A Season of Gods and Witches

by Bloome, Alice

  The last time I was here, I had been on a date with Paul, and the room had been decorated like a French country dining room with warm limestone floors, cherry-colored stucco walls, and even a crystal chandelier sparkling above a beautifully set table for two located across a majestic fireplace.

  Tonight, however, the room looked like a cafeteria straight out of Silver Mist High, with the walls painted a boring shade of gray and the entire room’s furniture reduced to a wall-mounted chalkboard menu, a single white table, and a pair of blue plastic benches.

  “Really, Mr. P?” I was torn between rolling my eyes and bursting into laughter at the satyr’s lack of subtlety.

  “Your companion’s assured me that this is nothing but a dinner date between friends,” the satyr retorted. “I just want your surroundings to properly reflect Mr. Stratios’ sentiments.”

  Pan departed in a huff after that, leaving me to wince as I turned to Jason so I could apologize on the satyr’s behalf. “I’m so sorry about this,” I told him with a sigh. “I had no idea Mr. P would act like this.”

  “I did,” Jason admitted with a wry twist of his lips. “You obviously don’t know this, but Paul used to be Pan’s student.”

  I was incredulous. “I’ve read a couple of human-authored mythology books mentioning that,” I shared dubiously, “but I thought it was just one of those many things human authors got wrong.”

  “Pan is older than most of the pantheon,” Jason explained, “and Apollo was the only Olympian he had taken under his wing.”

  This was news to me, and I struggled against the instinctive urge to immediately fill out a request form so I could visit Clio’s library and look up Paul’s past. That would be tantamount to Facebook stalking, and I never wanted to be that type of woman.

  “You could ask me about him, you know.”

  I made a face at Jason’s offer, certain that my too-expressive face was once again at fault. “You know I can’t.”

  “You’re his girlfriend, aren’t you?” Jason’s tone was smooth. “Don’t you think that entitles you to know what you wish about him?”

  “If there’s something I want to know about Paul,” I said firmly, “I’ll either ask him or wait for him to tell me myself. And with that said – may we please stop talking about Paul now? It just feels weird talking to you about him.”

  I was relieved when Jason agreed with amiable humor, and the conversation turned to food as we perused Panda’s dinner menu. Nix’s face magically popped up on the chalkboard to take our orders, and after ten minutes, she appeared in person to deliver our food.

  Nix’s hairstyle tonight was a tri-colored combo: lilac, carnation pink, and a streak of silver right in the middle. According to Pan, it was the younger witch’s way of rebelling against tradition, and so once in a while the older folks pretended to be disapproving of it when in truth, everyone simply thought it made her look cute.

  “Baked salmon for milady—-”

  I rolled my eyes at Nix’s usual love for theatrics.

  “And medium rare steak for the gentleman—-” As she presented Jason’s dish with flourish, she then added mischievously, “—-who happens to be tonight’s Mystery Hunk.”

  The last words had me choking, but Jason simply took it in stride, asking with a grin, “Is that your way of asking what my real name is?”

  “You got me.” Nix’s grin was unabashed. “And it’s a fake name, isn’t it?” Her gaze narrowed. “I mean, you can’t be the Jason from the books, can you?”

  Jason laughed. “No, I’m not that Jason.”

  And no matter how much Nix tried to sweet-talk him into saying more, the younger witch eventually had to leave without having been able to wrangle any other piece of information from him.

  “I’ve never seen anyone deal with Nix so skillfully like that,” I told him truthfully, having seen with my own eyes how most people were usually helpless against the younger woman’s playful charm.

  “I haven’t lived this many centuries to remain a pushover,” Jason said dryly. “But who knows? Maybe I’m just waiting for the right woman to come along...”

  “Drop the act,” I told him with a laugh. “The reason why we became friends in the first place was because I’m not the right woman—-” The sudden beep from my iPhone cut me off, and I smiled apologetically at Jason. “Sorry, this is work.” After taking my phone out of my pocket, I tapped on the new email notification that had popped up on the screen.

  It was from INTERPOL, and the message that came with it was short to the point. Paul’s team had found a hit for the tagline.

  A Face That Can Launch A Thousand Ships

  “Bad news, I take it?” Jason asked when I dropped my phone back into my pocket.

  “I’m not sure yet.” I glanced at my watch and saw that it was barely eight. Three hours ahead of Pacific Time, I thought.

  “I’d never have taken you for the crime-fighting type,” Jason remarked.

  “I never thought you weren’t human either,” I returned without missing a beat, and Jason laughed.

  “Is that your way of asking me who I really am?”

  “It’s something I’d like to know,” I acknowledged wryly, “but it’s not something I need you to answer. However—-” I crossed my arms over my chest and gazed at him straight in the eye. “I would have to be blind not to notice that something’s not right between Paul and you.”

  “And you want to know what it is?”

  I shook my head with a sigh. “I’ve never been the type to go after the specifics, okay? So what I really want to know is simple, and while I know there’s no way for me to make sure you won’t lie to me, I’ll ask it anyway – will continuing to be your friend hurt Paul?”

  A long moment of silence followed before a humorless smile twisted over Jason’s lips. And then he said simply, “Yes.”

  Chapter Ten

  Just like a goddess, immortal, awe-inspiring. She’s beautiful.

  But nonetheless let her go back with the ships.

  “Agent Vavrin? I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Ms. Anatolia is ready to speak with you now.”

  The receptionist’s cool, almost robotic-like voice from the other end of the line had me quickly snapping my book close. It was one of the history tomes I obtained from Clio’s library, and as such presented factual evidence, along with verified accountings, to either validate or dispute human-known versions of Greek mythology.

  “Ellen Anatolia speaking.”

  I repressed an instinctive shudder at the musical perfection of the other woman’s voice and tried not to think of how many innocent people had to die to afford Helen of Troy a nightingale’s voice.

  The price Helen had been willing to pay for her beauty was just one of the many little-known truths Clio’s history book disclosed, and much of Helen’s mysterious background had also been discussed. Contrary to Helen being born a princess for instance, Clio shared proof of how Helen was actually an ambitious but plain-looking girl born in a peasant family and how, at the tender age of seven, Helen had already begun worshipping Empusa, Hecate’s forsaken daughter.

  In the muse of history’s own words, Empusa was “a goddess whose bitterness over her physical deformation eventually mutated into a dastardly love for foul acts committed in the name of beauty.”

  In plain speak: Empusa was Ancient Greece’s version of a nip/tuck surgeon in Beverly Hills, which, not surprisingly, had served as Helen’s home for the past few decades.

  After making sure that I still had my time right – eight-fifteen here, which meant five-fifteen in the afternoon in sunny California – I cleared my throat, saying, “Good afternoon, Ms. Anatolia. Thanks for taking my call at short notice.”

  “It’s not like I have a choice, Agent Vavrin.”

  First shot fired, I thought, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

  Another thing Empusa was infamous for was her preferred mode of payment, which was neither cash nor card but blood. The bloodier, the prettier had
been the goddess’ motto, and considering how much blood had been spilled by both sides during the Trojan War – well, let’s just say that if pre-war Helen had been beautiful enough to make a lovesick prince risk his entire nation for her, post-war Helen’s beauty was so breathtaking it could probably inspire even the most levelheaded ruler to spearhead a genocide campaign against his own people.

  Thankfully, though, history would no longer be allowed to repeat itself in this instance.

  About a century or so ago, the Olympian pantheon had agreed to establish a coalition of non-human agencies to protect the world, and one of INTERPOL’s preliminary tasks was to round up immortals guilty of human right violations on a massive scale.

  Helen had been one of the first individuals to face trial, and after eleven years of deliberation with the other Greek gods and goddesses making up her court, Thebes had the former queen permanently stripped of her powers and condemned to spend the rest of her immortal life on earth.

  Last but not the least, an indelible curse from the goddess of justice had placed an eternal veil on her beauty. From that day forward, Helen’s looks only reflected the face of her soul, and it was said that her story, whispered by a couple of drunken gods one rainy night, was what had inspired an eavesdropping Mark Twain to pen Dorian Gray.

  “My office sent an email earlier today,” I began.

  “I read it.” Helen’s tone was disinterested.

  Which meant what, I wondered, and for the first time felt quite out of my depth in face of the former queen’s indifference.

  In the said email, which I got one of CSI’s paralegals to work overtime on, I had made sure that Helen would be made aware of her company’s undeniable involvement in Venus’ murder.

  CSI’s lab results confirmed that Helen’s company, The Real You, had constructed the cauldron in our custody and thanks to files forwarded by INTERPOL, I also knew for a fact that every “beauty care” product sold by Helen’s clinic was marked by a magical serial number visible only to Helen and those she employed.

  A combination of wishful thinking and inexperience had made me believe I had everything I needed to rattle Helen and make her sing like a canary, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen.

  “On the assumption that you’ve seen the photos of the cauldron we have in our custody, I’m hoping you could tell us more about the person who purchased it from your company.”

  “You have to be pulling my leg,” Helen answered derisively, “if you think I keep a single record of my clients. My business won’t survive if I did that.”

  ‘Business’ being the operative word, I thought, since every self-respecting human knew that spite, rather than passion or love for money, was the sole driving force behind The Real You.

  Although Helen was cunning enough to keep the company’s operations on the up and up, it was also an open secret that every product she sold came with a bonus feature: instant compatibility with any spell cast by someone who swore her devotion to Empusa.

  It was the perfect way to get back on the justice-loving deities that had taken away her only joy in life, with Helen able to keep her hands technically clean while at the same time enabling other people to make blood offerings, no questions asked.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Ms. Anatolia.”

  Helen laughed. “Oh my. Are you threatening me, Agent Vavrin?”

  “Give me whatever you have on the person I’m looking for, and I’ll be out of your hair right away. If you refuse, however, I’ll put in a request for a search warrant and while waiting for it, I’ll work on daily press releases that will have future customers seek your competition instead. Do you think Empusa will notice if the blood offerings made to her name will start sliding?”

  The whole thing was a bluff – I didn’t even have a single idea about writing press releases – but after a moment, I heard Helen snap, “I’ll have my office email you.” She hung up right after, but I didn’t mind at all. I was too busy feeling relieved and overwhelmed that something I said on a whim had actually worked.

  Ten minutes later, and Helen’s secretary had delivered a single-page attachment to my inbox – a chat transcript between one of the company’s product specialists and an anonymous individual with a system-generated name of Client 013BC.

  Madeline: Hello there. How may I help you?

  Client 013BC: I need a brewing cauldron that looks like this.

  Photo uploaded

  Madeline: That won’t be a problem. May I have your race type, please?

  Client 013BC: Why do you keep asking about that?

  Madeline: Our products are effective because they’re custom-designed to suit the spell caster.

  Client 013BC: And if I don’t want to tell you?

  Madeline: I’m so sorry, but company policies prohibit us from shipping any product that we cannot guarantee 100% effectiveness for.

  Client 013BC: Fine. It’s half-centaur, half-human.

  I had to read the last line several times before I could convince myself I wasn’t seeing things.

  Great, I thought gloomily.

  This was just so great.

  Not.

  Instead of revealing a vital clue about Venus Stratton’s killer, things had only become more complicated, and I might have to add a new potential suspect to my list.

  Chapter Eleven

  Blue-eyed Troy and stubble-sporting Phil were waiting next to a shiny black Bentley SUV when I stepped out of my house the next day. The first time I met these two, I had thought they were simply INTERPOL agents whom Paul demoted to being my chauffeur-and-bodyguard combo as a result of some work-related mess they needed to make up for.

  But now that I knew the truth – pun intended – about Paul, I had a feeling they were as immortal as their boss.

  And probably just as closemouthed about their real identities, too, I thought darkly. The latest development on Venus’ case had me waking up on the wrong side of the bed, and I had to make a conscious effort not to snap and growl like a bear with a hangover when the duo greeted me in courteous synchrony.

  While Troy took control of the wheel, his partner turned around to hand me a brown paper bag and a tumbler with Panda’s logo printed on it in green, leafy-font letters. “Compliments from the boss, thea.”

  I winced at the evidence of their newfound respect. ‘Thea’ was how one properly addressed a female Olympian, and if I needed any additional proof that they came from the same ancient block as Paul did, that would be it.

  “You can’t call me that,” I grumbled.

  “Don’t worry, thea–” The cheerful assurance came from Troy this time. “We are quite aware of the need for discretion. We know better than to address you similarly in public.”

  I halfheartedly considered arguing my point, but the beginnings of a pounding headache eventually made me decide against it. Whatever. With everything on my plate, convincing these two that I wasn’t a goddess in the making should be the least of my concerns.

  The presence of Troy and Philip created the usual fuss when they deposited me at my office’s front steps, but this time I didn’t allow myself to worry about it. After returning Mary Lou’s greeting (and pretending I didn’t notice the curious look on the nymph’s face), I quickly headed down to tech support to ask for Lana’s help.

  “Just the person I’m looking for,” Lana exclaimed when she saw me bearing down on her desk.

  “Please tell me it’s good news?”

  “I do have a piece of semi-good news—-”

  I groaned. “Was the qualifier necessary?”

  Lana ignored this, saying, “Let’s start with the bad news first.” She turned her monitor around so I could see what she was working on. “As you can see here—-” The display showed Annabelle Wilson’s photo and below it were the words ‘Zero Search Results’.

  “I’ve gone through every database that stores any information about non-humans, and there’s nothing about her.”

  “Cast it.” />
  “Exactly.”

  My fingers tapped restlessly on her desk as I tried to think of some other angle that could justify what my gut instincts still insisted was true. I knew I was acting like a dog with a bone about Mrs. Wilson having something to do with non-humans, but I simply couldn’t make myself let go of the theory.

  “New evidence cropped up about the cauldron used to cast the spell,” I said slowly. “I wasn’t able to find out exactly who bought it, but there’s a good chance the one who made the purchase was half-human, half-centaur.”

  Lana whitened. “Half-centaur?” She quickly rummaged through the files on her desk until she was able to pull out what looked like a birth certificate. “This was the semi-good news I was telling you about earlier. I ran a background check on the Strattons, and it turns out that Venus was adopted by Gilbert Stratton.”

  “Just Gilbert Stratton?”

  “Venus is still her biological mother, but...” Lana showed me the piece of paper on her hand, and I jerked in surprise when I saw the name listed down for Venus’ biological father – Burke Centaurus Rogers.

  CSI’S PROTOCOL REQUIRED that I periodically update bereaved family members of the victim about the case’s progress, and I made a call to Mrs. Stratton’s mobile number as soon as I reached my workstation. It was the first of its kind that I had to make in my days-old career as a homicide investigator, and it was every bit as bad as I feared, with Veronica’s pain and grief coming through the line loud and clear.

  Unfortunately, it was only about to get worse for Mrs. Stratton.

  “I was wondering why you never mentioned Venus was adopted by your late husband.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Mrs. Stratton said shakily, “I know I should have, but I just couldn’t make myself. Venus’ biological father is a lowlife, Agent Vavrin, and if I ever find out that he’s behind this – I will never ever be able to forgive myself. It would be my fault that Venus has a father like him.”