American Gods by Neil Gaiman

tooth.
    â€œDon’t tell them cow-killing stories.” Zorya Utrennyaya carried in their coffee on a red wooden tray, in small brightly enameled cups. She gave them each a cup, then sat beside Czernobog.
    â€œZorya Vechernyaya is doing shopping,” she said. “She will be soon back.”
    â€œWe met her downstairs,” said Shadow. “She says she tells fortunes.”
    â€œYes,” said her sister. “In the twilight, that is the time for lies. I do not tell good lies, so I am a poor fortune-teller. And our sister, Zorya Polunochnaya, she can tell no lies at all.”
    The coffee was even sweeter and stronger than Shadow had expected.
    Shadow excused himself to use the bathroom—a closetlike room, hung with several brown-spotted framed photographs of men and women in stiff Victorian poses. It was early afternoon, but already the daylight was beginning to fade. He heard voices raised from down the hall. He washed his hands in icy-cold water with a sickly-smelling sliver of pink soap.
    Czernobog was standing in the hall as Shadow came out.
    â€œYou bring trouble!” he was shouting. “Nothing but trouble! I will not listen! You will get out of my house!”
    Wednesday was still sitting on the sofa, sipping his coffee, stroking the gray cat. Zorya Utrennyaya stood on the thin carpet, one hand nervously twining in and out of her long yellow hair.
    â€œIs there a problem?” asked Shadow.
    â€œHe is the problem!” shouted Czernobog. “He is! You tell him that there is nothing will make me help him! I want him to go! I want him out of here! Both of you go!”
    â€œPlease,” said Zorya Utrennyaya. “Please be quiet, you wake up Zorya Polunochnaya.”
    â€œYou are like him, you want me to join his madness!” shouted Czernobog. He looked as if he was on the verge of tears. A pillar of ash tumbled from his cigarette onto the threadbare hall carpet.
    Wednesday stood up, walked over to Czernobog. He rested his hand on Czernobog’s shoulder. “Listen,” he said, peaceably. “Firstly, it’s not madness. It’s the only way. Secondly, everyone will be there. You would not want to be left out, would you?”
    â€œYou know who I am,” said Czernobog. “You know what these hands have done. You want my brother, not me. And he’s gone.”
    A door in the hallway opened, and a sleepy female voice said, “Is something wrong?”
    â€œNothing is wrong, my sister,” said Zorya Utrennyaya, “Go back to sleep.” Then she turned to Czernobog. “See? See what you do with all your shouting? You go back in there and sit down. Sit!” Czernobog looked as if he were about to protest; and then the fight went out of him. He looked frail, suddenly: frail, and lonely.
    The three men went back into the shabby sitting room. There was a brown nicotine ring around that room that ended about a foot from the ceiling, like the tide line in an old bathtub.
    â€œIt doesn’t have to be for you,” said Wednesday to Czernobog, unfazed. “If it is for your brother, it’s for you as well. That’s one place you dualistic types have it over the rest of us, eh?”
    Czernobog said nothing.
    â€œSpeaking of Bielebog, have you heard anything from him?”
    Czernobog shook his head. He looked up at Shadow. “Do you have a brother?”
    â€œNo,” said Shadow. “Not that I know of.”
    â€œI have a brother. They say, you put us together, we are like one person, you know? When we are young, his hair, it is very blond, very light, his eyes are blue, and people say, he is the good one. And my hair it is very dark, darker than yours even, and people say I am the rogue, you know? I am the bad one. And now time passes, and my hair is gray. His hair, too, I think, is gray. And you look at us, you would not know who was light, who was dark.”
    â€œWere you close?” asked