Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
“In my professional opinion, Death is fucked.”
So pronounced Paeon, god of godly medicine and skeet-shooting enthusiast.
He’d bustled in, fended off Hilly’s culinary offerings, and made the proverbial beeline for his patient.
“Not helpful,” Amara said. “And your bedside manner remains awful.”
“Beggars and choosers, Amara. It’s nice to see you.
I appreciate the call.” Paeon was short, about five foot six, with blond curly hair and an immaculate gray suit.
His monochromic wardrobe coupled with the wild frizz of his curls made him look like a dapper dandelion.
“But it’s also quite frightening. If you’re here, it must be bad indeed. ”
“No offense, Paeon—”
“You often say that as a precursor to something really very offensive.”
“Ha!” from Gray. “He knows you, Amara.”
“—but I could have made that diagnosis.”
“And yet, here am I.”
“Mmmm. Did Team Scheme fill you in on what’s happening?”
“Just now.” Paeon gave Hilly some side-eye, but forbore to comment further. “Death wanted to trick his last living child into embracing her birthright.”
“Nutshell,” Gray said.
“And how are you feeling, young man?”
“A little hungry,” Gray admitted.
“Cripes, half an hour ago you devoured a stack of waffles so high I couldn’t see your face,” Amara cried. “Forehead-high waffles, Gray!”
“More an amuse-bouche than a meal, though.”
“That’s not how you pronounce that. I mean, you’re not even close.”
Gary shrugged off her devastating correction. “I think you’re just pissy because my idea didn’t work.”
“A little,” Amara admitted. Gray’s plan.
A stupid plan. A “there’s no way this can work but let’s try anyway” plan: No one can resist the smell of freshly cooked, crisp bacon.
Not even comatose Death. So he’d piled a plate with it and brought it to her father.
Who was still in a coma. A bacon-resistant coma.
“Never mind me,” Gray replied to Paeon. “Though it’s nice of you to ask.”
“Yes, never mind him.” Christ, did everyone know Gray would be in the dirt a few months from now? Stupid question. Just death gods and the god of godly medicine, apparently. “What’s the prognosis for my father?”
“How did you do it?” Paeon asked Hilly.
“That’s the question,” Amara replied. “Because I’ve got no idea.”
“Ah.” Paeon plopped his pink wheeled suitcase, which looked like a giant shiny Canada mint, on Death’s bed.
It was a king, so there was plenty of room for him to pop it open and rummage, but it was still jarring.
To Amara he said, “The fact that you don’t know gives credence to Death’s foolish, idiotic plan. ”
“Thanks for the lecture, don’t trash my comatose dad, your medical bag is ridiculous, please answer my question.”
“Ichor, I would guess.” Paeon looked up. “Yes?”
Hilly, cupping her elbows as she observed the proceedings, nodded.
“Fast-acting, not necessarily controllable,” Paeon commented.
“You—and I include Death in that ‘you’—likely assumed someone of such powerful longevity would be able to fight it off before he succumbed. That he could ingest enough to look ill, and be ill, but not so ill that he would lose his faculties. Or be in any real danger. But it’s the simplest thing to take too far. As we see here.”
“Ichor?” Gray asked.
Amara sighed. “They poisoned my father with their blood.”
Gray’s expression almost made her laugh: nausea warring with fascination. “Ichor is blood?”
“God blood. Yes.”
“And they fed it to him? He went along with this?”
“Behold, my family,” Amara said dryly. “Not that it’s a contest.”
“Ichor is toxic to humans,” Paeon explained. “And not especially good for gods, either. It would kill you instantly, Mr. Graham.”
“Gray, please. So no god-blood cocktails for moi. Warning noted. But here’s where I keep ending up in the weeds: Death isn’t human.”
“His avatar is. It’s complicated,” Paeon said, kindly enough. “I’m guessing he deliberately made himself vulnerable. Allowed the ichor to begin to work.”
"Because he’s walking around in a human body,” Gray guessed. “So because physics—or would that be biology?—Amara’s dad can let himself be vulnerable?”
“Very well, Gray, perhaps not complicated.”
“Not to brag, Dr. Paeon, but I read a ton of graphic novels and I’ve got over a decade of D&D under my belt.”
“Splendid,” replied the underwhelmed god of godly medicine.
Amara let out a sudden yelp: “Fuck!” Everyone flinched, including Hilly, who was too surprised to snap out a reprimand.
“God, I’m so blind. I was supposed to figure this out, wasn’t I?
This isn’t just a scheme of Scooby Doo–esque stupidity.
It’s my rite of passage.” She let out a groan of pure irritation.
“If I came on the run, remained to help, figured out the scheme and ‘saved’ Dad, I would be worthy of taking Death’s musty, feathery crown. ”
“Oh,” Gray said. “Another reason for your mom to put off calling Dr. Paeon. Seeing as how he figured out what they did and how and why in about thirty seconds.”
“Yes, well.” Paeon didn’t quite shrug. “I am outstanding.”
“But someone here—well, not just the people in this room, all the death gods in town—they saw their chance, and kept feeding him. Kept him under. Watched him sink lower. They needed Death off the board. Maybe . . . to clear the way for me?” Or not.
Which was the more intriguing and sinister possibility.
“Who, though?” Gray asked. “Also, it’s not me. In case you were wondering.”
“Thanks for setting my mind at ease. And if we knew who, we’d know why. Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She punctuated each stupid with a hard forehead tap. If I don’t let up on my skull, I’m asking for a migraine. “Why not just let me go hiking in the snow for three days? Rhetorical, Mother. I know why.”
Hilly nodded. “Your father’s idea. A rite of passage that, if failed, wouldn’t be fatal.”
Amara wasn’t sure how to feel about that. One hand: What happened to her long-dead sister had been an appalling waste. Other hand: Amara resented being coddled. Maybe just admit that no matter what the situation, you’ll find a way to complain about it?
No. Asking too much.
“Not fatal to me, anyway . . .”
“How are the migraines?” Paeon asked, apropos of nothing.
“What? Oh. Painful yet nonexistent,” Amara sniffed. “According to some.”
Hilly sighed. “Will you never let that go?”
“I needed help, Mother.”
“And you got help, Daughter.”
“Telling me my crippling head pain was all in my head was the opposite of help, Mother.”
“Wait, what?” From Gray, who stepped forward so he and Amara were almost hip-to-hip.
“Of course they’re real. And they suck. Amara usually has to hit the sheets for at least half a day.
Plus Dr. Paeon just explained that Death’s avatar is human.
Migraines are a thing that humans get. And Amara’s human. So.”
“A ridiculous thing,” Hilly muttered. “A nonsense thing.”
“Let’s stay focused,” Amara said. “Mom, there will be plenty of time for us to rehash old arguments and drive everyone mad with our tiresome squabbling.”
“I’ll, er, make a note of that.”
“Paeon, is there anything you can do?” Amara gazed down at Death, who now looked as much like a corpse as he could without actually being dead.
Over the years she had loved him, loathed him, resented him, adored him, protected him, attacked him.
But now, right now, all she could feel for the husk on the bed was profound pity.
“Maybe set up an IV for the gods? Flush out the toxins?”
“It’s not a hangover, Amara. And counteracting ichor is beyond even my skills. Your father will recover, or he won’t.”
“Great. Thanks for making the trip.”
“You’re so welcome. And don’t take that to mean I’m leaving. I remain at your lady mother’s disposal. And Death’s, of course. Does anyone mind if I eat that plate of bacon?”