by Casey Wyatt
“Calder Quinne, as I live and breathe, you are the handsomest Son of Ares I have ever met.” Doris’ eyelids fluttered.
Nix wanted to gag. “Mother, how about you invite us inside before laying on the charm?” A finger poked her back. She remembered her promise and plastered a fake grin on her face. She could do this. “I’m sure Cal would love a drink after our ordeal.”
“Of course, where are my manners?” Doris threaded her arm into Cal’s and steered him into a room that was the spitting image of King Louis’ Versailles. An exact replica of the Hall of Mirrors stretched out before them. The space appeared to be larger than it actually was. No doubt a spell. All the gilt and Rococo style furniture made Nix’s head spin. The whole place was like a shrine to every overdone style of years gone by.
Her mother enjoyed mixing styles of décor from different time periods. The sitting room was a dizzying collection of Victoriana. Heavy claw-footed couches and tables loaded with garish statues crowded the room, all competing for prominence.
“Nix, don’t sit on the couch. Go clean yourself off first.” Doris led Cal, who was equally filthy, to a couch built for two. Her mother was practically sitting on his lap. Judging by his bemused expression, Cal found her mother funny. He’d change his mind soon enough.
Nix scrubbed her hands in a gleaming white sink adorned with solid gold fixtures. She brushed the dirt off her clothes onto the equally white bathroom floor. One of her mother’s servants—Doris called them domestics—would clean up the dirt. Normally, Nix wouldn’t dream of leaving a mess for someone else, but she also wasn’t willing to leave Cal alone with her scheming mother for too long.
The woman was worse than Elizabeth Bennet’s mother. She was probably planning their nuptials already. Doris wanted as many grandchildren, to keep the family going, as possible. The only problem—it was a pipe dream. Immortals almost never had children anymore. Another one of Zeus’ parting gifts—he severely limited the Gods’ ability to procreate amongst themselves. Sure, full Gods like Ares and Hades could still have offspring with mortals, but more often than not, the children were largely normal. Hades had quit trying centuries ago. Cal was probably one of Ares’ last Demigod children.
Doris, ever hopeful, never stopped trying for the elusive grandchild. Her last grandson, Achilles, had died in the Trojan War. Of course, that was back in the day when the Gods lustily boinked their way through the mortal population.
Nix hurried back into Queen Victoria’s nightmare to find Doris deep in conversation with Cal. A serious discussion based on Cal’s face. Again, he wore that sad, tragic look. Doris patted his arm, consoling him. As soon as they realized Nix had returned, they clammed up. What was going on? If Nix didn’t know better, she’d think that Cal and Doris knew each other. She guessed that was possible. Cal didn’t have his mind tampered with like she did on a regular basis. He probably knew more about her then she did about herself. She would have to ask him later.
“Nix, I hate what you’ve done with your hair. Black doesn’t suit you,” Doris sniffed. “I hope you haven’t disfigured yourself with any awful tattoos. I really don’t know what my dear cousin Memphis was thinking when he encouraged your,” —she made air quotes—“artistic side.”
At that moment, Nix wanted to mess up her mother’s perfect Barbie hairdo and douse her designer clothes with a water blast. Cal’s pointed stare kept Nix on track. Instead she counted to ten and said, “I believe you asked for this meeting. You have something important to tell us?”
Cal admired Nix’s restraint. She had grown up since the days of their first mission. In the old days, she probably would have marched over to Doris and shaken her by the shoulders. He was sure that the urge to shake her mother was still in there, somewhere. Cal could almost see the destructive thoughts rising to the surface of Nix’s brain, traveling from her stiffened spine and through her clenched hands, until they landed in her tight jawbone. A bubble of tension hung over her as sure as if she had a helium balloon floating over her head.
Doris, definitely trying at times, did love her daughter, even if Nix couldn’t see it. Cal was never sure how much was real and how much was an act with Doris. He had seen Doris take a room full of stubborn Delian League delegates and have them tamed and eating out of her palm with a few well-placed comments. The daughter of Ocean, the Titan, she had a steel backbone, even if it was adorned with designer fashions, well coifed hair and an expensive manicure.
It was too bad Nix couldn’t see that. But then again, his mother, Gods rest her soul, had been just as protective and overbearing. Doris had shooed Nix away so she could speak with Cal privately, without raising her daughter’s suspicions. Her concern for Cal’s broken heart was touching. Doris had guessed at what Nereus never suspected.
“Give it time,” she had said. “Things will work out the way they were meant to.”
Cold comfort. Cal had been nursing his feelings for Nix for so long he hardly noticed he was brooding anymore. His need for Nix beat at him continuously, a never-ending drum pounding at his control. Every day it got harder and harder for him not to grab her and tell her the truth. After the run in with the Cyclops, he resolved to find a way to tell her the truth before he disappeared, forever.
The moment Nix was out of earshot, Doris had leaned over to Cal and placed a hand on his arm, “How are you doing, my dear boy?”
Cal hunkered down, lowering his face to hers. “I’ve seen better days.”
“I’ll bet. There are not many who can get the slip on you.” The overpowering scent of French perfume, some kind of flower, lavender perhaps, along with a fresh ocean breeze scented the air around Doris. “You’ve probably already heard that the Old Rules apply to your situation.”
“Yes, unfortunately.” Cal tried to keep the edge of frustration out of his voice. “Whatever is going on, it’s much bigger than my immediate need. If it’s my fate to lose my life, then so be it. But I can’t stand the thought of humanity’s destruction because I solved the riddle too late. Curse Zeus’ draconian rules.”
“No need to become angry, Son of Ares. Fate has a way of smoothing out the bumps in the road of life.”
Easy for her to say. Her soul wasn’t MIA. Bitterness clouded his vision for a moment. The old Gods—what were they thinking? Leaving humanity . . . He shook it off. Fatalism wasn’t his thing.
Doris opened her mouth, about to speak when Nix had rejoined them. Her expression guarded, she paused before calmly demanding her mother state the reason for their meeting.
“Sit down, dear. Right here next to Calder.” Doris vacated the spot and moved to a delicate chair. The legs were so thin, if Cal sat in it, the things would have probably broken like matchsticks. “I have some bad news. I can’t help you.”
“Really, Mother? I needed to hear that personally. A phone call would have sufficed,” Nix complained. Her fingers twisted around Cal’s. An unconscious gesture, he was sure.
“I’m sorry. Rules, you know?”
“Screw the rules! Cal needs help. The world needs help!” Only Cal’s firm grip on Nix’s hand prevented her from springing off the couch. She squeezed his fingers harder, her knuckles pressed painfully against his.
“And,” Doris paused, seeming to realize Nix’s agitation, “I can’t contact your father.” Worry lines sprang up on her face.
“Great. Fucking terrific.” Nix slumped back into the couch, releasing Cal’s aching fingers.
Doris stood abruptly and smoothed out her wrinkleless skirt. “I’m sorry, dear. I have a facial appointment.” She pecked Nix on the cheek. “Good luck, Nix. I have faith in you.”
Nix watched her leave. “I’m glad someone does.”
Chapter 11
Visits with Doris always wiped Nix out. Whenever they were together, they fell into the same routine—Doris being critical and Nix biting her tongue. Right before they left the penthouse, Doris made sure to express her dismay, again, at Nix’s hair color and Nix’s decision to run a tattoo shop. Why co
uldn’t she be more like her sisters and run a nice business? Like Nix should open a cookie shop or some shit. Nix should have been prepared for it, but once the visit was over, Nix wanted to get the hell back to Connecticut. Doris may have nothing better to do with herself, but Nix and Cal had serious business—like saving his soul and possibly saving humanity—on their agenda.
She sighed with relief when Cal pulled into Mystic Ink’s driveway, stopping in front of the garage.
“I need a hot shower. You’re more than welcome to stay and have dinner with me. And you can shower, too.” The words tumbled out of her mouth before her brain registered the offer. She lamely added, “Shower on your own . . . without me.” Her skin warmed. She had better not be blushing.
Cal’s smiled broadly. His brown eyes twinkled. “I’ll accept your offer. Both of them.”
When Nix opened her mouth to clarify the shower situation, Cal replied, “Understood. I shower alone. But, if you change your mind . . .” He left the offer there, between them, like low hanging fruit. All she had to do was reach out and take it.
Nix bounded up the back stairs before she could say anything else.
Old magic prickled her skin.
Someone was in her apartment.
Cal appeared at her back, small flame ball at the ready. For a moment, the whole drama felt familiar, like they had done this before. Like he had guarded her back while they breeched a room. A snippet of memory flashed into her mind—an old farmhouse, creaky floorboards, the stench of Satyr. Then it was gone.
What you seek isn’t lost. It’s only locked away. That voice again. Nix ignored it. The last thing she needed was for Cal to think she was crazy. Not that he could read her mind. Still, her thoughts felt bare and exposed. Cal tapped her shoulder and motioned for her to go forward.
Nix opened her apartment door slowly and stalked across the kitchen floor, careful to avoid the dip where the floor squeaked. Cal must have done the same since the telltale squeak was silent. The kitchen and living room were divided by a walled archway. Nix kept to the kitchen side, and peered around the wall.
“Gods, Zeph. Are you trying to get your ass kicked?”
The God of the West Wind was comfortably nestled on her oversized sofa, feet on the coffee table, an open book in his lap. “Yes. If it involves you touching my ass, I’m game.”
Cal stormed past Nix. “You didn’t answer her question. I didn’t know you were into breaking and entering.”
“There are so many things you don’t know about me, Calder.” Zephyr clapped the book shut and stood. “Too bad, you’ll never know, since you seem content to bark at me like an angry dog every time we meet.”
Nix rushed forward, standing between Cal and Zephyr. What was behind Cal’s territorial response? Zephyr, she could understand. They had been friends for years. Half the innuendo was simply teasing. That was just the way he was—a giant flirt. Cal, she had only really known for a few weeks, yet all his behavior suggested they had more of a relationship.
The voice in her head returned, singing “Memories.” It broke off its Barbara Streisand rendition—we can help each other. Nix clutched her head and growled. Two sets of strong hands reached for her at the same time. She moved away, not wanting their touch. “Both of you are giving me a headache. I’m taking a shower. And you’d better behave yourselves.” She left, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
After taking the world’s fastest shower, Nix returned to the living room, relieved to find it still intact. Cal and Zephyr were seated on opposite ends of the couch, talking in low tones. Each went silent the moment she stepped into the room. Nix bit back her annoyance. She wasn’t in the mood for the inevitable denials and non-answers. “I’m not gonna waste my breath asking.”
Her stomach rumbled. Gods, she was starved. Too bad edible food didn’t exist in her fridge. She called out, “Guys, who’s up for dinner out on the town?”
They settled on S& P Oyster Company, a stone’s throw down the street from her shop. The line waiting for tables was out the door. Zephyr bypassed it, ignoring Nix’s protests. Cal brought up the rear, glum and tightlipped.
“We don’t have reservations,” Nix complained.
“How do you know?” Zephyr aimed his charm at the young hostess manning the door.
The female perked up and smiled, her glossy pink lips shining almost as brightly as her super whitened teeth. “Right this way, Mr. Z. Your favorite table is waiting.”
The hostess led them through the restaurant and out onto a terrace overlooking the Mystic River. The table, situated along an iron railing, gave them a clear view of the glittering water, ripe with warm oranges and deep plums, from the fading sun. Artfully arranged potted plants and a lattice screen afforded almost complete privacy from the rest of the diners.
Nix looked back at Cal. He shrugged. “I have no idea,” was all he said until it was time to order their food.
“Nix, I can’t believe you’re ordering seafood. What if you end up eating a cousin?” Zephyr teased after she ordered shrimp scampi.
“We’ve been through this before.” Nix played along for Cal’s benefit. “Shellfish are not the brightest bulbs in the pack. And besides, I’m not related to fish.” They bantered like this all the time. In many ways, Zephyr was like a big brother to her, despite his suggestion that they become lovers.
She took a sip of red wine and savored it, her gaze settling on Cal. She couldn’t help but notice his silence. There was no point in asking him what was wrong. He wouldn’t say, not in front of Zephyr. She paused at the thought. How did she know that? She half expected the mystery voice to chime in an opinion, but it remained silent.
The meals arrived with alarming speed, the portions, immense. “Do you own this place?” Nix couldn’t help asking.
“No. The owner and I have . . . history.” Zephyr didn’t elaborate further and tucked into his food, a steaming plate of lobster and filet mignon. He stopped chewing long enough to add, “She grants me table access whenever I want it in exchange for on demand spa visits.”
Cal snorted, but remained silent. So did Zephyr. No retort, nothing. Nix watched and waited for a confrontation. When none was forthcoming, she relaxed and enjoyed the scampi. The shrimp, succulently drenched in a buttery, garlic sauce, nearly melted in her mouth. Without thinking, she placed a piece on the edge of Cal’s dish. He abruptly stopped eating, studied her face for a moment, then returned the favor by placing a steamed mussel on her plate.
Cal resumed eating, his face a neutral mask, but Nix thought she saw a smile on his lips.
Zephyr pretended disinterest, but Nix knew he would ask her later. She had no idea why she did it. Again, that nagging certainty, like she knew Cal from before, resurfaced.
Zephyr, never one for total silence, chatted amiably through the remainder of the meal. He inquired about Cal’s time in the mortal armed forces, shared the latest happenings in his spa, and asked Nix about the tattoo shop. He requested the dessert tray, despite Nix’s declaration that she couldn’t eat another bite.
“Nonsense. I know for a fact that you can out-eat an elephant,” Zephyr said.
“Thanks a lot! Are you saying I’m a pig?” Nix felt like one. She had finished the entire plate of scampi, a garden salad, half the bread in the bread basket, and had at least four glasses of wine.
“No. He said you were an elephant.” Cal’s rich baritone laugh made Nix’s heart patter. What was it about him? It couldn’t be his looks, although he was handsome. All the children of the Gods were gifted with physical beauty. No, it was something altogether different. He was genuine. Authentic. Not afraid to display his scars or let you know he was displeased. He didn’t carry the typical, I am perfect and never wrong crap attitude that many of the God-born bought into.
Zephyr’s loud laugh brought Nix back into the moment. “Does she do that often?”
“What? Stare into space?” Cal nodded his head. “Ever since I’ve been around.”
“Please. Don’t
overrate yourself,” Nix scoffed.
The dessert cart arrived, ending all banter. Zephyr ordered one of everything. Good thing the table was private otherwise they would have looked like gluttons.
“Ladies first,” Zephyr said, waving his hand over the assortment of pies, cakes, and puddings. “My money says she picks the molten chocolate cake.”
“I say she goes for the strawberry shortcake.” Cal folded his muscled arms, confident that he was right. Damn him. Strawberry shortcake had been her first choice. She knew for a fact that the biscuits were fresh-baked on the premises daily. The pastry chef was a regular and often brought them leftovers when he came in to have his elaborate back art inked. And the cream filling was whipped right before the shortcake was assembled.
Nix examined the other choices while surreptitiously watching Cal and Zephyr. Zephyr casually studied his fingernails. Cal watched the boats drifting down the river. Neither seemed to care what she chose until her hand moved toward the plates. Their gazes shifted, watching her hand. Male pride was on the line. Good grief.
“Mmm . . . the peach cobbler looks delicious.” Steaming peaches were draped with crumbly butter and sugar topping, with a hint of cinnamon. Nix smiled. So there. They could take their ridiculous male posturing and shove it.
The tension deflated, Cal went for a chocolate raspberry torte and Zephyr, crème brulee. Neither choice surprised Nix. Zephyr always went for the non-chocolate dessert, and Cal had always favored raspberry flavored anything. It reminded him of his mother and the wild canes that grew outside their one-room cabin.
Nix stopped eating. How did she know that? Sweat dripped down her spine, chilling her skin. She was dead sure if she asked Cal why he liked raspberries, that would be his response. She swallowed down the peach lodged in her throat. Her appetite evaporated. She must be on the road to Crazyville. What else could it be?
Cal was aware of the moment Nix withdrew into her head. The set of her mouth and the distant gaze were all telltale signs something was bothering her. And he was fairly sure it wasn’t related to their current predicament. Of course, he couldn’t ask her. Not with the smug windbag sitting at the table.
