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“You are adorable,” he said. “The reaper of human souls, threatening a god as if he had any power or sway at all. You are no god. You are a servant. You are a porter. You are the bellhop in the hotel of the divine. You are nothing.”
“He may not be a god. But I am.”
Anubis’ entrance came with such incredible swagger dust storms threatened to roll across the beach.
Mort had never been happier to see Anubis than he was in that moment. He needed backup, and as much of an ass as Anubis could be, they were cousins in death.
“Two psychopomps,” Loki noted. “And one of rank. This is becoming very interesting, isn’t it. Fine. Show me the mortal who is worth all this trouble.”
Mort retrieved Tristan.
“We are going to speak with the one who marked you. Be respectful. If at all possible, be silent.”
“I’m going to meet a god?”
“You are. And a very unstable and dangerous one at that. Follow my lead, and for the love of all that is unholy, don’t say anything unless you absolutely must. I am having enough trouble keeping myself contained. I do not know if I can contain the pair of us.”
Tristan nodded and squeezed Mort’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ve got this.”
Mort brought Tristan to Loki, who had not bothered to move from his lounging spot on the sand. He did have his shades up, though, and his mischievous eyes lit up when he saw Tristan. Mort felt a twist of jealousy as recognition dawned on Loki
“Oh, this is the guy? I remember this guy. He was only a little guy last time I saw him. Hey, guy!”
Tristan regarded Loki warily. “Hey,” he said.
“You don’t remember me, do you? It’s okay. I didn’t look back then like I do now.” Loki looked at Mort. “They never remember. It’s kind of cute. They’re like amnesiac puppies.”
“You remember him?”
“Yes,” Loki says. “He’s a lucky little guy.”
“I would like to lay claim. I will make a commensurate offer for his life, and you can continue your beach vacation.”
“Makes sense,” Loki said. “Seems simple. Straightforward, even.”
Mort knew then and there Loki had no intention of making this simple or straightforward. He was being toyed with, and he was in no mood to play.
“Did he tell you why I marked him?” Loki asked the question when Mort did not speak. “Of course not, he doesn’t remember. Not the marking, anyway. I’m sure he remembers the sin.”
Tristan shifted uncomfortably next to Mort.
“Whatever sin he has committed, I am sure…”
“Don’t be so sure,” Loki interrupted with a broad grin. “It was one of the big ones.”
“How could it have been? He was but a child.”
Loki laughed. “Let me show you why I marked this boy.”
Loki snapped his fingers and suddenly, all three of them were in another sandy, dusty location. Mort recognized it as being part of the desert not far from Tristan’s home.
“Oh fuck,” Tristan groaned. Mort felt his boy press closer to him, as if afraid.
It was night time, but there was a large moon casting more than enough light to see a slow, strange procession working its way across the rocky ground.
A slim boy with a shock of blond hair was pulling something behind him on a wagon. Something much larger than him. Something unwieldy and wrapped in plastic. Mort had seen more than enough bodies in his time to recognize one.
The boy pulled, and he pulled, an expression of pure determination on his face. He was unmistakably Tristan. Those eyes, and moreover that expression, had not changed.
“That,” Loki said. “Is a ten-year-old boy looking to bury a body with a plastic shovel.” He turned to Tristan. “That’s you. You were an adorable little murderer.”
Mort turned to Tris, waiting for the explanation, but feeling only guilt emanating from the man he loved.
“He touched my mom,” Tris mumbled, avoiding Mort’s gaze. “And not like the others. He was hurting her. I knew she wouldn’t do anything. So I waited for him to leave, and then I hit him. With a knife.”
Mort did not have the heart to correct him and say that technically he had stabbed the man.
Tristan’s shoulders slumped with grief. Not grief for the man who clearly deserved it, but grief for himself, for the boy he was, and for the man he had never become. This act had twisted him, rotted him. This act had become the core of his being, the shame and the fear that had driven him to drink and cemented his status as outcast. Mort saw it all clearly in an instant.
“I found this little guy, doing this in the desert,” Loki said. “And usually, I’m a hands-off sort of dude. But, sometimes they need help, you know? So I helped.”
The boy stopped his wagon and started to dig. He did not have a proper shovel. He had a plastic spade, and by all rights, it should have snapped the second it hit harder rock. But it didn’t. It sank into soft sand which began to pour away almost immediately, slowly at first, and then faster, as if a plug had been removed in the bottom of the solid world.
