Chapter 34
WREN
T he decapitated head turned to look at us.
Let that sink in. The bodiless head turned to look at me, glaring like I was the out-of-place thing in the room.
“Who are you?” he grumbled, and I dragged my eyes from the talking head to look around the rest of the room. There were lots of people here—or more specifically, Mythics. I also realized it was a damn bar. It was loud as everyone spoke at once, questions being lobbed at me from all sides.
Now I remembered where I’d heard of the Tar Pits before. From the Valkyries.
“I was talking to you, mortal. Who are you?” the head grumped again.
I slow-blinked, trying to get my brain to come back online. “Uh, hi. I’m Wren Mahone. I was hoping that you could help me arrange the Weighing.”
Silence.
This silence was so loud, it could have been a vacuum, sucking out all the air in the room.
“You better come up to the bar, girl, and start at the beginning. A Weighing isn’t something you call haphazardly. No one wants to piss off one God of Death, let alone several. It’s not worth my head if they decide you’re full of shite.” He laughed at his own joke.
Stepping softly, I tried not to shrink under the weight of the room’s collective gaze. I sat at a barstool at the heavily shined bar, suddenly realizing that the head was in some kind of bubble of magic. It didn’t float around like Glinda the Good Witch in Oz on Halloween, but it definitely let it be far more mobile than a head should be.
I contained my shudder, but barely. The meaty bits of its neck were still showing.
“Unfortunately, you’ll be needin’ to pour your own drinks. No arms.”
Normally, I’d be skeptical about accepting drinks from strangers, but if I was going to have a conversation with a head, I was going to need a shot of whiskey. Reaching behind the bar for the bottle and three glasses, I poured us all a couple of fingers of the amber liquor.
I passed one to Cy, then held the other one awkwardly out to the head. “Uh, do I…?”
“Pssh, girlie. I’ve never needed assistance drinking my whiskey, and I ain’t about to start now. Just grab my straw over there.” A set of carved wooden straws sat behind the bar in a tall glass. Grabbing one, I popped it in the glass and hoped for the best.
Then I downed my liquor. And Cy’s. I shot him an apologetic look, and his eyes laughed at me.
“Well, at least you can shoot your whiskey. I’m Bran, proprietor of the Tar Pits. We don’t get many mortal souls. They don’t often make it this far into the lands beyond, before finding their final resting place.”
I quirked an eyebrow at him. “I was motivated.”
“Ah yes, with the Weighing. We haven’t had one of those in… well, I don’t know. Sucellus, when was the last time we called a Weighing?”
“Maybe one of those monolithic worshipers. Hmm, a Saint something or other?”
Bran winked. “Ah, so it was. What they don’t tell you about these Weighings, girlie, is that if you fail, there’s no skipping off to some green field somewhere. You’re giving them your soul. If you fail, they keep that little trinket for their efforts, and you get obliterated from existence.”
Cy hissed through his teeth. So it was all or nothing. That didn’t sway me. “What does it entail?”
Bran shook his head, which was odd, since he barely had any neck. Very disconcerting. “I’m afraid that is the first test. A leap of faith. I can’t tell you what it involves—you just have to have faith in yourself, and your worthiness.”
Did I think I was worthy? Maybe. But really, there was no other option for me. “I understand. I still want to go ahead.”
“Ballsy, girlie. Okay, I’ll put out the call. You can start on your worthiness by helping me out here in the bar, to cover room and board for you and the pretty boy. What’s ya name, boy?”
“Cydon. Call me Cy.”
“Demigod, I see. Quite the pair you made, stumbling into my bar. What Pantheon?”
I’d never seen anyone outright ask Cy what Pantheon he was associated with. I assumed it was some kind of faux pas, but maybe this guy was immune from polite society. “I was born Greek, but I ally with the Minoans.”
Both eyebrows climbed up Bran’s forehead. He really did have expressive eyebrows. I guess if that was your only form of body language, you made do. “Minoans, you say? Haven’t seen many of those around these parts in quite a while. Unusual for Mythics to swap too.”
Cy chuckled, but his eyes were flinty. “We are an unusual pair, as you said.”
Someone yelled for a refill on the other side of the room, and one side of Bran’s lips curled. “So I did. I also said you have to work the bar, and I think you have your first customer.”
Sliding from the barstool, Cy kissed my cheek. It was a proprietary move. “I’ll get it.”
I watched him move into the smoky darkness, while the head looked at me shrewdly. “Boyfriend? Husband?”
“Bondmate,” I answered.
“If you fail, you’ll be gone for good. That’s going to be upsetting for him.”
I inclined my head. “You know, I have a son named Bran. He’s less than two months old. Too young to lose a mother. He needs me. They all need me.”
“Bran, you say? A good strong name, if I do say so. Surely, he has a daddy to take care of him, unless it’s the little Demigod over there?”
I shook my head. “He does, of course, but he and his brothers have a big destiny, and I feel like they’ll need me. To love them, to protect them.”
“Brothers, hmmm? All boys? I loved my boys, but they were wild in a way that definitely needed a firmer hand than mine.”
I watched Cy pour beers like he’d been a bartender for decades. “Triplets. Three boys.”
Bran stilled. “Triplets, you say? And your name is Wren? They wouldn’t be the Kuningilin, would they?” He whistled low. “Well, that changes things, doesn’t it? Last I heard, the Moirai had lost their middle sister and their powers along with it, and the new Fates had solidified their position.”
Gritting my teeth, I nodded. “The Moirai weren’t above some petty revenge.” I waved to my now-dead self. “The other two are no more, but now neither am I.”
He stared me dead in the eye, and I got the feeling that this head had seen some things. “Go help Loverboy. I’ll get to calling now.”
I’d learned three things from working the bar at the Tar Pits.
One: there were no opening and closing times in the afterlife. I worked until I felt tired and then I slept, before waking and working again. I didn’t even know how many days I’d been working here at this point.
Two: everyone knew everyone else’s business. By the end of the first day, everyone knew who I was, how I came to be at the Tar Pit, and that I was calling a Weighing.
Three: customer service was a little like riding a bike; you fell right back into the old habits as soon as they put you in front of a register. Apparently, regardless of if they were a mortal accountant named Steve, or Ninkasi, who I’d learned was the Sumarian Goddess of Beer, a customer was a customer. Ninkasi was a riot, though. And her beer was amazing.
There were Mythics from every Pantheon here, and they all appeared to get along famously. Bran said that it was because his was the only bar in the afterlife that would serve you alcohol irrespective of whether you were a hero or a villain in the above world. If you got banned from the Tar Pits, enjoy an eternity of cold, hard sobriety.
I could see how that would be a buzzkill.
Everyone and anyone could enjoy a beverage at the Tar Pits, and some Gods were more common than others. Anansi, who Cy informed me was a Trickster God from West Africa, came in regularly and was the life of the party. He could tell a story so good, the whole room would be enthralled.
While there were customers from every pantheon, given the location we saw significantly more Celtic deities, such Cernunnos, the Horned God, who was so fucking beautiful with his ripped body and huge antlers, I honestly thought about crawling into his lap. However, that seductive allure was merely part of his powers, and Cy quickly took over serving him, just to save me from embarrassing myself.
Then there was Sheela, who was some Fertility Goddess with three vaginas, which she happily flashed to the whole bar every time she drank.
My favorite so far was Veles, another horned God like Cernunnos, though Veles was Slavic. He was my favorite because he and Bran bickered like old maids, and also because he always had at least three bunnies, two foxes, and a baby cow with him. I wanted to petition for a calf in every workplace. It was so freaking cute, I couldn’t help but cuddle it.
“Beer for you, sir. And a bowl of milk for my favorite customer, Rova.”
The huge God snorted derisively. “She does not need milk, girl. Bring her a beer too. We’ll see if she can make Guinness when milked, eh, Bran?”
The fact that Bran was just a head was becoming less confronting, especially when you took into account all the interesting-looking Mythics who came in. The Flying Spaghetti Monster had been an especially interesting one. He’d talked purely in 2005 slang, and after winning a game of cards, he’d told a literal God of War, “In your face, you got pwned.” Not going to lie, even I only understood half of his smack talk.
Bran rolled his eyes, and it was easy to see he and Veles were old buddies. “If you manage that, you might have a whole new religion to get behind. In Ireland, at least. So, girl, what are you going to do if you get back up top?”
I petted Rova the cow’s big wet nose, and she mooed at me softly. Man, she was so adorable. “Hug my babies. Find homes for all the stray dogs in my care. They’ve waited long enough. One—no, two orgies with the men I love.”
The bar laughed. If the people in this room loved anything more than beer, it was animals and orgies. Not together, though… I hoped.
Veles snort-laughed. “A worthy course of action.” He looked over at Bran. “She’s got my vote.” With that, he downed his beer and whistled, causing all the animals around him to come to heel. “See you in a few weeks, Wren Mahone.” Then he left.
I looked at Bran. “What does that mean?”
The bodiless Demigod merely grinned. “Means you impressed the first of the rulers of the afterlife. Congrats, girlie. Only a few more to go.”
I looked over at Cy. What the hell did that mean?