The Opposite of Death

Chapter 1, In which Morgan saves a dead boy

Morgan

Being God was exceedingly lonely. No one ever said, "Good morning, Morgan. How was your day?" or "Can we talk?" It was always, "Please, have mercy on my ailing son!" or "Here, let me put your underwear on for you, so you don't sully your divine hands." Not really. No one ever said that last one. My priestess just put my panties on for me each day in silence—total silence.

I was thinking about my priestess as I leaned against the terrace railing, watching the full moon's reflection ripple on the bayou below. I wondered what her voice even sounded like. The girl lately tasked with my care was pretty and blonde with thick curves and that bland smile of devotion they all seemed to wear. I imagined her voice was syrupy sweet with long vowels that eat up the whole word, but I doubted I would ever find out.

That reality hit me, and I took a deep breath, pushing back against the fist that gripped my chest when my life stretched out before me and there was nothing in it but this shrine and silence. Something happy. Something happy. Something happy. I thought as I forced my mind away from the darkness. The gardenias were blooming, weighing down the thick, warm air with their scent. The floating village perched atop the bayou below was glowing with lanterns and hearth fires. Bursts of laughter occasionally disturbed the steady hum of cicadas like a mullet jumping in still water.

I could feel their joy, even from here, if I reached for it. I sent out my power like searching fingers until it brushed up against effervesce and warmth. A thread of bitter-sweet craving laced through the emotions rolling off the people below. I caught that sometimes, just a whiff of it. It was usually accompanied by covert, sideways glance, and sometimes it was followed by a couple slipping off into the darkness of the upland forest.

Something rustled the fallen leaves at the edge of the woods behind me. I reached for the sound without thinking. Maybe that's where the feeling had come from. Desire was certainly there, but it was all hard edges and fire, nothing like the delight down in the village.

"You shouldn't be here," Mother hissed below my feet. I froze. The icy rage in her voice gluing me to the spot.

"Bon Dieu," a deep, smooth male voice rumbled from the tree line, "Rhiannon, you are more beautiful every time I see you."

"What do you want, Legba?" she snapped back. I let out a breath. I wasn't the target of Mother's anger. It took a second before I realized that they didn't know I was up there on the terrace.

"Standing here, looking at you, I can't quite remember," Legba drawled. Slowly, I lowered myself down to the old cedar planks of the terrace, peering through the slats to try to get a glimpse of the man who spoke to Mother so freely. She stepped into the moonlight, arms crossed and chin high as she stared Legba down without a word, but he remained in the shadow of the forest. I couldn't see him, but I could feel his exhilaration. The thrill of the hunt.

"You know I wouldn't be here if it weren't important, Rhi." Rhi? The very idea of Mother having a pet name was unimaginable, and I had a formidable imagination. I braced myself as I felt her fury rising, but something else tinged her anger, tempered it. Dried oak leaves crackled as Mother shifted her weight to one foot, accentuating her beautifully sculpted hips. It was a calculated move I'd seen her make to distract her opponent while she looked for an opening.

This Legba seemed unaffected by her wiles. He sobered and his emotions shifted, becoming more sedate. "Ada's dead," he said, flatly. Mother's fierce posture deflated. She took a step toward him.

"When?"

"A week ago, as we were passing through the eastern villages."

"What does this mean?" Mother's voice sounded scared. I suddenly felt like I was intruding on a private moment. Granted, I was always intruding on private moments, but hearing Mother's voice grow small, feeling her vulnerability, felt wrong.