The Woken Gods (17 page)

“And bacon is packed with nutrients,” I say.

She grins as I take a bite.

“Do you make it for Oz too?”

“Yes. Don’t tell.” She winks, puts her finger in front of her lips. “You’ll be good for the house,” she says.

I want to ask if Oz and Justin are around, and if they aren’t, where they are. But… I feel shy about it because of my middle of the night confab with Oz.

When I finish eating, I seek out Bronson in his office. He’s making notes in a ledger of some kind while talking on the phone. “3.30, sharp,” he says, and hangs up. I earn another smile as he rises from the desk. His coat’s draped over the back of the leather chair, and he swings it on.

“What’s at 3.30?” I ask.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he says. “Ready?”

“More than.” Neither of us is going to be fully open with the other, apparently. But I let it pass. For now.

There’s a fancy black carriage with the Society’s symbol – the wavy-lined sun rays over a book – where an old-school crest would have gone in some other era. Anzu sits on the sidewalk beside it. He sniffs the air, and I do my best to think “this is my grandfather who I love” so he won’t attack Bronson, even though he can probably scent the reality of the situation.

“If he’s making you uncomfortable, we can get rid of him,” Bronson says. “I could send someone to speak with Enki.”

Oz must have explained the god’s presence as guard already, since otherwise I’d expect a
few
more questions.

“I’m sure he’ll go away on his own, once everything’s over.” Assuming it ever is.

Anzu growls when Bronson puts an arm lightly around my shoulders to steer me into the carriage. I shoot lion-face a
stop that right now
look, and regret it when his liquid gold eyes give me one back that’s more than a little bit hungry. But he stays where he is.

For all I know, Bronson’s carrying a relic for defense if needed, and Anzu can sense it. I breathe slightly easier once we’re inside on the bench seats opposite each other. As we rattle away, I try and figure out where we are. The street’s unfamiliar, and most of the other once-grand houses on it are closed up. The pavement and sidewalk are cracked in spots, and the carriage steers wide at one point around a huge sunken patch of asphalt.

“Are we on Capitol Hill?”

“We’re just a bit off the Mall. Sometimes the best disguise is a little squalor. No neighbors this way. The director always occupies this address.”

“Smart.” I drum my fingers on the seat.

I’m having trouble in the light of day believing that Bronson’s behind all this, collaborating and maneuvering to put my dad in harm’s way, bargaining with gods. But even if Legba isn’t telling the truth, Mom is. She trusts him. So his advice remains mine – and Dad’s – best bet for now.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Good thing I’m not a woman.”

“Women don’t really care about age.” But then I realize I have no idea. “Do they? I won’t.”

“I hope you’re right. But some of them do. Some men too,” he says, confidingly. “But I’m not fussy like that. I’m sixty-six. I still have all my hair and we Bronsons usually live to a hundred. My whole life is ahead of me.” His hands clasp in his lap, his index finger tapping his knuckles. “Just like yours is for you. I’ve always kept tabs on you, Kyra, even though we weren’t allowed to know each other. Now that your heritage is open to you, you can be who you were always meant to be.” He unfolds his hands and relaxes the right one to reveal a small object in middle of his palm. “Take a look at it.”

I lean forward. It’s a blue glass eye, a black dot where a pupil would be.

“What is it?” I ask.

“The key to the Locke family reliquary. That’s where we’re going first.”

“Can I have it?”

“Of course. It now belongs to you. You should know that I won’t let anyone judge you because of what Henry did.”

I put my hand out and the blue glass drops into it, cold against the skin of my palm.

“You can’t keep people from doing that. People will judge no matter what.” When he looks skeptical, I say, “Trust me. I’m in high school. I know these things.”

He snorts with appreciation. “I have a confession to make.”

Don’t get your hopes up
. “Spill.”

“I didn’t expect to like you so much.”

I have no idea what to do with that, so I roll with it. “Likewise.”

It’s sort of true, like everything else I’ve told him. I don’t
want
to like him. I want to hate him. That would make this easier. But it’s hard to get there, when he grins as he scoots back in the seat. He really does seem happy that I’m here.

I turn the glass eye over and over in my hand and watch as we pass the familiar sights of the Mall. When we reach the Jefferson, the operatives are told not to worry about Anzu lurking outside. Part of the treaty is gods don’t come and go from this building without invitation. The guards and operatives we encounter say, “Morning, director!” or, “Hello, sir!” to Bronson, but nothing to me. They stand at stiff attention. If Oz hadn’t warned me, I’d be more than thrown by the way they try to get a look at me, and the way they
exchange
looks after, careful so Bronson doesn’t see. As if I’m an exotic alien life form arriving from outer space, or an overly pampered pet. Prepared, I’m able to smile brightly at them, to make my grandfather chuckle so they get the message that I’m here to stay, that I’m under his protection and if he did see them gossiping, they’d be sorry.

Bull, in another word. But bull I want them to believe. I enjoy pretending for their benefit, even.

Bronson takes me down one level, then two, on marble staircases wide enough for us to walk beside each other, and then up a long hall with dangling gold light fixtures. Patterned flooring and identical heavy doors flank the hall, making it seem to stretch into infinity. For all I know, it might.

“I’d expect the family relics to be in dusty stone crypts,” I admit. “Though these doors could hide anything. Even crypts. Which would make you a crypt keeper.”

“Of sorts,” he says, dryly. “We’re a little more modern than that now. Give us some credit. These are more like archives of family history
and
relics. Most are in other Society headquarters, because moving a reliquary is no small project. But those of us based in D.C. maintain ours here. You’ll see.”

On closer look, the doors aren’t exactly the same. There are sigils beside them that change, each one a different House So-and-So. Wasserman, Dulac, Weisz, Ahmed, Mondor…

“That’s mine,” Bronson says, indicating a roaring winged lion with the label
House Bronson
. “We’ll do it next.”

“Funny that the gods have houses too.”

“A house is a place of power,” Bronson says, pleased. “That’s a good observation.”

I resist the satisfaction the compliment gives me.

Bronson stops at a door marked
House Locke
. The family sigil is an elaborate rendering of a key, surrounded by flourishes of radiating light. He gestures, says, “Use the key. Your bloodline gives you the right. It’ll know you.”

“So only me or Dad can open this?”

“Or your mother. These keys are produced with an iron bowl that belonged to Hera. It was a gift from her guard, the hundred-eyed Argus Panoptes. The eyes, like his, don’t make errors. They only let in those who they should.”

The glass is still cool against my skin, even though my palm should have warmed it by now. I have a thought. “Where did Dad steal that relic from the other day?”

Bronson’s jaw tightens. “From my reliquary.”

Which means it’s probably back there, waiting for the ritual. “But how if…?”

“Your mother gave him her key, and he shares Bronson blood by marriage.” He sounds irritated, but then relaxes. “As do you. That’s why we’re visiting both reliquaries. You’re a part of two houses. You’ll receive a key to the Bronson reliquary once you complete your vows. Like mine.” He pulls out a small blue eye of his own from the front pocket of his suit jacket, then slips it back inside. “I gave you the Locke one earlier than I should’ve, but that’s one benefit of being the boss.”

“It’ll be our secret,” I say, and examine the door.

He may be breaking the rules for
me
, but it just confirms he’s a rulebreaker. I wonder if the key I’m holding is Dad’s.

I don’t see a lock, nothing to fit the blue eye into. The knob and door are smooth gold metal.

“Over there,” Bronson says, and taps the brass plate of House Locke. “Touch it with the key.”

“You’re the expert.”

When I touch it and a fingertip to the surface, the nameplate rotates and I jump backward. Bronson laughs.

“Funny,” I say.

“It was,” he says.

I focus on the backside of the plate. It’s a smooth surface, except for a single oblong opening at the bottom. “This time, I got it,” I say, and insert the eye inside. As it clicks into place, the glass eye vanishes. The door releases without a sound. My dad has done this who knows how many times? My mom’s probably been in here too.

And now me.

I wait for it to spit the key back out.

“You can only get it back when we leave, and close the door,” he says.

I have no clue what the reliquary will be like since Bronson shot my crypt concept down. Maybe it’ll be like a bank room filled with safety deposit box after safety deposit box. Or a library (since that’s what we’re in), with drawer after card catalogue drawer, and shelf after shelf of books. Maybe it’ll be like a museum, all exhibit-style glass cases. It could be like a really eccentric hoarder’s attic.

I take a breath and step inside, and discover the family reliquary is like all of those things. The deep, tall chamber before me is packed with
stuff
, some that’s been organized and the rest seemingly not.

I do my best to take it all in. Which is impossible, of course. This collection is far too big to be understood in a glance.

First are a few tables of dark wood carved with scenes of people dancing in clearings or temples, with stiff-backed, mismatched chairs around them. Muted portraits hang along the far wall, in no order I can figure out. Card-catalogue cabinets stretch in a line below those strangers’ faces. Oversized books lie open on tables and stands, displaying yellowed pages with tiny type and detailed illustrations of bizarre creatures and objects and places.

I approach one for a closer look and take in a chimera, or at least a chimera’s skeleton, on brittle paper. A glass-encased shelf appears to hold nothing but small leather journals, dates marked on the spines. A shelf ladder is propped in front of a full bookcase. A typewriter sits on a stand, a telescope aims at the ceiling, a thing like a coat rack has various sinister-looking antique weapons hanging from it. And dominating the entire left wall is the stretching sprawl of a hand-painted map on what might be some sort of animal hide.

The further in we go, the more relics are set apart – some on pillows atop stands, others in fancy glass cases.

“Tell me what they are?” I ask, stopping in front of a case with four distinct levels. It’s rimmed in gold that shines pure enough that it has to be real (and worth a small fortune) and there’s only one artifact per shelf. They must be important.

Bronson squints, taking in the items. “Nice eye. These are all significant relics. The top one is Vidarr’s shoe.”

The shoe is recognizably a shoe, but the riot of colors in the multi-hued leather makes no sense. Some parts are creased or have scuff marks, but there’s no stitching. Yet the thick sole and pieces bigger and smaller that curve to form the top of it appear solid despite that.

“Shoe, singular – he couldn’t afford two?” I ask. “What’s the story?”

“Vidarr is a Norse god of secrets, stealth, and silence. Also known as the god with the thick shoe. One of your Locke ancestors recovered this. It’s made of all the discarded pieces of leather from people’s shoes, from up to the time this was created. It confers invisibility on the wearer and anyone they’re touching. No one can see or hear them. And let’s see…” He ticks the glass in front of the next shelf. There’s a wooden bow on it that looks relatively plain. “This is Celtic. Brighid of the Forge’s. Any arrow it shoots becomes a fiery one. The aim is always true.”

“
That
is a weapon I want to learn how to use. Because I’m betting my aim is terrible, given that I’ve never shot a bow before.” When I see how he’s looking at me, skeptical, I add, “In my life. City girl. No Society training.”

“Right. Of course.”

“What about this?” I tap the glass like he did, getting into this.

He grumbles a little. “That’s a stone pipe belonging to Red Horn.”

I don’t see what’s so offensive about a clay pipe with some faded paint on it. “Who was?”

“A god of the Winnebago peoples, among others. He was also known as He Who Wears Human Faces on His Ears.”

“No. Way.” This is fascinating. “Real ones? Of actual people?”

“Oh, no, he made them. They were small human heads that spoke. In some stories they were more like living earrings.”

I realize I’m touching my ears unconsciously.

“Don’t worry. Someone else collected those. Troublesome things.” He sighs. “You’d probably want to know this, so I’ll tell you. Your dad collected the pipe and gave it as a gift to your mother. It gives pure visions, unclouded and pleasant only, to the user. Of course, as her father, I did not appreciate finding her lighting up with it.”

“But that’s nice? To want to give her happy visions. Being an oracle seems…” I shudder.

“It’s not for you. Don’t worry,” he says. “It shouldn’t have been for Hannah either. Everything went wrong.”

He’s quiet, clearly snagged by the past, but there’s still one shelf left. So I pull him back by asking, “And the last one?”

The cap is small and not that impressive looking. The fabric is half white and half black, the seamless change of color in the middle.

“Eshu’s cap,” Bronson says. “Very famous relic tied to Legba.”

Ice travels up my spine at the name. “It belonged to him?”

Bronson nods. “He wore it to prove to two friends that they shouldn’t honor their relationships with each other above him. They got into a terrible fight, arguing over whether someone they’d seen ride by while they were working was wearing a black hat or a white one. It can be used to sow discord and confusion. The wearer needs only to be in the room to create the effect.”