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“There are few humans who can claim to have killed a god,” Ch’ang Hao said. “Even
by accident. You continue to accumulate distinctions.” The flatness of his tone did more
to advertise his hatred for her than any amount of anger would have.
“I know your opinion of me isn’t as high as it could be,” Marla said. “I wish I could do
something about that.” She backed away from the creature’s expanding girth, and
Ch’ang Hao moved with her.
“I comprehend fully what you are, Marla. I understand the reasons behind your actions.
But they earn you no love from me, and I will kill you, if I can. I am saddened at the
prospect of this frog-monster killing you first.”
Marla nodded. She considered her options. There was really only one.
The weapon is not responsible for the action of its wielder, Marla thought. Like she’d
told B on the hotel roof earlier—it is not the sword that kills, but the wielder.
And now Ch’ang Hao was her only sword, albeit a sword that would try to cut its
wielder, in time. Even if she managed to stop Susan from deleting her from reality—and
with the Cornerstone swallowed up like an after-dinner mint, how could she ever do
that?—she’d have to contend with Ch’ang Hao’s eventual attack. If she used him as a
weapon now, he would not love her for it, and he would be a far more formidable foe
later, too.
“Ah, well,” Marla said. “Dead now or dead later, the only difference is the fate of the
whole goddamned world. Fuck it.” She drew her dagger of office and slid the blade
between Ch’ang Hao’s shoulder blade and the nail-studded harness the Celestial had
bound him in. With a flick of her wrist, Marla cut the strap, and then repeated the
motion at the other shoulder.
Ch’ang Hao looked down at her. “I hope you do not expect thanks.”
“I think we both know why I just did that,” Marla said.
“I could kill you now,” he said. “You could not stand against me.”
“But you gave me your word you wouldn’t kill me today. And you won’t. Because
you’re honorable. And even though I’m not honorable in your eyes, you’ll keep your
word. And while I certainly can’t compel you to fight this giant monster, I will point out
that if you don’t kill Tlaltecuhtli, he’ll kill me, and then you won’t get the opportunity.”
“Your words are, as always, true and perceptive.” Ch’ang Hao tore off the harness,
copper nails popping out of his flesh, yellowish blood briefly welling from dozens of
small punctures before they healed over. And then, finally unbound, Ch’ang Hao did
what he had not done for centuries. He began to grow.
“My God,” Cole said, when Marla reached him. “He—he—he’s a giant.”
“It’s his thing,” Rondeau said. “He gets bigger. He says he can grow just big enough to
defeat whoever he’s fighting.”