Four Roads Cross (Craft Sequence #5)(32)

Okay. She started her heart again, breathed. Physical form had this to recommend it: your lungs let you know when they were happy.

She fished her keys from her purse, but when she reached for the latch, it popped open of its own accord. Still leaning against a suddenly open door, she lurched to catch herself on the doorjamb. Envelopes fell, and the Thaumaturgist flew like a drunken bird, flapping and spinning to land open to a two-page spread about the lure of shadow banking.

She knelt to retrieve her fallen mail.

Then she noticed that her apartment was not dark.

Nor were the lights on.

She closed the Thaumaturgist, set it on the table by the door along with the bills and letters, and took a deep breath. Then she looked up.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You do, though,” the goddess said. “On some level.” She stood by the counter of Tara’s kitchen-living-dining room, holding a knife. She looked precisely like Tara, only she glowed, and her jacket wasn’t torn. “I made you a snack.” She pointed to a bowl.

“Carrots.”

“Simple, I grant, but you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to do things with matter. Given how vigorously you people invent fables about machines that fly and boxes that talk, you’d expect opening a refrigerator door or picking up a kitchen knife to be easier. Every activity on this plane involves so many counterbalancing forces and microscopic, hells, quantum interactions; I would have made you cookies but I never can remember how the proteins denature. Besides, you should eat healthier.”

“You pull that stunt, then lecture me on my life choices?”

“The man was hurting his friends. He would have hurt his children next. In many ways he has already. He was scared, and alone, and do you think Shale breaking his arm would have helped?”

“So you broke his mind instead.”

“I offered him perspective. You people get so closed up inside those little brains. Their structure changes in response to thought, you know, like your muscles respond to use. The used parts bulk up. Bad training develops uneven strength; it takes time and painful work to balance unbalanced muscles.”

“Or a shortcut that deprives someone of all agency.”

“Trust me, this guy needed help. I did no permanent damage, just gave him short-term access to better cognitive machinery, superior theory of mind. What he does with the memory of that is up to him. Have a carrot.”

Tara grabbed the bowl from the counter. She’d had a late, fried dinner, and her stomach was growling. The carrot crunched. She didn’t remember having carrots in her fridge, but she thought better of raising the point. “You could have asked before you used my soul to save his.”

The divine light dimmed, which Tara chose to read as embarrassment. “Here.” The goddess held out one hand, and a spark took shape. “Repayment with interest. I wish I could offer you more, but I’m close to the wire as it is.”

“What about Justice? Not to mention that fat chunk of soulstuff Kos gave you last year?”

“You know the difference between an asset and an income stream. As for Justice—she’s strong. Since I joined with her, it’s been a challenge to remain myself. I hear her in the back of my mind, like a heresy. Some nights I really do believe all that punishment-fit-the-crime stuff. Her jackboots march through my dreams.” She shivered. “You know what that’s like, not being sole master of your mind, always afraid this thing you hate will rear back up inside you and make you dance.”

Tara grabbed the spark from the goddess’s hand. Soulstuff sang through her blood, and the world bloomed with missing colors. “I want your word you won’t steal from me again, or borrow without my permission. Your binding pledge.”

“Fine,” the goddess said. “My word: I will not take from you again unless you will it. Okay?”

“Deal.” The promise settled as a lock between them. “I didn’t think you could do that in the first place.”

“The rules are looser between a Lady and Her priestess.”

“Oh, no.”

“Not that you’re a good priestess: you don’t sacrifice or pray, and you ward your dreams so thick I’m surprised you haven’t gone insane. Humans need to dream, you know. It’s how the mind breathes. But you have fought on my behalf. You let me live inside your heart. I must admit, this is a new one on me: I’ve never had a Craftswoman priestess before.”

“I’m not a priestess.”

“You just don’t like the sound of the word. Priestess.” She savored the sibilants. “How else could I talk to you like this?”

“You’re smaller than most gods. Makes it easier for you to assume human forms and speak human speech.”

“I couldn’t talk this way with most priests, back in the day—I’ve been inside your skull. That, plus being, as you say, smaller, spread among fewer minds, it does help. It’s like we have a bond.”

“That’s deeply creepy,” Tara said. “And you’ve changed the subject. You’ve exposed us.”

“What’s the alternative? I can’t lean on Kos forever. I need my own operation. I spent most of his gift sending dreams, answering prayers. When the Criers’ story hit the streets, my new followers began to doubt: maybe it’s just the gargoyles, maybe there’s no goddess after all. I had to show myself. It was a calculated risk, and it paid dividends. I have power to share now. People are remembering. I’m sorry I had to take from you to make it happen.”