Little Gods Read Online Free PDF

her?"
    “Maddie, I told you already, we're on vacation. We'll find her, and we'll fuck with her. We'll have fun. She can't tell anyone in her pantheon if we mess with her, because she's practicing illegally.” She grinned.
    Madisen grinned back. “You're the best."
    “You're a close second,” Samaelle replied.
    “Andrew Jackson. Was he one of ours?” Samaelle squinted at the statue in Jackson Square, shielding her eyes from the morning light. The smell of fresh-cut grass and flowers filled the air here, unlike the beer-soaked atmosphere a few blocks away.
    Madisen turned from his contemplation of Tarot readers and beggars. He squinted at the monument's plaque. “Hmm. Not sure. He did some impressively nasty things to the Cherokee, but he wasn't all bad. He loved his wife."
    “I'll never understand His criteria for what makes a good person,” Samaelle said, rolling her eyes upward.
    Madisen chuckled. “Come on. Some of the shows are starting. Thalia's probably around."
    Samaelle shaded her eyes. She pointed to a bearded black man in a ragged camouflage coat. He gestured violently and shouted at a trashcan. “Is he a street performer?"
    “I don't think so,” Madisen said uncertainly. Angels, fallen or otherwise, weren't known for their appreciation of human art. “I think he's a paranoid-schizophrenic. That guy with the fifteen-foot-high unicycle, I'm pretty sure he's a street performer."
    They joined the crowd gathering around the unicyclist. He'd set up in front of a large church, and he exhorted the crowd to move in closer, off the church steps, because otherwise the police would arrest him for obstructing the entrance.
    “Sounds like our kind of guy,” Samaelle said. “You really think Thalia will be here?"
    “Street performers are perfect for her. They aren't famous, they leave no artifacts, and they turn into nobodies as soon as the show's over. If Thalia's working with any performers, it'll be these, because Zeus would never notice. Why else would she come to New Orleans?"
    “So where is she?"
    “There,” Madisen said, and pointed. Thalia, still in black but without her goth friends, stood on the edge of the crowd, in the front row. The unicyclist ran a constant patter, waiting for the crowd to get bigger. The tourists were laughing already, and Madisen imagined their wallets bulging, ready to disgorge cash in exchange for a good show.
    He looked around. A jazz quintet played a few benches down, and a mime performed beyond them, fencing with a nonexistent sword against an invisible opponent. Neither had a crowd comparable to the unicyclist's. “Having a Muse is good for business,” Madisen said. He and Samaelle stood near the back of the crowd, where Thalia wouldn't notice them, but they had a decent view.
    Thalia stepped into the cleared space and spoke to the unicyclist, then kissed him on the cheek. He grinned, tipped his ragged top hat, and blew a whistle. “Come closer! Come on!” the unicyclist called to the audience. Thalia stepped back to watch. She bounced on the balls of her feet, delighted, clearly thriving on the audience.
    The performer mounted a small unicycle and pedaled, rolling to the edge of the crowd and back. He juggled a handful of oranges, then threw them into the audience. He cracked jokes and did stunts as his crowd grew larger.
    “This is art?” Samaelle said. She'd once said the same thing in the Louvre.
    “So it seems. I don't pretend to understand."
    “Should I throw my sword into the spokes of his wheel?"
    “Let's wait a while. He's just getting started."
    The show went on, and the crowd swelled. The unicyclist rode back and forth on a narrow board resting on two sawhorses. He balanced on a makeshift see-saw. He told stories about being arrested, and made fun of tourists in the crowd, who laughed good-naturedly at being singled out.
    After about ten minutes he called for volunteers to help him mount the fifteen-foot-high unicycle. Three men held it while he