Gameboard of the Gods (Age of X #1)(46)
Author: Richelle Mead

You are smart, Horatio said. Too bad you’re so stupid.

Just be careful, Magnus warned him. The deity that follows her might start getting suspicious of others. You can deny it, but there’s power in you that’s detectable by some. She certainly wasn’t pleased by that usurpation back in the temple.

It took Justin a moment to catch on, then he recalled how Mae had shone and become larger-than-life while standing by the statue of that goddess. She’d been wreathed by a power as intense as the battle-driven one, only it had been warm and seductive and full of life, rather than dark and terrible.

What happened? he asked.

Another god tried to seize Mae from the dark one, said Magnus.

The Lady of the Book? Justin had a hard time imagining a scholarly goddess going after Mae.

No, just some enterprising deity who tried to take advantage of the situation. Gods sometimes weaken in the territory of other ones.

Mae peered at Justin. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He realized he’d been staring as he mulled things over. Quickly, he groped for something. “Don’t tell Cyn about this.”

“Why would I?”

“You guys are chummy. Especially after she made you pancakes the other day. You ate twice your weight in them.” After a number of shared meals with Mae, he’d discovered prætorians required a lot of food to maintain that superhuman metabolism.

“They were good pancakes,” admitted Mae. “And she made a lot. She always makes a lot of everything.”

He smiled. “You know why? It’s overcompensation.”

“For what?”

He hesitated before answering. In trying to avoid a topic Mae didn’t want to discuss, he’d strayed into one he hadn’t wanted to bring up. There were days he could assess people’s life stories with a glance, but he preferred to keep his to himself. And yet, as he met her eyes—a bewitching balance of blue and green today—he felt a strange ache in him that made it hard for him not to talk. Maybe she hated him. Maybe she thought he was weak and manipulative. But suddenly, he wanted her to understand this part of him.

“Do you want to know how a brilliant, murderer-catching servitor got his start? In the dusty stalls of the Anchorage Summer Market. Cyn and I used to earn our keep by doing what you figure I do best: scamming people.”

Mae started. “I don’t think that.”

“Don’t you?” He gave her a knowing look, and she averted her eyes, proving his point. “You think every word that comes out of my mouth is an attempt to reel people in. And that’s okay, because half the time it’s true. The Nordics ever have carnivals or fairs?”

“Of course.”

“You know those guessing games they do? Age, weight, stuff like that? That’s what we did. Can’t you picture it?” He held out his hands, warming to his story. “Two adorable kids—because we were, you know, even then—dazzling tourists with the ability to figure out things no one should be able to know. Cyn was really good at weights. She’s got an eye for that kind of thing—it’s her genius and totally underutilized mathematical prowess. Me? It was people’s stories. The ages. Where they’re from. I memorized accents. Pair that with a few seemingly innocent childlike questions, and I could find out practically anything.”

“That’s not scamming,” she said. “That’s just being observant.”

He shrugged. “It felt like scamming—especially with the way those people reacted. You would’ve thought it was magic. Brought in a lot of money to the ass**le carnie we worked for, of which we saw a fraction. But it was enough to buy food.”

“Why would a couple of kids need to buy food?” she asked. She’d probably grown up with cooks and servants.

“Because there wasn’t any at home. Our mom didn’t work—well, she earned money, but not much of it went toward us.”

“What about…your dad?”

He shook his head. “Just an anonymous donor somewhere who happened to be a good genetic match for my mom and her stipend.”

Mae nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable. “But then you would’ve gotten federal rations.”

“We did,” he said simply. “She sold them for anything that could give her a high.”

Mae was silent for several moments. “I can’t imagine kids going hungry—not in the RUNA, at least. I can’t imagine a mother doing that to her kids.”

“She had a lot of problems.” Boy, was that an understatement. “Cyn says I’ve got the same addictive personality, you know.” He frowned, realizing the irony of bringing it up in this context. “But this is nothing compared to her. And Cyn knows it. She just gets extreme sometimes when she’s pissed off. I’m nothing like our mom.”

“Because you’ve worked your problems into a functioning lifestyle.”

“Seems like by definition they aren’t problems then,” he retorted. “I’m okay. My loved ones are okay. I take care of them.” He was a little surprised at the fierceness in his voice. No matter what else happened, looking after Cynthia and Quentin—and Tessa—was always at the forefront of his mind. Maybe he’d deluded himself about inheriting his mother’s addictions, but one thing he’d refused to repeat was her abandonment—which was part of what had made exile so agonizing.

“You do,” said Mae, no trace of mockery. “You’re very good to them. And look at you now. Using all that elite childhood training to get you where you are in the service of our country.”

“Not that elite. What I do…it’s not hard.”

“I couldn’t do it,” she said.

A doctor appeared just then, a stern-faced woman who quickly made it apparent that she didn’t find him charming in the least. She lectured him on the dangers of mixing alcohol and drugs, subtly hinting that he was lucky he hadn’t actually been in possession of the—illegal—gates of paradise. She gave a set of basic discharge instructions involving rest and water and then scanned his ego so that she could send him “helpful” resources on substance abuse. He accepted all the reprimanding humbly, both because it was deserved and because it got them out of there faster.

Mae said little when they finally left the hospital, but he noticed her giving him the occasional sidelong look. He knew without a doubt she still thought his vices were a sign of weakness, but somehow, between his comment about respecting her and the story of his youth, he’d inadvertently grown a little in her esteem. Worse, he found he liked it. The pride and faith in her eyes had momentarily taken his breath away. Quickly, he reminded himself that she was a supercilious castal who looked down on others, one who’d been far from tactful in her attitudes. He needed to respond in kind, both for his own protection and because he deserved it. He would, as Horatio had observed, be more of an ass**le from now on.