Divine Misfortune (2010) (6 page)

“Well, he does seem to like Hawaiian shirts,” replied Teri. “The kind that were in fashion… actually I don’t think they were
ever in fashion.”

“Kitschy. And a bit surprising. I always pictured you as more of a traditional gal. Well, actually, I thought you’d talk yourself
out of it at the last minute.”

“I wish I had.”

“Not going so well, is it? What’s his gig?”

“His what?”

“His schtick. His game,” said Janet. “His specialty?”

“Good fortune.” Teri’s sandwich dripped cold tea and mayo on her blouse. It was already ruined, so she didn’t think much of
it.

“Looks like he’s broken.”

Teri shrugged. “I think it’s my fault. He wanted to move in, and I wasn’t crazy about the idea. I think he picked up on that.”

“He wanted to move in?”

“He says it’s part of his personal touch,” said Teri.

“So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know.” Teri added more napkins to her improvised dam on the table. “I keep going back and forth on this.”

“You really need to make up your mind,” said Janet.

“I know.”

“And if you ask me, you already made up your mind when you signed up, right? Too late to back out now.”

“I guess you’re right. But I circulated a petition to keep a temple of Athena off my college campus. I marched for the Deity
Restriction Act. Hell, my generation was going to change things. We were going to break the chains of thousands of years of
divine codependence.”

“Hate to break it to you, but that movement died a long time ago.”

“I know.” Teri sighed. “Did you know that according to the latest polls active tribute has risen by 20 percent in the last
ten years?”

“Can’t say that I did,” Janet replied.

Teri set down her soggy sandwich. Her appetite was gone. “You don’t think I’m compromising my ideals?”

“Oh, you’re selling out, all right. If it makes you feel any better, I thought about getting some of that divine favor once
myself. I even answered an ad in a newspaper.”

“How’d that work out?” asked Teri with mild interest.

“Didn’t. Turns out that AFG stands for African fertility goddess. Said she could guarantee me fifty kids.” Janet shuddered.
“I like rugrats, but not that much.”

Teri lost her appetite.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” said Janet. “You’re compromising your principles a little. That’s just the way it works. This
is real life, after all. It’s great to be a college kid with ideals, but you have to live, right?”

“Yes.” Teri sounded unconvinced.

“It’s not like you chose a big god, is it? It’s not like you’re sacrificing bulls or giving up eating dairy or anything weird
like that, right?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“He just wants to live with you. So let him live with you. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“Now you sound like Phil.”

“You should listen to us then,” said Janet. “Anyway, you can follow without putting your heart into it. Most gods don’t care
that much. They just want a little brownnosing, and they’re happy.”

Teri said, “You’re suggesting I follow half-assed.”

“Why not? Just treat it like a job you don’t care that much about. Keep your head down, do the minimum, and don’t worry too
much about it. Your god will probably move out in a few weeks. Then you won’t have to do much more than maintain an altar.
How hard can that be?”

Teri perked up. “Do you really think he’ll want to move out that soon?”

“I’d bet on it. You know gods. They get bored pretty fast. And I’ve seen you and Phil, hon. You aren’t exactly the most exciting
couple. In a week or two, three tops, your raccoon god will be climbing the walls.”

Teri had never been so happy to be labeled boring. Her appetite returned. She was able to finish off half of her soggy sandwich.
After her lunch with Janet, Teri felt better, even though bad luck continued to plague her. But she’d brought it on herself.
And the fact that Lucky didn’t crack open the earth and throw her into eternal hellfire showed that he wasn’t such a bad god.
She could weather the storm of misfortune until Phil fixed the problem.

She was relieved when his call finally came. Lucky did all of the talking. He was so busy selling himself that it was three
minutes before she was finally able to find an opening to say yes.

“Great,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight then. We’ll hang out, get to know each other. It’ll be fun.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will be.”

“Terrific. See you then.”

As soon as Lucky hung up, she felt relieved. She looked terrible, and there was no time to find her notes. With each step
to the meeting, her confidence grew. Now she had a fighting chance. She pushed her way into the conference room.

It was empty.

Janet tapped Teri on the shoulder. “Rescheduled. Didn’t you get the e-mail?”

“My computer has been having problems,” said Teri.

“That’s a bit of good luck then, isn’t it?” Janet smoothed Teri’s wrinkled collar, and it stayed in place. “I take it then
that your god problem is worked out.”

Teri nodded.

“Cool,” said Janet. “So when do I get a chance to meet him?”

“You want to meet him?”

“Are you kidding? You know I love gods.”

“First of all,” said Teri, “I didn’t know that. You never even brought up the subject until I mentioned Phil and I were talking
about it.”

“I don’t advertise it, but I’m a huge deiphile.”

“I hear they have pills for that now.”

“You’re a riot.” Janet mimed a laugh. “So can I meet him?”

“You really want to?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“If you’re so into gods, why don’t you have one of your own?”

“I decided years ago that I was a fan, not a follower,” said Janet. “So can I meet him?”

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, come on. You can tell him I’m a potential convert.” Janet said, “You’ll score some good little follower kudos. I’ll get
another signature for my autograph book.”

“You have an autograph book?” asked Teri.

“I have two. And a photo album. And I haven’t added anything to either since I saw Tekkeitsertok.”

“Tekkeitser—”

“Inuit god of hunting, master of caribou. Met him at a charity event. Real nice god. So what do you say? You can’t turn me
away, can you? I’ve never met a raccoon god before. It’ll be fun, and it’ll take some of the awkwardness off of your first
night with him. Let me be your wingwoman.”

It was plain that Janet wasn’t going to drop this. She’d keep bugging Teri until she agreed. Better to get it out of the way.
And it would be good to have someone there who was actually excited to meet a god.

“You can come,” she said. “But don’t wear anything too slutty. I don’t need my new god thinking I’m hanging with a loose crowd.”

“Whatever you say, but trust me, there’s no such thing as too slutty when it comes to dressing for gods. I had a ten-minute
conversation with Moritasgus and he didn’t once look me in the eyes.”

“Morita—”

“Celtic sun god.”

“Like Apollo?” asked Teri.

“There’s a lot of overlap among the gods,” said Janet. “FYI: it’s a sore spot with some of them actually so it’s usually smarter
not to bring it up.”

“You are a groupie,” said Teri.

“Hon, you have no idea.” Janet lowered her voice to a guilty whisper. “I didn’t even mention the scrapbooks.”

Civilization had taken the bite out of the divine powers, regulated and tamed them aside their mortal followers. The heavens
could offer a boost, but they no longer built empires or razed continents. The good ol’ days of sacking and pillaging a village
and offering up the souls to your god were gone. Roger Worthington suspected he would be lousy at sacking and only a modestly
talented pillager at best so he didn’t mind. But he also knew that, aside from being somewhat handsome (emphasis on the somewhat),
he wasn’t exceptional in any way, and if he was going to get ahead, he’d have to offer blood, sweat, and sacrifice to do it.

If it didn’t have to be his, so much the better.

There were still real gods out there, untamed powers that both mortal and immortal authorities wanted forgotten. They’d been
forced underground, worshipped by secret cults in hidden temples tucked in darkened corners. Their influence had faded, but
they still knew how to get things done. And they didn’t care where their blood came from.

Worthington’s first cult had been a complete waste of time. They followed an obscure wisdom goddess who promised to open their
minds. In the end, it’d just been an excuse to get high and talk about the secrets revealed when you played Beatles records
backward. Harmless fun, but Worthington wasn’t in it for fun. He was in it for power.

The next god was more promising. They met in the storeroom of a Pancake Hut, after hours. It wasn’t much of a temple, but
it got the job done. There he joined in paying tribute to an exiled volcano god who promised to split the earth and devour
civilization, placing his followers on top in the new world order. It sounded promising, and the tremors accompanying every
blood offering were a nice show. The peak came when someone managed to get hold of an elephant. That was a lot of blood, all
right. Their god slurped it down with gusto, and a quake in Singapore killed a few thousand people. But it was a far cry from
the fall of nations, and Worthington found himself wondering if maybe his god was taking credit for someone else’s divine
wrath or, even more annoyingly, possibly just an ordinary earthquake. Even if it had been the work of his god, it would take
a hell of a lot of blood to bring about the end of civilization. Worthington wasn’t willing to put that much effort into it.

He abandoned the cult. A tremor split the earth and devoured the Pancake Hut a week later. The untamed powers were outlawed
for a reason. Even compared to the capricious nature of gods, they were unpredictable and dangerous. The cult could’ve been
destroyed because of some perceived sin. Or perhaps out of boredom. Or quite possibly by accident. That was always the risk.

Worthington was undeterred. He found two kinds of gods in his quest. Impotent deities who promised much but never delivered
and powerful forces who refused to act because they feared the wrath of the other gods. It was four years before he caught
his break.

In China, he discovered a death god cult. Tribute was easy. Once a month, all the members were required to draw straws. The
loser was fed to the god. By then, Worthington had grown inured to such risks. He climbed the ladder of leadership by submitting
to the sacrifice lottery twice a month, then once a week. Then two or three times a week. Eventually, every day of his life
was decided by a flip of a coin. The others were impressed by his dedication. As was his god. And when he finally drew the
short straw and was placed on the altar, he suggested that perhaps a god would do better to sacrifice his less enthusiastic
followers rather than his most devoted servant. And the death god agreed with him.

With all the power of his god focused on him after that, he made a small fortune. It was more work. And messier. His god needed
blood, and Worthington was the only one to make sure he received it. But Worthington developed a relatively risk-free system,
and his prosperity continued. He could’ve remained comfortable the rest of his life. After five years, he realized it wasn’t
enough.

He needed more.

His god was a jealous god, and all too eager to devour any offending souls. But Worthington had learned something in his dealings
with the temple underground. There were civilized gods. And there were untamed gods. And, hidden away, nearly forgotten, with
names whispered in fear by mortal and god alike, there were savage gods. Their powers were enormous, but their demands were
of the most primitive variety. Blood and souls, chaos and madness. They wanted the heavens and Earth to run thick with gore,
to see mortals and gods tear each other to pieces. To revel in a single moment of boundless, primeval terror. They weren’t
above a little sacrifice either, but it did take something bigger than an elephant to get their attention. Fortunately, Worthington
had the power and influence to provide it.

His old god wasn’t happy with the transition, but he didn’t make a fuss. And when the god of ugly death meekly backed down
from Worthington’s new master without so much as a whimper, Worthington knew he’d made the right decision.

He could make the President disappear with a single phone call or destroy cities with a three-word e-mail. Any woman he desired
could be in his bed by tonight and out of his way by morning. No indulgence, no matter how ridiculous or absurd, was denied
him. And though he didn’t actually indulge because, aside from his ambition, he was a very dull sort, he still appreciated
having the power for power’s sake.

The only downside was his very cranky roommate, but Gorgoz usually stayed in the basement.

Worthington was in the middle of dinner when Gorgoz rang his bell. At first, Worthington ignored it, expecting the butler
to take care of Gorgoz’s demands. The clang of the bell grew more insistent after five minutes.

He pushed away from the table and walked through his exquisite and tastefully decorated house. He’d paid enough for the decorator’s
services to know, even if he didn’t get it himself. But it wasn’t for him. He didn’t ever have guests. But if he did, he was
sure they would be impressed. There were a dozen or so rooms he hadn’t visited, that he’d seen only as sketches a few years
ago.

Along the way, he almost stepped on a spotted roach and a mottled, crimson serpent. He was accustomed to the steady stream
of felines, rodents, reptiles, and insects coming in and out of the house at all hours. He’d had pet doors installed to accommodate
Gorgoz’s spies, souls drafted into the god’s service. It was part of Gorgoz’s price. Servitude didn’t end with death. The
lucky minions were transformed into shape-changing spies, scouring the world as the eyes and ears of Gorgoz. Worthington had
no intention of spending his afterlife as a spotted housecat. He wasn’t keen on mortality and had plans in motion to avoid
death. Nothing specific at this stage, but anything was possible for a man willing to take the right chances, make the right
deals.