Lyn Benedict - Gods & Monsters

“So Azpiazu can outthink him,” Sylvie said. “Tepeyollotl’s curse was powerful but simple. A reaction to a slight—”

“Killing of his acolyte by a sorcerer,” Cachita said. Her pacing slowed. “Yes. He reacted at once. He didn’t think about it. He hates sorcerers.” Outside in the yard, in the overgrown grass, cats howled. Cachita flinched.

“He can hear us?”

“I’m not sure if they’re his spies or just reacting to his interest in me,” Cachita said.

“Assume spies,” Sylvie said. “Safer that way.”

“Well, I’ve no secrets from him,” Cachita said. “He’s been in my head, in my dreams, in every thought I ever had. Go ahead and speculate. Why not? It’s not like he’s easily offended or something. Not like he curses those he thinks are betraying him.”

Sylvie got up, found a can of soda in Cachita’s barebones kitchen, and passed it over to the woman. She was close to hyperventilating. Cachita pushed it away, and Sylvie said, “Take a sip or two. Calm down. You’re not betraying him. You want Azpiazu dead. So do I. We’re just trying to spare Tepeyollotl from making the trip to this plane.”

Cachita said, “It’d be easier if we just called him when we found Azpiazu.”

“No, Cachita,” Sylvie said. “No, it really wouldn’t. There’s nothing easy about a god’s presence on earth.”

She looked mulish, and Sylvie fought down the urge to argue. She could press that point later. The more urgent problem was Azpiazu. “He’s going to need another woman,” Sylvie said. “The spell is broken, right now.”

“You don’t think he’s just running,” Cachita said, coming back to the topic Sylvie needed her to focus on. “You think something else is happening.”

“Yes,” Sylvie gritted. “Wales, my consultant, says the magic he’s using is too strong, getting stronger.”

Cachita licked her lips. “Magic is like any force. Struggle with it, and you get stronger. Isn’t that all it is?”

“The weight he’s lifting is a godly one,” Sylvie said. “Not exactly easy to build up to. Even if it’s a broken god.”

Cachita stepped to the papered-over window, leaned her head against it, then slunk toward Sylvie, as wary as one of the feral cats outside. She crouched near Sylvie’s chair, and said, voice a bare whisper, “Thing is. I thought. I thought I was getting used to him. To his words. The feel of him in my mind. In my dreams. But maybe”—another glance toward the walls of the house, another pitch lower in tone—“maybe he’s getting weaker.”

Sylvie let her breath out, not in the hiss of epiphany she wanted but a slower thing, soundless, careful as Cachita was careful. But it would explain Azpiazu’s strength. And it matched with what Wales had told her, what she knew herself.

Magic was a shifty kind of thing. Most magic was about creating a link between two objects, the better to manipulate one. But the thing was, the binding went both ways. If Azpiazu had been less clever, he’d be suffering as the god had intended. But instead, he was a tricky, malevolent bastard, used to transforming materials he had to hand.

She and Wales knew he was using the women to filter the curse power that was pouring out of the god’s intent. Turning it to his purpose. Maddening enough to Tepeyollotl. But if he was doing more. If the filter also pulled . . .

Tepeyollotl was bleeding power to his enemy.

Azpiazu was sucking up the strength of a god.

Sylvie’s blood cooled in her veins. The humid air in Cachita’s house seemed suddenly as clammy as an underground crypt. She wiped at the nape of her neck, stole back the soda, and pressed it to her face.

“Sylvie?”

If Azpiazu was siphoning off a god’s power, bit by bit by bit, that was bad enough. That could turn a human magic-user into something very horrific indeed. It should be a self-correcting problem. A human had limitations, couldn’t control a god’s power, couldn’t bear its weight.

But Azpiazu was an immortal. And more. He had a plan.

An immortal who shared a god’s power became a demigod. Like Erinya. A Fury in the cause of Justice.

Azpiazu didn’t seem like the kind to take orders.

Sylvie felt the last piece drop into place. “Soul-devourer.” They’d bandied the term back and forth enough. Now she understood what it meant. Azpiazu wasn’t just taking power. He was taking souls.

Back in Chicago, she’d stopped Lilith from stealing a god’s power, from replacing him as a god. The easiest way to become a god: kill one, replace it.

Sylvie thought that with filtered god-power, with his own store of souls, Azpiazu might have found his own way to budding godhood. He wouldn’t be Tepeyollotl’s servant. He’d be his rival. His enemy. His equal.

THE SILENCE IN THE ROOM LINGERED, BROKEN ONLY BY THE COOLING hiss and pop of the carbonated drink in Sylvie’s hand, by the rustle of cats moving through the high grass outside. Chasing lizards, Sylvie thought. Recalled the two-headed reptiles she’d seen around Azpiazu, in the ’Glades, and in the city.

A god’s power, bent in two directions. A god’s power bending to two wills. No wonder the smaller animals were warping around it. It was only a matter of time before bigger changes were apparent. Before the world started yielding in a massive way to Azpiazu’s will.

“You know something,” Cachita said. “You know what he’s doing.”

“Fucking up the world,” Sylvie said.

“That’s not an answer,” Cachita said. “Share and share alike.”

Sylvie wanted to keep Cachita out of it but doubted Tepeyollotl would allow it. “What do you know about gods?”

“Mythologically, or practically? ’Cause I don’t know how standard Tepeyollotl is.”

“Gods have power,” Sylvie said. “Varying amounts, but all of it more than a human can ever hope to touch. Under normal circumstances.”

“Azpiazu—”

“Yeah,” Sylvie said. “But there’s more to gods than power. That’s a lot of it. That’s the shiny part. The thing people always think about. Power. Omnipotence. Give or take a few degrees. But they’re also about collecting souls. It’s so important to them that all the pantheons have an agreement not to touch each other’s people. To divide up the nonbelievers. We’re more than property to them. We’re assets of some kind. Gold bullion.

“The curse laid on Azpiazu was supposed to do more than just make him suffer. It was supposed to mark souls for Tepeyollotl to claim. He’s a forgotten god mostly. Broken. He needs souls to heal. To regain his strength. His place in the worlds. He’s dependent on the atheists. The unclaimed ones. But Azpiazu got fancy.”

“He’s stealing Tepeyollotl’s power and the souls,” Cachita said. Her cheeks blushed hot with rage. “You should have called me, Sylvie. I should have summoned Tepeyollotl. It would all be over. And instead, you fucked this up and went it alone, and now you’re telling me Azpiazu’s trying to be a god? He’s a serial killer, Sylvie. Is that really someone we want to deify?”

“We’re not summoning Tepeyollotl. No matter what,” Sylvie said. “I will shoot you dead before you can if it comes to that. And he’ll have to find another agent.”

Cachita reeled back. “I don’t understand—”

“In Chicago,” Sylvie said. “A month or so back. You read about the hurricane midcountry.”

“Yes.”

“The freak accidents. The weird shit that people don’t want to talk about.”

“Over a hundred people died, I remember,” Cachita said. “Wait.”

“Gods,” Sylvie said. “Ready for the kicker? That was a squabble. One god restraining himself as best he could, and some petty infighting. The sky rained blood, Cachita.