Imprisoned Gods - G. Bailey Page 0,7

exclaims. “My bike…!”

“Relax,” says Peyton. “Your bike is at the top of the ridge. There are no bees here.”

“How did I get here?” John asks, brow furrowing.

“You must have fallen over the edge,” Peyton replies. “You’re lucky you didn’t die. My sister and I just came across you. Follow this trail here, and you should get back to the main road.”

“I… Right,” John says, rubbing his forehead. “Okay. The main road. Yes…” Looking unsteady, he slowly turns around and disappears into the trees.

Peyton turns to me and crosses his arms. “So what are the chances of hitching a ride back home?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes and takes my hand in his. Within an instant, the world around us is dissolving, the colors shimmering and merging, and suddenly we’re back at the dropoff, a few yards away from the abandoned motorbikes. Peyton turns and begins to head back down the road, not waiting up for me. “You really mucked it up this time,” he mutters. “You’re lucky I was in the neighborhood.”

I shrug. “I would’ve just let him fall, if I were you.”

He turns to me and says incredulously, “You don’t really mean that, Karma.”

“Like hell I don’t,” I insist. “I don’t know what the guy did, but he was an asshole - that part was obvious.”

“Our job is to deliver karma,” Peyton reminds me. “Not kill people. We’re not death gods.”

“No,” I lament. “I think I’d make a much better death god, all things considered.”

He snorts. “We’re in agreement there.”

“So what were you doing around here, anyway?” I ask, crossing my arms as we turn the corner. Town shouldn’t be far from here.

“I got a guy who saved a stray cat from the highway,” Peyton replies. “Made him find a hundred-euro gift card.”

I sniff, but don’t say anything. It’s admirable, even if I can’t stand how saccharine the good karma always is. Why should people have to be bribed to do good things, anyway? Why shouldn’t they just… be good, without the universe patting them on the back and giving them a gold star? I guess that’s the cynical part of me talking, but I can’t help it.

I’m really in the wrong line of work.

4

I continue to bicker with my brother as we continue on down the road in the direction of our home, asking him about his jobs for the day, complaining about some of my most recent charges, and speculating on what John might have done to deserve his most recent bout of bad karma. My money’s on cheating on his girlfriend, while Peyton suspects road rage. Either way, he seems to quickly tire of walking, as once we reach the outskirts of town, he pulls out his teleportation charm and tells me to take his hand again. I do as I’m told (a rare occurrence for someone like me, believe me), and after a moment of spellcasting, we are spirited off the main road. I think I’m finally getting used to the sensation of teleportation, although I’ll be happier once I’m able to do it myself. Like memory wiping, it requires some finesse, even when using a medallion, and I’m more the type of god to paint with a large brush, so to speak.

“You won’t tell anyone about the cliff diving incident, will you?” I ask as we appear on the pathway in front of our house. We live in a small village just south of Dublin, the kind of quaint old place that you might imagine as the setting of a fairy tale… which, now that I think about it, this sort of is. Peyton lifts his bushy red eyebrows at me and just shakes his head before he pulls open the small white picket gate and walks down the white stone path to our house. I’m taking his no answer as a yes, or at least hoping so - nothing wrong with thinking positive, right? I really don’t want to hear our younger brothers laughing over this or see our parents’ expressions of disappointment. This isn’t the first time I’ve bungled a job, and part of me wonders if one of these days they’re going to just give up on me altogether.

I gaze up at the house I grew up in, this tiny little place where I’ve spent so much of my life to this day. It’s not a good idea for me to live in an apartment or a small house somewhere yet. Humans would notice my lack of a job, or they