Rob Thurman: The Grimrose Path

I heard Zeke switch off the oven before he moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with me. “Not much of a present though. Water. You can’t wrap it. Can’t exchange it for ammunition. You can get your own out of a faucet. Pretty cheap gift.” He began to reach out a hand toward it.

“No.” I caught his hand. “Don’t touch it and don’t drink it. It’s from the River Lethe in Hades, the Greek underworld. If you drink it or touch it and get a drop in your mouth, you’ll forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Everything.” I picked up the pitcher with the greatest of care and took it into the living area where we had left the Namaru weapon mold. “What your name is, who you are, who you were. Every memory you have will be gone.”

“Huh.” He followed behind me. “This is for Cronus too? You’re going to set up a lemonade stand and convince him to drink it? Then he’ll forget all about taking over Hell and wander off? And I thought some of my plans were bad.”

“If I had a spare hand, I’d swat you. No, I’m not going to convince him to drink it. I’m persuasive, but no one is persuasive enough to convince a Titan on the warpath to stop for a cold one and a Super Soaker isn’t going to do the trick either.” I stopped with the mold at my feet. With a thought, a shadowed slot about six inches by one inch appeared in the top of once-solid rock. Kneeling beside it, I tilted the pitcher and poured the water into the block with exquisite care, not a drop spilled.

“Hey, what happened? What’d you do? Turn it on? And you’re going to make a weapon out of water? Hell, we could’ve just gone to the grocery store and bought some balloons. We didn’t have to go all the way to a museum, get Tasered, get in a car wreck, waste my grenades because Leo wouldn’t share, if the big plan is throwing water at Cronus.” By the time he finished, curiosity on his part had turned to exasperation for both of us.

I straightened with the empty pitcher in hand. “Kit, remember when you worked at the bar and someone wouldn’t flush or didn’t tip you or told you the fried cheese sticks you served them weren’t hot? Remember how you would bang their head against their table because Leo told you rudeness is one of the seven deadly sins?” He opened his mouth to comment, but I cut him off. “I’m looking for a table.”

He scowled and retreated back to the kitchenette, split the contents of the skillet onto two plates, and disappeared down the hall to the bedrooms. Lucky Griffin, breakfast in bed. Unlucky Griffin, Zeke had cooked it. “Your friend came through, then? Walked into Hades, picked out a souvenir, and brought it back to you?” Leo, who had waited for Zeke to pass, stood in the hall now, his hair half in and half out of the ponytail he’d secured it in for bed.

“I told you. Love and goodwill wherever I go.” Letting the pitcher drop onto the couch, I stretched my hand back down and pulled the sword from the stone. I held it high, a blade seemingly made of glass, but it was water. All of it. The blade, guard, grip, and pommel, the entire thing almost five feet long. The Namaru alone could make a weapon out of water, one you could hold firm in your hand and one that could cut absolutely anything.

Leo folded his arms. “All Hail the Once and Future Queen, but it has been done.”

Affronted, I complained. “Arthur only had to pull the sword out of the stone. I had to steal the stone and then pull out the sword. I deserve extra credit for that.” I’d also pulled a five-foot sword out of a one-foot-square block of stone, which, while impressive, I couldn’t claim credit for. A long-gone Namaru was responsible for creating that technical miracle.

“We’re sure it was all worthwhile, that this will work?” He leaned against the wall. I could see him through the sword itself, his image wavering through the rippled surface of the blade.

“No, we’re not sure of anything, but I scraped the bottom of my bag of tricks for this. If it doesn’t work, no one will bitch that we didn’t give it our best shot. Cronus will be giving them plenty of other things to bitch about. Torture, death, the sun falling from the sky, being thrown into another world where sharks are people and humans are chum.” I pointed the sword at Leo, admiring the crystal sheen of the blade—straight and true. “I think I want one more meal at the diner. One more helping of biscuits and gravy in case it’s our last.”

“I know you don’t equate that with the Last Supper, you with your heathen existence.”

If anyone had worse timing than a demon, it was an angel. “More of a Last Lunch.” I let the point of the broadsword drop toward the wood floor as I swiveled to face Azrael. Griffin was right or rather I wished he were right. The sudden appearance and disappearance should be somewhat akin to poofing. I knew I would appreciate a sound effect to let me know when an angel or demon shimmered into existence behind me. Bell the cat. If they both weren’t so fond of their own voice, and they were, you often wouldn’t have any warning. “You’re not invited.”

The disdain in the purple-black eyes was the same as it had been before. “If a sword could fell a Titan, don’t you think we would have tried it?”

“With one of those flaming swords? Did you ever wonder where they come from, the swords made of fire? Whatever angel is passing them out up in the Penthouse, did you think he made them? It’s ironic that all the smiting you and yours does is with weapons made by dead païen .” If you could make a sword out of water, you could out of fire as well, the Namaru’s natural environment. I smiled. “Why, sugar, you don’t look pleased to hear that. Your feathers are ruffled.”

“He looks ready to drop a load on a statue’s head, I think you mean,” Leo added, pulling the ponytail holder from his hair and resecuring it tightly.

Azrael ignored the insult and the one who’d delivered it. “That is not so. Our weapons are of Heaven and always have been of Heaven.”

I didn’t try to change his mind. In my life and my occupation I’d learned that you can change behaviors, with the right kind of motivation, but you can rarely change minds. Logic was useless. My natural optimism had taken a beating from reality more than enough to learn that while truth and facts were nice thoughts, they required a reasonable medium to take root. Angels weren’t often reasonable. It would be easier to pry the six-pack out of a NASCAR fan’s hand than to change an angel’s mind. “Did you want something, Angel of Death? Was Ishiah wrong in thinking you could do what needs to be done? Killing is easy for you, but leading—is that out of your depth?”

“I can do both, easily. You should remember that.” His wings, often an indicator of an angel’s mood, stayed flat. They hadn’t been disturbed, although I’d told a tiny white lie and said they were. Azrael was right. I should remember he had no problem with killing, certainly no emotion attached to the act. Which was worse? To kill out of cold arrogance or to kill out of a hunger for violence? Angels and demons, if you asked me, the only difference was location. “I came to see if it was worth it. If we had a genuine chance or if all of this has been trickster talk and trickster ego. Liars, thieves, you hold nothing to be sacred and true, including your word.”

“I always keep my word. There are plenty who would tell you that. They’d have to crawl out of their unfortunately early graves to do it, but they could tell you.” I hefted the sword again. “This is a win-win for everyone, Azrael. Try to keep that thought in your tiny parakeet brain. We all stand together or we all fall, and that fall will make Lucifer’s seem like a trip to the ice cream store. Just do your part and we might make it. Think how Heaven will look at you”—I nudged—“with adoration and admiration. They’ll love your ass, put it up on a pedestal.” As Lucifer’s followers had once done to him. “You’ll be the hero of Heaven.” It did sound better than hit man of Heaven, but Azrael was not interested in heroics. He wasn’t made that way. He was interested in saving his own life though and that would have to do.