Goddess of the North

By Georgina Kamsika

Detective Inspector Sara Nayar is a goddess. Literally. A Hindu goddess accidentally brought to England during Queen Victoria’s reign. Working now as a police detective, Sara survives on humanity’s innate faith in law and order.

Sheffield is a city of many gods, however, and when Sara witnesses a murder, she knows the perpetrator is divine. As a goddess of order, she must solve the crime before the god can kill again, but thousands of years living as a human has left her spiritually weak.

Vulnerable in ways she hasn’t felt since leaving India, Sara fights to balance her mortal and immortal lives as the murders around her escalate. And with tensions amongst her fellow divinity on the rise, Sara is running out of time. If she can’t restore order, find balance in the chaos, the city itself might pay the price.

Set in a vividly realized Northern city, where gods coexist with a balance of faith, Goddess of the North is a page-turning urban fantasy steeped in multicultural mythology. A murder mystery at heart, it’s an exploration of identity, love, faith, and the transformative powers of self-acceptance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: REUTS Publications
• Release date: Aug 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781942111689

Georgina Kamsika

GEORGINA KAMSIKA is a speculative fiction writer born in Yorkshire, England, to Anglo-Indian immigrant parents and has spent most of her life explaining her English first name, Polish surname and South Asian features. Georgina is a graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop where her first novel, Goddess of the North, started life as a short story.

Book preview

Chapter One

Stop. Freeze frame.

Blood hangs in the air, a fine spray about to dapple my suit. It belongs to Robert Shelton, a respectable-looking thirty-two-year-old investment banker, IC1—white. Not that this matters, seeing as how he was just stabbed three times and then flattened by falling rubble. I can also tell you about his five-year-old nephew, whom he adored, about the baby he dreamed of having with his wife Heather, the cutthroat lawyer. I can even say how often they had sex, what his favorite position was, though I won’t.

People say that when you’re on the edge of death, your life flashes before your eyes, but when a dagger hit his heart and that chunk of masonry met Robert, it’s my mind that was filled with every last detail, from the moment he was born until his final breath a mere moment ago.

Robert spent his last milliseconds mourning his life. It seems so short, like a mayfly, compared to my own vast store of memories. I might look like a youthful Bollywood actress, but my hair singed as Rome burned; I was in the alley when Jack the Ripper took his first victim (they never found her), and I watched as Marie Curie shaped the twentieth century.

Most of the time, being a god doesn’t make much difference in my life. I’m not like Ra, having to trudge across the sky every day, or Poseidon, ruling the world’s oceans, fighting off its creeping pollution. Not that any of those major players have any interest in me, a two-bit squirt from a family of millions. Why would they? I have little to no power. With no power comes no responsibilities, I guess.

Humans think we’re special. We’re not—have you read any of the old myths? From any religion? We’re as stupid, selfish, and dumb as you guys, just with superpowers. Well, some powers. In my family, the top three gods—Vishnu, Brahma, and Shiva—get all the god-juice, while the tiny amount that trickles down to me, one of the million aspects of them, is barely enough for me to play with time the way I have right now.

I can just hear my mother. "Darling, it’s your own fault you don’t have any power."

Anyway, back to Robert.

I allow time to flood past again and he’s been transformed into an ex-husband, an ex-father, and he’s ready to reincarnate, or head off to the afterlife of his religion of choice. Well, that, or to be reborn into the Bible Belt, USA, if he’s an atheist. No one can say us gods don’t have a sense of humor.

While the seconds between Robert’s not-so-successful dive away from the rubble and his demise seemed to take forever, the moments that follow advance faster than, well, half a ton of falling rubble. The earthquake that dislodged the concrete is still rumbling. The ground shifts beneath my feet with a jerk, similar to a bus pulling away before you’re ready. I sway, instinctively bending my knees, hanging on to a nearby market stall to keep from being knocked off my feet. The walls around me creak and groan in time with the seismic waves, but nothing else falls.

I catch the eye of the vendor standing behind the stall I’m clinging to. He’s short, round and red-faced, his apron rumpled as he clutches at his stall. Loose vegetables shiver and roll off the counter.

What the bloody hell is this? I thought it were right good fun, like Alton Towers, till that poor bloke got squashed, he shouts above the noise. To my left, a woman screams, and then the earth spasms again.

Earthquake. Pretty bad one, I call back, my gaze on the crowd. Most don’t seem to have seen Robert die. There’s no panic; people react with surprise rather than horror.

Some shoppers stumble; one or two fall, but the majority hold their balance. There are a lot of people—Castle Market is busy, despite the looming closure—but even if I’d wanted to use my powers to help, I couldn’t. I really don’t have the juice. There’s not much I can do by fiddling with time, anyway.

A couple more seconds of hanging on for dear life, and then the ground stops moving. Red liquid seeps from underneath the concrete slab of rubble, and even if I wasn’t a goddess, I’d know nothing could be alive under all that weight.

Being a goddess, however, is how I know that none of this is natural. Stabbings do happen, yes, but an earthquake in Yorkshire? Not very believable. I felt someone, something, flexing its god-muscles just as the earthquake started. Not sure who, not sure why, but I guess it helps that my day job is a police detective.

I take a moment to call it in.

It’s one of those early January mornings that Sheffield folk say is a bit nippy and that I, originally from India, call absolutely bloody freezing. Most of the locals wander close in thin cardies, whereas I have a thick wool overcoat wrapped tight across my suit. The crowd pushes forward into a tight ball as I pass the details of the incident to Sergeant Kapadia, surrounding both me and the bleeding rubble. At first, they’re unsure of what they see, but as I ask for reinforcements, they become aware that something entertaining might be about to happen. They mutter, and shove, leaning past one another to get their ghoulish fix. The market stall owner blinks at the specks of blood on his produce.

The image of Robert disintegrating replays behind my eyes. The visuals flood my brain, making it hard for me to think. Normally, I block out the moments when people die, letting their ātman, their soul, pass without affecting me. Few gods enjoy feeling mortals puff out of existence like tiny dying sparks. Robert was so close to me, though, and such a surprise, that he somehow made it past my defenses.

I rub my eyes and pull my long dark hair into a loose ponytail, out of the way. It’s time to do my duty as an officer of the law. Okay now, folks, step back, I shout and wave my warrant badge. We need to make room for the ambulance and close off this area. But please don’t go anywhere just yet. Does anyone need first aid?

Most of the gathered people do take a step back, muttering their annoyance at the delay while craning their necks for a better view. Many shake their heads; no one asks for help.

Need a hand, DCI Nayar? Want me to call it in? someone asks.

There’s a man to my left, a head taller than me, white, maybe a few (visible) years younger than me. Thick brown hair, brown eyes, a nose that’s been broken at least once. There’s muscle beneath his winter coat, and his weight is balanced toward his toes. A fighter? He looks like someone I’ve seen around the station, maybe.

Not quite DCI yet, and I’ve just done that, thank you, erm . . . ? I look back across the crowd, wondering how many uniforms will turn up. We’ll need a lot of bodies on the ground to contain an area of this size.

The man opens his mouth, pauses, takes a breath, and then says, DI Higgins. Michael. We’ve not worked together much, but I was with you on the task force for that murder last spring.

I do know him. I should have remembered that. Michael Higgins. Right. Very keen. Found that lead on the sister that helped wrap it up.

That’s right. He smiles at me, and that’s when I really remember him. The thick dark hair, the soft voice, the razor-sharp brain. Not my usual type, but I still find him disgustingly gorgeous, which is why I avoided him last spring. Who has time for romance with mortals when the object of that affection lasts for the blink of an eye? I peer at him, still not sure what it is about this particular mortal that appeals to me. His skin is far too pale, he’s a bit too tall, and he has no moustache. My formative millennia were spent around men with luxurious facial hair, so to me, his face appears naked.

Help me contain the scene until the incident response team gets here. Shouldn’t be long. I lower my voice so it’ll carry less. Pretty sure the guy was stabbed, so we need to contain this crowd until we find the perp.

Right, guv. He moves away, hands up to the crowd, and forces them back.

He’s good. Doesn’t argue, though we’re the same rank. Just gets on with the job. I hear him give orders, asking people to do as he says with the right tone of brisk authority. I watch for a second before I shake my head and look away.

My mother would never approve of any affection for Higgins, just like she doesn’t approve of my being a detective. Playing silly human games, she calls it, preferring to spend her time living in a world of her own creation, gossiping with my aunties and eating sticky ladoos.

"Darling, tell me. Were you needing something? My mother’s voice crosses the aether to whisper directly into my mind. I was nearby. I’m sure I heard you thinking of me."

Speak of the devil. I squeeze the bridge of my nose and count to five. "Nothing, Amma. I was just hungry, wishing for some of your delicious ladoos."

"Wanting to have the sweets for breakfast? Tsk, tsk. Come visit. I have some beautiful fresh bindi, and tiny baingan that I could fry up—"

"Amma, I’m working. I’ll speak to you later."

"Working, she says. Call me later, she says. Months since she’s spoken to me—"

I silence her, mid-complaint to my ever-present aunties. She’s the reason I’ve cut myself off from my powers. She’s the reason I live like this, and she always acts so innocent, so . . .

I take a deep breath and try to ignore the negative emotions my mother always causes. All gods can travel across the aether; it’s a fast way to cross the earthly plane. We can all communicate through it, too, with my mother using every opportunity to contact me when I’m already busy. It’s her gift as a trickster god, her immense genius and secret knowledge focused on whatever it takes to make my life harder. Rules mean nothing to her. Chaos is her gift.

Me, I’m the complete opposite. My desire is to bring order and keep the peace between the many different pantheons of gods. It’s true that I make it harder for myself by never tapping into my god-powers. The best I can do is fiddle a bit with time. Slow it down, speed it up. Perhaps roll it back a second or two for myself if I’m feeling really flush with god-juice.

But right now, the power all gods have to witness the death of a mortal is my most important skill. If we’re close when it occurs, it’s our duty to lend an ear and our care. Most of the time, their passing washes over us without us noticing. It’s not that we don’t care, it’s just that there are so very many of you, and your lives are so infinitesimal compared to ours.

Now, however, it’s Robert’s time. I take in the scene in front of me: old market, ready to be torn down; concrete pillars; bright, plastic roofing. The ground floor still bustles, but the gallery above has mostly empty shops. Shoppers, about forty or fifty, are crowded round. Their ages vary from young to old, all of them gawking at the most exciting thing they’ve seen all day.

And one body. Poor Robert.

So, what happened with all of this, then, guv? DI Higgins is at my side. I suddenly had the brilliant idea of cooking for my brother tonight, but just as I arrived, a building tried to fall on me.

Outside, and you didn’t feel it? It was an earthquake.

Earthquake? In Sheffield?

In the distance, I hear the wail of sirens as many different teams respond to my call.

I know. I shrug. People talk of earthquakes, I see Peru, California, maybe Japan. I don’t think of here. I mean, in all known records of earthquakes in the British Isles, there have only been ten fatalities, all together.

That’s . . . well, that’s some impressive specialist knowledge there. He blinks at me.

I, er, experienced one or two earthquakes when I was young in Bihar. I looked into it a while back. Damn, I do sometimes forget that humans don’t have my memory.

Well, my hobby is local history, and I’ve never heard any record of an earthquake around here, either. Never mind one so localized I couldn’t feel it outside the building.

The market stinks worse than usual: old meat, rotting vegetables, body odor mixed with death—blood and guts and effluence. The smell tickles my nose, and I sneeze. Torn posters stare down at the mess, vacant-eyed bands and models posing in designer suits. Litter wafts along the concrete floor, lifted by gusts of icy wind.

My fellow detectives arrive, as do the uniforms. Bill Combs is one of mine, eternally rumpled and stinking of cigarettes (even his fingers are stained a nicotine yellow), but he’s got a good eye on him. A Sheffield lad, with an accent the spit of Sean Bean’s, he’s liked and trusted by the locals. Always searching through information, he’ll find the clue everyone else misses. He’s about five years older than my presented age, but he’s not worried about progressing up the career ladder.

Along comes forensics, the coroner, and it’s all underway. Witnesses are moved for safety, given tea and blankets while they’re processed. The scenes of crime officers who clean up still haven’t arrived yet, though. No sign of a weapon or bloody hands yet, either.

I spot Detective Inspector Joe Ramsden, scowling as he gathers contact information from the crowd. Fake winter tan, short blond hair, washed-out blue eyes, and a tense jaw line, Joe doesn’t like me because I got put forward for the Chief Inspector role last week and he didn’t. He thought he had sewn up that promotion and told me in no uncertain terms that he blames positive discrimination for his having been passed over. He completely missed his own attitude problem.

Oi, Sarah, I got people sorted out for interviewing now.

"That’s DI to you, Ramsden. Saraswathi to my mum, and Sara to my mates—which you certainly aren’t." I daren’t give that guy an inch. Higgins chuckles under his breath.

I’m not the Saraswathi—guardian of the earth, sister to Lakshmi and Ganesha. It’s just a name I’ve picked for this particular human lifetime, because I’m a tiny aspect of her, a few million times removed. I’m a nobody. Of the hordes of gods in my family, I’m on the bottom rung of the ladder. I certainly don’t have Auntie Lakshmi’s powers of luck. If I had, I would’ve lucked myself far away from this.

I’m still on your Christmas card list, right, love? Bill shouts across the marketplace, hitching up his trousers so his waistband is halfway to his armpits.

Dunno how you put up with it. DI Higgins returns to my side after he’s shooed away from the crime scene by forensics. Patience of a saint.

Difference is that Bill means well. Joe, not so much.

Higgins has the grace to blush, his cheeks turning an attractive rose color. I didn’t mean . . .

Bit of a mess, this one. I change the subject for him, watching as fingerprints are taken, footprints examined. The evidence of hundreds of thousands of people passing along this stretch of the market is taken, bagged, and cataloged. The blood spatter expert is having fun examining the claret, but he’s no Dexter. Thankfully.

Nice change for us to both be witnesses, though, eh? Even if it was an accident. Higgins smiles at me. Not that I saw much that’ll be of help.

I shrug, chewing my lip. Yeah. The victim was there. A young, IC1 female was nearby—long blonde hair. I saw a knife flash, then that rubble hit him. Who knows for sure exactly what happened till we check the CCTV.

IC is police-speak for identifying the ethnicity of a person. Both Robert and the young female witness look to be white European, so they’re classed as IC1. I’d be IC4, South Asian, and Bill Combs’s West Indian wife would be IC3, Black.

Right. Higgins taps his notebook. White female, blonde hair. I’ll go chase that up. Back in a bit.

A great big song and dance to figure it out, when I already know it was a supernatural who did it. Still, how can I admit that? "I saw it in the aether, read it in his aura." Not bleeding likely. I’ll be the one locked up.

"The CCTV should show us something, I call to his back. That is, if the goddamn thing was even working. This area is due for demolition any day now."

I decide to interview some of the people Joe’s rounded up while I wait for Higgins to bring back the CCTV tapes. With any luck, they’ll have the answer to my question: how do I explain all of this to the humans?

I head over to Joe Ramsden. His notebook is filled with names, ages, and addresses. He barely looks at me, still smarting from earlier. I decide to leave him to it and speak to the market stall owner first. Like me, he was probably the closest to it all.

White, mid-forties, local lad, he’s still red-faced and puffing—enjoying his fifteen minutes of popularity as the best eyewitness to it all. Like most of the other locals, he’s standing in just his market stall apron and shirtsleeves. No coat. Humans are insane at the best of times, and Northerners are the worst of the bunch.

Excuse me, sir. May I have a word? I ask. He nods and follows me around the corner to a quieter spot. I indicate a concrete bench, and he plops down with a loud, satisfied, ahhhh.

Bin on me feet for hours and sold nowt. He shakes his head. Ruined me sales, this has.

I can imagine. I settle down next to him, the cold instantly seeping through my suit trousers. I glance at the spots of red on my winter coat, reminders of someone who had a much worse morning. I’d just like to ask you a few questions, sir, if I may.

He nods and flaps his hands to indicate that I should go on.

I’ve got your name down here as . . . er, Mr. Glover. I pause, and he nods. And you’re a local man from this address?

English by birth, Yorkshire by the grace of God. He smiles and folds his arms across his broad chest. I realize he’s unaware of the spatters of Robert on his apron and make a note to get him over to the SOCO guys after. They’ll have him stripped and into a paper bootie outfit in seconds, so they can process his clothing. SOCO stands for Scenes of Crime Officers—apparently, it’s a better acronym than CSI. I have no idea who names these things, but they’d never write good TV.

I’d just served that little old lady—wassername . . . Bridgette—her veggies when it happened. She’s a regular. Always here at ten a.m., like clockwork. He fiddles with his apron ties, eyes unfocused as he gazes past me. Bagged up her usual, let her go. That mister pushed her out of his way, the young lass pushed him back, and then the floor started . . . you know. You stumbled closer, grabbed mi stall and held on for dear life.

Old lady? I frown and lower my notepad. I don’t remember anyone else being there.

Mr. Glover shrugs, muscle and fat rolling together in waves. Bridgette’s easy to miss. She’s a quiet little mouse, that one. Old as the hills, too. Mi dad used to serve her, said she were old then, too. She were the only person closer to him than us two.

I don’t bother to argue, to explain that, as a god, I don’t miss anything. And the young lass who pushed Robert? What did she look like?

Pretty girl, she was. Tall, too. Long hair, like yours, but blonde and in an . . . erm, what you call it? Horse tail?

A ponytail, I correct as I take notes. Anything else about her?

Mr. Glover rubs his chin on his hand. Well, she did have some badge or something on her jacket, but I didn’t see it clearly. I were too busy sorting my stall.

Had you noticed the deceased before the earthquake? White male, in a gray business suit.

Oh, aye, that bugger I’d seen. I hate to speak ill of the dead, like, but he were the one who’d just barged past mi stall, elbowing old Bridgette in the back as he passed. Don’t think it were deliberate, but he were still a bit of a rude bugger. Then again, she’s lucky he pushed her out of his way. Only reason she’s alive.

Despite Mr. Glover’s keen face and eagle eye, he’s spotted nothing more, and I’m getting tired of trying to tease information from him. I thank him and let him go.

I look across at the milling crowd. It’s Sheffield, so for every other talkative, chirpy Yorkshire man, I’ll get a cocky comment on my being a) a female detective, b) from India, or c) much younger than them.

I hate these cases. Dozens of witnesses, yet nobody saw anything. How many times today will I hear the phrase, It all happened so fast? Hell, half of these people won’t even have been in this part of the market at the time. They’ll just be a nosy bystander who wanted to see what a body hit by a lump of concrete looks like. They’ll spend most of their time pushing to the front to gawp, being of no use what-so-ever. Especially since once they have had a good look, most of them will be looking for somewhere else to throw up.

Joe Ramsden is slacking off, as usual, this time by doing a tea round. I’ve watched him spend a good fifteen minutes on it, asking what people want, faffing about in local cafes, chatting up the waitresses.

Joe smiles at me as he heads over. I can smell the chili powder in the mug he’s holding out.

Not for me. Thanks, Joe. I slap his shoulder. Have it yourself. I don’t want one.

But, Sara . . . He glances at the steaming brew, and his lips curl.

Go on, spoil yourself. Take a sip, I say, leaning forward. Lovely hot tea.

He screws up his face and pretends to sip, the liquid barely touching his lips. Mmm, cheers. He backs away, the mug held at arms’ length as if it were a bomb.

I straighten my collar, tugging my coat into place. The heat of my annoyance fades. Joe’s a couple of evolutions short of a homo sapiens, I remind myself. Most humans are not like him.

DI, you need to see this, Higgins calls.

I look up, scanning the balconies. He leans over one to the right, waving. I trudge up the concrete and steel spiral staircase, looking down on the scene below.

The oldest part of the two-story building was constructed in the inter-war period. Now, it smells, it’s noisy, and it’s creaking at the seams. Loose vegetables crunch underfoot as people pass small shops and stalls with signs painted in the ’80s.

The two floors are linked by numerous walkways that appear to have been designed by Escher. Interlocking, repetitive patterns of curved ramps swoop and dance across the room. Small cracks appear in the concrete, and there’s a ragged hole just above Robert’s corpse.

The security officer is half-hidden behind a concrete pillar, and I nod to the uniform guarding the door. Higgins is more excitable than usual. It feels like he’s been scanning through the CCTV footage for an age. Seriously, how hard is it to use fast forward, anyway?

All I need is the few minutes before and after Robert died. As long as there’s even a hint of a clue to the identity of the person with the knife, I can Sherlock an answer from it and the others will agree with me, just so they don’t look stupid.

Have you solved the crime of the century? He doesn’t reply, staring at the bright TV screen. I peer over his shoulder and wait for him to explain what I already know. The guy was stabbed, and then pushed under the falling masonry. We need to catch the person who did it.

I’m too close; his scent annoys me. He’s not slathered with Brut like most of the other officers, but rather a soft hint of citrus.

Just watch. Michael is almost giddy now. Oh, to be that young and naïve.

I drag my eyes from his pink cheeks to the grainy images that show Robert’s final moments. The camera feed looks down over the market. It’s low quality, one frame per second, I’d say—barely more than snapshots of the crowd.

Tiny people scurry around the marketplace. I’m far enough into the crowd that I’m not actually visible on the tapes beyond hints of my back. Mr. Glover, the market stall owner, is a gray blur as he sells his produce.

There’s our victim. Higgins points at the screen.

Robert’s big moment arrives. He’s at the edge of the frame, yawning and oblivious, one hand clutching a newspaper, the other clutching his Starbucks. He’s pushing his way through the crowd, almost to the spot where he died. The earthquake is incoming, and so is the unknown assailant who stabbed him. Here it comes. Right about . . .

What is that? I say, pushing Michael away to pause the image. Forgetting my own, very real strength, his wheeled office chair flies across the tiles with a screech.

All I can see is that Robert’s fate has been shrouded in a bright, divine glow. The light emanates from the center of the action and spreads across the platform, obliterating my view.

Well, that’s new.

Huh, interesting. I try to sound neutral as the tape flares with a nuclear glow.

Eyeing Michael’s face as he slides back up to the desk, I try to gauge if he’s excited because he’s seen something on the tape, or if he can see the glow. Sometimes, these damned godly powers are more of a pain in the arse than they’re worth. Is the video there, and I’m seeing something supernatural, or can he see the glow, too?

Clean-up crew’s here, Sara—uh, DI, echoes a voice into the security office.

Okay, Bill. They know what to do. Give me a shout if they need anything special. And get those witnesses processed and out of here.

Will do. Bill’s voice fades as his footsteps stumble away. We need to get some beers in later, he calls, as if he didn’t already stink like a brewery.

Right. Back to far-too-adorable-for-his-own-good Higgins. His doe-eyed stare and buoyant grin are really not helping me figure out what he might have seen.

So, the tape—what do you think? He’s practically bouncing on the hard plastic seat, and I’m no closer to what it is I need from him. But I’m a good liar, always have been. Helps when your mum is the trickster goddess, Mohini. You learn to handle anything.

Leaning on the console, I tap the screen and raise an eyebrow. "Actually, Higgins— Michael, isn’t it? I’m more interested to know what you think. Word is . . . I lean in closer and drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, you’re a real up and comer. Good eye, ’n’ all that."

His smile widens, and his cheeks glow pink. Well, it looked like an accident to me, at first glance.

Michael doesn’t see the glow. Good. This might help. No suspicious activity, then? If he can ID the person who must have stabbed Robert, I can take over. But it still won’t tell me who might be powerful enough to obscure my sight. Another god, obviously. A griffin, perhaps. This area’s lousy with them, but they don’t usually have the power to dupe me. Faeries might. Bloody England and its faeries. Those little bastards do like to poke about and harass gods. Hmm . . .

Michael messes with the controls. He rewinds the tape and puts it into a frame-by-frame mode. I know better than to ask him to zoom in and enhance. This isn’t CSI: Miami. That stuff is impossible with such low resolution footage. On the screen, the earthquake is affecting the crowd and the rubble is moving toward its encounter with Robert. I can see someone next to him, but the glow has already begun. Long, thick hair, probably female, is about all I can tell. The young woman the stall owner mentioned? I have to trust Michael to be my sight for the tape now.

I had to slow it right down to see it, but this is definitely not an accident. Michael is so proud of himself. Congratulations, lad, you saw what I knew about an hour ago. Now, describe her so I can get the job done.

And there, you have it. Michael punches at the controls to pause the tape right on the brightest part of the glow. He stares at me, waits for my reaction.

Well, well. Good work, Higgins. Tell me what you see. I pat his shoulder and squint at the screen.

"The moment of the incident, the camera is showing us four people in the vicinity. You, just at the edge of the screen. Robert, off