“And while you’re at it, dry me off and make me some socks.”
He frowns. “Dry yourself off, and I’ll fix the fissure and make you some socks.”
It takes me about ten tries, and I feel really, really stupid in front of the scowling dictator, but I finally get my boots dry, and I dry off my dress three tries after that, but I also singe one corner.
He’s actually laughing by then, but he does close up the chasm he made, and he tosses his head. “Now let’s try something a little easier.” He walks closer to the river. “Let’s try moving some water.”
I do my best to follow his lead, forcing the water to surge out of the riverbank and up onto the dry land five different times. By then, I want to curl up and cry, I’m so tired.
Xolotl molds me a pair of red socks, as if all humans must dress in entirely monochromatic colors. “Not horrible for your first attempt. Not impressive, mind you, but not horrible.”
“Please,” I say. “Like your other generals did better.”
“Oh, they did,” he says. “Every single one of them was chomping at the bit to harness my magic, but you’re a woman.” Is he smiling? It feels like he is.
I gather up all my remaining energy, and I push the wind at him so hard he almost staggers into the scrub brush behind him.
That makes me smile. “A woman.” I snort. “Take that, jerk.”
Instead of getting angry, he shrugs. “Better. Apparently anger motivates you.”
“It’s not anger,” I say. “It’s my hatred for you.”
“Do you truly hate me?” He lifts his eyebrows. “Because that’s an emotion I can use.”
I think about it as we walk along the riverbank, and I realize that I don’t really hate him. I did, but I don’t really anymore. He’s not evil in the way I thought he was. He has no malice toward humans. He doesn’t seem to want to destroy us or watch us burn. He takes no joy in killing us, other than the joy of a job well done.
He doesn’t seem to feel much of anything.
It’s a real shame that the creature tasked with dispensing death among us doesn’t seem to care about us at all. Then again, if he felt guilty about what he did, it might be impossible to do his job.
“Who made you?” I ask.
“Who made you?” He turns, his eyes open and clear. He’s not mocking me. He’s asking.
“Abigail and Nathan Brooks,” I say. “My parents.”
He shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I mean. Who made humans?”
“How should I know?” I shrug. “God, maybe?”
He shrugs, too. “I’m not sure either.”
That bothers me more. “So you have this job, this task, one that ruins the lives—no, ends the lives of untold numbers of humans—and you have all this power, and we’re like ants to you, but you have no idea who gave you the job or why you should be doing it?”
“What’s your job?” Again, he looks entirely earnest.
“I—” I frown. “I mean, we’re supposed to be happy, right? We’re supposed to help other people, and maybe have families. That’s our job here on earth.”
He shrugs. “Is it? Who says?”
“Come on,” I say. “That’s your argument? That because I don’t know what the purpose of humanity is, you don’t need to know why your entire purpose, why all your powers, should be bent on destroying us?”
He sighs. “This is why I granted you the time you requested, so that I can convince you that the destruction of your lives isn’t the unquantifiable tragedy you seem to believe it is.” He’s actually smiling. “Humanity needs me, and they don’t know it, because they’re quite stupid, but they will live better, happier, and more fulfilling lives because I will restore the balance of the world in which they do live.”
“Except a lot of them won’t.” I sigh and shake my head. “I have half a mind to make you watch the Avengers franchise, but I’m afraid it would just inspire you to snap your fingers, and. . .” I cough. “Never mind.”
Xolotl’s frowning, and I hate how beautiful he is, even though he never smiles.
