Of course, the accusation was a pile of crap lies, and I know a thing or two about piles of shit.
Nut also knew it was bullshit, but her other children were not so sure. Ra, the fucker, offered irrefutable evidence of the Demigodling’s guilt. Only Thoth supported the goddess of the Cosmos and her half-breed’s innocence. Oh, and me. Having had a taste of Ra’s ability to twist people’s minds for his personal benefit (i.e. becoming the major sun god), shall we say, I already knew what the jerk was capable of.
So, I promised Nut that I would free her son.
I gave Ra all my solar power and have pretended to be his admiring lackey in exchange for a spot as head guard at the Back Hole—I mean Black Hole—though the prisoners inside are getting a dry-assed fucking.
Initially, the plan was to understand the layout and the holding of the jail and for Thoth to think of a plan to spring the Demigodling. Rules are different in Duat—even for gods, and Anubis, the god of the underworld, is buddy-buddy with Ra-Fuck, giving the sun god an advantage.
But, over time, Ra has been adding to his prison, adding extensive booby traps that constantly change, and adding prisoners faster than a seven-year-old girl adds sequins with a bedazzling gun.
And all of the prisoners are demigods.
Over time, I realized that Ra’s true anger stems from her son being half-human, the breedist bastard.
“Ra’s adding another demigod tonight. Dionysus’ son,” I tell Nut.
“Oh? And what has he supposedly done?”
“I think his crime is getting humans too drunk to properly worship their gods.” I roll my eyes at the trumped up charges that gods come up with to eliminate their unwanted family members.
Nut snorts and bits of fecal matter splatter my face, which I happily lick up.
Don’t you fucking judge me.I’m a dung beetle. I survive off of this shit. Literally.
“Ra’s systematically adding all the half-breeds,” Nut breathes in horror.
“Yes, and he’s almost done. I … I worry about what will happen when he has the last demigod secured.”
“I must tell Thoth this. Maybe he can help hide those who are left. We need to get my son out of there before it is too late.”
“I agree, Mother. I will work on finding the elemental weaknesses of the holding and meet you again in a week.”
“Go in shit, my Khepri,” she says in parting.
I laugh.
“I’m knee-deep in it every day where I work,” I tell her before flying off.
1
Val
“Dad, I can’t come out—I have Coronavirus!” I prevaricate through the thick wooden doors of my bedroom.
It’s sad, so sad, that I’m a twenty-seven year old woman lying to her father, but here we are—a step in the wrong direction of maturity. But if it means getting out of dinner with my hateful stepmothers and condescending siblings, then, so be it. Stupid family traditions. Why do I torture myself with them?
Oh right. Because I actually love my dad.
I blow a raspberry as I stare at the wooden beams of my bedroom ceiling, which span thirty feet overhead.
I can literally hear my father facepalm in frustration through the door. How can I hear it? Because the god of storms is never quiet.
I roll sideways on my pure-white down comforter and stare at the door, wondering if he’ll barge in.
“Sigrdrifa, gods can’t become sick,” my father, the almighty Thor, reminds me dryly.
“Val, Dad. I want to be called Val, remember? And I’m only half-god. The human part of me is sick.” I fake cough loudly at the door. I catch myself doing so in the mirror and waggle my tongue at my reflection.
My blue eyes peer back at me and I try to wink one, then the other. My mirror looks tiny in this room. All of my furniture does, because even though it was built for a goddess, I’m pretty sure my dad assumed I’d grow wings one day like my sisters and want to fly around in my room.
Nope.
Wingless here.
Wingless and a shameless liar.
I’m being so immature. But I can’t help it. Even though I love Dad, I also love to remind him what an utter sacrifice it is to attend these drawn out, Spanish Inquisition style meals.
Asgard dinners should come with a warning: Guard your ass in Asgard. Or you’ll get fucked raw.
Now, my father groans in exasperation and there’s a thump, like his forehead has just hit the door. “Daughter,” he warns.
I clutch my stomach and give my mirror an Oscar-worthy performance as I croak, “I’m serious. It’s bad, and until the godly CDC makes an announcement, I don’t think we should risk it. I need to self-quarantine.”
“Sigrdrifa!” my father booms, refusing to use my chosen name. The plaster walls around me shake from the roar of his voice. “You will come to dinner or you will be on goat duty for a month!”
I make a face.
A month of cleaning goat shit?!
Well, I’m a grown woman. If I don’t want to come to dinner, then I won’t. I cross my arms and tell myself that.
Unfortunately, my father doesn’t see twenty-seven as grown. In fact, compared to him, I’m still an infant—which would explain why he treats me like one. There’s no point in telling him that in the human world, I’m an adult.
“My house, my rules,” he thunders.
Literally.
My bedroom door starts to shake and a bit of cloud drifts under the door.
“Dad, you’re clouding again,” I tell him. I sigh. He used to make his clouds only as needed, but now that he’s older, sometimes they pop out like unwanted ear hair.
“I’m only clouding because my youngest child is refusing to come to family dinner!” he yells.
His hand touches the doorknob and I can tell the second it happens because a lightning bolt shoots through the keyhole and zings across the room. If my peach curtains weren’t fireproof, they’d be ablaze.
“Dad!” I scold as I slide off the bed and stand with my arms crossed when he slams my door open.
I see my father, red hair billowing in a wind of his own making1 while his bearskin cape trails along the floor. He’s shirtless. Ever since the Marvel movies came out, my father’s gone shirtless, as if there’s some kind of competition between him and Chris Hemsworth.2 It’s a little embarrassing, to be honest, but his worship rates have shot through the roof since then. Housewives everywhere chant his name as they come … and since my father is a god of fertility in addition to thunder, he’s pretty damn smug about that shit.
“I will not have a child of mine—”
I parrot back his oft-said rant, “I will not have a father of mine—”
He freezes. “You mock me?”
“Yes.”
“No one mocks me.”
“To your face? No. They don’t.” Loki and I mock him behind his back all the time.
Dad’s hammer is in his hand and he smacks it down against his open palm like a judge with a gavel. “One night! I ask for one night a week. If you loved me—”
“I do love you, you pompous ass! In spite of your powers!”
Dad’s hammer freezes midswing. His bushy brows furrow. “What?”