Ra is an ass.
Dev is currently admiring my shelf full of Animaniacs figurines. He puts his hand out and strokes the back of one of the Goodfeathers pigeons. I leap forward and violate the ‘no touching’ rule that I have with him.
"Stop!"
"Sorry!" He immediately takes a step back. I quickly grab the figurine and cradle it to my chest.
"This was my sister's," I explain.
"Your sister?"
I hold out my arm and show him the tattoo of the smiling blonde woman there.
"She was a pure human. My half-sister. Dot. She and mom died in a car accident."
I try not to let my emotions take over and drown me. It happened twenty years ago and I hadn't been in the car, but the trauma of that moment still makes me ache decades later.
I still remember Dad showing up on our farm, trampling through mom's garden, pulling open the back screen door, and slamming me into a fierce hug.
He had sobbed himself into silence before he was able to tell me what was wrong.
I stare down at the little pigeon trio—who are marching along down a shit-stained sidewalk.
"Goodfeathers were Dot's favorite. They gave shit but wouldn't take it. Slappy the Squirrel was a close second for her. She also loved that a character was named after her, of course."
Dev shuffles closer and puts an arm around my shoulders in a gesture of comfort. I stare up at him, the sound of my heartbeat throbbing in my ears.
He's hugging me.
I carefully set down the figurine, so as not to scare him off. Gently, with all the caution that I can muster, I wrap my own hands around his waist. Something in his pants pokes my stomach and I jump back.
"Ow! Dev, you really have got to stop carrying around pencils in your pocket."
Dev clears his throat and turns red, as per usual.
"Sorry. S-s-sorry," he stutters adorably.
I roll my eyes. The boy is too cute for his own good. Just then, Dad's familiar pounding on the door starts. I shoot Dev a look.
"You remember the plan?" I whisper.
He nods.
I fluff my hair and Dev just stands there, staring at me. Do I have something on my face? I reach up to check and, then, jerk my head at him, signaling that he needs to hide. Dad might approve of mortal mates for himself, but if he knew what a crush I have on Dev … his lightning bolts would make daddies with shotguns look like toddlers with kitchen spoons.
I fling open the door once Dev’s hidden under the pile of Animaniac stuffed animals in the corner.
“Greetings, sweetest of all fathers!”
Dad narrows his eyes and peers into the room before looking back at me suspiciously.
“What is it you want? Or, has Loki3 been in here, scheming with you again?”
I gasp indignantly in mock offense before shooting him my most innocent smile.
“Whatever do you mean?”
His voice is gruff when he commands, “Not tonight, Sigrdrifa.”
I sigh, like I’m letting him get his way and he’s ruining every ounce of fun that I’ve planned. “Alright,” I offer in pretend supplication.
Unfortunately, Dad knows me better than that—and Uncle Loki and I have been known to pull off some epic stunts in our day.
“Empty your pockets.”
My eyes widen and I cross my arms.
“You don’t trust me?” I ask rhetorically.
My father snorts.
“You bet your ass that I don’t. Your history requires I verify that you’re telling the truth.”
I roll my eyes but pull out the pockets on my jean shorts. I come up with four pennies and a Kleenex. Dad squints at the pennies in annoyance. It really chafes the gods that human heads are put on coins and not theirs anymore. I’ve heard drunken dinner rants about how dad’s hammer belongs back on a coin at least two dozen times.
“Leave it all behind,” he orders.
I toss the pocket detritus onto my nightstand and follow him out, trying not to smirk. Joke’s on him—I’ve already taped the Visine I plan on using as my biological weapon underneath the dining table at my seat. I walk amicably down the echoing marble hallway with Dad, cool as a cucumber on the outside, but giddier than a human kid on Christmas.
“How’s your week been?” I ask, trying to be friendly.
Dad shakes his head in concern.
“The goats—I worry about them. They were exhausted the other day and I have no idea as to why. I’ve had to keep a steady stream of servants checking on them. I wish you’d come back to tend them, daughter of mine.” He lays a huge hand on my shoulder and pulls me into his side. “They never received better care than when you watched over them.”
A trickle of guilt enters my stomach because I know exactly why his goats were worn out—but I quickly squash it because it’s not outweighed by the importance of breaking my only childhood friend out of Ra’s eternal torture chamber.
All week, I’ve been asking around about the Black Hole. It seems like nobody’s ever been released from there. Ra, the bastard Egyptian god, is setting up demigods and then raw dogging them in the fart box— and that’s not okay.
Not in any universe.
So, guilt or not, I’m moving forward with my plan.
I sit down at dinner and pretend to eat, but all I really do is wait for the gods to get sufficiently drunk. Aphrodite is sitting next to my father at the end of the table, leaning over so that her breasts nearly spill out of her top as she tells a hilarious story about how the swans that draw her carriage once pecked her husband, Hephaestus, and chased him through the house after he yelled at her for attending an orgy in her honor—a story I’ve only heard every single time she’s come to our house.
Poor Hephaestus isn’t here to defend himself or add to the story because, well, how else is Aphwhoredite supposed to seduce my father?
Once everyone is sufficiently drunk, I reach up and carefully open the boxes of Visine I’ve taped under the table. I open the flaps and slide out the little bottles. I tuck those into my pockets surreptitiously, using my napkin to hide the lumps. Then, I grab my goblet, because Dad has never adapted to modernities such as cups, and head for the drinks table. There’s wine there, and also a huge punch bowl filled with a special apple cider.
Idunn4 makes a batch of this cider from her apples of eternal youth. Without the cider, my family dinners would look like cafeteria hour at a nursing home. Idunn keeps all the gods young and eternally glorious, bless her vanity-soothing heart.
I linger near the wine, using a giant bottle to hide my hands as I unscrew the little vials of Visine. I hope Dev’s done his part toward this grand scheme. Technically, mine’s enough. But, if you’re going to deliberately humiliate a bunch of gods, it’s better to take it the full nine yards.
Go big or go home, right?
Loki, the cheeky troublemaker, taught me that.
Once I have the Visine open, I pour some wine into my goblet and move along down the table. I walk slowly, watching the gods. When Aphrodite stands up to tell a story full of gestures and one of her breasts pops out of her draped Grecian gown à la Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl, I know it’s my moment.
I quickly empty five vials of Visine into the apple cider. I grab the ladle and give it a quick stir before returning to my seat, where I find Aphrodite has decided not to tuck her boob back in and to sit on Dad’s knee.