DATE: Saturday, December 26, 2020
CHARACTERS: Roy, Sefa, and Linnaea
ABOUT: Roy meets Linnaea. Sefa is there.
Give me a minute to unburden myself here. It is so damn inconvenient to be the son of a loa.
Even all the way over in New Orleans, I heard all about these demigods living in New Athens, this metropolitan city on Long Island that was built by the gods. Freakin’ nature spirits have been gossiping about it from coast to coast, saying the streets are paved with marble and there are fountains of youth. And you know what? I believe it. The Greek gods love to meddle in the affairs of their children, cause them problems and then make up for it by giving them all these extravagant gifts. Probably makes them feel young again, like they’re more than just pretty figureheads sitting on golden thrones.
But there’s no metropolitan haven like that for the kids of the loa. There aren’t even that many of us to begin with, definitely not enough to stand up to spirits that have way better things to do than spoil their kids. And you know what? It’s better that way. I don’t need a rich god daddy to build cities and subsidize my living for me. Nah. I love living high-flood-risk, mold-infested, landlord-controlled housing.
Freakin’ love it.
The real inconvenience is all the crap I inherited from my dad.
Like, take this guy for instance, the one that’s staring me down from the other side of his blinding headlights. First of all, inconsiderate. Turn off your damn headlights, asshole, you’re gonna give me eye damage. Secondly, why is this guy looking at me like I’m going to kill him? I’m literally standing here in a parking lot, completely unarmed, while he’s staring me down from the driver side of a literal automobile. In terms of danger, I would say the redhead’s got the upper hand. But even so, I can’t totally blame him. I know the look he’s giving me.
My dad—er, sorry. My sperm donor’s got a real intense look about him. Makes sense, with him being the Master of the Dead and whatever, but it’s not really a look I wanted for myself. I try really hard to dress nice and carry myself well, but these freakin’ purple eyes and the comically-on-the-nose skull-shaped vitiligo across my face really don’t help my cause. The kids in middle school used to say that it was a tattoo, that I applied bleach on my skin in the shape of skull to look cool and that it probably messed up my eyes in the process. The rumors got so bad the principal pulled me aside to ask if I was engaging in ‘potentially harmful cosmetic procedures’. I told him to go fuck himself.
Oh, that’s the other thing too. I can’t control what comes out of my mouth sometimes. I’ll be thinking one thing and something completely unrelated, and oftentimes pretty vulgar, will just come flying out. I’m not even much on cursing, it just happens. Another thing I get from my dad, apparently.
“I have her,” the ginger calls out to me from behind the beams of light. “She’s in the backseat.”
It takes a full ten seconds for my eyes to adjust from the vicious assault of his headlights. Then, the shape of a person starts forming through the backseat window. “Holy fuck.” Pardon my French. “You really went for it. I didn’t ask you to break her nose.”
“Yeah, well…” He trails off into a mumble, like he’s embarrassed about it. “She deserved it.”
If this guy didn’t have a chick tied up in the backseat of his car, I would’ve pegged him for a total soft body. One of those only-drinks-bottled-water types.
Eh, I still do.
“Bring her inside,” I instruct. I don’t stick around to see how he’s planning to get her out of the car without looking suspicious. Whatever. Not my job. I key card my way into the motel room and wait for him to bring the girl in. I watch as he slings her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and waddles his way toward the door. “You can set her down on the bed.” He does as he’s told and drops her down onto the nasty bedding. A little blood smears onto the sheets, probably adding another layer to the hooker blood and cum that’s already baked into the bed. “Does she need medical attention?”
“Nah,” the ginger responds. “I mean… Probably not. They’ll just give her some ambrosia back at camp.”
Ambrosia, wow. The literal food of the gods and they just give it out to their kids like cough drops. Freakin’ Greeks.
“Well, I need her awake to talk.”
“She was awake half an hour ago.”
“And now she’s unconscious.”
“Yeah, but she was awake before.”
“And now,” I repeat slowly, “she is un-con-scious.”
Ginger sighs and kneels by the bed. He slaps her unceremoniously across the face a few times. “Be gentle,” I plead in a tone that sounds very unintentionally sarcastic. “You already broke her nose.”
“Hey,” he barks. “Wake up.” Jesus Fictional Christ, this guy is a brute. “Hey, do you hear me? Wake up.”
The girl stirs and pushes his hand away. “What do you want?”
“You’re awake,” I state, reiterating the obvious. “Good. I wasn’t in the mood to dig a grave tonight.”
The girl lifts her head and grimaces at me. “Are you Gabriele?”
“No, you’ve got the wrong number. I’m Roy.” I stick out my hand for her to shake, but hers are tied. “Oh yeah. Sorry.” I drop it.
“What the fuck do you want with me?”
“I heard from a little birdie that you’ve become quite the budding, young necromancer.”
“She’s what?” Ginger looks at me concernedly.
“A necromancer,” I repeat. “Reeling spirits back from the dead like a nasty little fisherman.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spits.
“Au contraire, I have friends in all sorts of places. Cities, villages, the woods outside of New Athens.” The color drains from her face. Well, all the color except for the crusty red stain around her nose. “Nobody is ever truly alone, you see. Even the most desperate of men, on their last dying breaths, as they succumb to the fear that not even God is watching over them… There is somebody watching. It may not be their god, but someone is watching.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Right to the point, then. Good.” I sit down on the opposite end of the bed, giving enough distance to make sure that none of the blood she’s spitting gets onto my jeans. “The gods are not happy with you.”
“Hades?” Ginger chimes in.
“Yes, that’s one,” I respond with a nod. “And Hel, the Norse goddess. And the Shinigami. Ever heard of them? In fact, Chitragupta, Xipe Totec, King Yama, Xorn—all of the gods are pretty mad.”
“Why are they mad at me?” The girl’s voice cracks as she speaks. I can tell I’m getting into her head. “I I have nothing to do with them.”
“But you do. You see, when you disrespect the laws of one god, you disrespect them all,” I explain. “The laws of life and death are sacred, no matter which theology you subscribe to. The living belong in the land of the living, and the dead belong in the Underworld, the afterlife, Heaven and Hell—whatever you want to call it. But if one underworld starts giving out free passes to the land of the living, then all of the spirits in all those other places I mentioned are going to start to get jealous. Suddenly, you have millions, if not billions, of undead hearing about this one girl who managed to get her brother a second chance, and they all start to think, why shouldn’t I get one too. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
The room is silent for a moment. I think that means my explanation worked.
Thank freakin’ god.
A bit of a sidetrack confession here—I’m totally lying my ass off. All the other gods probably don’t give a shit, it’s not like the dead are going to form an uprising against their literally omnipotent, all-powerful overlords. In fact, one of the gods I mentioned was actually an X-Men and I’m so freakin’ relieved neither of them seemed to pick up on that. If I’m being real here, I’m just doing this because I was hired to.
The third reason it’s inconvenient to be the son of a loa: all the gods suddenly assume that just because I have these powers that I’m entitled to use them to help others.
Look, all I ever wanted to do was listen to classical music and play Animal Crossing in bed, eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and Arizona Iced Tea. Hades was the one who sought me out and thought, ‘hey, wouldn’t it be a great idea to ruin this kid’s life by making him into a mercenary for all these tiny deities and death spirits to use at will?’ And, like I said before, spirits and gods love to gossip. One death god heard that there was a mercenary willing to do the dirty, busy work and they recommended him to a friend, who recommended him to another friend, who recommended him to another friend, et cetera and so forth. And all the while, my New Horizons island is in freakin’ shambles because nobody is giving me a free day to clean up all the weeds that have sprouted all over my outdoor-waterfall-patisserie.
“So what do you want from me,” the girl repeats, “if not just to kill me?”
“What I want…” I lean in close so she can see right into the lavender glint of my irises. These eyeballs are a pain in the ass for grocery shopping but for times like this, I swear there’s no better weapon. “Is relief.”
