The Woken Gods (27 page)

“I’ll keep him right here, under lock and key,” Ann tells the operative at the door.

His name is not one Justin has ever bothered to remember. The operative narrows his eyes as if she lost Oz once and so can’t be trusted. But he nods. “Good evening, ma’am,” he says, and leaves them.

Ann turns Oz to face her. “What were you thinking? You could have been hurt.
Both
of you.”

Oz takes the abuse, stands there and accepts it. Which Justin can’t stomach.

“He’s not your son,” Justin informs Ann. “You don’t need to mother him. Oz, can I talk to you?”

Ann drops her hands and shoots them both looks that are darker than the one Oz wears. Justin has to stop himself from apologizing to her.

“No dinner for either of you,” she says. “And don’t even consider sneaking out. If something happens to that poor girl…”

At that, Oz snorts. “I’m sorry if I got you in trouble, Ann. But
she
doesn’t need your sympathy. She’s doing fine.”

Ann is troubled by this, but also softens at Oz’s acknowledgment that he put her in a tough spot. “I’ll bring up a snack. But no dinner.”

Now Justin is almost more curious about Oz’s story than sharing what he’s uncovered.
Potentially
uncovered. And only
almost
more curious.

“Come with me,” Justin says, and indicates the stairs.

Oz does, that blank darkness on his face lingering all the way up them. Justin peers over his shoulder to check. He lets Oz into his room, all shelves and books and a desk covered in sheets of paper. It’s the only place Justin ever feels at home these days.

“Bad day?” Justin asks.

“You could say that.” Oz flops onto his back on Justin’s bed. “She tricked me. Let me think I was helping her and showed me up like I’m some green operative.” Oz shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“You are some green operative,” Justin says.

“Not helpful.”

“I know something that might be,” Justin says it with care. He doesn’t want to overpromise. But he realizes he might be framing it incorrectly and tries again. “It will make everything worse, though, if I’m right.”

Oz is quiet for a long stretch, and Justin assumes he’s considering whether he wants another problematic thing to deal with. This all started when they went along on the seizure operation for Henry Locke, at Enki House. The sage showed Justin a book in Bronson’s office, a book that Bronson was hiding there. A journal logging top secret deliberations, it turns out. Justin found it in the exact spot the vision showed Bronson stowing it, behind a collection of reference volumes for relics that rarely show up on this side of the world. In other words, where it would never be accidentally found… and where it wasn’t supposed to be kept. But also not in such an obscure location that the hiding would be perceived as intentional if it were found. An oversight, a mistake. Where Bronson placed the book would make any accusation he’s concealing it an easy thing to deny.

No one would be looking for it on a regular basis. These are the kinds of records that would be referred to, say, when a new Society head takes over.

Oz still hasn’t made up his mind and answered. Justin will have to prod him to a decision. “Oz,” he asks, “Did Kyra by any chance try to steal the relic? The Solstice Was?”

Oz sits up. He wears a grin so sharp it cuts. He’s angry. “Ann told you, didn’t she? I don’t need the knife twisted. Trust me.”

“No,” Justin says. “No one told me. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell
you
.”

“She did steal it,” Oz says. The grin is gone. He seems exhausted in its absence. But also still angry. “Wherever she is, she has it. And it’s my fault. They might kick me out for this. They should.”

Justin knows better than anyone how lost Oz would be without the Society. “No. Bronson won’t do that. He’ll understand.”

“Maybe,” Oz says. “Now, what is this mysterious thing about her that you’re telling me?”

Justin considers. It might be best if he kept it to himself. He doesn’t want to put Oz in a bad position. A worse one. Oz avoided saying her name just now.

Oz climbs to his feet. “Don’t you dare protect me. Tell me what it is.”

“OK,” Justin agrees. Though he doesn’t feel as sure as he did before. He pulls out his big leather notebook and hands it to Oz, holding it open to the page where he copied the text. “Read this.”

Oz frowns, but takes it and scans the lines. He’s still frowning when he looks up at Justin. “What does it mean?” he asks.

“Think,” Justin says.

Oz shakes his head. “I’m too tired. You’re the one who does that better anyway. Just tell me.”

“Fine. It’s a record of the deliberations among the board after the Awakening, about what emergency actions they should take.”

“I gathered that much. Five people involved, right?”

“To prevent possible ties during voting,” Justin says.

One of the people in the meeting was his mother. He misses her. But his dad, well, his dad has issues with a son that prefers the library to the battle. He’s better off here.

“So?” Oz asks. “Everyone was in agreement, right? Seal the doors, then make a display of the most powerful god we could capture. That’s what they did.”

“Yes and no.” Justin begins to worry he’s leapt too far. If Oz doesn’t see it… But he goes on. “There was one person arguing against closing the doors to the Heavens and the Afterlife. The board split in two, as you know – half of them taking care of one door, and the rest the other.”

“In secret locations known only to them, for safety. Yes, I know. What am I missing? Who was arguing against it and why?”

Oz had skimmed the copied down text, instead of reading it. It would have saved some time if he’d just told Justin that. But Justin thinks of Oz waiting while he makes a mess of target practice with his bow, patiently giving Justin time to improve… some… and he pushes aside his frustration. They each have their strengths.

“William Bronson,” Justin says, keeping his voice down, as if the walls can see and hear. When, if the walls could, he’d already be busted for the time he’s spent rooting around in Bronson’s office.

“What are you saying?” Oz asks, but Justin can tell by his tone that he’s made the same jump.

“That maybe Henry Locke took the relic, but his motives were more complicated. Maybe he intended to foil a plot.”

Oz asks, “Why not accuse Bronson then? And why would he take the fall after all that?”

“I don’t know,” Justin says. “That’s the part I was hoping you could help with. You’re the one who understands people.”

“No, I’m not,” Oz says. “What would we do about it, if you’re right?”

“I don’t know that either. I just… I expected you to know what we should do.”

Oz closes his eyes for a long moment. Finally, he opens them. “It might not matter. Kyra has the scepter. She took off with it. Gods only know where she is by now. And she has Vidarr’s shoe.”

“Too powerful to keep wearing for very long,” Justin observes. By the sudden lift of Oz’s head, he can tell that’s news to his friend. Oz really should study more. “She’d go to her friends, wouldn’t she?” Justin asks.

Oz shrugs a single shoulder. “They were at the Jefferson… Maybe she arranged for them to be there, but I got the impression they didn’t know where she was.”

“Interesting,” Justin says.

“Moderately,” Oz admits, grudgingly. “What was Bronson’s argument back then?”

“Now
that
is interesting. He was a proponent of the argument that we shouldn’t risk antagonizing the gods. That he should be sent as an envoy to negotiate, before the emergency protocols were undertaken.”

“But no one thought mediation would work,” Oz says. “The gods are too powerful. We saw that immediately.”

“I’m so proud,” Justin holds a hand to his heart, “you
did
read something.”

“Hilarious.”

“The transcript is telling,” Justin says, “but it’s not enough. It’s not proof. He might have just held a different view.”

“But he knows, doesn’t he? Where the Afterlife door is?”

Justin nods. “It doesn’t explain why, though. Why he disagreed back then, why he’d do this now. Any clue from the trial today?”

“None,” Oz says, “and I was there. All we have is a theory.”

“You know what we do with a theory,” Justin says, already pushing his notebook into a leather messenger bag.

“Humor me,” Oz says. His tone is dry, more like normal.

Justin was right to tell him. That’s a relief. Not that what’s ahead of them is going to be easy. The dark might be gone for now, but that doesn’t mean it’s been replaced by light. In Justin’s experience, the lesson of history is that darkness is never far away. And it is
never
easily dealt with.

“We prove or disprove it,” Justin says.

“That’s what we do,” Oz agrees. Then, “How?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Morning finds me and Anzu sacked out a few feet apart in the alley behind the church. Sleep was fitful, not so shocking considering the arrangements. I had the presence of mind to use my backpack as a pillow, and it turns out an injured god throws off a lot of heat. A fire would have made less.

The night before, after Anzu roused, weak, I pulled myself together enough to realize we had to get out of the middle of the road. The last thing we need is pictures of a girl and her monster circulating or rumors about the same (more than there already will be). I considered putting on Vidarr’s shoe, but the idea of it made me too tired to move Anzu.

And that’s what had to happen. I tried helping him up by pushing under his wing. I was beyond worried about the wound, which was not healing, not even closing. But, after his golden eyes reopened from the pain of my messing around with his wing, I decided on a different strategy. I walked away from him.

I made it three steps before I looked back and found him struggling to his clawed feet. He shook his wings and his head, and came after me. He was listing to one side, but steady enough. I managed to lead him to our resting spot.

But now day has broken, and the god has yet to awaken. I stand and lean over – cautiously, because I’m under no illusion that we’re suddenly best friends – to check out Anzu’s side.

I experience a wave of dismay. The gash Legba left him with continues to ooze blood. The pavement beneath him is soaked a deep crimson from it, as if we completed a messy sacrifice back here during the night. The gash has pulled wide enough that the edges are visible despite the plumage that would normally hide them. Anzu’s skin is not fragile baby stuff. There’s no putting stitches in this guy, and he’s already lost more blood than would be possible for any non-divine creature to survive.

And that’s the question, isn’t it? Why isn’t his magic taking care of it? I’d expect a god’s mutant healing factor to be off the charts. Any god’s.

I am keenly aware I need to get moving, get back to the city by whatever means are available, and figure out
something
to do next. As out of it as Anzu is, slipping away from his guard duty wouldn’t be so hard. The guys from the night before might not recognize me in the daylight. I could get a ticket on the first coach back in. Saturday’s a light schedule, but it’s a holiday. People should be chomping to go to the city for the big solstice revels on the Mall tonight. I have to hope whatever transport there is can get me there fast enough. I need to warn Mom which team Legba is on, and Dad doesn’t have much time left.

I’m at a loss. I’m lost.

But.

Anzu may be a monster,
and
he may have been assigned to watch over me,
and
he may not have the best reputation among the gods. But he tried to fight off Legba
for me
. So I dig out a fresh T-shirt, and wet it down in a puddle of leftover rainwater. Then I wipe the damp cloth as gingerly as I can along Anzu’s side.

A fierce growl rumbles from his throat, as he rouses at the pressure. Gold flickers to life as his heavy eyelids part.

“I’m being gentle,” I say, my best attempt at a brave face for the unwilling patient. “And I promise I don’t taste good.”

Anzu’s response is to crane his head back and snap his giant jaws together. At me. I jump back, no longer touching the slash. “I’m attempting to help you here. So, cooperate.” I’d add
or else
, except I have no idea whether he understands and if he does, he’ll know there is nothing to back it up.

After a tense moment with him staring at me, and me quivering back at him, he lowers his head to the pavement. He doesn’t shift his wing to prevent me access to the wound. I choose to take this as an invitation. He grumbles when I touch him again, but lays prone.

“This might sting,” I say. He seems to understand. At least, sometimes he does. “But I need to get a better look.”

I use the T-shirt to hold back feathers and block the sun as I squint into the long bloody gash. I’m not a first aid expert, but we’ve all had basic training. A necessity when you live in the city, just in case. Magic aside, it strikes me as odd that the wound is behaving as if it’s still fresh.

“It’s almost like you were poisoned, champ.” The answering rumble might be a protest at the nickname. “I mean, mighty and fearsome Anzu.”

But his throat makes the noise again. A grumble this time. As if he’s saying,
No stupid, not that
.

“Poison?” I ask.

A sound less like a protest issues from him, and he sighs against the pavement.

I keep talking as I move in for another look, with not a clue how I’d extract poison from his bloodstream if that’s the problem. “Weird,” I say. He grumbles more. “The way it’s not closing at all. No anticoagulant or closure agent, I mean.”

And then I spot it. Deep in the center of the seeping wound is a shard of something yellow-white that should have worked its way out by now if it’s not one of his own bones.
Bone
. That’s exactly what it is – and not his, either. It has to be from Legba’s cane.

“I think I might know what’s in there. But… I’m going to have to reach in there to get it. OK?” I smooth a nervous hand along his side above the wound. As if I’m the bosom companion of Anzu the Sumerian God, and he trusts me completely. As if anyone does.