Richelle Mead - The Immortal Crown

“Oh, is that all? Somehow I doubt you’d be motivated enough to help me very much if finding that guy frees me.”

“Not true,” he declared. “I’m very interested to know who did that—or more specifically, who he serves. I need to know the players and what they’re capable of if I’m going to win this game. And as I said, I’m a different kind of god. I’m straightforward. If I deliver for you, I can’t help but think you’ll want to keep working with me—of your own free will. And frankly, that would delight me more than any clever bargain locking you into a lifetime of servitude.”

Mae studied him for several moments and could hardly believe what she was considering. “No. No. I left to get away from all that supernatural business!”

He tapped the center of her collarbone. “Then why are you wearing that charm under your uniform? You might want to get away from it all, but deep inside, you know it’s still going to go wherever you go. And you’re right. So join the winning side. Help me regain my place, and help me find your attacker so that we can make him suffer excruciatingly for what he did to you. And don’t pretend, Maj Erja, that you aren’t interested in revenge. I’ve seen the joy you take in punishing those who harm others. You shed no tears for that salon owner in Arcadia. I can only imagine the need you have to get back at someone who specifically targeted you .”

It infuriated Mae because he was right. She had told Justin she wanted to let everything go, even the pursuit of her assailant . . . but deep inside, a spark burned within her that yearned to find the phantom and make him pay for the pain he’d caused her. And now, this stranger . . . this god . . . claimed he could be the means to do it, if she aligned herself with him. Justin had told her once that there was always a cost for working with the gods . . . and yet, he’d also told her she couldn’t escape them. If that was true, was it time she stopped letting nebulous gods control her? Was it time to place her energies into someone who really could make things happen?

“Something wrong with your hands, praetorian?”

Mae had fallen into silence as her thoughts swirled, rubbing her hands together unconsciously. There’d been a pins-and-needles sensation in them, like they were falling asleep, and she dropped them in her lap as she met the stranger squarely in his yellow eyes. “You say you’re a ‘different kind of god.’ You say you’re straightforward. If that’s true, then tell me your name . . . or do I have to earn it like all the other elect do?”

“Not all,” he said. “I meant what I said and stand by it. My name is Loki.” He held out his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mae Koskinen.”

The Ghost

It was starting to rain when the man wearing Rufus Callaway’s face arrived in Seattle. He thought he’d left the rain behind in Vancouver, but apparently it had followed him here. Or maybe it had started here. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. His mood was too good, and as he began walking from the train station, he knew it would take more than a little wet hair and clothing to bring him down.

Admittedly, things hadn’t gone quite as he’d planned. It had been his own vanity, he supposed. He’d been careless in what he’d said around Mae, not realizing the depth of her relationship with March. If not for that slip, he might well still be in her bed this morning, languishing in the afterglow of a night full of planned pleasures. And he had had a lot planned. That brief, frantic fumbling had barely sated his needs, though it had certainly proved his dominance. His blood still burned at the memory of the way she’d felt underneath him, completely under his control. She might balk against submission in her daily life, but he’d seen the way she’d looked at him after he’d taken her, those luminous eyes filled with adoration. Love, even.

But could he say she’d really been looking at him? After all, it wasn’t his name she’d called out in the heat of passion.

That reality brought a dark edge to his thoughts, but by the time he reached his destination, completely soaked, he’d recovered. It didn’t matter who Mae thought she did or didn’t love now. When all was revealed, she would come around and recognize who she truly belonged with.

“You’re late.”

The woman standing at the door crossed her arms over her chest and fixed him with a glare. Her name was Donna, and he knew she was intently jealous that Tezcatlipoca hadn’t given her the blessing of skin- changing.

“I had things to do,” he said mildly, resting his hand on the scanner she held. With people always coming and going in different guises, only the chip reader could speak the truth of who was who—for most of them, at least. The chip he bore now wasn’t the one he’d been given as a child, but that one wouldn’t let him move with such freedom in the RUNA, seeing as he was supposed to be dead.

“Things to do for two weeks?” Donna simpered.

“I received authorization,” he reminded her. “If it was good enough for our master, then it’s good enough for you.”

It had been a happy coincidence, that bodyguard job posting popping up when he was between assignments. Of course, it would’ve been happier still if it had happened at a time when Mae was in the country. Nonetheless, he’d been able to learn what he needed about her in his brief stint as Rufus Callaway, and the ending of his personal mission . . . well, that had been an unexpected bonus. He truly had been coming to say goodbye when he’d overheard the last bit of her conversation with March and discovered the opportunity her unrequited desire provided.

“How long are you going to wear that face?” Donna asked.

“As long as I choose,” the man snapped back, stepping past her.

The young woman really was getting uppity these days. He’d have to say something to the others. It was one thing to be ambitious and covet future powers, but Donna also needed to learn patience and respect— just as they all had.

Nonetheless, as soon as he stepped past her into the building’s foyer, he headed straight for the mirror that hung just inside. It was blackened and warped after having been consecrated in fire and smoke to Tezcatlipoca, but that marred surface held a power that was of immense use to the god’s servants in their transformations. Distorted, Rufus Callaway’s image looked back at the man one last time as he summoned a prayer and drew on the power of skin-changing.

An uncomfortable, crawling feeling ran over his body, one he never got used to. Then came the sensation of being stretched and kneaded, as though he were dough in some capable baker’s hands. But once it was all over, the stocky, weathered face was gone from the mirror. A younger face looked back, one with black hair and eyes born of pure Mediterranean heritage, paired with a taller and more muscled body. His clothes hadn’t changed and now stretched oddly at the new fit, but he didn’t care.

Being a ghost was certainly useful, and he’d long since learned to enjoy the privileges and movement his anonymity allowed him. But no matter how many times he performed the shape-shifting magic, no matter how many different guises he went through, it was always a relief to return to his own face and body. It felt comfortable . . . like coming home. That, and Porfirio Aldaya just liked the way he looked.

He gave his reflection in the darkened mirror one last, fond look before he turned around and headed deeper inside the building, off to see what his master had planned for him next.

Arcadia—Post-Decline country formed by part of the southern and southeastern former United States. It possesses moderate technology and a religion-centric government. There’s a lot of tension between it and the RUNA, both because of current border disputes and Arcadia feeling as though it was abandoned after the Decline.