn’t want to hear that insult and think, no, I had never done babies. All that meant was that if I’d had less human in me or no brother to hold me back, there was a good chance I would’ve done what a pureblooded Auphe would do.

Anything.

I’d heard it only twice before to my face and the two who’d said it would never say it again. For that matter, they’d never say anything again. The dead usually don’t. That was what made me decide that five or ten bullets in his dick might improve the asshole manners of Loki, God of Fucking up a Decent Party and All Around Asshole. I remember your name now, you son of a bitch. Those bullets in your
sausage
, that would be a done deal, as soon as I finished my mouthful of sausage and cheese.

No lie, it was the best spiced, herb-infused pork product shipped from a German monastery full of men of God. Each with but two fingers left to them as they prepared the sausage by the old-fashioned method, using hand-cranked grinders that liked fingers as well as meat. You had to suffer for your God and for your sausage. It went without saying, I was showing their creation the respect it was well worth by waiting a few seconds before I called him the shithead he was . . . and then shot him in the dick. I rarely if ever make idle threats, that it was a mental one didn’t make a difference. He was a dick and giving him a permanent reminder of that dick or lack of it status would be a goddamn public service.