This is the strangest meeting I’ve ever attended.
I’m sitting in a slick conference room, leaning my elbows on a large, oval-shaped wooden table in its center. A chipper, clean-cut young man who introduced himself as Adam Carraway is standing at the front of the room. He’s happily chattering before a large drop-down projector screen, giving a PowerPoint presentation to me … and Dionysus.
The god of wine, merriment, and sexual harassment is sitting across from me. Every now and then, I stare daggers at him, wishing my divine portfolio included the ability to make someone’s head explode. Of course they’d try to recruit him. And of course he’d be taken in by Garen’s offer. He’s a vain, self-indulgent harlot obsessed with power—it would be stupid to assume anything else. His presence has made this a remarkably tense experience, and I find myself lapsing into a daydream about new ways to maim him every other minute.
That anxiety has been making it kind of hard to concentrate, as well. Adam’s already moved past the short history of Finemdi, which I sort of blanked out on. Something about an organization of philosophers and statesmen coming together around the time of the American Revolution. What I mostly remember is feeling relieved their history didn’t involve Leonardo da Vinci or the Freemasons in some way. I’ve seen a lot of movies and read a lot of books, and I am so very tired of seeing them pop up everywhere. From hell’s heart I stab at thee, scriptwriters.
Now Adam’s moving on to gods in general. Apparently, we’re ranked within the organization based on our strength, ranging from lesser to greater deities. They also have a “bottom of the barrel” grouping for quasideities, which can refer either to gods with very few to no followers or to the product of a union between a god and a mortal. I’m pretty certain they’ve been assuming I’m in this category, but I think at this point I’m pushing “lesser.” Hooray. Based on our ranking, we’ll be assigned worshippers from a pool of “volunteers.” Adam touches on this part very briefly, but he does include a picture of unhealthy-looking men and women strapped into chairs with glowing, spiderlike devices of metal and glass placed over their eyes. Finemdi determines the best ways to improve their stable of gods through directed belief from these poor people, but we’re apparently free to make suggestions. I make a mental note to ask about that head-exploding power.
Then Adam moves on to our responsibilities. Apparently, we’re required to aid them with manifestations of our abilities—if appropriate—and go on missions to help capture or recruit other gods. The general goal is to take deities out of the wild and bring them back to Finemdi facilities, with the ultimate objective being the removal of all gods to a safer and more manageable environment. Laid out through a series of slides in this dry, corporate setting, you could almost forget what they’re doing is an affront to nature.
“Those are the basics. Now, we’ll be covering more in the next few days, but if you have any questions, I’d be happy to answer them,” Adam says, clicking over to the last slide, titled Q&A. The way he looks at me as he says it gives me the impression he really would be happy to do this. How on earth did a naive salesman like him wind up working for a god-hating conspiracy? I resolve to think of a question or two, just so he doesn’t feel bad.
“When do we get our belief?” Dionysus asks. It’s clear from his posture and shining eyes that he’s been listening with rapt attention to every word of Adam’s presentation.
“In just a few short weeks,” Adam says, smiling. “We’ll bring in new thought recruits, set up a belief plan, and review you so they know precisely how to target their conviction. In the meantime, we’ll get you familiar with our procedures and make sure you’re comfortable here.”
“What if we don’t want to live here? Where are we, anyway?” I ask, putting up my hand.
Adam nods eagerly. “We recognize that some of our deities have continuing responsibilities in the outside world, and those who do are indeed allowed to maintain outside accommodations. If you’d like to apply for an off-site permit, I can request the appropriate forms for you.”
“I’d appreciate that, thanks,” I say.
He beams. “As to your other question, we are currently in Impulse Station, an Epsilon-class training and development facility servicing the southeastern United States.”
“Okay. So where is that? Like, on a map,” I say. It seems everyone here is in the habit of answering questions a little too literally, or assuming too much understanding on the part of the listener. Spell it out for me, people.
“Oh,” he murmurs, seeming a little surprised I don’t know where I’ve been taken. “We’re in Orlando, Florida, a bit west of the international airport. Just off Landstreet Road.” He frowns. “Weren’t you…”
“I was unconscious,” I say, blunt as can be. “But thank you.”
His mouth clicks closed, and he appears taken aback. I probably don’t come across as the sort of deity who needs to be sedated. “Ah. Well, are there any other questions?”
“I would like one of those forms as well,” Dionysus says. “I have business responsibilities to which I must attend. Speaking of which, how long has it been since my”—he glances at me, and I catch a hint of annoyance in his frenzied eyes—“capture?”
“Of course,” Adam says quickly. “According to your files, you were both brought in last night.”
I glance at the clock hanging over the door. 6:37 PM. That’s good—I was worried I might’ve missed work. I have today and Monday off, so if I can get back sometime tomorrow, I can still make my shifts at the park.
“Where is the man who was brought in with me?” I ask. “I want him released as soon as possible.”
“Oh, yes. Nathan, correct? I believe he’s expected to regain consciousness sometime tomorrow. Is he one of your retainers?”
“Something like that.”
“Not a problem. We’ll add him to your guest list.” He pauses, looking at us both expectantly, then spreads his hands. “Any other questions?”
“Where can I get some new clothes?” I ask, picking at my medical scrubs—baggy pale blue pants and matching top. I’m glad to no longer be in that perverted backless gown, but hospital chic really isn’t my style.
“I’ll arrange to have a few options added to your closet. Otherwise, you can fill out a request form and we’ll have anything you want delivered directly to your room.”
“Thanks,” I say, hoping whatever Finemdi has on hand is halfway stylish.
“Anything else?” Adam says.
“When’s dinner?” Dionysus asks. “I’m famished.”
Sure you are. I roll my eyes as Adam glances at the clock and answers with, “Perfect timing, then! The cafeteria starts serving right around six o’clock, so if there’s nothing else, I can show you the way now.”
“Lead on!” Dionysus says cheerfully, bounding to his feet and knocking his chair away. Coolly, I slide out of mine and make sure I carefully tuck it back under the table. I’m not normally a stickler for manners, but pointing out his constant disrespect in every possible way satisfies my passive-aggressive little heart.
“What’s after dinner?” I ask as we head out of the room and begin walking down the halls. Impulse Station is a maze of branching corridors. There was a map included in the information packet I was given at the start of Adam’s presentation, but I can’t make heads or tails of it. It’s like looking at a bucket of rainbow-colored worms. After getting used to the well-designed utility tunnels of Disney, this is like trying to navigate a nightmare realm with Escher as your cartographer. I’d be lost immediately if Adam weren’t here to guide us.
“You’ll be guided to your assigned quarters—I’ll make sure you both have the off-site permit forms waiting for you when you arrive—and given the evening to familiarize yourself with the facility and its rules.”
“Are there any other gods here right now?” I ask.
“Oh, plenty,” he says, nodding. “Second-largest collection on the eastern seaboard!”
Collection? I’m incensed by the very idea, but I refuse to let it show. I still remember Garen’s last words to me, and I’m dead set on proving him wrong. I’ll seem like the perfect ally of theirs, right up until the moment I stab them in the back.
A door swings open in the hallway, and I catch the last snippet of what seems to be a heated conversation. “… has never been denied,” a burly, thickset man in a well-tailored suit is saying, his head turned to speak with someone in the room.
Garen’s voice replies, and I’m suddenly a lot more interested in this debate. He has a strange tone in his voice, and I realize he’s actually pleading with the man. “But she’s different, sir! She has self-control, and that makes her incredibly—”
“I don’t want to hear it, specialist!” the man snaps, yelling into the room. “They’re all the same! That’s rather the point, isn’t it? Now, get back in the field and do your job!” With that, he spins, revealing a haggard, lined face, a thick gray mustache, and pale green eyes that narrow as they notice me. Those eyes are familiar, but I can’t quite place them. “Miss,” he says as we walk past.
Garen exits the room, a wonderfully chastened look on his face. It changes to one of shock the moment he notices me. It’s painfully obvious who they were just talking about in there. As if he can read my thoughts, Garen grimaces and turns, walking down the hall away from us at a brisk pace. I stop to watch him go, wondering if it’s possible to feel any more smug than I do now. The heavyset man holds the door for a few other men in tailored suits, all of whom studiously avoid looking me in the eyes as they file out.
Oh, this is just delightful. The more I keep my divine urges in check, the more I’m going to confuse and worry everyone in charge of this place. I’m impressed by how I’ve been doing so far. Who would have thought such secrecy would be possible for one so lively and vivacious? Certainly not Garen, I think, chuckling.
“Are you coming, Miss Freya?” Adam asks, seeming uncomfortable.
“It’s Sara,” I say, grinning as I fall into step beside them.
A few minutes later, I’m in the cafeteria, realizing I was wrong to label that meeting “strange.” It’s nothing compared to my new situation. The dining hall we’ve entered is filled with Impulse staff and gods, all enjoying the night’s choices. The hubbub from their conversations percolates through the room, a dull murmur of laughter and gossip. There’s an industrial feel to the place. It reminds me of a converted warehouse; a long, high-ceilinged room filled with dull gray tabletops and matching plastic chairs, racks of fluorescent lights above, and cheap speckled linoleum flooring underfoot. A set of double doors yawns to my left, and there’s a dry-erase board set on a tripod beside them with the night’s specials scribbled in green marker.
As I draw closer, I see the board is divided into two sections: Immortals and Mortals. Under my heading, there’s roasted boar with sage butter and grilled asparagus (poor pig!), while Finemdi’s human employees have to contend with the rather depressing option of a potato bar. Dionysus nods at the board as if he expected nothing less, then saunters toward the dinner line.
I look at Adam. “Is everything okay, Miss Frey—I mean, Sara?” he asks nervously. I think he’s misread my pity for disappointment.
“Fine, Mr. Carraway,” I reply. “I was just surprised by the, um, dinner options.”
“Are they not acceptable? I assure you, there are standard menu choices inside that may be more to your liking. This is only the special, after all, and—”
“No, no, they’re fine,” I say, feeling exasperated. He nearly fell over himself there, seeming horrified by the idea I might be unhappy. I get the feeling most of the staff are expected to bend over backward for their divine teammates. “I was just wondering why the specials were … segregated, I guess.”
He blinks, confusion rewriting his normally cheerful face. I think he’s frantically turning over my words, trying to figure out how this could possibly offend me. I’m not sure who I should have a dimmer view of right now: these people for assuming all gods are stuck-up prima donnas, or my fellow deities for giving them that impression in the first place. “That’s just … the way it’s always been, Miss Sara,” he says at last.
“All right, wonderful,” I say, deciding I’ll never get a straight answer out of him. “Thank you for all your help, Mr. Carraway.”
He brightens immediately. “You’re absolutely welcome, Lady Sara. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
“Of course,” I say, inclining my head at him and then moving toward the dinner line.
I collect a plastic tray from a large stack just inside the double doors, then turn to take in my options. The room is divided into two halves—on my left, there’s a row of stainless steel serving stations, staffed by numerous uniformed chefs. A stenciled metal sign hangs over the line, the word IMMORTALS picked out in block letters. I notice Dionysus is already here, loading up his tray with all manner of goodies. On the opposite side of the room, another line of stations, with fewer, less-appealing options and a handful of uninterested staff members, sits beneath a MORTALS banner. Finally, there’s a do-it-yourself salad bar in the middle, right between the two sides. Blending vegetables and ranch dressing, it seems, is one of the few things deemed acceptable for both groups.
Part of me wants to rebel against this forced inequality, to march right over to the other side of the room and avail myself of their potato bar and maybe a side of sad-looking pasta. This sort of isolation can only create distrust and resentment between gods and their worshippers, and it’s a perfect example of Finemdi’s corporate philosophy. They see us as intractable, fickle divas, and everything—even their cafeteria design—reflects this mind-set. I’d like to think I’m better than that. I’d like to think I can rise above this rather insulting attempt to appeal to my vanity, and take a stand for what’s right.
Then I get a closer look at the options on “my” side.
* * *
I’m not proud of it, but a few minutes later, I shuffle into the lunchroom wielding a tray covered in luxurious treats. Rack of lamb, truffle gnocchi, crusty bread slices surrounding a modest dab of caviar, and a bowl of butternut squash soup, all of it weighing down my arms with guilt. I feel more than a little ashamed for giving in, but hey—filet mignon was also available, and I managed to refuse that. I won’t indulge until Nathan’s back at my side and the two of us are finally sitting down to a decent, uninterrupted dinner. So that means I’m not a complete sellout, right? I mean, truffle gnocchi, people.
As I scan the cafeteria, looking for a place to sit, an odd feeling settles into my stomach. I can’t say I’ve experienced this before, but from everything I’ve seen on TV, it’s a high school classic: social anxiety. Every table is packed with cliques. I see research specialists and doctors chatting away, trying not to stain their lab coats. There are off-duty guards at one table, men in business suits at another. A few Greek gods laugh and shout greetings as Dionysus walks over, scooting chairs around and clearing room for him. He’s grinning like an idiot as they clap him on the back and scramble to catch up on old times, treating him like he’s some returning prom king at their ten-year reunion.
Is this really happening? Have I been kidnapped and placed in some deviant Saved by the Bell remake starring gods and mercenaries? This is incredibly strange and off-putting. These gods are born troublemakers, prone to displays of arrogance and egotism that would take your breath away, and now they’re acting like frat boys at a cookout? Something’s not right. I crane my neck around, looking for other places to sit. Most of the deities seem to keep to themselves, organized by pantheon, and I don’t see anyone from mine. There are a few Egyptian gods—I recognize Bast—in one corner, and I think that pack of rough customers a few tables away are from the Tuatha Dé Danann, of Ireland. Native American nature spirits chat amiably next to Slavic deities, and—oh wait, is that a group of Incan or Mayan gods? I’ve never been very good at keeping up with my kin south of the Tropic of Cancer.
Finally, I spot someone sitting alone in a far corner. I dash over, trying not to look too desperate. “Excuse me,” I say, feeling surprisingly apprehensive. “Do you mind if I join you?”
The woman, another researcher if her lab coat is any indication, looks up. Her green eyes widen with recognition, and her mouth drops open; it’s Samantha Drass, the bespectacled girl who oversaw my admission. “Well, um…” she murmurs, looking perplexed. “Freya, right? Hi.”
“Hi, Samantha,” I say cheerfully, nodding. “You can call me Sara, if you like. Is it okay if I eat with you?” I hold up my tray and give it a wiggle.
She frowns. “I’m sorry, but you do know I’m not a god, right?”
Now it’s my turn to frown. “Yeah,” I say after a moment. “So?”
Her frown vanishes, and she looks pleasantly surprised. “Oh, I thought—um, I mean, certainly. Company is always appreciated,” she says at once.
I grin, set down my tray, and sit across from her. For a minute, I busy myself with my meal, cutting apart the lamb and popping a few tender morsels into my mouth. Then I catch Samantha watching with a vaguely envious expression and pause. “Would you like some?” I ask, gesturing at my plate. “It’s delicious.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she says, reddening. I notice her own plate is occupied by salad and a baked potato.
I sigh. “Yes, you can. I don’t care about the whole gods-are-better-than-you thing they’ve got going on here. Now, try some lamb. Or maybe the gnocchi?”
She hesitates but doesn’t say anything one way or another, so I push the tray a little closer. “Go on, take something, already,” I say, starting to feel exasperated.
Her eyes dart around as if she’s about to do something very naughty, then she shrugs and reaches over to spear a lump of gnocchi with her fork. “Oh,” she says after popping it into her mouth. “That’s perfect.”
“Not so bad?” I ask, returning to my meal.
“Not in the least,” she says. “But we’re not supposed to share, you know.”
“Yeah, I figured. It’s fun to do something we’re not supposed to do every now and then, isn’t it?” I ask with a smirk.
She says nothing, but the little smile on her lips tells me she’s not completely hopeless. We pass the next few minutes in silence, enjoying our respective meals. I’m aware of little glances being shot my way from other tables, gods and mortals alike apparently very interested in the two of us. This attention can’t honestly be just for me, can it? I might be a god, but something tells me that doesn’t quite have the same pull around here. Humbling as it may be to admit, I think this interest probably has more to do with the lady I’ve decided to join than my own unique nature. On that note, I think I ought to learn a little more about my lonely companion.
“Why don’t you eat with anyone else?” I ask. Okay, so subtlety isn’t my strong suit.
Samantha sighs and looks away, setting down her fork. She’s silent for so long I’m worried I’ve offended her, but then she speaks at last, a tone of resignation in her voice. “It’s my father.”
“Why would—”
“They’re all afraid of him, so they’re afraid of me,” she says, still looking away.
“Okay. Who is he?” She stops again, and I can tell exactly why she doesn’t want to say. “I’m not going to scamper off when I find out you’re related to the Big Bad Wolf, Samantha,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Sorry,” she says with a halfhearted laugh. “But when it happens every time, you get a little discouraged.”
“Spill.”
“Okay, okay.” She draws herself back and looks at me with those pale green eyes of hers, and in that moment, before she even opens her mouth to say it, I know exactly who her father is. “He’s Gideon Drass, chief executive and head of Finemdi Corporation,” she mumbles sadly.
“Oh, him,” I say nonchalantly. The man in the corridor, giving Garen marching orders—they have the same eyes. Well, well. Now I know who I’ve dedicated myself to murdering. “We’ve met.”
Her eyes bulge. “What?”
“So that’s it?” I say, ignoring the question. “That’s why you have to play sad, little loner in the corner? I mean, my dad’s the wind and the sea, but I still get to eat dinner with friends.”
She cracks a genuine smile at that, and I give myself a mental pat on the back. “He’s very protective of me,” she says in a small voice. “He doesn’t trust people, especially gods. So when he finds out I’m spending time with someone, well, he never says anything to me, but all of a sudden they’ll just … stop wanting to be friends.”
“Not right, Samantha,” I say. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.”
She gives me one of those “whatever you say” looks in response, so I decide to let the subject drop. “Want to try some caviar?” I ask after a moment, now determined to become this girl’s friend, if only to rub her dad’s face in it. For a brief moment, I wonder how many of my decisions are motivated purely by spite. I decide not to pursue the thought any further.
She makes a face. “Ugh, too salty.”
“Suit yourself,” I say, scooping some onto a round of bread and munching happily.
After another minute or two, there’s a bit of movement nearby and a dark-skinned woman detaches herself from her group and walks over. She’s a little heavier than me, but those extra pounds are in all the right places, making her attractively curvaceous. Her face is broad, with wide features that strike me as both beautiful and motherly. Her glorious black hair falls to her waist, twinkling like blown glass, and her eyes blaze like the surface of the sun, glowing orbs of radiant inner fire.
“Hello,” she says to me in deep, accented English. I can’t help noticing she ignores Samantha entirely. “You are a new god, aren’t you?”
“That, or I’m trying to make these fashionable for everyone,” I say, gesturing at my scrubs.
“Uh, yes. Well, I’d like to welcome you to Impulse,” she says, spreading her arms. “I am Pele, goddess of fire, volcanoes, and dance.”
I nod at her. Normally, I’d stand, maybe offer a hand, but I don’t like how she’s giving my new friend the cold shoulder. “Freya. Love, beauty, and war.” I turn to wink at Samantha. “You can still call me Sara, though,” I say to her.
She smiles while Pele frowns. “It’s nice to meet you, Freya,” the Hawaiian goddess says. The way she responds makes me feel like she may have already known who I am, and her next words confirm it. “You’re the first Norse god we’ve seen here, and I wanted to let you know you’re welcome to sit at our table, if you’d like.”
She turns, holding out her hand to indicate a pair of goddesses looking at us from about twenty feet away. The two are both dark-skinned and majestic. One of them, a young girl who looks very similar to Pele but with cooler, more natural features, waves. Her hair twists around her arm as she raises it, seeming caught in a perpetual breeze. All three of them are dressed in loose, brightly colored, billowy dresses.
“Well, that’s great!” I say, glancing at Samantha, who looks miserable. “We’ll be right over—I mean, my friend can come, too, right?” I already know the answer, but I’d like to make this uncomfortable.
“Oh,” Pele says, her scorching gaze leaving me to glance at Samantha. “Um, it’s just—we’d like to be able to, but…”
“It’s okay, Freya,” Samantha says softly. “You go ahead.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” I say. “What could her father possibly have done to make you all so afraid of her?”
“Please, I don’t—” Samantha begins to say.
Pele grimaces, then leans down and lowers her voice to a whisper. “We all liked Samantha, my sisters and I, but when Mr. Drass found out, he—he sent one of us to another facility.”
“Kapo,” Samantha says, nodding.
“We miss her terribly, and he’ll find some way to hurt you, too, so I just wanted to … you know,” she says, a pleading look in her eyes.
I bite my lip, looking between Pele and Samantha until the latter seems to make some internal decision, snatches up her tray, and begins moving to the drop-off area by the exits. “It’s okay,” she says as she goes. “I’m finished anyway.”
She marches away, head down, and I look back at Pele, who shrugs. “Fathers, eh?” she says softly.
We both turn to watch Samantha practically throw her tray—still mostly full—onto the drop-off shelf and then dart out of the room. I can feel the hurt and rejection spiraling out of her. “Yeah. Fathers,” I mutter, picking up my own tray and going to join Pele and her sisters.
Finemdi: dedicated to perverting the very nature of divinity, to kidnapping the gods of the world, and to commanding us like trained attack dogs, all on the orders of a man who’s made a recluse of his own daughter.
I am going to burn this place to the ground.