The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs Book 1) Read online

  That definitely perked him up. “You think?”

  She nodded, a new and better idea than theft forming. “I do. And you know what? I got Huehuecoyotl’s godstone. I bet I can get the one you’re looking for, too.” Could she request a vision like that? Who knew? But sharing her lack of confidence wouldn’t help her right now.

  “You think you can? Really?”

  “Yeah. And I’ll make you the same trade. Hunter guy for the book.”

  He took a shuddering breath like he was trying to contain his excitement. “You really think you can get me Osoosi—not just any god?”

  No idea. “Yup. But I want the book first.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “What?”

  Keep rolling, Giselle. You can do this. “To help me out in my search. I’m going chest deep into the world of the conduits without being one.” So the last part was a total lie. He didn’t need to know that. “I need all the information I can get.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m not just handing over the book. No offense, but I don’t know you. How do I know you’ll uphold your end of the deal?”

  She took a sip of tea. “How do I know that when I bring you the godstone, you’ll turn over the book instead of transforming and killing me on the spot with your new superpowers?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m an honest person from a good family. You can trust me.”

  She set her tea down a little too hard and scowled at him. “And I’m a bastard orphan who grew up in foster homes, so you can’t trust me? Yeah, ’cause rich people are so damn virtuous.”

  He blushed again, and this time it was less cute. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did. Don’t think it’s the first time somebody’s thought badly of me because of how I grew up.” She shot up to standing, suddenly too angry to sit. “Fuck you—fuck all of you for your holier-than-thou bullshit. Find your own damn godstone.”

  He hopped up after her, grabbing her elbow to stop her. “I’m sorry—”

  She threw him off, wishing she could elbow him in the face but restraining herself. “Yeah, you, my mom, half my foster parents, my guardian—everybody’s sorry.” She’d thought she had the anger under control, and here it was, rising like a tempest when she needed to control it. Her fists clenched as she tried to calm down. “At least admit that was prejudiced as fuck.”

  “I shouldn’t have—”

  “Prejudiced as fuck.” She glared at him for a moment, and he shrank back.

  After a moment, he stood straight. “It was prejudiced. You don’t deserve that. It’s my right to not trust you—or anyone else—but what I said was awful. I see that. Please understand, though, that I wouldn’t give the book to anyone ahead of time. It isn’t just about you or the way you were raised.” He held his dark-skinned hands out and glanced down at himself. “I understand what it’s like not to be trusted for no valid reason.”

  She stared at the floor because between her own anger and his rebuke—which she deserved—she couldn’t look at him. “I guess we’re at a stalemate for what to do then.”

  Shawn grunted and went back to his tea, hiding behind the beverage like that could erase the last couple minutes. “What if you take pictures of the pages you need? You can come back later for more photographs if you need something else. That way you get the information, and I keep my book.” She heard pages turning. “I’m assuming you want Osoosi. Anyone else?”

  She rolled her neck to the side, trying to release a lifetime’s worth of tension in the simple motion. It was no good, of course. But she could at least breathe again.

  Rational, Gi. Be rational. She pulled out her phone. This was the information she’d come for. She didn’t even know if she could get Osoosi’s godstone—it was lost, for gods’ sakes—although she would honestly try. “Yeah,” she muttered. “And Huehuecoyotl.” What she’d come for. Another thought crossed her mind. “And Macha and Freyja. They’re both in town. If I start with those four, that’ll help.” She took the two steps back to the table and stared down at the looping script. “Damn. I can’t even read any of it.”

  “I...” Shawn hesitated, his hand hovering over Osoosi. “I translated this one already. I can send you that.”

  The one she needed least. But it was okay. Now that she’d agreed to find the stone, she had to at least try. She nodded. “I’d appreciate that.” The words were forced through the automaticity of politeness, but she mostly meant it.

  He nodded, still not looking at her as she snapped photos of the next three pages, all about the hunter god. “Leave me your email address or some other way to contact you.”

  “Sure.”

  He flipped to Huehuecoyotl, and she started snapping away again. “That way, too, you can contact me if you need anything else.” He flipped to Freyja, who wore a cape of glorious feathers, hoisted a golden shield, was drowning in jewelry, and had large axes with wild, scrolling designs protruding from her back—nothing like Giselle’s costume. She maintained a neutral expression as she took more pictures, fervently wishing she had some clue what secrets the text beside it would tell her about herself.

  He flipped to Macha, looking a helluva lot like the one she’d met—no half-assed costume for her—and she could feel his eyes on her. “I really am sorry.” His voice was so soft and full of regret that she started to feel bad.

  Maybe she’d overreacted. It was just so hard not to. She shrugged. “It’s fine. Nothing I haven’t heard a million times before.”

  He sighed. “And that’s what makes me a jerk for being... ‘prejudiced as fuck’ too.”

  The fact that he’d finally quoted her cleared just enough cobwebs from her foul mood for her to give him the ghost of a smile. “Yeah, well, I’m sure I’ll screw up, too, then you can be an asshole about it before letting it go. And I know you probably get it worse than I do for even less reason.” Pictures taken, she pocketed her phone. “This is probably going to take me a long time to find, so be prepared. But I’ll keep you updated with any progress I make.”

  He nodded, then instead of putting the book away, flipped the page to another picture that looked a helluva lot like Macha, just with more crows—if that was possible. “Before you go, if you need information on Macha, there are a couple others you’ll probably want to study as well.”

  “What?” Conduits didn’t work together. That was one of the rules Ande had taught her. “Why would I need more?”

  Shawn held his place and flipped to a third conduit who looked an awful lot like the first two, but absolutely nightmarish, screaming on a bloody field of death. “Ever heard of a triple goddess?”

  Chapter 10

  THE PIANO PLAYED LIKE a showroom model that got more love from the tuner than any musicians, lending a cold crispness to the latest melody plunking around Rafael’s brain and making his fingers work a little harder to glide from note to note. Usually he preferred the warmth of a well-loved instrument, but the sound fit his feelings. He wondered if the owner would mind if he came back to work on it again, or if that exited eccentric for the realm of pompous weirdo. Maybe best to just do what he could now.

  The noises of a house party carried gently past the closed door, and he heard it like the easy strum of a classical guitar and the occasional hiss of a snare, a background hubbub to his solitary melody. He should be out there—he’d been invited to party, not work—but when the muse whispered this tantalizingly, he had to follow. It had been a while since his head had been clear enough to feel the music like this, and he relished the feeling, eyes closed and fingers moving in a dreamlike flow.

  To his dismay, the door opened. He jotted notes down on his phone before someone interrupted his thought train and he lost them.

  The bench cushion sank beside him as Lyssa, his stepsister and Rage Riot’s guitarist, dropped onto it with a playful smile and flipped her dyed-black hair with its scarlet streaks. “Someone’s feeling moody. If college is getting you this down, you know we could be partying in New York. Or LA. Or
anywhere larger than a postage stamp.”

  “School’s not a problem.” He managed a smile for her, then picked back up where he’d left off. Her Midtown penthouse was paid for via his fingers on a keyboard. Lyss, at least, had to accommodate any eccentric behavior he wanted to indulge himself with.

  “Lance brought a little extra party if you want to wander back...” She waved her hand in the general direction of the festivities.

  He eyed that way, wondering what mess Lance, their bassist and his best friend since the fifth grade, had brought this time. Rafael was trying to let the guy make his own choices, but while he was determined to clean up, Lance just kept getting worse. Rafael paused, his flow coming to a halt as he wondered if his friend needed checking on.

  “Rafe, chill. He’s all right. Just... relax a little.” She wrapped an arm around him in this weirdly affectionate way she got when tipsy, her hand dropping down to his hip.

  He knew she didn’t mean anything by it. A stepsister was still a sister, someone he’d lived with as family since middle school, so usually he let little things like this go. But tonight it just brought more into relief that there was another, very specific hand he wanted there. He scooted away. “All right, big sis, what’s up?”

  She frowned and leaned on the keyboard, the notes mashing in a postmodern cacophony that perfectly matched the frustration she shot his way. “You. I’m worried about you. You’ve been weird and out of sorts since school started. We’ve got a tour coming up, which was a bitch to plan around your college fantasies, and after all that effort on everyone’s part, you’re dragging your heels like a sad puppy. We were so happy last year. I don’t think this is good for you.”

  He huffed. “And last year was good for me? Sleep all day, party all night, drag my ass into the studio for composing by the numbers and then back to getting smashed? I did the rock and roll lifestyle, and it was fun. But that’s not what I want to do with my life.”

  She made a disgusted noise at him. “Compose by the numbers? The latest album’s busting charts right and left. You’re better than you think you are. You don’t have to work so hard for it, Rafe. You can write platinum in your sleep.”

  “Have you read a review? ‘A stream of interchangeable pop anthems the formerly promising Rafael Marquez clearly phoned in’ is not what I want as my legacy.” And the sad part was, he’d known it was subpar as he was making the album, despite everyone’s fake assurances to the contrary. Hedonism had just been fun and a helluva lot easier than working at his craft. Money and fame made everything a little too easy, with someone always there to sweep away the little consequences that normally warned you to stop before you imploded.

  So he had to stop himself, and that meant finding people, maybe like Freyja, who’d expect more of him than showing up just sober enough to get the job done.

  Lyssa waved her hand. “Money is the only review I care about, and the people have spoken. Don’t get all snotty artist on me and mess with a good thing. Bands have tanked themselves trying to be something they’re not.”

  He shrugged and stared at the keys, frustration making his back tight. “And if we did tank trying to be better, is that really such a terrible thing? We’ve made plenty already; it’s not like you’d ever have to work.”

  “Not while keeping the lifestyle to which I wish to remain accustomed.” She took his arm and shook it cajolingly. “I’m just saying, we’ve built a brand, and ‘morose guy ditching a party to navel-gaze with a piano’ is not it. Seriously. I’m worried about you. Life’s finite. You gotta have fun with it, or what’s the point?”

  Her green eyes were deep and full of genuine concern that made him feel a little less disgruntled. They had different outlooks on life, but his sister did care. He rolled his eyes and rubbed her hair in a way that he hoped was friendly without being encouraging. “Just give me a few ‘Rafe dabbles in pretentiousness’ numbers. I promise you at least two power ballads and a dance track that’ll make the label happy. Plus we’ve got that collaboration coming up. Nobody’s going to accuse us of too much artistry—that is not the problem we’re having.” He gave her a pleading look, trying to smooth things over. “Just a few to make my heart happy, okay? Indulge your little brother.”

  She huffed loudly. “How does anyone say no to your puppy eyes? You’re killing me.” But she held up her pinky to swear on, and he took it in his own, sealing the agreement like they’d been doing since their parents started dating nearly a decade ago.

  His phone buzzed, and a bit of the ennui he’d been feeling sloughed off—again—in a rush of hopeful excitement. Recognizing the feeling, he braced himself for the incoming disappointment when it turned out to be his overenthusiastic abuela encouraging him to study hard or his trainer checking in on his workout schedule.

  The only thing he wanted to hear was Freyja’s voice. It didn’t even matter if she had the book. He’d acquired the lair, and it was going to be badass. They were going to be badass.

  He checked his phone, and when the number displayed as unknown, his heart pounded in anticipation. He leaped up. “Gotta take this.”

  Lyssa went wide-eyed in worry. “Everything okay? Is it Trev?”

  He walked backward toward an exterior door that led to the backyard, planning to head outside and hope for a modicum of privacy. “It’s not Trevor.”

  “Who is it? Mom?”

  “It’s no one!”

  Lyssa blinked at him like she was nonplussed as he slid the porch door open. Then her eyes got huge. “Are you mopey over a girl? Wait, did you give a girl your phone number? You’ve only been here a week and a half!”

  He felt his cheeks flush as he turned back to her. “It wasn’t like that.” It was kinda like that.

  “What was it like, then?”

  The phone buzzed again, and he shook it at her as he slipped out onto the porch and shut the door quickly behind him. He put the phone to his ear. “R—” Shit, don’t say your name. “Rrreally happy to hear from you.” He waved at a few people in the hot tub and headed toward a more private area by the fence that was blocked off by a few trees.

  “How do you know who this is?” Her voice was clear with just a hint of huskiness, the kind that made for amazing phone sex.

  He swallowed and filed that away in the “inappropriate thoughts for later” drawer. “I told you, this number’s unlisted. When a number came up without a name, I assumed it was you.”

  She gave a tiny laugh that seemed to rumble through him, making him feel relaxed and alert at the same time. “That’s right, your crime phone.”

  “Crime phone?” As he approached the secluded nook he’d intended to utilize, gasping laughter reached him, and he stopped, nearly groaning in frustration. He needed a new plan. He studied the backyard, the sounds of the lovers underplaying Freyja’s answer and sending the heat in his cheeks all over his body.

  “Yup,” she continued. “That’s why only eleven people have the number, me plus your contacts in the criminal underworld. It’s my best guess for why you have such an exclusive phone. Does your crime phone take text messages?”

  He laughed as he pictured her slip of a grin underneath the golden mask. “Nothing illegal, I promise.” Although, as the moaning escalated behind him, he decided illicit wouldn’t be a wrong word for his thoughts about Freyja landing on top of him after their escape or, afterward, running around that apartment in her underthings. Desire curled into him, heavy and hot, and he stood there like an idiot trying to get his thoughts back under control. He wanted to work with her, not sleep with her.

  Well, okay, he might also want to get his hands all over her until she screamed in delight, and then they could have a grand time fucking each other senseless, but that wasn’t the important goal.

  “Texting?” she prompted.

  “Oh, sorry. Yeah. You can text.” Who didn’t have texting?

  “Cool, okay, I got...” She kept going, but all he could listen to was the oh-gods-oh-gods-oh-gods of coupling behind hi
m paired against the sexy hum of her voice, until—“Coyote! Are you even listening to me?”

  So busted. “Sorry! There’s a couple behind me. I’m outside, they’re outside, and they’re... loud.”

  She was silent for a moment, as if digesting that, and he pressed a hand to his forehead, wishing he’d never brought it up. Then she said, “Ooh, can I hear?”

  He glanced at the phone in surprise—she wanted to listen with him? That was so hot. He hit speaker and turned the phone’s microphone away from him. “Are they picking up?”

  She laughed harder than he’d heard yet, but lowered her voice as she said, “Omigods they’re so loud! I forgive you for not listening to me.” The woman’s sighing escalated, and Freyja’s voice turned sportscaster. “And the QB drops back for the pass...” The sighing crescendoed into a strange yipping noise—“And he’s scrambling, waiting for a wide receiver to open up”—then cut off into a petulant growl of dissatisfaction. “Oh, and the pass is dropped.” A man’s voice murmured incoherently but cajolingly. “Back in the huddle...”

  Rafael covered his mouth to smother the laughter pouring out of him as she continued to quietly narrate the intimate moment as a football game. She was funny, scrappy, and she knew about football. He had to bring her home to his family; they’d love her.

  Except she didn’t know who he was.

  A few minutes later, after the noise had escalated to its conclusion and she’d called “Touchdown!” in a hoarse whisper and made a crowd noise into the phone, he leaned back against a tree, shaking with equal parts laughter and arousal as he took the phone off speaker. “And here I thought I was the funny one.”

  “Sex is always hilarious.”

  “Not when you’re the one having it.”

  “Oh, it’s especially hilarious then. And don’t you dare tell me your magical penis would change my mind about that.”