“That’s right—the Lady who lived.”
“I have a nickname?”
“You have many,” Poseidon answers. “But to get to the point—you owe me.”
“I do.”
“And yet, you seek an audience to once again ask something of me.”
I stand taller and stare down an Idol. Malachi’s hand rests on the base of my spine in support. “You got this.”
I do. “There’s a spell, one which will undo the old ways of the Idols who want to keep people trapped in the narrative, much like you are.”
“I’m listening.”
I explain about the spell, the summons, the power, and how it should be distributed.
Poseidon listens with great interest until I’m all out of words and begging for his blood. “Do you understand that there are layers of Idols? A hierarchy, if you will.”
“I didn’t know that, no.”
“What does that mean?” Malachi asks.
“When the Grimm brothers first created us, we became the architects and helped them build worlds and find new wonders. I myself am responsible for no fewer than four hundred different narratives.”
“That’s insane,” Malachi breathes. “I don’t think I even know four hundred stories.”
“That’s where it went wrong. The first generation, myself included, knew the wonder it created and the joy to be found in letting characters run riot and discover new realms. But some of those characters got greedy and squashed competing stories to hoard the power for themselves.”
“How many first gen of you are there?” I ask.
“Five.”
“Are you all still around?”
Poseidon nods. “Around, but trapped in various states like myself. The important thing is, your spell and rebellion will free us if I’m right.”
“And you have no issues with the redistribution of power the sisters are trying to achieve?” Malachi checks.
“Of course not. I want a free life. I don’t want to babysit narratives; I want to create them, to help them grow and evolve.”
This feels too easy. I suppose at some point, something has go our way.
“So you’ll do it?” I ask.
“Of course.” He waves his hand, and a vial of blood appears in his hand.
“Actually, I need three.”
“What for?”
“In case I drop one, for example. Or ingest it.”
“I don’t want to know your kinks.”
Pot calling kettle. I glare at him, letting him know I remember everything.
He rolls his eyes, and two more vials appear.
