The skin around his eyes crinkled in a smile as he threw back the colorless liquid. He moved into the kitchen, asking, “What do you drink?”
I had been so breathless in my duel to the death that I hadn’t anticipated a move toward normalcy. I toggled between skins as I looked for the version of me that could adapt. I was relatively parched. I went through the piece of my gut that decided he’d respect honesty, and I asked if he had a beer. Another smile told me I was making progress.
He opened the fridge and bent over his options. “Ale? Lager? Stout?”
I thought of serial killers once more, but this time, my mind flitted to their victims. Survivors had one thing in common: they made the enemy feel understood.
Feed into his ego. Don’t startle him. Let him know you’re on the same side.
Do whatever it takes to get out alive.
“Do you have anything blond?” I asked, perhaps on a whim. I had rolled the dice time after time in a bid for establishing my comfort, and it had paid off. I needed him to know that he and I were teammates, whatever it took.
He plucked two brown bottles from somewhere in the depths of his refrigerator and popped off their caps before I’d seen him procure a tool. He handed me one, and I took my cue to sit beside him near the counter in the dark, unwelcoming shadow of his home. I understood that in this moment, I’d tackled whatever predecessors led to the boss.
Each move required presence. No past. No thoughts of my friends. No failure.
I kissed the bottleneck and had to actively prevent myself from sighing. Gods, I loved a good beer. This was the sweetest grain—an impeccable blend of hoppy, fruity, and fermented. I cast him a side-eye. “Sorghum?” I asked.
He lifted his brows. “You know your drinks.”
“The beer that dreamed of being a cider.” I smiled. It was the only grain that was sweet without trying.
Another win.
Maybe we really could be teammates. I, the Bride of Hell, and he, the sun-eater, might have one heck of a meet-cute as to how we became friends over some big misunderstanding. We’d laugh about it over our second round of beers. It would be fine.
Thuh-thuh-thump, thuh-thuh-thump, thuh-thuh-thump.
Everything was going according to plan. So why couldn’t my nervous system get on the same page? We were winning.
I didn’t have to fake my enjoyment of the drink. I took two sips for courage before saying, “I’m not the first to come looking for help regarding the end of the world. It’s your area of expertise, after all.” I paused again, stopping on several clichés.But I hope I’m the one to win you to the cause. I hope you see the truth in me. I hope… None of them would win me favor, and I knew it. He waited expectantly while swigging his beer. In the obscured shadows of his living room, I asked the only question that mattered. “What will it take for you to join me in Heaven’s takedown?”
That was it.
Some things came in threes. Bad things? Good things?Magic? Whatever it was, I’d landed the victorious blow. Whatever he’d been holding between us crumbled. He revealed all of his cards as he said, “I don’t want to invest in a cause that’s doomed to fail.”
It was time to close the deal, nerves be damned.
I set down my beer and did what I did best. I sold. “Heaven’s oldest adversaries are Hell and the Phoenicians. I have a good punch of the Nordes and a handful of the Greeks. The Kami in Japan are stirring. We’re working with Celts, and now, maybe you could even sway some of the lower-level Egyptian deities. Ones who want change in your pantheon.” I stopped the moment his expression glazed. “You’ve seen the humans,” I pressed.
The dimming light in his eyes reignited.
He was older than time. He was too old to care, too ancient to bother with frivolities. He was no young god. He was not flashy or trendy or shiny. He was a titan. He didn’t need trends. It was all or nothing.
“Apep,” I said, testing his name. I spread my hand bare as I said, “You dared to take on the universe. You want to swallow the man in power? I want that too.”
He turned away from me ever so slightly as he sipped his beer. Once. Twice. He drained it before getting to his feet. He fetched two cold, unopened bottles from the fridge and pocketed the opener. “Come,” he beckoned.
I brought the dregs of my beer with me as I followed him down the hall. He flipped on lights, at first illuminating a rather unimpressive living room. The next corridor was partially shadowed until we reached the second bank of switches. He flipped on whatever mattered as we continued into one set of rooms, then another, then a room I didn’t quite understand. There were utensils. Something like vehicles. It may have been a shop. A workroom. A shiny, interesting, incomprehensible amalgamation of tools and parts and things that looked very, very expensive.
“I’ve been working on establishing myself,” he said simply.
“You’ve done a fine job,” I replied.
His shoulders rolled forward, but his laugh was inaudible as he advanced. We reached a third bank of outlets before he paused. “The others who came. They were yours?”
I knew a trap when I saw one. Denying them would do me no favors. Owning up to them would concede to spying on him. My skittering heart gave up on a recognizable beat. I took a steadying breath and plastered on a smile. Matching his evasiveness, I asked, “That depends on who arrived and their intentions. I inspire many. I control only myself.”
