Balm of the Gods

14. Dominion Theology

A blinding, rosy blaze announced Nymphadottir's arrival, lighting up the dim, empty workshop for a moment before the Goddess herself materialized -- already seething. That she found herself standing in a ransacked, abandoned atelier, not the lively workplace of a busy alchemist, did not improve her mood in the slightest.

The Goddess of Attraction and Infatuation looked around. Vythia's alchemical lab was in disarray. Instruments and machines stood shorted-out and destroyed. Some gave off sparks here and there, like wounded little firedrakes blowing out their last superheated breaths. Chemicals, reagents, and compounds dripped and spilled all over the floor, their bottles lying smashed among the puddles. Nymphadottir could feel the absence of all usual wards and defenses once set here -- now deactivated, their emitters likely just as kaput as the rest of this dump.

Vythia had been protective of her workplace. She'd never struck Nymphadottir as prone to accidents, either. That alone was a clue that something was deeply wrong. Not that the Goddess cared if Vythia suffered any setbacks.

"Maybe someone came in and sacked the place," the fiery-haired deity mused aloud, running her fingers along one of the tables. Her hands came back coated with ash. She shook them clean. "Some other pissed-off client, no doubt. Someone else who got sick of her excuses. Serves her right -- the unreliable, ever-absent, disloyal --"

"Excuse me?"

Nymphadottir whirled. Preoccupied in her own ranting, she hadn't even registered another presence in the workshop. But sure enough, a tall, regal-looking man in his middle years stood in a doorway, wearing a look of concern. Some local noble, Nymphadottir supposed, by his dressing and mannerisms. At least he knew to pay deference to a higher being. The Goddess hardly felt she had time for conversation with a geezer like this, but hell -- if he was the only other person here...

"You. Have you seen Vythia?"

The man bowed his head. "I am sorry, Goddess, but it would seem she has disappeared. Her laboratory is in complete disarray."

"Your pointing out the obvious hardly helps," the deity snapped. She turned away from the blanching mortal. "Is this her idea of a scorched-earth strategy? To raze her own workshop and go on the run? If she thinks she can weasel out of this..."

The nobleman raised his hands, trying to interject. "If I may, Goddess. From the state of the atelier, it seems her old portal array overloaded and destroyed her machines when she left through it to... wherever she went. I would have checked the logs, but the array is completely drained of power." He bowed again, as if by reflex. "I wish I had better news. I came here hoping to find her myself."

Nymphadottir turned to glare at the bulky, centuries-old clunker of a teleportation device. She'd seen these things that mortals used. A must-have for anyone whose business required travel. Few would have preferred to have to take the long way. That was all the Goddess knew, or cared to know, for she herself had the deific luxury of wishing her way from place to place. Even still, she recognized an outdated machine when she saw one.

"Overloaded, you say," she repeated. "Enough to blow up Vythia's whole blasted lab? Hm. I suppose I don't doubt it. This array looks older than her. How did she manage to keep it working this long?"

"I know not her ways, my Goddess." The noble spoke respectfully, if a bit timidly. "Only that I hoped she might craft an alchemical remedy for my son, whose strange allergies ail him. Sadly, the delivery never came."

"Makes two of us, then," Nymphadottir muttered without sympathy. "No matter. She can't cover her tracks from me. Not even if she's portal-jumped all the way to the edge of the Cosmos. I'll have her back here, explaining herself and groveling for her transgression. No mortal can run from a goddess."

The noble watched Nymphadottir approach the old machine. "I am sorry, Goddess, but as I said, the array is drained. Its last use destroyed its power supply from within. There's nothing here to indicate where she --"

Nymphadottir slammed her hand onto the metal casing. The mortal flinched at the echoing sound -- then gasped as the array's lights and holo-displays all flared to life, powered by the deity's divine touch. Nymphadottir paid her observer no mind. Just focused on her task. It was no difficult feat to reactivate a machine like this with godly magic. Nymphadottir might not have called herself tech-savvy, but no goddess had to be. As she withdrew her hand, the rosy glow between her fingers faded, but the machinery kept running. The noble looked on in awe.

"An array will log the last destination it sent someone to," snapped the Goddess as she looked over the holograms. "And if she's on the run, I can only imagine how remote a place she's jumped off to..."

When she read the coordinates and the name, Nymphadottir blinked. Little could surprise her. In a way, this did not. Perhaps this was less a surprise, and more a sudden, sickening indignation.

"The Lower Realms?"

Nymphadottir knew of such places, of course. But she had never considered going there. She was all too accustomed to the finest of fineries. A pitiful rock like Earth had nothing to offer her -- not even worthy worshippers. Low Ones were for lesser gods to amaze and enthrall, like desperate dogs scrambling for scraps. One such as Nymphadottir could have conquered the place in a day, like stomping on an anthill. But even that would have been beneath her.

Yet, if Vythia had truly fled there, Nymphadottir was going to have to pursue.

"She's hiding on Earth," the Goddess spoke. "In that miserable little wasteland. So she's willing to cavort with Low Ones? Willing to hide amidst them to get away from me? Like she even could." Disgust still burned within her, but it was tempered by the first stirrings of dark glee. She was one step closer to finding that blasted alchemist and taking back what was hers. That would have to be worth suffering the indignity of setting foot in a realm so low and insignificant. "I'll find her, no matter what. And I'll make her regret crossing a goddess."

"Wait!"

The sudden outburst interrupted her. Nymphadottir had nearly forgotten the noble. She turned, glaring.

"You cannot!" The man's voice shook with desperation. "Those realms hardly know magic, let alone deities. If a being like you were to show up there, in a world so primitive and unmagical, it would surely trigger a cataclysm!"

Nymphadottir's eyes blazed with contempt. "And why should that concern me? Let those insects burn. If they do, I care nothing of it. I'm retrieving my commission. No mortal will stand in my way -- no foolish Lower Realms authorities, and certainly not you." Her glare sharpened as she stalked closer to the noble. "I have no time to waste listening to lectures about non-interference policies with the Lower Realms. Rat me out to any other local deity or authority, and I'll burn your whole precious family alive. Am I understood?"

The man quailed. "My Goddess, I wouldn't --"

Nymphadottir watched him trail off, trembling, and felt a whole new kind of disgust. As if she could trust such a cowardly testament. In dealings like this -- with her dominion over the Cosmos at stake -- she had to be thorough. That meant no loose ends. With a snarl, she raised one hand, letting an amber glow of magic coalesce there. The noble had just enough time to throw his hands up before the Goddess flung the spell -- transmuting him into a statue of gleaming gold.

"You're better off to me this way," she told the silent, still figure with a final, haughty glare. "Your sneezy son might even learn to count himself lucky in his condition, now knowing it's a better one than yours. Good luck finding a worthy alchemist to turn you back. The best one in the Cosmos has dealings with me."

Regret didn't tail her as she stepped up to the array. This was the fate of those who got in the way of a deity's plans. Plenty on Earth might soon get it worse than him, anyway. Nothing more would delay her. Her elixir awaited.

At the snap of her fingers, the ancient machine brought forth a shimmering, multicolored rift in space-time. Nymphadottir strode through, heedless of any consequences. If her goals came about with a side of cataclysm, served hot?

So be it. Let it burn.

***

***

The Incursions Department's headquarters in Geneva was in bad shape. Since the magical surge that had blown out their detectors and tracking systems days ago, all available hands had been in a rush to repair and restore everything to top form. Some of the more delicate and esoteric instruments were only just now coming back online, thanks to technicians' round-the-clock efforts.

"I hear they're having a bad time of it at the Vancouver outpost," one tech remarked to his partner, watching as a sensor array hummed back to life with an ethereal glow. A fresh quartz crystal, a tune-up to the wiring, and a few poundings from his fist had done the trick. "Pretty damn close to the blast. At least we were further away."

"Right. Ouch. Must've been rough for them," the other answered. He was younger than the first, fresh out of training, and hadn't expected to get thrown into such a big repair job so soon. Nevertheless, he'd managed. "They said an alchemist caused it?"

"It's the word. I'm no field op, so it's not like I've seen anything. But the higher-ups seem sure of it." The first tech, an experienced fellow in his forties, shook his head. "Haven't heard of any new developments on that whole 'High Cosmos' bag in a bit."

"Do you really buy that report that it 'wrapped itself up?'" The younger man gestured in air-quotes.

"Beats me," his senior answered. "I just work with the gadgets, same as you. I'd like it if it's true. That'd mean we could get back to business as usual. Smaller incursions. Travelers from Taured. Dumb yokels making the usual bad deals with the fae. That stuff never seemed to get the Director in half the frenzy he's been in the last few days."

"Tell me about it. I've been on his shit-list for the last day and a half for lagging on these repairs. And that's after pulling overtime to get our security measures back up, and the containment fields downstairs, and..."

The junior tech shook his head in exasperation, then glanced at his partner's screen -- just in time to see it suddenly light up with wild activity. His eyes widened. The other's mouth fell open.

"Whoa!" the older tech exclaimed, already on his feet. "What the..."

"Holy fuck!" The younger man scanned the readout. "That's off the damn charts!"

They looked at each other in mutual dread. Then, with a series of crackles and hisses, every instrument they'd worked to repair blew up all over again. Sparks flew, smoke billowed, crystals shattered. Klaxons were blaring not a second later.

The older tech's voice was strained. "We'd better call this in."

"Already on it," the junior answered, his hand on his communicator, dialing in the code everyone hoped they'd never have to dial. At every Department outpost on Earth, someone would get the alert, start off the alarms, and gear up to respond. "This is Geneva," the man spoke, his hand shaking as he clutched the small device. "We have a Condition Black. I repeat --black alert!"

***

***

Rou Girard was already on edge. The past week's ups and downs would have frayed anyone's mind, even a stoic veteran like the Director -- and now, this. He'd faced down demonic horrors, navigated all kinds of political minefields, stared into abysses that glared right back with hungry mouths. None of it had prepared him for the alert now screaming through the headquarters' systems.

A Level 10 incursion. That was unprecedented. 10 was supposed to be the highest hypothetical -- an incident no one wanted to even imagine, let alone encounter. Now one had blown out every detector in Geneva. What screens weren't busted or fuzzed-out with static were storming with crimson warnings and endless cascades of terrifying energy signatures. His best people worked frantically, their faces illuminated in the hellish red glow that bathed everything.

Girard held his cool with all his might. He had to. Still, he felt dangerously close to losing it.

"I'd say to tell me this isn't happening," he snapped as he paced the ops center. His usual measured tone was already giving way to something raw. "But I'm pretty damn certain that we can't just wish this away."

"We're working on it, sir," a tech spoke while he scanned a holographic display. "The data's here. It's just that this...thing, it's..."

"Bigger than any incursion in recorded history," a stern-faced female analyst interjected. "It trumps what we've analyzed of any Norse, Greek, Babylonian, or Aztec deities. Perhaps even the Old Ones. What Earth now faces operates on a level we previously considered... just theoretical, sir. We'd have to rewrite the scale just to try and put an accurate number to it. If our models are correct, this being could create or destroy with a word or a thought."

"We don't have time to theorize." The Director glared around at the assembly. "That thing is on Earth. What do we know that's concrete?"

Another agent pushed forward, tablet in hand. "Director, this has markers consistent with High Cosmos energy signatures. Not identical -- far more potent -- but the source code's there. Whatever this is, it's connected to our recent string of incursions. The courier, the alchemist, the artifact. All no longer a threat, if we believe the Karabakov report. But --"

"Throw out what we think we know." Girard's voice rose. "If all that was a pattern, this is the goddamned final boss. We need to make a plan, and fast. Battle plan, containment plan, some kind of miracle of diplomacy -- I don't care. Ideas. Now."

"You... mentioned wishing the problem away," one timid, spectacled analyst offered. "If we wanted to try that, there is the Stellar Rod. If we could --"

"The last time someone tried to use that," Girard sharply reminded the room, "he morphed into a scaly monstrosity and rampaged through Oslo. That cursed thing stays in containment. I'm not even sure it's strong enough to help us now, anyway."

"We may already be past the point of desperation here," the analyst ventured. "Sir."

A chorus of murmurs and chatter rose from the rest of the assembly, each of them talking over each other with ideas. "We have no choice. We have to try and commune with it." "How? We don't even know its language. Or if it would have any interest in doing our bidding." "The Rod will destroy the whole planet!" "So will this incursion if we don't stop it before it's too late!" "Forget brute force; containment's the best option we've got." "But what containment measures work against a god?"

When a short silence fell, the agent who stood drew everyone's eyes. Li Wei wasn't just an elite field op; she was the Department's foremost expert in magical artifacts and esoteric lore from across the world. Between missions, she'd authored dozens of the organization's manuals on practical sorcery, defense against the supernatural, and the use of relics. When she cleared her throat and spoke, all leaned in to catch every word.

"There is one method whose promise would be strong." The willowy Chinese woman's tone was grave. "I will say up-front that it is not a guarantee. But we would be remiss to rule it out." She looked the Director in the eye. "Sir, you may have heard of something called the angle-trap."

Girard's brow furrowed, but he nodded. "Years ago, yes, when I was still a field agent. Something about a 'force demon' in Tel Aviv, captured and bent to a cult's will. That was what they used, was it not?"

Li nodded. "Theoretically, it could hold even a being as powerful as this. Its design lets it tune to the essence and power of a divine entity, or anything ontologically close to one, and match it, so as to neutralize it. The very same trap we impounded from the cult is in storage below us right now. When stacked against our alternatives..."

"It's worth a shot," the Director decided, regaining an authoritative edge. He turned to address the room. "You heard it. We have our plan. The best of us here on site will be heading to meet this threat. If we can use this angle-trap to contain it, we'll do just that. If not..." He sighed and scanned the assembled faces. "We'll cross that bridge if we have to. For now? Techs, prep the trap. Agents, gear up for deployment. Li Wei will spearhead the task force. And..."

As the room erupted into purposeful motion, each agent scrambling toward their duties, Girard turned to the nearest communications specialist with one final command.

"Contact my best agent and put her in the goddamn loop."

***

***

It would have been hard to reconcile the gorgeous waters that bordered Cal's realm with the scum-coated lake he and his lovers had first discovered here. One dose of god-magic had transformed it completely. Had it even been growing since? The opposite shore seemed further today; the surface wider. Maybe that made sense. Maybe the more he and his harem broke the place in with sex and magic, the more the domain grew, like a tree absorbing water and sunshine.

Small waves lapped at the shore as Cal walked along the lakeside with Mayim, her hand in his. Both barefoot, they treaded over soft sand and pebbles. After a long, free-flowing bout of sexplay with Vythia, Mina, Kjelle, and Pim, fresh air seemed in order. And in Mayim, whose own appetites were sated for now, he found the perfect partner to enjoy the afternoon with.

Yet neither of their thoughts could quite settle into relaxation.

"Are you sure it's okay to be kicking back like this?" asked the agent, though her tone was hardly serious. "Not that I'm objecting. This is romantic, and relaxing, and I don't usually ever get anything like this, and... I don't know. We're supposed to be on high alert, aren't we? Preparing? Studying? Figuring out how we're going to deal with a goddess?"

Cal paused. Mayim had a point. He certainly wasn't without anxiety. Yet somehow, even thinking about the impending clash, his mind remained mostly serene. God-magic pushed the worries down with its constant, empowering tingles. Sex helped with that, too -- whether as a distraction or as a power-up, or both, he couldn't quite say. He was surprised at himself either way. He felt no urge to plan, no compulsion to study, no fear of the inevitable.

Was that just the mindset that came with being a god?

"I don't even know what preparing would look like," he confessed with a shrug. "There's not exactly an owner's manual for godly magic. No turning to the section about dealing with wrathful rivals with ages of experience on me. Vythia's been glad to share what she knows. Even Kjelle's dropped a few pointers here and there. Knowing about the High Cosmos, and Nymphadottir, is a big plus. But beyond that, this whole thing has always just kind of felt intuitive. Nothing taught me how to use my magic. It's more about... feeling, and imagining, and letting things flow."

He held out his hand, feeling a light stirring in the air. A faint golden orb formed and hovered above his palm. With a flick, he sent it over the lake, making graceful circles -- and in its path, colorful fish jumped from the water in an improvised show. Mayim smirked. It was a nice trick.

"I can't explain it," Cal continued. "When I want or need to do something with this power, it's like I just... know how. Or, at least, I understand that I'll know by the time I really need to know. If I'm supposed to be figuring out, as a god, how to ward off another god? Maybe the best thing to do is just... keep doing what feels right. And see what happens."