The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs Book 1)
The Trickster's Drum
Godsongs, Volume 1
Jax Garren
Published by Valkyrie Books, 2019.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE TRICKSTER'S DRUM
First edition. June 20, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Jax Garren.
ISBN: 978-0991164158
Written by Jax Garren.
Editor: Heather Long
Copy Editor: Abby Webber
Cover by Daqri Bernardo (Covers by Combs)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs, #1)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Author’s Note
First Chapter: Immortal Longing
Research Notes
To GG. I wouldn't have written this without us.
People say the pagan gods were crazy, but they’re no crazier than we are. They just put a lot more power behind it.
—Pope Maui, first conduit of Generation Godstone
Chapter 1
“THE REIGN OF CONDUIT terror continues with attacks along the border,” the newscaster announced on the broadcast behind Rafael Marquez. He grimaced and choked down his rising anger as he glanced from the counter where he and a few other volunteers were making breakfast tacos for Malverde’s homeless shelter at the ass crack of dawn.
Okay, it was seven in the morning, but for a musician, that was the ass crack of dawn. More carnage on the news, though, was enough to wake anyone up. He rolled another taco and looked back again to see what had happened this time.
“Terror on the Border,” the text along the bottom read as the camera panned across a peaceful pink sunrise over Falcon Lake. Then the reporter started in on the gruesome tale. A boat had washed ashore on the American side. Dragging behind it were six bodies, all drowned.
The room grew quiet for a moment as everyone stopped cooking, and Mercedes, his second cousin who organized the volunteers here, crossed herself, muttering something to the Virgin. Living in New York, Rafael had heard about the uptick in violence in south Texas, but being back home—or close to home, anyway—and standing next to people who still had family south of the border, the news hit him in a visceral way he’d been protected from up north. Something needed to be done.
The next cut was of a dark-winged woman flying over the water like a vengeance demon, her red hair billowing over her back. Even through the screen, the eerie power she channeled seemed to crackle, sending a cold feeling crawling up his back.
Nobody knew who Macha was beneath the black goddess mask she wore, but in America she was easily the second most infamous of the conduits, people who used godstones to temporarily channel the powers of a god. Whoever controlled the godstone for Macha, an Irish battle goddess, seemed to have taken it upon herself to violently defend the US southern border, making her a controversial figure across the country—but not a popular one in south Texas.
He started putting together another taco.
Next to him, Mercedes released a heavy breath. “Jorge, turn that bitch off.” Then she slapped Rafael on the hand like he was a kid, not a twenty-one-year-old, mostly functioning adult. “You stuff them so big we’ll run out. Rich kids think the world is made of plenty.”
He looked at the scanty layer of beans and cheese he’d added to the tortilla and wondered if she was serious or complaining just to change the subject. He wanted to impress, or at least fit in, on his first day, but that seemed paltry.
“Jorge!” Mercedes left to wrest the remote from the geriatric volunteer who, as far as Rafael could tell, had come in to watch the news. “Get back to the beans. We need more at the rate the billionaire over there is making gorditas instead of tacos.”
Rafael rolled his eyes at the inaccurate use of billionaire. “Why don’t I just buy us some more ingredients? Maybe add some eggs or bacon.” So he wasn’t a billionaire, but he was doing more than all right.
Instead of turning off the TV, though, the remote tug-of-war flipped the channel to a new one playing similar footage, but with the headline “Border Hero?” as some asshat announced, “Well, what she’s doing is clearly terrible, but they chose to come here illegally. There are consequences—”
Not in the mood for pro-murder bullshit, Rafael strode to the sitting area, snatched the remote, and turned it off himself. When both of his elders shot him looks of shock, he managed a deferential smile. “Jorge, I really could use some more beans. Would you mind, sir?”
“Things were different in my day,” Jorge muttered, shoving himself out of his chair with a grunt. Rafael offered his arm to lean on, and the man took it. “None of these pagans wandering about mucking everything up. Lock ’em all up, I say. Every last one.”
Rafael handed the remote back to Mercedes and kept his mouth shut. It was illegal to even own a godstone—much less use one. But the way he saw it, power was like money. Having it wasn’t evil; it was all about how you used it.
To his surprise, Mercedes agreed with him. “Not every one; you shut your mouth, Jorge Rodriguez.” She followed them back to the taco-building station, throwing a hand out toward her small shrine with all the regular pillar candles, daisies, and an image of the Virgin.
Rafael hadn’t paid attention to it when he’d come in, but now that he took a closer look, there was an unusual addition. “Are those Viking runes?” On a popsicle stick?
“Our neighborhood angel. My Lara wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Freyja.”
“Freyja,” he muttered. The Viking goddess of love, magic, and battle was depicted in the myths as a golden-haired sexpot who could slay all day any way she wanted. Now there was a conduit he’d like to meet. “I didn’t realize a Freyja godstone existed.” And why would the conduit for such a popular goddess be in a hundred-thousand-person city in the middle of Texas ranchland?
Mercedes’s smile shook off the gloom the TV had caused. “She showed up last year and helps out around the neighborhood, places the police rarely bother—”
A commotion outside cut her off, and Mercedes ducked her head out through the window to the main dining space. “Oh, God, she’s here! She’ll need breakfast.” She looked down at the tacos Rafael had been making, a blush riding high on her cheeks. Then she scoffed. “Make a real taco! I can’t give the woman who saved Lara that!”
“Are you kidding me?” he asked, annoyed as he scooped a regular amount of beans onto the tortilla. Then what she was saying sank in. “Wait, there’s an actual conduit out there?” Excitement and a little fear buzzed in his chest. “I’ve never seen one in person.”
She stuck her head back through the window, blocking any chance he had of seeing the goddess. “They’re all over New York! All thinking they’re Spiderman.”
“No, there’re, like, two—we think—and one
has only been sighted in the Bronx. Besides, more than eight million people live in New York. It’s pretty easy to not see someone.” He threw an extra helping of cheese into the taco and quickly made a second, equally well filled taco. While the most famous conduits got their notoriety by blowing up transportation and buildings and in general wreaking havoc, a chunk of the people who’d gotten their hands on a godstone seemed more interested in superheroics or just having fun. Some of them managed to do real good. “Here,” he told Mercedes, handing her the two tacos, foil wrapped.
She grabbed them and ran into the other room, stuffing her offering in a paper bag as she went. Seeing his opportunity, Rafael ducked his head through the window. Across the still-empty dining room, a group of people from the neighborhood surrounded someone. He couldn’t see much—a flash of blond hair with wild braids and what looked like axes strapped to her back. Everyone spoke English to her, and the whole crowd seemed giddy at her presence.
Like she was a rock star. He grinned.
He pulled his head back into the kitchen, itching to go out there but loath to add to the throng. “She here a lot?” Maybe he’d see her again.
Jorge grunted. “First time I’ve heard of her in the building.” He gave Rafael a wizened smile. “I didn’t mean her. She can stay around here. Be nice to have a Mexican god, though. Tired of white people getting all the good stuff.” That made Rafael chuckle. “Get on out there, boy, and see the pretty girl. I’ll make tacos.”
Rafael didn’t need to be told twice. He hustled out of the kitchen and watched as a goddess dressed in medieval war garb was escorted toward the back. From what he could gather from the chatter around her, police were on their way to investigate a naked gang member who was frozen solid in the middle of the street. Apparently Freyja had figured out the latest source of roofies making the rounds at Huerta High.
It wasn’t taking on Macha at the border, but that was definitely a conduit working for good. Here, in the middle of nowhere. Pretty cool.
Mercedes hugged her, and the goddess blushed, freezing up for a moment, as if unused to such affection, before embracing the older woman back. With her head over his cousin’s shoulder, Rafael finally managed to see her face.
A golden helmet and mask concealed her features, but her pale blue eyes were warm, despite the frosty color. She caught Rafael’s gaze and offered him a shy smile, far more human than her mythic counterpart.
Then she blinked and her smile turned to confusion, as if she recognized him.
He waggled his fingers at her, unsure what to do next. Swaggering over there and starting his intro with, “Yeah, I’m that Rafael Marquez,” seemed obnoxious as shit. But he wanted to meet her. She practically crackled with energy and mystery. Magic. And judging by the crowd of admirers helping her avoid the cops, she was a good human being, the kind of contributor to society he wanted to be.
He took a step toward the crowd just as someone yelled, “Go, go, go.”
Freyja nodded and turned back to him with a neutral expression—okay, she didn’t recognize him—and with a finger wave that matched his own, she let herself be herded out the back of the building.
After the hubbub, he returned to the kitchen to roll up a few more tacos before he had to get to campus and his first day of classes. Maybe it was the good luck he’d always relied on, but he had a feeling he’d get to see her again. Next time, he’d make an impression—and maybe, if he was really lucky, figure out who was the woman behind the mask.
Chapter 2
“WHAT IS RAFAEL MARQUEZ doing in our Intro to the American Novel class?” Giselle Ryder stood frozen in place, gaping like an idiot at his soulful brown eyes as he fiddled nervously with a pen, looking to all the world like the shyest hot guy on the planet.
Shit, she had no makeup on—which was normal—and she’d gotten like two hours of sleep last night and sported bruise-purple bags under her eyes. And her hair—she’d tossed it into the messiest, sleep-drunk french braid ever. Gods, was there salsa on her shirt? Yup. Courtesy of hastily downed bean-and-cheese breakfast tacos. She’d never dreamed she’d meet her idol in person, so of course, when he was ten feet away smiling like he’d walked right out of her dreams, she looked like she’d rolled out of bed with a hangover.
Someone bumped into her from behind, then snickered. “Move it, moron! No one can get in!” At which point she realized she was blocking the doorway on the first day of her first college class.
Rawan, her roommate, who so far had been exceptionally cool, pulled her to the side, allowing the rest of their classmates entry. “Who’s Rafael Marquez?”
Giselle swallowed and managed to tear her eyes off him long enough to shoot her a surprised glance. “Lead singer for Rage Riot? The freaking gorgeous musical genius sitting right over there? Omigods.”
She could’ve sworn she’d seen him earlier at a homeless shelter she’d ducked through when the cops arrived faster than she’d anticipated—thank the gods for the awesome people of South Chavez neighborhood and their delicious tacos, because otherwise she might be in prison and definitely would be hungry. But she’d dismissed the sighting as a trick of her raging desire to tell him what his music meant to her. Possibly while throwing herself at his feet. What were the odds one of the world’s most famous rock stars had smiled at her in a homeless shelter in Malverde?
She’d read he was starting college this year to fulfill a promise to his grandmother or something, but she’d assumed that’d be in New York or California or somewhere cool. But he was from south Texas, and if he was here in her class... Her heart skipped a beat. “He volunteers at a homeless shelter. That’s so cool.” Kind, just like she’d imagined he’d be.
Finally, Rawan seemed to get the momentousness of the occasion—it wasn’t like Giselle was the only person staring and whispering behind her hand. “Oh. I like their music. Oh! He’s in your posters. All of them. All over our room.” Her voice turned impressed. “They’re not Photoshopped.”
His short black hair with just a hint of curl framed a strong face. The twisting keyboard tattoo on his left arm was half-visible from beneath his soft red T-shirt, the kind that hugged his chest like a dream and probably cost more than her whole outfit. “No. That’s not Photoshop.” Hopefully the words didn’t come out like a pathetic groan.
So, yeah, Giselle was an embarrassing-level fangirl. But Rage Riot’s music, led by Rafael’s soaring vocals, sometimes serious, sometimes silly, and always hopeful, had been her only reliable companion as a foster kid trying to survive high school—all five that she’d attended as she’d moved from placement to shelter to group home and back around again. His voice in her headphones had become the friend she’d desperately needed, the only person who was always there and never let her down.
And there he was. In real life. Her mouth went dry as breathing became a challenge. “I’m going to have a panic attack right here.”
“Just go sit by him. Nobody else is brave enough to.”
Giselle shot her a terrified look. Rawan was crazy in the brainpan.
Or crazy brilliant. The seat next to him at one end of the horseshoe-shaped arrangement of tables was still open. She could, theoretically, sit there. After this morning’s success, when weeks of research and tracking had finally led her to the asshole who’d been terrorizing girls at a local high school, she’d felt on top of the world—like she could do anything. And yet, the thought of sitting down next to Rafael made her legs freeze up in fear.
“What would I say to him?” Because everything running through her mind made her sound like a tween stalker, not a world-weary nineteen-year-old who was usually not a complete twit. Shaking her head, she muttered, “OMG, I love you so much! Your music—” She faked panting. “I have all of your songs on my phone, and I listen all the time!” She leaned into Rawan, glad she had a sympathetic roommate. “Yeah, none of that sounds like a crazy bitch.”
Rawan snorted. “How about, ‘Hi, my name is Giselle. Is this seat taken?’”
<
br /> Okay, so yes, that could work. But the thought of talking to him made her throat nearly close up. “Then what?”
“Then when he motions to the seat, you sit. Give him that doe-eyed smile of yours, turn away to unpack your bag, and wait for him to say something.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“He will. You’re beautiful!”
“Fuck, I didn’t wear makeup today.”
“I don’t think you own makeup. Move, girl. Half the room’s eyeing that chair.”
Giselle swallowed. She’d caught a violent criminal today and not flinched once. She could totally meet her idol and keep her shit together, right? She’d be cool. Friendly. Fun. The kind of person he’d want to see more of.
“Too late,” Rawan announced.
To Giselle’s horror, a gorgeous girl with dark, wavy hair and perfect makeup pulled out the chair next to him with a confident grin and dropped a Kate Spade backpack onto the table. Rafael offered her a brilliant smile with just a hint of a blush, like something out of Giselle’s dreams, and they shook hands.
The world around her crumbled into ash. She’d blown her chance. Shit.
At a tug on her arm, she let Rawan lead her around to the other side of the horseshoe the professor had set up. If she couldn’t sit by Rafael, anywhere would do. Rawan pulled Giselle’s backpack off her shoulders like she was a kid and set it on the table across the room from the world’s most perfect man.
“There,” she said, “directly across from him. This way when you finally work up the nerve, you can smile at him. We’re in the class together all semester. This isn’t over.”
Ten minutes later, Giselle realized, yes, it was so over. English was not her subject—too much ambiguity for her left brain—but Mia, the gorgeous human with the guts to sit by Rafael, clearly didn’t have that problem. Her hand shot up into the air with grace and confidence every time the professor asked a question, yet somehow she still managed to keep track of the notebook she’d set out between herself and Rafael to scribble notes to each other the whole damn hour. By the end of class, they were laughing quietly, their heads close, while Giselle hadn’t learned a thing except how much she couldn’t keep up—with the other woman or with this class material.