Shattered

No, he’s angry about something else.

When we returned to Mill Avenue, my bros were gone, no doubt doing serious damage to monster nommy sammiches. I ducked into a souvenir shop on the way to Ash Avenue and picked up a Sun Devils hat, which I pulled low to hide my eyes. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but since my hair was much shorter than it used to be and eyes are often key to recognizing someone, it would at least cast some doubt on my identity. And, besides, Rebecca hadn’t seen me in more than twelve years and wasn’t expecting me. I’d just be another half-baked college kid looking to restock my incense, until I demonstrated otherwise.

The shop looked almost the same as when I’d left it, save for a new coat of paint and a bewildering array of flyers advertising local events and services papering over a portion of the window next to the door. Checking out the building in the magical spectrum, I saw no wards or enchantments of any kind.

You okay to chill out here while I go inside? I asked Oberon.

Okay, holler if anyone tries to mess with you. I took off Fragarach, and Oberon lay down on top of it, guarding it well.

When I opened the door to my old shop, I was hit with a complex mixture of scents—tea and sandalwood and paper and ink. A low, throaty moan from a bamboo flute skirled above the sounds of a gentle waterfall, the kind of meditation music to which people liked to do their yoga. It was pure nostalgia for me, and I missed the years of tending the shop in a semblance of peace and harmony.

“Hello, welcome to Third Eye,” Rebecca said from behind the tea counter. I grunted in response and didn’t make eye contact. Instead, I turned toward the bookshelves, making it clear I intended to browse and keeping my back to her.

The books for sale were still centered on religion and philosophy. The ones on the shelf locked up behind glass, however, were prominently labeled as RARE and FIRST EDITION. I’d never labeled mine, because I did not particularly want people to browse tomes of summoning and enchantment, but Rebecca must have discovered that there was a fair bit of money to be made from collectors of more-pedestrian volumes. Scanning the titles, I saw that she still had a few of the books I had acquired for her originally, but most of it was newer material now. It reminded me that my cache of magical texts was still buried and encased in iron and stone near the Salt River.

Rebecca would never sneak up on anybody. She still wore a ludicrous amount of silvery jewelry about her neck and wrists, religious symbols from most every religion people had heard of and quite a few that people hadn’t, and I heard these clicking and tinkling together as she moved behind me.

“We have quite a fine assortment of rare books if you’re interested,” she said, coming to a halt at my right shoulder and admiring the spines. “Can I help you find anything in particular?”

“I don’t suppose you have any first editions of ancient Edgar Rice Burroughs pulp?”

“I’m afraid not, but we do have a signed first edition of Heinlein’s The Number of the Beast, which is practically a love letter to Burroughs.”

“Seriously? That would be outstanding.”

“Great, I’ll get it for you.” She had an assortment of keys dangling on one of those curly plastic wrist thingies nestled in amongst her other jingly bangles and bracelets. She was like a set of mobile wind chimes.

I gestured vaguely at the source of the noise and said, “That’s quite a collection of necklaces. Couldn’t decide which one to go with, eh?”

“Well, I guess I have decided,” she said, speaking at twice the normal rate of most people. She might have been suffering the side effects of too much caffeine. “I’ve decided to believe in them all.”

“Really? Isn’t that contradictory?”

“People believe contradictory things all the time,” she replied. “Anyway, it’s not as contradictory as you might think. Religions are kind of like clothes. There are all sorts of them and some are more fashionable than others, but at the end of the day they all serve the same purpose: They keep you from being naked.”

“Religions keep you from being naked?”

“Spiritually speaking. Most of us seek the divine, and most of us prefer not to be nude in public.”

I smirked. “Well, we don’t have any data to support those assertions, but I imagine that would prove to be accurate.”

“Of course. At their roots, the faiths are fundamentally the same the way that clothes are the same. And that’s because we recognize that there is a certain power in faith. Even atheists believe strongly in their own rectitude, and that gives them power.”

“I believe that’s true.”

Rebecca smiled at me. “And what else do you believe?” She removed the Heinlein first edition from the case and put it in my hand.

I took off my hat and returned the smile. “I believe, Rebecca Dane, that you are the best possible owner of this shop. I’m Atticus. Remember me?”

She gasped and held her hand up to her throat. “Oh, my gods! Mr. O’Sullivan!”

“You don’t have to be that formal.”

“Sorry, it’s just that I thought you were dead and I’m so glad you’re not and I’ve always wanted to say thank you for the store and ask you why you did that and—oh! Do you want it back now? Is that why you’re here?”

“No, no, it’s yours,” I assured her. “But I did want to talk a bit. Might we have some tea?”

“Of course! Have a seat, I’ll be right over.” She bustled back to the tea station, making such a racket as she went that she drew the attention of everyone else in the store, each of them with tiny smirks of amusement on their faces. There were only three other people, and two of them made their choices and paid for their purchases while Rebecca was busy boiling water. She made us some Irish Breakfast tea, a blend that didn’t mess around on the caffeine front. I doubted she needed to be any more wired, and another shot might take her into the territory of those professional disclaimers who spoke at three hundred words per minute at the end of commercials, but at least our conversation promised to be high energy. We chatted about the store and her plans to open another location down in Tucson, and she asked about my beauty regimen, because I looked far too good after twelve years.

“Are you, like, using a mud pack or cucumbers or something because, oh, my gods, I gotta get me some of whatever you’re on, you look fantastic,” she gushed.

“I put on a guacamole mask every night. Avocados are the secret.”

“Really?”

“No, I’m just kidding.” I grinned at her briefly and then tapped the table to indicate a change of subject. “I wanted to ask you a question that might sound a little strange. Think back, if you will. Was there ever a time, shortly after I left you the store, when you prayed for me to many gods?”

I expected her to roll her eyes up and think about it for a while, or maybe express some curiosity about why I would ask such a thing, but she answered immediately. “Oh, yes, definitely,” she said. “It was right after Hal sold me the store. I was worried about you.”

“This might be an unrealistic request, but can you remember any details of that prayer and to which gods you prayed?”

“Oh, absolutely, that’s no problem.” Maybe the caffeine was speeding up her memory access as well as her speech. “I prayed more than once. Nine times, actually, to a group of nine gods.”

“Why nine?”

“It’s a magic number—”

“—Amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann,” I finished with her.

“I prayed for your deliverance and guidance in accordance with their divine will,” Rebecca said.

“Exactly that? I mean, you didn’t ask for anything more specific? And thank you, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. I’m fairly certain that was it.” That would allow the gods to work together but give them freedom to do whatever they wished. Remembering the second part to my question, Rebecca continued, “And I prayed to Jesus, Ganesha, Odin, Inari, Buddha, Guanyin, Shango, Perun, and Brighid.”

“Brighid? No shit?” I said. “That is so very interesting.”

More than interesting, actually. As the implications filtered through my head, it was more like world-rocking. If Brighid had known about all this since Rebecca had prayed twelve years ago, then the First among the Fae had never been fooled by my fake death at all. On the contrary, she’d played me. Again. She had stood there in the Fae Court, pretending to be outraged as she said, “I was told you died twelve years ago,” but that is a very different thing from “I thought you died twelve years ago.”

And it wasn’t just Brighid who had allowed me to feel more clever than I really was. Perun had been watching over me in person while pretending that I was doing him a favor. When I first met him before the raid on Asgard, he gave me a fulgurite to protect against Thor’s lightning. And when Coyote had assumed my shape to allow a group of thunder gods to “kill” me and thus give me time to train Granuaile in peace, Shango had gleefully joined in the slaughter, knowing it wasn’t me all along. Damn. Filthy godses are tricksy, Precious.

Seeing that I was more than a little gobsmacked, Rebecca said, “Oh, I can see that nearly made your head explode. I’m dying to know why you asked and what’s going on, but I don’t want to be rude, and, besides, I have a customer.” She excused herself to tend to a tiny, lost-looking man hovering near the register with a couple of books.

As I viewed the past through these new lenses, the most shocking revelation was Odin’s involvement. Exactly when—and why—had he agreed to participate in my deliverance and guidance? Because, unless I was mistaken, he had to have known about this prior to my invasion of Asgard with Leif Helgarson and others. He lost Thor, Heimdall, Ullr, and Freyr that day, not to mention Sleipnir on my previous solo raid, when he’d tried to kill me. Perhaps he could not have known in advance who would die during that encounter, but he definitely accepted it afterward. Why? What did he and the other gods hope I would accomplish that was worth all that?

With a sense of dizziness, I realized that I was but a single piece on a very large chessboard and that these gods had been pushing me around while I thought I was exercising free will. I immediately berated myself for sloppy thinking, because of course I had been using free will—they were just supremely skilled at influencing and predicting my decisions. But if I wanted to run a tad further with the chess metaphor, I had two questions: Who were the gods playing against, and how close were we to the endgame?