The Wicked Within

TEN

THE BRAKES SCREECHED AS THE truck came to a rocking stop in front of Jackson Brewery. “You want me to wait for you guys?”

“No,” I answered, getting out. “You’d better head back home and stop Henri and Dub from killing each other.”

She rolled her eyes. “They at it again?”

“Yeah. Something about chopping potatoes.”

“Oh, Lord. Knives involved? Yup, I’d better get back. He’s down there at 520-B.”

After Crank left us in a cloud of exhaust, I crossed Decatur and started down St. Peter, the wide street between the Pontalba Apartments and the park of Jackson Square. Sebastian was a few steps in front of me, his shoulders hunched against the cool night air. The gnarled tree limbs stretched from the park over the street, and the late hour added a creepy quality to the night.

Sebastian stopped at one of the tall brown doors sandwiched between the ground-floor shops. He rang the buzzer to apartment B.

Footsteps thudded down the stairs. Heavy ones. The door opened and Bran’s shadow loomed large. “About time.”

“You’re welcome,” I responded in a tired tone. “What’s going on?”

He lifted an eyebrow; I wasn’t my usual snarky self. “The kid who lives upstairs has been sitting in the corner, speaking in tongues for the last two days. And seems your name’s come up.”

“My name,” I repeated, surprised.

“Not your given name. She’s mentioned your other name. God-killer. I think it’s a message or some sort of prophetic warning. Come on, I want you to talk to her, see if you can figure out what she wants.” Turning away, Bran muttered, “God knows, now that the shit has hit the fan, we can use all the help we can get. . . . ”

I frowned, not understanding what he meant.

Bran led us inside the tall, narrow space, then up an equally narrow staircase to the second-floor apartments. He paused at the door marked B, looking a little stressed, which was very unlike him.

The apartment was pretty swanky. Jackson Square was lined on two sides by matching apartment buildings. They were known as some of the oldest apartments in North America, and home to many of the Novem families. High ceilings, heavy crown moldings, and expensive furniture—only the best for the Novem, while the rest of the population outside the French Quarter had to make do with spotty electricity and unsafe drinking water.

The instant we stepped inside, I was hit with a thick aura of tension and power. It raised the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. In the living room, a couple sat on a couch, huddled together, holding hands, looking the very picture of concerned. Bran took the chair next to the couch and leaned close to them.

“I don’t know about this,” the mother said through tears, and I wasn’t sure if her quick glance at me was one of fear or dislike. Probably both. It wasn’t like I was going to hurt her kid or anything. I didn’t even want to be there.

“We talked about this,” the father said. “Whether it upsets Zoe or not, it might get a reaction, wake her up, something. We have to carry her to the bathroom and change her like a baby, Trish. This can’t go on.”

From the ensuing conversation, I learned that for two days Zoe had stayed in the corner of her room, facing the wall and rocking. She’d been uttering a language no one seemed to understand, mixed with a smattering of English and a few other languages.

One word had caught their attention: god-killer. And that had led them to confide in Bran, and Bran to summon me. Anxious to get the introduction over with, I cut into the conversation as Bran tried to convince the mother this was the right thing to do. “We’re just going to go in and say hi.” Sebastian and I headed down the hall before anyone could say otherwise.

As we approached the girl’s bedroom, the air became thicker, the power so heavy it was like trudging through thick bayou mud. It made my heart beat faster, my head hurt, and my skin tingle.

“You ever see The Exorcist?” Sebastian asked from behind me.

“Why are you following me?” I shot back. “And Bran didn’t say anything about demons.” I stopped. “Please tell me there aren’t demons.”

“I don’t think she’s possessed. Not the way you’re thinking.”

“Gee, let’s see, sitting in a corner, speaking in tongues. Sounds like possession to me.”

The door was open. Inside, the space was how I’d always imagined a little girl’s room should look. She was one of the lucky ones. She had a nice home, a family, and was cared for and loved.

Zoe sat cross-legged, her profile to us. Her back was straight, hands limp in her lap, and she was rocking slightly. Her hair was long down her back, a glossy black that needed washing. She wore pajama pants and a cami, and I pegged her about ten or eleven.

Sweat beaded at my hairline. I swallowed. It wasn’t hot in the room, just . . . overwhelming. I met Sebastian’s gaze, took a deep breath, then approached. She was a cute kid. Olive skin, open, unseeing, almond-shaped brown eyes.

Her mouth moved, the words too low to hear. I knelt down. “Zoe.”

Nothing. Just rocking and soft words.

“Zoe. It’s me. Ari.” I took a steadying breath and said, “The god-killer.”

The girl’s head snapped in my direction so quickly it scared the daylights out of me. I recoiled, hitting the wall behind me. Sebastian took a step forward, but I signaled him to stay back. Her eyes didn’t focus on me, but her words grew louder and faster. I was able to pick out some English. God-killer. World. Tell her. Regret. Wake up. My child. My child. My child.

Exhaustion was written in the dark shadows beneath Zoe’s eyes. Her parents had a right to be worried. Whatever had ahold of their daughter was draining the little girl. And that ticked me off. I knew I wasn’t talking to Zoe. And I decided the fastest way to get its attention was to piss it off.

I leaned forward, easily tapping into my anger from earlier. “Listen up, you parasite. Say whatever the hell you need to say and then leave the kid alone. I’m here. I’m waiting. You want to talk about the god-killer? Well, talk. Talk about me to my face. Or do you always hide behind little kids? You too much of a coward, is that it?”

Sebastian winced at my theatrics. I shot him the bird, still mad at him. And, yeah, I was laying it on thick, but it was worth a try.

I’d barely finished the thought when Zoe’s hand snatched my throat, shoving me back. Rising to her knees, she pinned me to the wall. Holy shit. Still, I stopped Sebastian with a hand. Zoe’s head swiveled around slowly, letting him know she—or it—saw him. And then her attention returned to me.

Zoe leaned in close. The voice that came out of her small mouth was powerful and male. “Wake me. Wake me up. And I’ll set you free.”

Zoe released my throat and fell onto her back, arms straight out, eyes wide open on the ceiling as her parents hurried into the room and knelt by her side.

Sebastian crouched next to Zoe. She was still breathing. He turned to me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Fine. That kid has quite a grip.”

“I don’t think it was the kid.”

Bran came in and leaned over Zoe, assessing the situation. Determining that she was fine, he nudged my foot with his boot. “On your feet, Selkirk.”

“Thanks for the concern. I’m fine, by the way.”

“Of course you are. You are my student. I don’t train puss—” He stopped himself in deference to the others in the room. I couldn’t help the smile that split my face. He rolled his eyes and went to Zoe and her parents.

Sebastian held out a hand to help me, but I got to my feet on my own. Zoe was sitting up and enveloped in parental love. I was surprised to find I was trembling.

Zoe’s eyes focused on me. Focusing was good. “You all right, kid?” I asked.

She swallowed. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t you. So you remember doing that?”

Bran crouched in front of her. “It’s important that you remember, Zoe. Anything at all will help us.”

The mother smoothed Zoe’s hair back from her forehead and placed a kiss there. She wasn’t letting go. The girl nodded. “Okay.”

Bran asked the million-dollar question. “Who was talking through you?”

A pause followed, the words ringing in my head. Wake me. Wake me up. And I’ll set you free.

“The gods that sleep,” she began, “they hear things from our world . . . things about them and what they care about. Just bits and pieces, fragments and whispers . . . ” She shook her head and then looked at me. “They know about you. The one . . . the one who was in my head. He wanted you to come because you’re strong. Your blood is strong enough to—”

“To wake him up.”

“Yes.”

“And if I do, he’ll set me free.”

“Free?” Bran asked.

“From my curse.” It was the only thing I wanted to be free of. Or maybe that was god-speak for “I want to kill you.” Because in a roundabout way, that would set me free too.

Bran turned back to Zoe. “Who was it? Who was he?”

She blinked hard. “I—I don’t know. He kept saying weird things. Like poems or chanting. He’s scary. He’s angry and hurt—not physically, like betrayed hurt. He’s . . . mad at himself, too, I think. He wants revenge. He has wanted that for as long as he’s slept.”

“Who?” I asked. “Who does he want to hurt?”

She thought for a moment. “It’s not a person. It’s a god. Athena, I think. I saw an image of her and another woman together. Like it was a memory he’d had. One lady was holding a baby, the other was smiling down at it, holding its hand.”

“You ever see Athena before?” Sebastian asked.

“My parents did. And they told me what she looks like.”

“At the Arnaud Ball,” the mother explained. “Then again at the fight in Lafayette Cemetery, and later in the ruins when—” She flicked a nervous glance at Sebastian. The ruins. When I changed Sebastian from stone to flesh, and he went nuclear on Athena’s minions.

Bran reached out and ruffled the hair on Zoe’s head. “You did good, kiddo. You stayed strong and you delivered a message from a god. Not many kids can say that, can they?”

When she smiled, Bran did too. Apparently, the Big Guy had a way with kids. Who knew?

“What did the other woman look like?” I asked.

“She has blond hair and is tall like Athena.”

Another goddess, I thought while Bran rose and gestured toward the door. As I followed, Zoe captured my hand. “He doesn’t want to hurt you,” she said, trying to put into words what she’d felt from the god. “But he will if you get in his way. . . . ”

“Thanks, Zoe. See you around.”

Bran escorted us out of the apartment and back outside. The three of us walked across the street to the low stone wall topped by the iron fence that surrounded Jackson Square. I could feel the tension coming off Sebastian. He ran a hand down his face. “Just add this to the shit coming our way,” he muttered.

“So you want to clue me in here?” I asked, trying not to grit my teeth. “Either of you? What the hell does this mean, and what the hell happened last night?”

Sebastian and Bran exchanged looks, but it was Sebastian who spoke. “Athena sent a messenger to the council meeting last night. She made an offer. . . . ”

Just like she had with me. Athena was playing both sides, covering her bases. “I’m almost afraid to ask. What kind of offer?”

“She wants the Hands of Zeus. She offered her immortality to the one who brings them to her.”

“Her immortality?”

“Yeah. As in immortality plus all her powers.”

It took a long moment for the implications to totally sink in. The paranormal world had all manner of creatures—many created by Athena herself. They lived long lives, some extraordinarily long, but they weren’t immortal, not in the truest sense of the word, not like the gods—immortal unless killed by another god, or a god’s weapon . . . or me. Athena’s offer would set everyone on the trail of the Hands, making my job that much harder. But why would she highlight the Hands and let everyone know she wanted them?

Actually, it made sense. “She’s ensuring the Hands will remain safe,” I said. “If this many people know about the offer, it makes the Hands too valuable to destroy.” And with the statue out of her control, she’d need to make sure it was safe.

And this little game changer made sure Josephine thought long and hard before doing something stupid, like destroying the statue because of some feud she had with Athena. Even Josephine wouldn’t be able to deny their value now.

But Athena was also ensuring her own mortality. Why would she do that? There had to be some kind of larger endgame, because I couldn’t see Athena giving up her power. Unless—a nagging thought surfaced—she loved her kid so much that she’d give up everything. . . .

“And this new god,” I said, glancing up at Zoe’s apartment, “just adds more fuel to the fire. It’s easy to put two and two together. A god wants to rise. He has his sights set on Athena. . . . ” I paused. “He could be the father of her child.”

“She’d anticipate the father coming into play, though,” Bran said. “She’d know about the chatter, about what filters in to the gods who sleep. And I can tell you, she wouldn’t mind one bit letting another god rise and destroy this city to get what he’s after. Athena will pick up the pieces in the end and have exactly what she’s wanted.”

“If I wake this god and my curse is lifted, Athena loses. I won’t be able to resurrect her child.”

“Maybe. But this god might want you to resurrect the child as well. He might want exactly the same thing as Athena once he’s awake.”

They both come. The River Witch’s words echoed in my head. Great. If this kid’s mother and father were coming, Bran was right. We were screwed.

“How does one wake up a god?” Sebastian asked. “Why can’t they wake themselves up?”

Bran shrugged. “Sleep means two different things to the gods. There’s sleep as in rest, and then there’s Sleep as in retiring from the mortal and godly planes. It’s a choice made by very old gods, those who are tired and done with life. It is a decision that, once made, they cannot reverse themselves. They can only be revived from Sleep if they are woken, and the means to do so are a mystery to all but a few. Waking a god requires great power and comes with some serious consequences.”

“Well,” I said, thinking out loud, “maybe this god can help us. . . . ”

Bran shot me a dark look. “Are you on meds, Selkirk? We’re not waking a god. Did you hear what I said? We’re talking old gods here. Primal gods. Supreme deities. The big dogs.” He parked his hands on his hips and let out a heavy breath. “If this god wakes and has it out for Athena, it’s gonna get messy. Trust me on that. The gods don’t care who they hurt to get what they want.”

“Speaking from experience?” I asked, thinking of Bran’s descent from an old Celtic war god.

“My grandfather would slice open my belly and wear my entrails as a necklace if it got him what he wanted. And that’s why I thank the heavens every night that he chose to Sleep. There’s no way you’re waking a god like that, Selkirk.”

“A god like what? Who is it?”

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Look, gods can only speak like that through their descendants. Otherwise the god would have spoken to you directly. Zoe and her family are just a handful of those left related to the Egyptian pantheon.”

Sebastian let out a low whistle.

“Yeah,” Bran agreed. “Waking an old Egyptian god equals huge fucking mistake. You need to find another way to end your curse,” he said to me. “Because this way will mean the end for a lot of innocent people. We have enough problems with Athena. Her offer is going to make every power-hungry member of the council insane. And the news will leak, if it hasn’t already, and then we’ll have even more idiots to worry about.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Sebastian said, “but all the guards and the lockdown thing kind of waved a flag that something’s up.”

“I wasn’t allowed on the third floor of Presby,” I added. “The offices are off-limits—talk will start going around. Eventually someone will spill.”

“Yeah, well, the exterior guards weren’t my idea, but the majority vote won out on that one,” Bran said.

“What about the library?”

“It’s on lockdown until the council agrees what to do with the Hands. Until then, no one goes inside.”

“So there was no break-in,” I said, relieved. “A lockdown only helps if the Hands are actually in the library.”

I exchanged a glance with Sebastian. We were the only ones, besides the kids, who knew the Hands might be misplaced. Quickly, I filled Bran in on the fact that the Hands were either missing or hidden within the library. I told him that the Keeper was doing inventory to find them, and that we suspected Josephine of hiding them within the library or taking them.

“You might have told me this sooner,” he said flatly. “Getting someone inside to see if the Keeper is done with inventory is going to be impossible now.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian said. “Already tried that last night. In the time it took me to leave the meeting, talk to Hunter, and get to the third floor, there were already guards posted.”

“That’s my job, Lamarliere,” Bran said. “As soon as Athena’s message was delivered, I texted my crew. They were inside the study, guarding the library before you and the other heirs left the meeting.” He paused, shaking his head and looking disgusted by the events unfolding. “We should have sent Zaria’s head back to Athena on a platter,” he said gruffly, before waving us off and heading back into the apartment.

Cold slid into me. Zaria had been Athena’s messenger.

I’d watched her drink Sebastian to the brink of death night after night in Athena’s temple. I’d watched her tempt him with the blood of one servant after another. And I’d watched Sebastian, changed and blood drunk, hanging with Zaria and Athena like they were old friends. Or more.

Numbness settled into my psyche. The wind blew in from the Mississippi, making the low oak branches that stretched over us creak.

“It was Zaria,” I echoed with a sharp laugh. That’s who Gabriel was talking about. During our entire conversation back at the house, Sebastian had neglected to mention her.

My throat stung. Did she have some hold over him? “Were you even going to tell me you saw her again?”

He didn’t answer, and I wasn’t sure if he knew the answer himself. He’d had several opportunities to confide in me, and he’d chosen not to. As though it was a secret. As though I wasn’t part of his life. Well, to hell with that. To hell with him.

“I’m done,” I muttered, shoving past him.

I felt his eyes on me as I marched away, part of me angry, part of me hurting like hell and wishing he’d say something, call me back, give me some kind of explanation. . . . But he never did.