I nodded. It had seemed like an odd comment at the time, but in hindsight it made even less sense. Could Hemingway see people’s deaths? I realized that his title probably came with a host of fringe benefits like that—although I’m not sure whether I’d consider that one a gift or a curse.
“I’ve been at this job a long, long time,” Hemingway continued. “And there are special cases, sometimes. People destined to be brought back, or ghosts who linger. But I sensed you were different.”
Hemingway paused, sighed, and sat back against the windowsill. “When I touched your field and it tried to draw me in, I realized that you couldn’t possibly be human.” This time when he met my gaze, I read the emotion in his eyes. I realized why he hadn’t told me; he hadn’t wanted to upset me.
Death had a conscience. Go figure.
“How is that possible?” Othello said.
“I don’t know,” Hemingway admitted. “It makes no sense to me, either. Everything about you, aside from your ability, screams human. You bleed, you age…you even smell like one.”
“I what?” I asked, gaping.
“My horse has a good nose for these sorts of things.”
I could have sworn I heard a horse’s whinny peal from his coat pocket.
“I still don’t understand, Quinn,” Othello said, shaking her head. She sat forward, resting her hand on my arm. “I am sure there’s an explanation.”
“Aye, there may be,” I replied. “When ye went diggin’ up information on me, before we met,” I began, “did ye ever find out anythin’ about me father? Any mention of who he might be?”
Othello shook her head, brow furrowed. “No, but I also was not looking that far back. Why?”
“I know all about me ma from Dez’s stories. But I don’t know anythin’ about him. Not even his name. All humans die, right?” I asked Hemingway, waiting for his affirmative before continuing. “Well, me ma died. Which means he’s the one. He has to be.” I clenched the crisp white linen bedsheets until my knuckles went white. “I’ve been lookin’ for me da for as long as I can remember, but it always felt like I was lookin’ in the wrong place.” I glanced at Othello. “That’s why I wanted to go to Fae. I t’ink he may be there, that he may be one of them. If I’m not human, maybe he can tell me what I am.”
Othello squeezed my arm. “I understand.”
“The Fae realm is a dangerous place,” Hemingway said, digesting the possibility. “But you may find your answers there. I’ve never heard of a hybrid—half-mortal, half-Fae—but being Death doesn’t come with omnipotence. I let Othello handle that side of things.” He and Othello grinned at each other.
“Well then,” I said, stretching. “I suppose it’s time I get cleared to leave.”
“Already?” Othello asked, concerned.
“Ye and I had a deal, didn’t we? I get ye the seed, and you’ll put me in touch with someone who’ll take me to Fae. I get what I want and, bonus, I put a stop to Armageddon. Meanwhile Death,” I said, grinning, “will owe me a favor.”
Hemingway frowned, but nodded.
I was so getting a horse.
Chapter 22
Serge, smiling wide, met us at the car—an uncanny replica of the one that had been blown to smithereens the night before. For a guy who’d taken an airbag to the face, not to mention survived an explosion, he looked ridiculously chipper. Othello wheeled me towards him; hospital policy said someone had to do it, and Hemingway had left shortly after I’d been discharged, promising to return if and when he could.
For once, I was sorry to see him go.
“Miss MacKenna! It is good you are well,” Serge said cheerfully, opening the car door.
“Aye, t’anks to ye,” I admitted.
Serge blushed. “It is my pleasure to help woman in need.”
“But,” I said, catching a glimpse of the silver collar around his throat, “how’d ye shift with that on?”
“I modified it,” Othello interjected. “I did not want anyone removing it the way you did. So instead I linked the collar to my phone.”
“Ye did what?”
Othello smirked. “It took some tricky coding, but I think magic and science have a lot to learn from one another.” She pulled out her phone—a slim black device which looked nothing like any model I’d ever seen—and showed me an app which read: Leash Law. “Once I knew you were in danger, I cancelled the spell on the collar remotely.”
Serge caught my awed expression and chuckled.
“What are ye laughin’ at? She’s scary,” I said. “Ye sure ye want to be takin’ orders from her?”
Othello bumped me as I clambered into the back. “Hush, or I will put a collar on you, too.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I muttered, grinning.
Serge waited until Othello had joined me in back before shutting the door. He pulled away from the curb of the hospital at a crawl. “So, where do we go?”
I fetched Milana’s card from my pocket. It was stained pink from blood, but still legible. The rest of my belongings, sadly, hadn’t survived the trip to the hospital; I’d had to send Othello to the gift shop downstairs to buy me clothes. She’d returned with a set of New York Jets-themed sweatpants and hoodie, both of which I would eventually have to burn and never speak of again.
“The hotel,” I said. “I’ve got an errand to run before we take on the cosmos.”
“We,” Othello clarified. “We have an errand to run.”
“Ye don’t need to do that,” I said. “Ye have a business to manage and board members to please.”
“Perhaps. But you are my friend, and because of me, you were hurt. I won’t risk that happening again. We’ll stick together from now on.”
There was no point arguing further. If Othello wanted to tag along to meet Milana, fine. Once that was done, and Terry had been found, I’d insist she leave. Having Othello nearby was reassuring; her detective skills alone made her as valuable as any Freak out there. But if Heaven and Hell came knocking on our door again, I wouldn’t be able to protect her. She’d be a liability and could end up seriously hurt, or worse.
I couldn’t let that happen.
That settled, I booked an appointment to meet with one of the nine Muses later that day. It could have waited, sure, but—truthfully—I was worried about our odds of making it out of this thing in one piece. Tanya and her mother deserved closure, one way or the other.
And I intended to give it to them.
Chapter 23
Milana’s agency, GRK Model Management, sat squarely in the middle of Greenwich Village—one of those quaint brick buildings with thick glass windows and ivy running up and down the sides that one sometimes sees in New York, but could never afford to buy. Othello and I lounged in the lobby downstairs. We’d sent Serge on ahead to stake out Chapman’s hotel and report to us at regular intervals. That way, if Chapman made a move, we’d know it.
The lobby was cozy, with a large sectional taking over one corner of the room, which is where we’d been told to wait. Our appointment time had come and gone, but no one seemed to be in any hurry, so we took the opportunity to peruse the various fashion magazines on display, casually remarking on the shifting trends—sheer skirts, plaid raincoats, and socks with heels.
“Genius,” Othello said. “Pure genius.”
“We’re takin’ it back,” I said. “One smart weather decision at a time. Ye watch, by next year the ushanka will be all the rage.”
Othello snorted.
The woman at the front desk, lovely enough to be a model herself, if a bit short, waved to get our attention. “Milana will see you now.” I scanned the room and she pointed up the staircase towards two individuals working their way down, arms linked, as if to clarify.
The first, a handsome, young, Asian man, laughed at something said by his companion—a tall, dark individual with a mound of luxurious hair drawn back into a loose bun, whose features were exceptionally androgynous. It was this person who met us at the base of
the stairs with an implacable gaze and knowing smile.
“I’ll be right with you, ladies,” Milana said, huskily, giving the young Asian man a once-over before popping the top button of his shirt and swiping a hand through his hair. She stepped away, and suddenly I could see that he wasn’t handsome, but beautiful; his skin flawless and smooth, his body trim and fit. He grinned and headed out the door, oblivious to Othello and I’s leering gazes.
“The boy landed a scent campaign this morning,” Milana explained as she waved him goodbye. “He’s very excited.”
“Which scent?” I asked, trying to be conversational as I pried my eyes away.
“It’s Johnson Beaver’s newest scent. Boy Toy, I think it’s called.” Milana caught my incredulous expression and smirked. “You should have seen what the Greeks did with the boys, if you think that’s in poor taste.”
“I didn’t say anythin’,” I replied.
“So, you’re here about Terry,” Milana said, ascending the stairs, clearly expecting us to follow.
“We are. We were hopin’ ye could tell us whether or not ye met, and where ye last saw her. Her family is really worried.”
“We’ll talk more in my office,” Milana said.
We trailed her up the stairs and I realized that Milana, in her grey pantsuit and boots, cut a rather robust figure—her shoulders broad and muscular enough to shame a female bodybuilder, her thighs thick and sweeping, with an ass that refused to jiggle. Between that, the throaty timbre of her voice, and her makeup-less face, she gave off a jarringly masculine vibe.
Milana’s office was decorated in a modern style that looked like it could have come straight from IKEA’s showroom floor—a mixture of chrome and glass encased in white with flashes of color here and there to break up the monotony. She strode over to her desk and took a seat, encouraging us to do the same with a wave of her hand.
“When was the last time you heard from Terry?” Milana asked.
Othello and I exchanged looks.
“She’s a family friend,” I explained. “I’m here on her sister’s behalf. She hasn’t been heard from in several weeks, from what I understand.”
Milana steepled her fingers in front of her mouth and frowned, clearly displeased by something. “Terry came to see me about a week ago. My sister, who you met, saw her potential for what it was. I’ll admit I was eager to sign her. So eager, in fact, that when she told me more about her situation, I immediately encouraged her to move into one of our model apartments in Brooklyn. It’s hard for the girls who come from elsewhere, especially without the support of their families. Putting them up in one of our model apartments minimizes their risk and allows them time to go to castings and find work.”
“It does not hurt your bottom line, either,” Othello remarked, snidely. “You become their agent and their landlord. Ten percent off the top and you take the rent out of their paychecks.”
Milana dipped her head in acknowledgment. “This industry is remarkably cutthroat. Yes, I double-dip, as it were. But it doesn’t always pan out. Say a girl comes to the city hoping to become famous. She stays at our apartment for three months, books only a few jobs, and makes maybe a few hundred dollars. She decides she wants to go home. We do not force her to stay. More importantly, despite the fact that she owes us three month’s rent, we eat the cost. There is no debt involved.”
I crossed my legs and considered Milana’s position. In a way, Othello was right; skimming the extra income was a mercenary practice. But Milana’s arrangement meant the chances of eviction—of being mercilessly forced onto the street when unable to pay that month’s rent—were significantly decreased. If I’d had that opportunity when I’d first come to New York, I’d have taken it in a heartbeat.
“So, did she move in?” I asked, returning to the subject at hand.
“She did. She was in the process of finding a job, last we spoke. I encourage my models to work on the side. Something flexible, preferably on weekends, like waiting tables. She was very excited. Thankful. It’s nice, representing girls like her, girls who appreciate the opportunity for what it is.”
“Which is what, exactly?” I asked, curious. I found Milana’s take on things surprisingly refreshing. I’d expected someone more flamboyant and ridiculous—an eccentric consumed by fashion, somewhere between Lagerfeld and Quant. It was a welcome change from Austina’s paranoia and obsession with status.
Milana paused to consider the question. “You could say that the attention is the most important thing. Many models crave it. Traveling to exotic locations and attending glamourous parties. Being known and catered to…” Milana waved these away as if dismissing them. “The truth, however, is that every social interaction is dictated by how one looks. Symmetry and aesthetics. This industry helps shape perception. It defies convention and stagnation. Our models become a part of that. Standards of beauty are established, and—as a result—society grinds on.”
“Ye make it seem almost philosophical, what ye do,” I said, smirking.
Milana grinned. “Do you know who invented philosophy?”
I sighed. “The Greeks?”
“Very good.” Milana paused and gave me a once over, studying me like you might an anatomical drawing—intrigued by my individual parts, but without agenda. “Have you ever considered modeling, yourself? You have very unique features. And so tall,” she noted.
I grinned. “Ye couldn’t afford me. Besides, unless scars are in season, I don’t t’ink I’m your girl.”
Milana shrugged. “You have my card, if you reconsider. I think you’d be surprised what society likes or dislikes. Times change. Names change. Years ago, I would have been vilified for dressing as a man. Now such things are common, even encouraged.”
“Unlike my sisters, I find beauty in function as well as form,” Milana said, rising to pop the button of her suit jacket and peel it off, revealing a stylish V-necked tank top, a thick clavicle, and an expanse of smooth, rippling muscle. She slung the jacket over her chair. “Perhaps that’s why I chose to represent the children of this age. They defy our outdated standards and our antiquated classifications…but I digress. I believe we were talking about the disappearances.”
“Disappearances?” Othello asked. “As in, more than one?”
Milana sighed. “So it seems. Terry is one of a handful who have gone missing across several agencies. Most are unaware of the trend, but I pay attention to such things.”
“Have ye reported it to the authorities?” I asked.
“Your mortal police? Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“A few missing models around the legal drinking age in a city this size? I doubt I would be taken seriously. And besides, I find it’s best to avoid their attention. Detectives are often too astute for their own good; they can’t help themselves from poking around.”
I grunted, thinking of Jimmy. When we’d first met, after nearly a decade apart, I’d gone out of my way to keep him in the dark and out of harm’s way, but he’d refused to believe my half-truths and excuses. In the end, that obstinacy had almost gotten us both killed. Maybe Milana was right.
“Besides,” Milana continued, “I have no idea what happened to them, only suspicions. Rumors. The sort that Regulars would find childish or crazy.”
“What rumors?” I asked.
“From what I’ve been told, the vampires in this city have become restless. The Master here used to keep a low profile, but lately things have changed. His vampires have become bolder, even reckless. I believe the abductions are related. Official channels say that the Sanguine Council plans to send a representative to New York City to…evaluate things. But I fear it may be too late for Terry and the others.”
“Can’t ye step in?” I asked. “You’re a goddess, after all.”
Milana’s smile was condescending at best. “I’m afraid you have things confused. We gods and goddesses are powerful. Immensely so, depending on the circumstances. But we are not free to act without consequence.
Interfering is reserved for mortals, and mortals alone. The heroes you read about—Achilles, Hercules, Odysseus—were all mortals when they made their marks on the world. Exceptional, but mortal.”
Othello muttered something under her breath.
“What?” I asked.
“I said ‘Hercules was an exceptional asshole.’ He nearly killed a friend of mine,” Othello clarified.
Milana arced an eyebrow. “Your friend survived Hercules?”
“She killed him.”
Milana’s sharp intake of breath caught me by surprise. “A woman killed Hercules?”
Othello nodded, then grinned. “Achilles is a pretty good guy, though. Great calves.”
Milana leaned forward onto the desk, more than a little shaken by Othello’s admission. She studied Othello. “So, you must be one of those who fought against the Greeks when Athena called. One of Master Temple’s people.”
“I work in his IT Department,” Othello quipped.
“My sisters and I were not called,” Milana said, a brief flash of anger flitting over her face. “It seems I was not worthy to fight alongside my people.”
“Against us?” Othello asked, her amused expression gone in an instant. “That would have been unwise.”
I shot Othello a guarded look. While I agreed with the sentiment, I didn’t really think pissing off a goddess in her office was the wisest move. Especially one we needed answers from.
Milana shook her head mournfully. “You misunderstand. Not to fight against anyone in particular, but to be given that chance. It’s a dream of mine, to fight, to pit my strength against others…but I am a Muse, born to inspire, not to wage war.”
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