“Hello, welcome to Third Eye,” Rebecca said from behind the tea counter. I grunted in response and didn’t make eye contact. Instead, I turned toward the bookshelves, making it clear I intended to browse and keeping my back to her.

The books for sale were still centered on religion and philosophy. The ones on the shelf locked up behind glass, however, were prominently labeled as RARE and FIRST EDITION. I’d never labeled mine, because I did not particularly want people to browse tomes of summoning and enchantment, but Rebecca must have discovered that there was a fair bit of money to be made from collectors of more-pedestrian volumes. Scanning the titles, I saw that she still had a few of the books I had acquired for her originally, but most of it was newer material now. It reminded me that my cache of magical texts was still buried and encased in iron and stone near the Salt River.

Rebecca would never sneak up on anybody. She still wore a ludicrous amount of silvery jewelry about her neck and wrists, religious symbols from most every religion people had heard of and quite a few that people hadn’t, and I heard these clicking and tinkling together as she moved behind me.

“We have quite a fine assortment of rare books if you’re interested,” she said, coming to a halt at my right shoulder and admiring the spines. “Can I help you find anything in particular?”

“I don’t suppose you have any first editions of ancient Edgar Rice Burroughs pulp?”

“I’m afraid not, but we do have a signed first edition of Heinlein’s The Number of the Beast, which is practically a love letter to Burroughs.”

“Seriously? That would be outstanding.”

“Great, I’ll get it for you.” She had an assortment of keys dangling on one of those curly plastic wrist thingies nestled in amongst her other jingly bangles and bracelets. She was like a set of mobile wind chimes.

I gestured vaguely at the source of the noise and said, “That’s quite a collection of necklaces. Couldn’t decide which one to go with, eh?”

“Well, I guess I have decided,” she said, speaking at twice the normal rate of most people. She might have been suffering the side effects of too much caffeine. “I’ve decided to believe in them all.”

“Really? Isn’t that contradictory?”

“People believe contradictory things all the time,” she replied. “Anyway, it’s not as contradictory as you might think. Religions are kind of like clothes. There are all sorts of them and some are more fashionable than others, but at the end of the day they all serve the same purpose: They keep you from being na**d.”

“Religions keep you from being na**d?”

“Spiritually speaking. Most of us seek the divine, and most of us prefer not to be nude in public.”

I smirked. “Well, we don’t have any data to support those assertions, but I imagine that would prove to be accurate.”

“Of course. At their roots, the faiths are fundamentally the same the way that clothes are the same. And that’s because we recognize that there is a certain power in faith. Even atheists believe strongly in their own rectitude, and that gives them power.”

“I believe that’s true.”

Rebecca smiled at me. “And what else do you believe?” She removed the Heinlein first edition from the case and put it in my hand.

I took off my hat and returned the smile. “I believe, Rebecca Dane, that you are the best possible owner of this shop. I’m Atticus. Remember me?”

She gasped and held her hand up to her throat. “Oh, my gods! Mr. O’Sullivan!”

“You don’t have to be that formal.”

“Sorry, it’s just that I thought you were dead and I’m so glad you’re not and I’ve always wanted to say thank you for the store and ask you why you did that and—oh! Do you want it back now? Is that why you’re here?”

“No, no, it’s yours,” I assured her. “But I did want to talk a bit. Might we have some tea?”

“Of course! Have a seat, I’ll be right over.” She bustled back to the tea station, making such a racket as she went that she drew the attention of everyone else in the store, each of them with tiny smirks of amusement on their faces. There were only three other people, and two of them made their choices and paid for their purchases while Rebecca was busy boiling water. She made us some Irish Breakfast tea, a blend that didn’t mess around on the caffeine front. I doubted she needed to be any more wired, and another shot might take her into the territory of those professional disclaimers who spoke at three hundred words per minute at the end of commercials, but at least our conversation promised to be high energy. We chatted about the store and her plans to open another location down in Tucson, and she asked about my beauty regimen, because I looked far too good after twelve years.

“Are you, like, using a mud pack or cucumbers or something because, oh, my gods, I gotta get me some of whatever you’re on, you look fantastic,” she gushed.

“I put on a guacamole mask every night. Avocados are the secret.”

“Really?”

“No, I’m just kidding.” I grinned at her briefly and then tapped the table to indicate a change of subject. “I wanted to ask you a question that might sound a little strange. Think back, if you will. Was there ever a time, shortly after I left you the store, when you prayed for me to many gods?”

I expected her to roll her eyes up and think about it for a while, or maybe express some curiosity about why I would ask such a thing, but she answered immediately. “Oh, yes, definitely,” she said. “It was right after Hal sold me the store. I was worried about you.”

“This might be an unrealistic request, but can you remember any details of that prayer and to which gods you prayed?”

“Oh, absolutely, that’s no problem.” Maybe the caffeine was speeding up her memory access as well as her speech. “I prayed more than once. Nine times, actually, to a group of nine gods.”

“Why nine?”

“It’s a magic number—”

“—Amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann,” I finished with her.

“I prayed for your deliverance and guidance in accordance with their divine will,” Rebecca said.

“Exactly that? I mean, you didn’t ask for anything more specific? And thank you, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. I’m fairly certain that was it.” That would allow the gods to work together but give them freedom to do whatever they wished. Remembering the second part to my question, Rebecca continued, “And I prayed to Jesus, Ganesha, Odin, Inari, Buddha, Guanyin, Shango, Perun, and Brighid.”

“Brighid? No shit?” I said. “That is so very interesting.”

More than interesting, actually. As the implications filtered through my head, it was more like world-rocking. If Brighid had known about all this since Rebecca had prayed twelve years ago, then the First among the Fae had never been fooled by my fake death at all. On the contrary, she’d played me. Again. She had stood there in the Fae Court, pretending to be outraged as she said, “I was told you died twelve years ago,” but that is a very different thing from “I thought you died twelve years ago.”

And it wasn’t just Brighid who had allowed me to feel more clever than I really was. Perun had been watching over me in person while pretending that I was doing him a favor. When I first met him before the raid on Asgard, he gave me a fulgurite to protect against Thor’s lightning. And when Coyote had assumed my shape to allow a group of thunder gods to “kill” me and thus give me time to train Granuaile in peace, Shango had gleefully joined in the slaughter, knowing it wasn’t me all along. Damn. Filthy godses are tricksy, Precious.

Seeing that I was more than a little gobsmacked, Rebecca said, “Oh, I can see that nearly made your head explode. I’m dying to know why you asked and what’s going on, but I don’t want to be rude, and, besides, I have a customer.” She excused herself to tend to a tiny, lost-looking man hovering near the register with a couple of books.

As I viewed the past through these new lenses, the most shocking revelation was Odin’s involvement. Exactly when—and why—had he agreed to participate in my deliverance and guidance? Because, unless I was mistaken, he had to have known about this prior to my invasion of Asgard with Leif Helgarson and others. He lost Thor, Heimdall, Ullr, and Freyr that day, not to mention Sleipnir on my previous solo raid, when he’d tried to kill me. Perhaps he could not have known in advance who would die during that encounter, but he definitely accepted it afterward. Why? What did he and the other gods hope I would accomplish that was worth all that?

With a sense of dizziness, I realized that I was but a single piece on a very large chessboard and that these gods had been pushing me around while I thought I was exercising free will. I immediately berated myself for sloppy thinking, because of course I had been using free will—they were just supremely skilled at influencing and predicting my decisions. But if I wanted to run a tad further with the chess metaphor, I had two questions: Who were the gods playing against, and how close were we to the endgame?

Chapter 15

I know that time continued to tick away after my father died, but it’s difficult to put a figure on how much of it passed before I became aware of anything besides the ruin of his body. It may have been only seconds, or it may have been minutes. Orlaith brought me back.

"Granuaile? Water is on your face."

My father is gone.

"I know. Mine too. Fathers gone a lot."

I clutch at her words, desperate to find anything that might distract me from the horror I’d just witnessed. Did you know your father?

"Yes. Humans called him Seamus. Played with his pups. One night I go to sleep and think I play with him tomorrow. But when I wake he is gone. Everyone sad. Like you."

Yes, I am very sad now, Orlaith.

"I am sad with you. But also worry! Because people fight. And you not move for long time."

That tears my eyes away. Durga’s lion lies to my right, surrounded by the blackened bodies of the asuras; he is alive but wounded. The devi herself is behind me, dancing gracefully through scores of fallen enemies and pursuing the last few rakshasas, demoralized now that the raksoyuj no longer holds sway over their actions. Durga’s weapons flash—Indra’s thunderbolt most visible among them as it continues to flicker and torch fleeing targets—and I can tell it will not be much longer before she has slain them all.

I look down at Fuilteach, still gripped tightly in my left hand, its soul chamber glowing blue and a thin film of my father’s blood along the cutting edge—almost the sum of his remains now. All that time and effort wasted. If I had a rakshasa in front of me now, I would have no trouble splintering its soul with the tip.

“Whoa,” I say aloud, recognizing the anger rising. Carefully, purposefully, I sheathe the whirling blade and then use my left hand for a much better purpose—petting Orlaith. I dispel her camouflage so that she’ll be a little more comfortable; there is no immediate threat now. My eyes mist over as I glance back at the small pile of ash that represents the end of Donal MacTiernan.

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” I say, and before the emotions overwhelm me again, I shake my head and assign myself a task. “I need to understand how this went so wrong, Orlaith. Help me find Laksha?”

"Easy. She is still on ground."

Orlaith leads me over a field of hewn and battered bodies, some of them cooked from lightning, and it’s only thirty yards before I can no longer contain my nausea. I retch until my stomach is empty, then signal Orlaith that it’s okay to continue.

Laksha—or, rather, the body of the nameless woman whose son we saved—is still facedown in the field. When I turn her over and check for a pulse, I find none. She is dead, though there is no apparent cause. Perhaps Laksha did it, or perhaps one of the multitudes of rakshasas did it before Durga destroyed them.

My eyes flick down to the ruby necklace, Laksha’s focus and onetime home. Perhaps it is her home again.

“Laksha, are you in there? We have to talk. It’s safe now.”

I get no response, no silky Tamil accent echoing in my ears. It occurs to me that if Laksha had been near my father, floating in the ether about his head when Durga struck, she might have been killed in the same firestorm. She said that she was a thing of the ether like the raksoyuj, and what killed him could have killed her too. Gritting my teeth, I remove the ruby necklace and put it in my pocket, feeling abandoned by everyone save my hound.

“Druid,” a voice says.

Looking up, I see Durga standing before me. I must have lost some more time, dwelling in shock. Her weapons are gone. She holds a conch shell in one hand, a lotus blossom in another. The others are empty but held out in different gestures that I know are significant, because I’ve seen them in art before, but I don’t know what they mean. Her third eye is closed, and her normal ones are pools of serenity.

“I know that man was your father,” the devi says. “But there was no earthly way to sunder the sorcerer from him, short of death.”

Thinking that she cannot possibly possess all the facts, I protest, “I have a knife forged of water magic. I thought if I cut him at the proper chakra points, then it would have …”

I trail off when the devi shakes her head. “Wishful thinking. It would have annoyed him—it did annoy him—but it would not have worked. The raksoyuj bound himself very tightly so that he could not be killed without also killing his innocent host. Your father was a victim, but I was the target.”

“Why?”