dedicate you to the sun god Utu, the god Shamash, the god Nergal. To the god Inti, the god Istanu, to Agni and Ravi, to Helios, to Aten and Khepri and Ra, to Huitzilopochtli, to Malakbel, to Igbo, to Magec, to Ngai. To the gods of light and justice and punishment, of fire and war and the daylight hunt. To the eagle, to the lion, to the wolf. And through this sacrifice to the sister of the Sun, the Moon, Mayari, Astarte, Isis, Bendis, Selene, and all the other crap names of that crazy woman. By this sacrifice do I bring them to their godhead….”
Vines have sprung up all around you, binding you to the stone. The knife is poised above your breast, glittering in the dappled light of the clearing, a drop of blood quivering on the tip. The women are crouched around the makeshift altar. Your mouth moves as you whisper silent prayers—to whom you’re not sure, maybe the God of your childhood, the God of your parents who drove you out, begging for forgiveness, not rescue, because you know there’s no hope, not anymore. Your hope is down at the police station, bailing Billie out of a trumped-up charge—and you know now who it was that accused her, to get Rick out of the way while he pulls this crazy stunt. You take a breath and close your eyes, bracing yourself.
Someone screams, and it’s not you.
Your eyes shoot open, and you stare up at Dion, who’s got a feathered stick growing out of the center of his chest. He drops the knife, and it lands on the stone beside you with a clatter. “Zeus fuck,” a complaining, beautiful voice says, but the vines have twisted around your head and hold it immobile, so you can’t see.
“You shot me, you bitch!” Dion accuses angrily.
The wild women are screaming and, from the sound of it, running away. Rick comes closer and touches the vines; they shrivel up and fall away. He’s got a bow in his left hand, the arrow still nocked, but his right hand draws you up and against him. “Are you all right, baby?”
“I’m okay,” you say into his shoulder.
“Of course I shot you.” Corinna sounds mildly aggrieved, which, after a few weeks of acquaintance, you know means she is furious . “What the hell were you thinking, Dion? Nate is a mortal . You bring him here as a sacrifice ? You’re breaking all the oaths we took when we were permitted to remain.”
“Of course he is,” Rick says. His voice is a comforting rumble in your ear. “He’s nutty.”
“He said he would bring you into your godhead,” you mumble.
“Like I said, nutty. We gave all that up, you moron.” You know he’s not talking to you. “We agreed . You agreed.”
“It isn’t enough!” Dion roars. “To have to live among those petty little minds, those little lives? To see them bow down to these new gods?”
“They are the gods they have chosen, Dion,” Corinna says. “They are the gods who fit what they are now, the gods of this age. Our time has come and gone. To them we are nothing more than the shadows of their ancient past, the gods of the field and the hunt and the physical world. We are not the Written Gods. We are the Dreamt Gods. Our time is done .”
“So I’m supposed to just give in, let myself die like Zeus and Hera and Osiris and Woden and all the others?”
“No,” you say, turning back to him. With Rick at your back you feel braver, strong enough to face this man, this god. “Go on the way Rick and Corinna have. Find your niche and your worshippers among the ones who are left.” You snort. “You know Rick says they’re about to repeal Prohibition….”
“Huh,” Dion says. “Prohibition has been a gold mine for me.”
“You’re a gangster, and a successful one, so you know how it is. People will always drink. They’ll always go crazy. They’ll always—” You glance at Corinna and modify what you’re going to say. “—have carnal relations. Find your worshippers there. Corinna’s right—this isn’t your time anymore. And your idea wouldn’t have worked,
Vines have sprung up all around you, binding you to the stone. The knife is poised above your breast, glittering in the dappled light of the clearing, a drop of blood quivering on the tip. The women are crouched around the makeshift altar. Your mouth moves as you whisper silent prayers—to whom you’re not sure, maybe the God of your childhood, the God of your parents who drove you out, begging for forgiveness, not rescue, because you know there’s no hope, not anymore. Your hope is down at the police station, bailing Billie out of a trumped-up charge—and you know now who it was that accused her, to get Rick out of the way while he pulls this crazy stunt. You take a breath and close your eyes, bracing yourself.
Someone screams, and it’s not you.
Your eyes shoot open, and you stare up at Dion, who’s got a feathered stick growing out of the center of his chest. He drops the knife, and it lands on the stone beside you with a clatter. “Zeus fuck,” a complaining, beautiful voice says, but the vines have twisted around your head and hold it immobile, so you can’t see.
“You shot me, you bitch!” Dion accuses angrily.
The wild women are screaming and, from the sound of it, running away. Rick comes closer and touches the vines; they shrivel up and fall away. He’s got a bow in his left hand, the arrow still nocked, but his right hand draws you up and against him. “Are you all right, baby?”
“I’m okay,” you say into his shoulder.
“Of course I shot you.” Corinna sounds mildly aggrieved, which, after a few weeks of acquaintance, you know means she is furious . “What the hell were you thinking, Dion? Nate is a mortal . You bring him here as a sacrifice ? You’re breaking all the oaths we took when we were permitted to remain.”
“Of course he is,” Rick says. His voice is a comforting rumble in your ear. “He’s nutty.”
“He said he would bring you into your godhead,” you mumble.
“Like I said, nutty. We gave all that up, you moron.” You know he’s not talking to you. “We agreed . You agreed.”
“It isn’t enough!” Dion roars. “To have to live among those petty little minds, those little lives? To see them bow down to these new gods?”
“They are the gods they have chosen, Dion,” Corinna says. “They are the gods who fit what they are now, the gods of this age. Our time has come and gone. To them we are nothing more than the shadows of their ancient past, the gods of the field and the hunt and the physical world. We are not the Written Gods. We are the Dreamt Gods. Our time is done .”
“So I’m supposed to just give in, let myself die like Zeus and Hera and Osiris and Woden and all the others?”
“No,” you say, turning back to him. With Rick at your back you feel braver, strong enough to face this man, this god. “Go on the way Rick and Corinna have. Find your niche and your worshippers among the ones who are left.” You snort. “You know Rick says they’re about to repeal Prohibition….”
“Huh,” Dion says. “Prohibition has been a gold mine for me.”
“You’re a gangster, and a successful one, so you know how it is. People will always drink. They’ll always go crazy. They’ll always—” You glance at Corinna and modify what you’re going to say. “—have carnal relations. Find your worshippers there. Corinna’s right—this isn’t your time anymore. And your idea wouldn’t have worked,
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