Nataero chewed his lip, considering, weighing his options which, right now, were pitifully few.
Coyote waited.
“They... they were talking about a birthing—”
Coyote didn’t like the sound of that. So that’s what they wanted his pecker for, to conceive something? It felt like an assault. They hadn’t asked. They hadn’t even bought him dinner. Or a turkey baster. Did they have some old Elder god brood hag bound up somewhere? To be fair, his penis would shag anything. It was incorrigible. But there was no way he was going to consent to be a sperm donor to some misbegotten ritual to birth, what, some dark eldritch monstrosity? And if they did, they’d better not come after him for maintenance.
“Who? Who were talking?” asked Coyote, shaking the god by the shoulders.
Nataero shook his head and sneered. “It’s too late. They have everything they need. You can’t stop them. They’ll know you’re here. You’ve cost me everything. It’s all lost.” There was another silence, then, finally, in a small voice he said, “They mentioned the club.”
“A club, which club?”
Nataero looked tired now, beaten
. “The
Club. There’s only one. They’ll be afraid I talked. I must—”
He stopped when the glass in the front door shattered and the door splintered open, followed by a gust of cold wind that made Richard’s eyes sting.
“Christ, where did that come from?” he yelled above the gale.
“Raróg!” wailed Nataero hopelessly. “It is a Raróg!”
The wind whipped around their feet in little eddies, gaining speed and power.
Richard grabbed the Roman god’s wrist. “What the hell’s going on? Just tell us!”
Nataero snatched his arm back, and looked at him with hatred and disgust. “Why? You have destroyed me. Don’t you understand? Just when everything I desired was within my grasp, you fucking mortal! It’s over! Over!” He sagged against the wall and looked as if he might weep.
Richard left him there.
The Raróg gathered momentum, building in size, becoming a whirlwind. It weaved unsteadily about the hall, whipping up loose papers and parchment.
Richard and Coyote pushed through the rooms, along the narrow trenches that ran between the high tumbling mounds of other people’s belongings. There must be a back door, somewhere.
Around them, objects began shaking and dancing, before taking to the air, caught up in the whirlwind as it began churning up the accumulated lost and stolen ephemera of millennia, and drawing them into itself.
Above the cacophony of wind came a howl of despair.
“No! Please!”
Blinded by dust, Richard and Coyote flung themselves on the floor as the roaring increased and the whirlwind passed over, Coyote hugging his war bundle to him, to prevent the Raróg from consuming that too.
At some point, the sound of the wind lessened and died.
When Richard raised his head, they were lying on the dusty floorboards in the dining room of an old, abandoned house. Of all Nataero’s hoarded objects, there was no sign. The house was empty.
“Well, what do you know,” said Coyote, dusting himself off. “They
do
want me alive.”
“Nataero!” called Richard.
No answer.
They found him, curled in a foetal position against the hall wall; blank eyed, with saliva dribbling from his mouth.
Richard shook him. There was no response. No recognition. He was catatonic.
“There’s nothing we can do. His mind has gone,” said Coyote.
“How? What the hell happened?”
“Nataero was a god of lost property, a little god, a house god with aspirations. He was defined by what he did. He craved recognition, so he stole things and held them to ransom, basking in the praise of worshippers when he ‘found’ them. Without his hoard, he was nothing,
is
nothing. That was his weakness. The shock of losing it all has caused him to lose his mind.”
“But he’s the god of lost things. Surely he can find it again?” Richard said.
“How do you find your mind if you’ve no mind to find it with? Death is considered to be too quick a punishment by gods. One day he might recover, but the struggle could take decades, centuries. Until then he’ll live on like this. You might call it poetic justice. They like a bit of that, gods.”
“And what of all the stuff he acquired? Has it all gone back to the rightful places and owners?”
“I doubt it. They are lost again, where even Nataero can’t find them. And perhaps that’s just as well.”
Coyote took a last look at Nataero and patted Richard on the shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do here. He made his choice. We, on the other hand, have a trail to follow. We need to visit this Club.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Coyote and the Pissing Contest
T
HE BUILDING HAD
stood off Piccadilly for almost two hundred years, implacable in the face of London’s changing fortunes, a neoclassical monolith around which humanity lapped like a feeble tide.
These days nobody gave the old building a second glance. It had built up a grimy countenance, common to big cities, and faded into the background. It was obvious its membership didn’t like to advertise. The only indication of its use was a brass plaque by the large black door within the embrace of the Doric portico. It simply read ‘The Club’. The place had no need to assume an air of grandeur. The very brevity of its name spoke of entitlement.
“So you’re telling me this is an exclusive club for gods only? Doesn’t look all that exclusive to me,” said Richard, considering the facade.
“Don’t let the building fool you,” said Coyote. “Even though it’s reinforced with wards, sigils and immurements, I can still sense psychic leakage from those inside. Apparently, they take their privacy seriously. I still can’t sense my younger brother but, from Nataero’s last words, someone here must know of its whereabouts.”
“So you can get us in. You’re a member, right?”
“Me?” laughed Coyote. “No! Couldn’t think of anything worse. Besides, I wouldn’t join any club who would have me as a member.”
“Ah, Groucho Marx.”
“No, actually. Me. I told
him
that.”
Richard rolled his eyes. “So, is this wise, then?”
Coyote said nothing. He watched. He waited, glowering at the building across the road. Richard sighed and gazed longingly at a nearby coffee shop. Coyote looked up at the upper floors. The silhouette of a bird caught his attention as it disappeared over the roof.
It was an omen.
On the street, a car backfired. An agreement.
Coyote cocked an eyebrow and grinned. “Wise? Seriously? You’re asking me?”
Coyote pushed himself off the railing with his shoulders. He had stashed his war bundle somewhere secret, somewhere safe. There was no point in advertising his intentions. They had underestimated him so far and that was just the way he liked it. He operated best like that. They expected the trickster and the fool, so he would play the fool. It was time for a little controlled folly.
They crossed the street, Coyote striding with purpose, Richard hurrying to keep up.
“Remember, Richard Green, through this door, no matter what it looks like, it is no longer your world. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not eat or drink anything offered. Decline, but decline with grace.”
Richard looked Coyote up and down.
“Right. Know my place. I’ve been told that all my life, and look where it’s got me.”
Nonetheless, Richard found himself polishing the toes of his shoes against the backs of his calves as Coyote rapped the huge brass lion’s head knocker. A sonorous boom echoed on the other side of the door.
Coyote looked over at Richard, who screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, as if trying to dislodge a thought. It was the psychic wash of a concentrated number of gods. The proximity of so many deities was clouding Richard’s mind. He hoped that what he had told Richard would help protect him, if he remembered it.
The door opened, and a man in a butler’s uniform looked them up and down, his brief unctuous smile falling away into disdain.
“Good afternoon, sir. You have been expected.”
Richard looked at Coyote. “Expected?”
“They’re gods,” Coyote reminded him gently.
T
HE BUTLER BECKONED
them to enter. The door shut behind them with an ominous echo as they entered the lobby hall. It was all marble floor and pillars, with a wide stone staircase leading to the upper storeys.
Inside, Richard flinched under thin sharp migraine pains, as if a bird had sunk its talons into his mind. Then they faded. It felt as if honey or amber were slowly enveloping him. His thoughts slowed. They were there, but sluggish; anxiety and worry sluiced away. Like someone had wrapped his mind in a snug, warm duvet.
The butler indicated that they should follow him.
“They’ll see you in the Supplicant’s Room.”
C
OYOTE STEPPED OVER
the threshold, just as he would step into any trap: confident, without hesitation or trepidation, knowing it could not hold him. Once inside, he could feel the psychic trails of gods moving about within the building.
He didn’t know why they did this: cut themselves off, close themselves in, and barricade themselves away. He preferred the open spaces, to be part of the world, not apart from it.
The butler showed them into a drawing room off the lobby. Shelves of leather-bound volumes lined the walls. A fire of blue and white flames crackled in the grate, flanked by large leather wingback chairs. There was a sheaf of the day’s broadsheets on the table beside them. The slow, meticulous tock of a grandfather clock in the corner measured out the moments of silence, each second falling lightly like an autumn leaf, its almost imperceptible weight adding to the inexorable press of time that the gods had been exiled, slowly crushing them under its weight. It was an exquisite form of torture.
Across the room, Richard yawned. The heat from the fire was making him drowsy. It reminded Coyote of the sweat lodge. He recalled the giant he built it for, and smiled to himself.
As he walked to the middle of the room, he noticed someone already occupied it. A man sat in the armchair that had had its back to them when they entered. He wore a suit and a tie with a Celtic design, held with a Club pin. He looked middle-aged, his face lined and worn. Wan. He had a full head of white hair and a full beard and probably looked very good in a crown. Regal, even. Coyote decided the suit didn’t do him any favours.
The man struggled to get up out of the chair. One too many brandies, perhaps.
“Bran,” he said, extending a hand, “of the Celtic pantheon. Founder of the Club. It’s a pleasure to have one of our Colonial cousins visit us, and a Raven Brother, too. A rare honour,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Brother Raven,” said Coyote with a nod of his head.
He shook Bran’s hand. He felt it tremble in his grip. The god wasn’t feeble; he had strength. So it wasn’t fear that made it shake, it was something else. He looked Bran in the eyes, saw the golden swirls in the irises; roiling, shifting, like the surface of the sun. Coyote had seen that look before, that thousand year stare. Bran had recently taken Ambrosia, the so-called food of the gods. Opiate of the gods more like.
Bran, still clasping his hand, pulled him in and leant forward to whisper a confidence. “These days, as in yours, it’s the east you have to watch out for. The Slavic pantheons are eager to expand. They’re trying to muscle in on our territory.” He released Coyote. “Barbaric deities. There used to be a sense of honour among pantheons. Not these days.”
Bran dropped into the chair, gestured around the room. “I’m sorry about the hospitality, but I’m afraid you’re not a member.” He gestured towards Richard who was inspecting the bookshelves. “And there is of course the matter of your bringing a mortal here. Hence the Supplicant’s Room.”
For a moment, Bran’s eyes lost their focus, as if he could see something Coyote couldn’t. That was Ambrosia for you. What puzzled Coyote was where they found it. By rights, the supply of Ambrosia should have dried up with their enforced exile. Nobody could believe that old guff Zeus spouted about it being delivered to him by doves everyday. Yeah right. Coyote sniffed. At least, it
smelt
like Ambrosia, but with an odd, sour tang. It was tainted, impure. It wasn’t so much Ambrosia as an Ambrosiate, something akin to the food of the gods, but synthetic, processed. More like a fast food of the gods.
Since the Great Usurper had cast them down, some gods couldn’t face the deep sense of loss. It was like losing a loved one. Losing a limb, an organ. A penis. They couldn’t face the incarceration on this plane and sought to ameliorate their pain. Ambrosia could give them moments of their once precious godhead back. However, once the hit faded, they were still cast out, still trapped. So they took more. To Coyote that seemed more like a torture than relief. He wondered how he would feel if he knew his penis was lost to him forever. Not that it was, because he was Coyote. But if it was?
“So what brings you here, Trickster?” said Bran eventually.
“A member.”
“One of ours?”
“No, mine.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“My younger brother was stolen from me.”
Bran’s face crumpled in confusion. “I’m afraid I still don’t see—”
Coyote sighed. “I’m looking for my pecker. Todger. Wang. Willy. Cock. My phallus?”
“Ah.”
Coyote rolled his eyes with exasperation and shrugged, palms out. Mea culpa. “I know. I was careless. Someone put one over on me. Kudos.” He raised a finger. “But now I want it back. I followed a trail here, east to the Old World. I was told you might be of assistance. I was hoping that if anything was worth knowing, someone at the Club would know it. Perhaps one of your members might have heard something. It can’t have been easy, moving an object that powerful.”
“Well, yes, rumours do spread around the members’ lounge. To be honest it’s often hard to know how much stock to put in them. Half of them are planted by members themselves for their own ends. You know what we’re like. I can ask around. Discreetly, of course.” Bran frowned. “There was... something. No. No, I can’t remember. It’s gone. Sorry.” He shook his head. “Hmm? Oh, perhaps you might tell me something. There have been rumours abroad. Something about Kansas? I don’t suppose you could enlighten us, at all? In your travels you must have heard things.”