Cosmopolitan

by Shayne Silvers

  “Of course. Every brilliant thing mankind has done can be traced back to the Greeks. Modern medicine? Greeks. Astronomy? Greeks. Maps? Greeks. Civilization?”

  “Greeks?” I offered, sarcastically.

  “Greeks,” Austina affirmed, solemnly.

  “Right…” I didn’t feel compelled to argue. My sole experience with Greek culture was limited to a guy I’d dated a few years back who’d turned out to be a bit of a misogynistic scumbag—not exactly a worthwhile sample size. “Anyway, that’s how I knew you’d be here,” I said. “But obviously there wasn’t anythin’ written there about Freaks, one way or the other.”

  The drinks arrived. Austina took hers and sipped on it for a moment, considering my response. She grunted, again. “Alright, let’s say I believe you, and that you aren’t yet another attractive, but ultimately talentless, mortal looking for stardom…ask your questions.”

  My brow furrowed, but I ignored her insinuation. “A friend of mine went missin’ a little while back,” I said, “and the last appointment she made was to see you. I was hopin’ to at least find out whether or not ye met with her.”

  “Name?” Austina held out her hand. The bodyguard I hadn’t maimed handed her a small tablet. She tapped it with a stylus a few times before looking up at me, expectantly.

  “Oh, Terry Mutschler.”

  “Mutschler…No. I have a Terry Moore?”

  I shrugged. “Could be?”

  “Gorgeous, a little shorter than you? Big, blue eyes? A body to make Aphrodite jealous?”

  “Sounds about right. Did ye meet with her, then?”

  “I did. I remember her specifically because the girl had no range. No talent for writing lyrics. She fumbled through most of the chords on her guitar. Usually my people vet someone thoroughly before sending them my way. Saves me time. Occasionally I’ll find a raw talent and sign them immediately—that’s what I did with Johnson Beaver, you know—but that’s rare. I complained to my assistant, but she said the girl had booked an appointment without references, which never happens.” Austina shrugged.

  “Were ye mean to her?” I asked, testily. I could only imagine Terry’s reaction. A girl struggling to make it in the big city being told she was talentless by someone like Austina? Maybe that’s what had driven her away. Shame alone might have kept her from calling home.

  “Of course not,” Austina retorted. “Just because I couldn’t stand listening to her doesn’t mean I’m blind. Girls that look like that can make a lot of money. She could be the next Heidi Klum, the next Gisele. I sent her to my sibling, Milana.”

  “Your sibling?”

  Austina polished off her drink, then leaned in until our faces were almost touching. Gold poured from her pupils, flooding her irises and finally pooling in the sclera until her eyes were all the same shade of molten metal. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “You’re Austina—”

  She barked a laugh. “That’s a name, but not my name. The names my sisters and I choose are linked to our natures and vary depending on the era. Austina, as in Austin, Texas, the Live Music Capitol of the World. Milana, as in Milan, the Fashion Capitol of Fashion Capitols. Did you really not know?”

  “Know what?” I asked, utterly baffled by the course of our conversation. It was almost as if she was offended I had no other agenda other than to find Terry. I wondered if this was how famous people ended up: always aching to be recognized and worshipped.

  “Know that you sought one of the Muses.”

  “The what?”

  “The Muses.” Austina studied me and sighed, clearly exasperated. “The Nine Muses. Daughters of Zeus. The Zeus.” She settled back and smiled, her eyes reflecting neon strobes. “Surely you’ve heard of him?”

  I nodded, dumbly.

  “Of course,” Austina said, wryly. “Everyone’s heard of him.”

  I took a second to compose myself. A daughter of Zeus. I was talking to a daughter of Zeus. A Muse. One of the nine goddesses responsible for pretty much every notably inspired act that had ever taken place. And yet, for the life of me, all I could think was that she looked nothing like the cartoon songstresses in Hercules.

  I wisely kept that thought to myself.

  She slipped a card onto the middle of the table, “Take this. Oh, and I don’t ever want to see you here again, understood?” Before I could respond, she and her bodyguards became golden statues and melted before my eyes, leaving behind a puddle of liquid gold that pooled at our feet. A nearby waitress hurriedly mopped it up, oblivious to the precious metal staining her hands.

  Talk about a flashy exit.

  Chapter 16

  Serge drove us back to the hotel, dodging the late-night traffic—mostly taxis and Ubers at this point in the evening. I thumbed the card Austina had given me, studying the card stock, running my fingers over the embossed letter M emblazoned on the front. Austina had assured me that she’d let her sister know I would be in touch, which would save me the trouble of having to stake out yet another Muse.

  I still wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole meeting a goddess thing. I mean, sure, I’d run into Sun Wukong the Monkey King—one of the gods of the Chinese pantheon—only a few weeks ago. But that had been in an alternate dimension, after going through a portal that wasn’t supposed to exist. Looking back on it, the whole experience seemed so surreal that some days I wondered whether I’d made it all up—a lucid fever dream of some kind, maybe. But this? Meeting a goddess at a Manhattan nightclub? That had definitely happened. Hadn’t it?

  Ironically, I’d met an angel only a few hours earlier and hardly batted an eye. I think, deep down, that my Catholic indoctrination was to blame—angels and demons I could wrap my head around, but the idea that gods actually existed, gods that were worshipped before the God, directly contradicted everything I’d been taught growing up. Bizarrely, I found myself facing, not so much a crisis of faith, but a crisis of proof.

  Othello’s ringtone stopped me from dwelling on all things cosmic. It even made me grin a little.

  “About time,” I said, humming the From Russia With Love theme song under my breath.

  “Sorry, board meetings. Have to occasionally reassure our investors that we won’t sell the company to a competitor for no reason.”

  “Is that normal?”

  Othello chuckled. “Define normal.”

  “Fair point,” I replied. “So, guess who met a goddess a few minutes ago?”

  “You? That’s nice. Which one?”

  “Which…Othello, a goddess. A real one. With gold eyes and everythin’.”

  “Well that’s different. I’ve only run across a few gods working for Nate, but I don’t recall any of them having eyes that glowed. But then again, it’s easy to get distracted. I mean, Ganesh has the head of an elephant, and Shiva has like four arms.”

  I realized I was gaping. I closed my mouth and pursed my lips. “Well, fine, whatever. Way to ruin it for me.”

  Othello laughed at me, not bothering to soothe my injured pride.

  “Anyway,” I continued, spitefully, “did ye listen to me voicemails?”

  “I did. And I’m sorry. One of the sources I pulled mentioned something about angel involvement, but it was one of many rumors I picked up. I was hoping you’d be able put in your bid before anyone else came sniffing around. The broker only came into town yesterday.”

  “Johnny Appleseed, ye mean,” I clarified, my tone disapproving.

  “Yes, about that,” Othello said. “Did you call him ‘sexy’ in one of your voicemails?”

  I grunted. “So?”

  “Nothing,” Othello said, giggling. “Nothing at all.”

  “Ye just wait ‘til ye see him for yourself,” I said, huffing.

  “Sure, sure. Anyway, tell me more about this goddess you met.”

  I filled her in on Terry’s meeting with Austina, as well as where Austina fell in the Greek pantheon. The news that I’d met a goddess hadn’t surprised her, but the fact that she wa
s Greek seemed to make her a little leery.

  “Old wounds,” Othello said, “that’s all. The last Greek goddess we tangled with caused a lot of mayhem. We were lucky to walk away from it.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Othello paused, as if unsure whether to tell me. I was seconds away from changing the subject when she sighed. “Nate killed her.”

  “He what?”

  “It was a war. And one thing you’ll learn about Nate, about all of us, really, is that we take care of our own. Anyone who hurts us pays.” I sensed something lurking beneath her words, a past experience, perhaps. A painful memory.

  The intensity in Othello’s voice shocked me more than the sentiment. I decided not to pry; I had plenty of my own painful memories, after all. “I understand completely. No one fucks with me and mine and walks away.” I pictured the mortified face of the wizard who’d kidnapped my aunt—the terrified expression he wore right before he was taken by the monster who would eventually kill him—and smiled. “No one.”

  “I know,” Othello said, her tone brightening. “That’s why we’re friends.”

  We were still laughing when something big struck the car from the side, tearing into it. My phone flew out of my hand and landed on the floorboards. I screamed in shock, ducked away from the spray of glass and the sound of metal shredding, and clipped my head hard against the window.

  There was a blinding flash of pain.

  And then, for a moment, silence.

  Chapter 17

  The sound of Othello’s tinny voice screeching nearby brought me out of my daze. My phone had survived somehow; I could see the pale blue glow on the floorboard only a foot away, but I couldn’t reach it. My hands wouldn’t move. Something wet was running down my face, threatening to drip into my eye. I blinked it away once. And again.

  “Quinn! Quinn, are you alright?!”

  The pain hit me all at once, like a wave breaking inside my body. I whimpered from the sensation but ground my teeth to stop from crying out; I’d been hurt before—I knew how to push pain aside. What I needed, first and foremost, was to get the hell out of the car before we got hit again, or the gas tank blew. Adrenaline poured through me and I managed to sit up, groggily. I fumbled in my attempts to reach my phone, but finally got it to my ear. “I’m here,” I said.

  “What happened?!”

  I held the phone away from my ear. “Shout a little quieter, would ye?” I muttered. “Somethin’ hit us.”

  “An accident? Hold on, I’ll pull up the tracker and get an ambulance there right away. I’m sure there’s traffic footage, too.”

  “Aye, ye do that. I’ll be here.” I wiped the liquid away from my face. My hand came away slick and sticky with blood. I glanced down at myself and realized it had run down my front, too, ruining my top. “Son of a bitch!” I cursed.

  “What is it?” Othello asked, distracted, but concerned.

  “Nothin’, never ye mind.”

  “How’s Serge?” Othello asked.

  Oh, right. The driver. I studied the car’s interior and noticed the passenger side looked completely wrong—the whole of it had been punched in, dented so severely that I couldn’t distinguish the leather seats from the metal. Serge was slumped forward onto the airbag, unconscious. I reached around, dipped my bloody fingers under the collar around his throat, and felt for a pulse.

  “He’s fine,” I said. “Well, as fine as can be expected, considerin’ we got in an accident.”

  “Quinn, I don’t think it was an accident.”

  “What do ye mean?” I shuffled until I could see out the window, trying to get a better look at who had hit us. Whoever it was, they would be lucky to have survived. Hell, we were lucky to have survived. As I sought out the other vehicle, I realized there was surprisingly little sound. Even this late, I’d expect to hear sirens and horns blaring and such; in New York, any traffic hiccup became a logistical nightmare, so road collisions were usually handled pretty quickly.

  That’s when I saw what had hit us.

  “Quinn, wake up Serge! Now. You have to get out of there.”

  “Little late for that,” I whispered.

  The rear passenger side door, little more than a mangled sheet of metal at this point, was torn off its hinges and flung out onto the street. A creature—humanoid, but only just—thrust its face into the hole it’d created, cavernous sockets where the eyes should have been, a face carved from granite and glass. When it spoke, the pain in my head intensified, landing somewhere between chewing on aluminum foil and the worst migraine I’d ever had.

  “Give us the seed.”

  I cursed and held my phone up directly to my mouth. “Othello, I am goin’ to kill ye if I end up dyin’ here over some Goddamned plant!”

  The creature flinched.

  “Hold on, I’ll see what I can do,” Othello replied, then hung up. I stared at my phone in disbelief, then groaned and shoved it into my jacket pocket. The creature put two massive hands on either side of the hole it’d created and pried it wider. “Come out, give us the seed, and we will leave you to the care of your mortal doctors.”

  “I don’t have the seed, ye daft rock,” I said, glaring at him.

  “We saw you leave the hotel. We know you met with one of the Grigori. You are the seed bearer.”

  I grimaced. “Please tell me that’s not the term ye plan to go with. I’m not bearin’ anyone’s seed anytime soon.”

  The cragged face of the creature, coupled with the lack of eyes, made gauging its expression tricky, but I was beginning to sense impatience. “The name is unimportant, only the seed matters.”

  “Speakin’ of names,” I said, buying time, “what’s yours? I can’t go around callin’ ye Rock Biter.”

  The creature took the hood of the car and slowly peeled it back, the shriek of metal like nails on a chalkboard. “I am Gomorrah.”

  I pinned my hands over my ears and shouted, “Like Gomorrah, Gomorrah? Sodom and Gomorrah, Gomorrah?”

  “Yes. I was born in the ashes of that city and hold the souls of those who were punished.”

  “So are ye a demon, then?” I asked.

  “I serve.”

  “Cause that’s not vague,” I muttered. With the roof nearly torn off, I could see Gomorrah’s entire body: a mass of stone held together by sand and flame that glittered like glass in some places—he looked every bit the nightmare you’d expect. Once he’d made room for his massive torso, he hunched forward, reaching for me.

  I squirmed away. “I told ye, I don’t have the damn seed!”

  “Then I will bring you back to the Marquis. He will not be pleased.”

  Gomorrah finally got his massive hands around my legs, but when he drew back, nothing happened. I’d slipped out of his grasp as smoothly as a wriggling fish. He tried again. Nothing.

  I laughed, mostly delirious from blood loss and adrenaline at this point. It all made sense; it was like Karim had said: oil and water. Of course, that didn’t solve my immediate problem. I still had a head wound to deal with, and the possibility that the car could explode had only risen thanks to Gomorrah’s demon-handling of the door and roof. Then there was Serge. Getting him out and dragging him to safety would be a bitch under any circumstance. I glanced over to make sure he was still alright.

  Except Serge wasn’t there.

  The driver’s seat was empty, the airbag hanging limp near the floorboard, slashed open. I must not have heard him get out over the sound of Gomorrah peeling the car apart like a tin can. I hoped he’d gone for help, although I was pretty sure the NYPD weren’t equipped to take this thing down. Maybe SWAT would have an answer. That’s when I heard it: a familiar howl echo from the other side of the car. I didn’t need to look to know what I’d see: a bipedal, barrel-chested skinwalker, vaguely shaped like a werewolf, eyes glowing green.

  Serge hadn’t gone for help. Serge was the help.

  Chapter 18

  Gomorrah looked up in time to catch a skinwalker with his f
ace. Serge—the silver collar still wrapped around his throat—landed on top of the demon, claws extended. He swung down again and again, gouging into Gomorrah’s upper body, sending stone chips and sparks flying. I realized the skinwalker was repeating something, a mantra, in that eerie, disembodied voice of his.

  “Mine, mine, mine, mine…”

  I blocked that out; I wasn’t trying to dwell on what that meant. As much as I appreciated Serge’s interference, I wasn’t sure how long he could hold off the demon, which meant I needed to take advantage of the time I had. The hole Gomorrah had made was wide enough for me to climb through, but then I risked getting caught in the middle of their fight. What I needed was to get as far away as possible.

  I turned, fiddling with the handle on the driver side. The door was stuck, probably pinned closed after the collision. I swung around and lay back, cocking both feet in the air. I kicked the door as hard as I could. Once. Twice. I could hear Serge’s labored breathing and Gomorrah shifting on the ground, his rocky skin digging into the pavement.

  I kicked a final time, throwing all my weight and what little energy I had left into it. I heard the metal groan and, when I tried the door this time, it gave with an ear-piercing squeal, opening wide enough for me to slip through. I scurried out and took off down the street, baffled by the lack of pedestrians. Where was everyone? I stopped and studied the intersection behind me. Serge was squaring off against Gomorrah, who’d finally clambered back to his feet. Aside from the two of them, there wasn’t a single individual on the street. It reminded me of what Darrel had done at Penn Station, times a hundred. Had Gomorrah done that? “But how…?” I asked myself, my ears ringing.

  “My doing,” a voice whispered over my shoulder.

  I spun around too quickly for my injured body to handle, stumbled, and went down onto one knee. A figure sat on the trunk of a car a few feet away—a reedy, older man, the skin of his face and neck covered in scars. He kicked his legs like a child on a roller coaster, rocking the car back and forth slightly. “The Marquis would like to have a word with you, if you please.”