False Gods (Sins of the Father 2)

And just beneath the twisted crisscross of broken metal, I caught the unmistakeable crimson sheen of my own blood. I gasped, the pain coursing through my body, radiating from my torso. Had the blast ripped shrapnel into me? What was a plain, dull ache just moments ago was turning into stabbing agony. I writhed on the ground, trembling fingers hovering at my chest, wanting to clutch at my wound. But I knew I would only make things far, far worse.

Skirnir rose to his feet, an eerie, faint wind blowing through his apartment. The stench of rotting food faded, as did the veneer of filth from his body. While his clothes remained rumpled and soiled, Skirnir’s skin, hair, and eyes looked clearer, as vital as someone who was meant to be a god. Because that was who he was, after all, a deity of the old world, regardless of whether he’d been forsaken by his more powerful master.

I panted and strained through the pain, my mind focused on only one thing. If Skirnir was a god, it still meant that we could kill him. This apartment couldn’t possibly be his domicile. If I could call something new from the Vestments, then stab him through the heart or decapitate him, it would all be over. But my ruined armor wasn’t a good sign. I reached out to the armories, asking for a sword, a throwing dagger, anything – but nothing answered.

“Nephilim,” Skirnir said, eyes wide with the thrill of ambition and power. “I will bring you to my master. You will be a fine prize indeed. Then he will know to love his old servant again. Then I won’t have to live in this repulsive human hovel any longer. I only have to take you alive.” His eyes narrowed as he grinned. “I’m sure Freyr won’t mind if you’re a little battered and bloodied when I deliver you to him.”

“That’s never going to happen,” I growled.

“Oh? And why is that?”

The sound of breaking pottery stopped Skirnir’s monologue short. Soil, a shattered pot, and dried stems and leaves showered down past his temples and neck, along with trickles of blood courtesy of the new wound in his head. Skirnir’s eyes rolled back into their sockets as he slumped to the ground. Gambanteinn clattered and rolled into a corner, a terrifying staff of power, but just a worthless broomstick without a warrior to wield it.

“Oh, thank God,” I muttered.

“I found the heaviest potted plant he had,” Florian said, beaming proudly as he stood over Skirnir’s unconscious body. “See? Nature always saves the day. The plant was dead, too, so I didn’t feel too bad about smashing it over his head.”

“I’m not sure Skirnir really cares at this point. Come on. Grab the staff and help me up. He wrecked me good and proper.”

Florian gently pulled me to my feet, offering

Gambanteinn as a walking stick. I accepted gratefully, but as I stood, my borrowed armor from the Vestments vanished. I saw myself in a mirror in the hallway, saw the bright bloom of wet, stinging red that covered well over half of my shirt.

“Holy shit,” Florian said. “You’re losing a lot of blood. We need to get you some help. Right now.”

“I’m okay,” I mumbled, wondering why Skirnir’s apartment was so much colder. “I’m fine, it’s nothing.” I held on to the staff, cursing the room for spinning around me, unsettled yet helpless over how my clothes were drenched with my insides. I blinked once, then felt myself falling. I blinked again, and the world faded from view.

17

“Gross,” Artemis said, wincing as she stared at the gash in my chest, munching on entire mouthfuls of her fresh supply of Snacky Yum-Yums. “That is so gross, man.”

“Would you get out of here with your cheesy snacks?” I grumbled. She carried on chewing and ignored me, flecks of orangey crumbs falling from her mouth and staining her fingers as she noshed on the whole bag of snacks like it was a bucket of popcorn. I narrowed my eyes. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

She didn’t even look at me when she nodded, or when she spoke. “It’s like those videos on the internet where someone pops a huge pimple, or a cyst, and all this pus comes gushing out. It’s gross as hell, but you can’t look away.” She peered even closer, then mumbled to herself again. “Ew. Disgusting.”

“I give up,” I muttered.

Florian – sweet Florian had carried me through the streets and into the Nicola Arboretum, all the way back into Artemis’s domicile. Priscilla apparently hooted in a panic when she saw me, rushing to fetch the first cot she could find and settling it at the domicile’s nexus, next to the river. For easy access to water, Florian explained, and because he’d be able to examine me more closely in the sunlight. Priscilla really was the smartest animal I’d ever met – well, besides this one corgi that could make people’s heads explode, but that’s another story.

Priscilla loped closer, her long arms low to the ground, her face twisted in a mask of motherly concern. All the while, Artemis crunched and munched. I knew that the sun was necessary, but it was so hot out, and yet if it was so hot out, why was I so cold? My sweat felt like drops of ice.

“Here I come,” Florian said, done washing his hands in the river, clutching something in both hands.

I grimaced as Florian approached me, a clump of bark, leaves, and crushed roots in his hand. The smell wafted up into my nostrils as he gingerly lowered the dressing towards my wound. I gagged, hoping that at least the horrible bitter-pungent smell of Florian’s eleven secret herbs and spices would distract me from the pain. But no such luck.

“Here goes nothing,” he said. “Deep breath, now. One, two – ”

For a second, the poultice was cool, almost soothing against my skin. But Florian pushed to help it settle into my wound. I threw my head back and screamed.

Why that hurt so much more than him and Artemis working together earlier to extract actual shards of twisted metal right out of my freely bleeding chest, I’ll never know. Tears streamed down my face. I bit into the back of my fist, whimpering.

“It’s like ripping off a bandaid,” Florian said. “But, you know, in reverse.”

“And it hurts a hell of a lot more, too,” I sobbed. “Come on, man, couldn’t you have mixed in something anesthetic in there?”

He sniffed, then stiffened. “It’s really not that simple, you know. If you think that a little ibuprofen can help you close up your wounds, be my guest, but – ”

“Let’s not get into this right now,” I moaned. “But okay, I’m sorry for complaining. Thank you for helping me, even though it felt like you set the gash in my chest on fire for a second there.”