The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs Book 1) Page 6

  He waved a hand about like it was obvious, and she did a circle, noting the sprightly emptiness of the place and mismatched photos on the wall. “I think that white-gray wall color is officially named ‘lease me.’” He pulled out an IKEA chair from the perfectly set up bar and looked around with more interest than the overly typical place deserved. “Maybe we should get a place,” he finally said.

  She snorted. “You want to move in together? You really are high.”

  “No, not like move in move in. Like a lair.”

  “A lair?”

  “Yeah. We could have our own Batcave. Maybe even hire an Alfred.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them like the idea excited him, proving he’d lost his mind.

  “We’re not hiring an Alfred. Why do we want a Batcave?”

  He looked at her like she was the crazy one. “Why wouldn’t we want a Batcave? It’s a Batcave. And we’re superheroes! We need a place to train—since your mentor’s officially out—and leave our, uh, superhero shit.” He hopped back up and started pacing. “I know gods are old, but we should still get tech. Like a police scanner to listen for crime and... and other stuff for superheroing.”

  She blinked as this elaborate crime-fighting fantasy spun before her. If she was honest, it appealed to her on a gut level—it was like the stepped-up version of what she was already doing. But it was also not even vaguely realistic. “We don’t have gear.”

  “Not yet. And we need a training room to, like, practice our jiujitsu or whatever.”

  She crossed her arms, trying desperately not to be amused. “Do you know jiujitsu?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “But I saw you take down Macha with a pretty sweet move. You looked like you knew what you were doing.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been in a few street fights, and Andromeda was training me in some ancient fighting style from the Caucasus.” She wrinkled her nose. “Which, I guess, I’m not training in anymore. I really liked having a mentor. Oh fuck, I’m not ready for this.”

  “You don’t need her. You’re a badass! You can fight evil, and I can... turn us into monkeys when things get boring.”

  She tried so hard not to smile. “That’s, uh...”

  Dimples. Why did he have to have dimples? The full wattage of his grin hit her a little too hard as he leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “I’ll tell you my name if you tell me yours.”

  She backed up. “No!” Talk about blackmail material. “Doesn’t that feel... I dunno, inherently wrong to you? To admit your true name?”

  His nose wrinkled up as he thought that over, then he smiled at her again. “Yeah. Which is part of why I want to do it. Fuck the system, man!” He ran a hand through his hair—or tried to as it got stuck on a two-foot-long feather. So he pulled his headdress off to reveal a rumpled mass of short, dark waves. “I don’t normally think that way. I swear to you I’m a giant nerd.” His tone said even he didn’t believe what he was saying.

  “Uh-huh. A trickster god picked you as his conduit. No doubt you’re saint material.” She pulled off her own helmet and then the stupid-heavy armored shirt. “Can I just say that it’s easier to dress like a Viking in winter? Nobody should wear chain mail in Texas in August.” She was still damn hot with the long-sleeved tunic and leather pants. After a moment of debate, she pointed a finger at Coyote. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m about to have a heatstroke.” Before she could think too hard, she yanked the tunic off, leaving her in a thin shell of a tank-top-ish-looking thing. The faint breath of the AC finally reached her oven-hot chest, bringing relief that far overshadowed her embarrassment, and she pulled her hair off her neck with one hand.

  Coyote watched her with glittering eyes like he had evil thoughts, but he just said, “I’m a miniskirt away from naked. Far be it from me to say anything about team dress codes.”

  Team. They stood there for a moment, feeling hella awkward—or, she was, at least. She had a world of things to say to him and couldn’t come up with one coherent thought.

  It was weird but also nice to talk to another conduit, even one who’d just gotten his powers. They had the same secret.

  “So,” he finally said, “we save people who need saving and take godstones from bad guys, starting with Macha.” He said it like it was a mission statement or something.

  “Uh, I don’t do much of the first and do none of the second. I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on.” She thought about it for a moment, though, and while it sounded simplistic, it was a pretty good mission, other than starting with Macha. Talk about going for the Tyrannosaurus first. “I mean, I guess, yeah? That’s what conduits should do.”

  “So, since we don’t know each other’s names, how should I contact you once I’ve acquired a lair?”

  She shook her head. She’d just lost her mentor—because of him. And, okay, maybe Andromeda wasn’t a sterling person to follow, but this was the first time she’d tried to shoot anyone, to Giselle’s knowledge anyway, so Ande was at least more often helpful than murderous. “I literally just met you. I’m sorry, but you’re not Robin to my Batman.”

  He shot her a narrow-eyed look. “Okay, yeah, that’s cool.”

  She hesitated, surprised he’d capitulated so easily. “Okay, good. We’re on the same page.”

  “Because if I bought the lair—and the car, because we need an awesome ride—I’d be Batman. And you’d be—” She shot him a glare, and he stopped. “Batgirl? Woman. Batwoman. I’m a feminist; I recognize that ‘girl’ is demeaning.” He looked so over-the-top sincere it was ridiculous.

  “Do you joke all the time? Or do you occasionally think, oh, hey, this important thing, maybe I should take it at least a little seriously?”

  He tipped his head, his eyes studying her with undiminished humor. “Can’t I do both at the same time?”

  She pursed her lips and changed the subject. “Look, we’re not partnering up—I hardly know you. But I may know of a resource that could help, well, both of us. Andromeda talked about a book that has information on the godstones. Maybe I could find it for you.”

  “Or we could find it together.”

  She shook her head and stifled a laugh. “No. I’ll do it. I think this’ll be easier if I don’t have... help. I just need a way to contact you when I’ve got it.”

  His pretty face turned down into a scowl as he eyed her like this was the worst thing he’d ever heard. She pursed her lips, unwilling to give in on this. Finally, almost to her surprise, he said, “Fine. I have an unlisted number you can call—it’s not even registered to me—so it’s secure and you can’t get my name. Will that work?”

  Like a criminal? Good call on not working with him. “Why do you have that?”

  He sighed heavily, his teasing less flirty as he said, “I thought we were keeping our real lives secret.” His face screwed up with the first hint of darkness she’d seen in him. “And now that I’ve had time to think about it, I agree that’s a good idea.” He grabbed a paper and pen from the realtor setup by the door. “Can I trust you to not let this out?” For the first time, there was hesitation in his manner.

  Enough hesitation that, while it did nothing to make her think he was trustworthy, a touch of sympathy for his sudden insecurity slipped into her emotional mash. “Yeah. I’ll keep it safe.”

  He handed the number over. “Like, seriously, ten people have that number—now eleven—and I’m related to five of them.”

  Would a criminal have his parents on his crime phone? Maybe he was in witness protection too or something.

  Or maybe they were a crime family. “I’ll keep it safe.” She looked him in the eye. “You can trust me.”

  He nodded, and the smile came back. “You don’t need the book to call. Maybe you could trust me a little bit, too.” His shoulders pinched. “Shit, I’m already feeling the change. Why does this last such a short period of time?”

  “You just got the stone; your transformations are going to be
really short while your body adjusts—especially when you fling magic around as often as you do. That uses it up faster. I won’t look. Just change and go. I’ll call you when I have the book.”

  “Or to check in in a couple days. Or tomorrow”—the right side of his mouth curled up into a dimpled half smile so appealing it probably got him into a lot of beds—“because you couldn’t stop thinking about me.”

  Her stomach did a little flop, and she steeled herself against that stupidity. “Haha. Now get out of here.” Pointing emphatically at the door, she closed her eyes so he could let the godstone’s power drop. “Come this way and I’ll pull my ax.”

  “Noted.” His smooth laughter turned away from her and headed for the door. After a moment, she heard shoes on the carpet, as opposed to the silent tread of his leather boots. The near uncontrollable urge to open her eyes and see what he really looked like struck her with surprising force.

  “No peeking, mi diosita.”

  She snorted, keeping her face firmly averted. “I’m not your goddess.”

  The footsteps stopped. “Your loss. I could worship you with fervent devotion.” Her face heated at the suggestion in his tone, but the door opened and shut, and she was left alone with her inappropriate thoughts.

  Chapter 9

  RAFAEL SIPPED AN OVERSIZED coffee and pretended to work on his tablet while he scanned the students passing by in the quad, looking for anyone bearing a resemblance to Freyja. Sure, he didn’t know if she was a student here, but she seemed to be the right age, he’d first seen her on campus, and it was as good a place as any to start. He wore the official disguise of the famous—aviators and a baseball cap—and so far it had worked. There had been a number of stares and a few autograph requests, but his mass signing yesterday after Intro to the American Novel—and the second, larger one after the first class in his already loathed, but required, first semester of math—seemed to have calmed the waters at least somewhat. People were mostly leaving him alone.

  A couple blondes—bottle blonde, if he had to guess—walked by across the way. One was definitely too short for the, he’d guess, five-nine Freyja; the other was too thin. But that was one problem—he didn’t look the same in his other form. His eyes were amber instead of brown, his hair grew longer, and while he worked out regularly, his god physique definitely kicked it up a notch. His tattoos disappeared, too, replaced by different ones ringing both arms and across his chest in a blocky Aztec design. Basically, enough little details changed that he didn’t look like Rafael Marquez had slapped on a coyote mask.

  So Freyja could be almost anyone. But neither of those people moved like her. Maybe he’d have to look for that.

  Another pair came into the quad, sharing headphones: an exceptionally tall woman with straight black hair and tawny skin and... the second came into view... a blonde with ocean-blue eyes. His heart rate picked up as he tensed. Her eyes were less gray and more a deep blue, and her blond hair was a little darker and definitely shorter, or at least it seemed so, pulled back into what he thought his sister called a fishtail. But her build was similar, if less voluptuous—the female equivalent of his ab differential, he figured. At least, he thought her figure was similar, from what he could tell with her boxy clothes and combat boots. She walked with a similar gait to Freyja, but with her head moving just a little in time to whatever song was playing.

  What if his music put that smile on her face? It could be one of his. The third single from their latest album had dropped two weeks ago at number one and hadn’t sunk yet. Would Freyja be impressed with that sort of thing? He definitely needed something to impress her; she was a freaking badass who made him look like a barely competent sidekick—definitely Robin to her Batman, despite his protest.

  Not that he was particularly thrilled with his latest album, but career frustrations weren’t something he needed to think about right now.

  The women got a little closer, and he recognized them from yesterday’s English class. That was his in. He hopped up, grabbing his satchel with Gov 101 books, and charged for them. They turned into the history building, and to his delight, headed for the same class he was due in in five minutes.

  “Hey!” he managed, grabbing the blonde’s upper arm in his enthusiasm.

  She jerked away, hands coming up in a defensive stance.

  Realizing his mistake, he raised his hands in the air. “Sorry. I just...” Just... what? Randomly grabbed a near stranger? Good job, asshole.

  She blinked at him a couple of times, her blue eyes darker but wide and watchful like Freyja’s as they slid further from angry into panicked with each close of her lids. “R-R-R—”

  “I just wanted to know the English assignment. I forgot what page we need to read to.” Which was a stupid lie because he’d already read the assignment and then some last night. He had to get ahead before he started flying out almost every weekend on tour and rolling in on Monday mornings fueled by caffeine and adrenaline.

  The woman still didn’t answer, and suddenly he was second-guessing himself. “You are in American Novel with Stafford, right? I thought I saw you sitting across from me.”

  She nodded mutely. Her friend, who he also thought had been in that class, sported a smile of deep amusement and poked maybe-Freyja in the arm. “I think Gi has it in her BuJo, right, hon? Why don’t you get that out?” She leaned in conspiratorially, displaying none of the blonde’s starstruck muteness. “She’s really organized. I’m trying to transfer into as many classes as possible with her so she can tell me what’s due when.” She held out her hand. “This is Giselle, and I’m her roommate, Rawan.”

  He shook her hand, relaxing into a casual comfort at her ease. “Rafael.”

  “Yeah, I gathered that. Big, big star, eh?”

  That made him smile, even if it was self-conscious. “You know it.”

  Giselle—a delicate, pretty name, which suited his shy classmate—produced a compact spiral with pictures of, oh lords, Rage Riot pasted all over it. She blushed furiously as she slapped it open. Her meek inability to look him in the eye as she flipped pages doodled with flowery pen art bore no resemblance at all to the Viking goddess from yesterday. Finding what she needed, she trailed her finger down a chart surrounded by cartoon foxes and broken hearts before clearing her throat and carefully pronouncing, “Page seventy-eight.”

  “Thanks.” They stood there for another awkward moment as disappointment wrapped him. This was definitely not Freyja. But she’d been sweet enough to answer his question. “I don’t think I signed anything for you yesterday. Want me to autograph your notebook?” The book shot toward him so quickly it startled him. He took it with a nervous laugh. “Okay, let me get a—”

  A silver marker whipped out with equal velocity, and he scrawled a quick note on the inside cover.

  Rawan tilted her head toward the classroom. “You in government now?”

  He handed the notebook back and nodded, pulling his satchel over his shoulder more securely. “Yeah. I guess there are only so many combinations to take freshman year, eh?”

  “Yeah,” Rawan agreed. “We can count left-brained genius here out for Math for Non-Math People. I saw you in my class yesterday. But hey, she agreed to tutor me on the world’s worst subject. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you joining us if you ever want to brush up on anything.” She hip-bumped her friend. “My guess is she’ll open her mouth to speak when numbers are involved.”

  The look Giselle shot her friend—or maybe just her roommate—was pure venom, and it made him chuckle. “If I run into problems, I may take you up on that.” He noted her faded shirt and cargo pants with holes that looked more authentic than artfully intentional. “I can, of course, pay.”

  Giselle’s wide eyes somehow got wider as she finally looked up at him and, at last, opened her mouth to say... something that got lost when Mia showed up, slid herself between them, and turned her practiced smile his way. “Are you all right? I thought we were meeting at Starbucks this morning. Are they botheri
ng you?”

  Meeting at Starbucks? He didn’t remember agreeing to that. Then again, she’d said a lot of things to him yesterday over the course of her self-appointed job as his protector, and, admittedly, he hadn’t listened to them all. Usually his manager texted him to confirm everything that was important, so he had a tendency to tune out Trevor’s rambling lists when he got overly verbose, as Trevor tended to do.

  That was a dickish strategy with people who weren’t making money off of him. On the other hand, Mia talked a lot.

  “Excuse us,” she said to Giselle and Rawan as she gave him a light push toward the classroom.

  He moved—they were somewhat in the way of the door—but he also took a step forward, out of clutching range. “It’s okay. I can handle other humans.”

  She patted his arm. “Yes, but sweetie, they can’t handle you.”

  AS THAT BITCH DRAGGED Rafael away, Giselle collapsed back against the wall in a combination of wonder and shame and pressed her BuJo—a bullet journal, planner, list keeper, and art project all rolled into one—against her chest. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

  Rawan laughed and punched her arm. “Girl, you need to talk to him. Despite all evidence presented in the last five minutes, you’re an interesting person. What’d he write?”

  She glanced down at the notebook. She’d assumed it was just his name—her brain had been too scrambled to attempt anything as complicated as reading—but now that Rawan mentioned it, it had taken him a while if all he’d scribbled was “Rafael Marquez.” Bringing the BuJo up, she tried to make sense of his messy scrawl and read out loud, “‘To the sweetest girl at Zavala, Love Rafael.’ Holy shit!” Life was a beautiful and brilliant thing. “He thinks I’m sweet! I can be sweet.” That was not even vaguely how she’d describe herself, but she could be sweet for him.

  Rawan just laughed harder. “Girl, you need to get your shit together and face him like a woman. Be cool. He’s just a person.”

  Giselle gave her roommate the look that deserved. “No, he’s not! He’s an artist who speaks to my soul! Weren’t you listening with me?” She shook her phone, which was just now playing the end to the bonus track from Rage Riot’s latest album—in her opinion, the greatest song from the album. Whirlwind wasn’t her favorite. While still good, it had less depth and more froth pop about parties and lavish living, but it was their biggest seller to date.