by Jamie Wyman
Simon was different, though. He had the rare gift of making everyone feel equally special. Oh, sure, he shared his kin’s penchant for beauty. From the frosted tips of his honey-brown hair, the sparkle in his jewel-bright eyes, Simon could’ve been on any billboard in the world rather than making other people beautiful in his salon. Maybe that’s one of the things that had endeared him to me. I’d had to make use of his talents for another one of Eris’s shitty little assignments, and I knew that while he might not be human, he was good people. Simon’s was a soul born for laughter, and I let myself enjoy being around him.
“How’s my favorite kitten?” he asked.
“Peachy,” I droned.
“You’re a rotten liar.” With a flick of his wrist he motioned for me to sit at his station. “Put your ass in the chair.”
I let my messenger bag slide to the floor and took a seat in front of a wall of mirrors.
“Now,” he said as he pumped the chair to a more comfortable height, “Eris made your appointment, but she didn’t say what we were doing.”
I looked at the utterly unremarkable spinster in the glass and let out a breath. “I need you to make me pretty.”
“Then you don’t have work for me, honey. You are already lovely!” As he said this, he carefully undid my ponytail. My red hair tumbled down past my shoulders in wilted waves. “What’s the occasion?”
“Gala at Caesars.”
Simon swatted at my arm. “Shut up! You got on the guest list?”
His contagious excitement coaxed me to smile in response. I nodded.
“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?” Standing behind me, he stared into the mirror, assessing me as an artist would a blank canvas. “So, what will it be? Classic updo with some face-framing curls?”
He twisted a plump finger through a lock of my hair and produced a perfect spiral. He narrowed his eyes; something didn’t please him. When he tugged at the spring it straightened once more.
“Or maybe…”
Simon chewed at his tongue as he considered the possibilities. His eyes lit up, and he put both hands against my scalp. Dragging his fingers through my hair, he said, “Highlights.”
Strands of spun gold glittered where he had parted my tresses.
“Yes,” he breathed. “I’ve got just the thing for you. Come on.”
The next few hours passed in a whirlwind of plucking, teasing, shampooing, drying, and, most humiliating, waxing. I did, however, enjoy a relaxing facial that left my skin glowing. I wanted nothing more than to go around handing daisies to people.
As Simon painted my face, he asked, “So, do we have an escort to the ball, princess?”
I groaned. “Eris is making me go with Marius.”
Simon pursed his lips. “Oh, he’s the centaur, right?”
“Satyr,” I corrected.
“Whatever. He may be a half goat, but the rumor mill says he’s hung like a horse. I’m a little jealous. He doesn’t come around often.”
I snorted. “Seriously?”
“Let me put it this way: that one has stellar word of mouth.”
“He’s a satyr, though. Isn’t that part of the gig? You know, wine, women, song, being a good lay?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. It might be a genetic trait, but apparently Marius is exceptionally talented for his kind. Trust me. If you get a chance to play with him, please do come back and spill it all.”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s not my type. I prefer my men human.”
“Kitten, that hurts,” he said, fingers splayed over his heart. “But to each her own. I don’t judge you homo sapiens.”
As one of his underlings walked past, Simon snatched her arm. “Run across the hall to the dress shop. Size six,” he barked. “Something shiny. Go!”
He dabbed a make-up brush on his hand, “Still,” he mused, “a date with a satyr would be hard to pass up.”
“It’s not a date,” I snapped. That place in my chest where my heart used to live shivered and yawned like a black hole. “I don’t do that anymore.”
“How long has it been, Cat?” he asked, his voice tender.
I hesitated. I trusted Simon but one answer might lead to more questions. More questions might lead him to scratch the surface of the wound. No, I couldn’t answer. He was already tap dancing too close for my comfort.
“Not long enough,” I muttered.
He took the hint and finished doing my makeup in silence.
Soon, his employees paraded in with a rack full of dresses. Some gowns offered a modest yet striking cut while others seemed to be little more than glorified dish towels. And all of them had price tags with more zeroes than my weekly salary. The sight of them all lined up on a gilded rack intimidated me. I’m not a fashionista by any means. In fact, if there were a church for those who embrace a life filled with pajama pants and tank tops, I would be their high priestess. I was in Simon’s place of worship, however, so I sat patiently while he rattled off a sermon about Vera Wang and Jimmy Choo.
Four hours after I’d arrived, his employees slumped in a corner over the pile of discarded dresses. I stood in a semi-circle of mirrors and looked at the person staring back at me.
As he fluffed my hair over my shoulders he said, “I was right. An updo on you would be a sin. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
I had to hand it to him. The faery performed a miracle when he gave me fat, luxurious waves of gold and ginger. Simon called my makeup “simple,” but anything more than lip balm is astrophysics to me. My eyes, lined with dark purple and painted with a shimmering lilac, stood out as particularly green. He dusted my skin with soft glitter scented with rose water. He didn’t have glass slippers in my size, but the strappy sandals were worth more than my car. Even my toes seemed to shine.
Simon was damn good.
He adjusted the thin strap of my dress—a gold, backless sheath with spangles to cast the light here and there. With a satisfied smile, he said, “My work here is done.”
I hardly recognized myself, but I had to admit, I loved what I saw in those mirrors. Words like “elegant” and “vixen” came to mind as I stared at my reflections. Doing this for myself would be too much effort—and I’d botch it anyway—but letting Simon play as if I were a doll once in a while would be more than okay. Maybe I’d let him give it a try sometime when Eris wasn’t pulling the strings. If I could afford him.
“You’re stunning, Kitten.” He put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. “This,” he said, “is why you are my favorite accessory.”
I beamed in response.
“How do you feel?”
“Fantastic,” I breathed. “Simon, you are amazing.”
“I know,” he said with a gentle swat on my arm.
“Good gods of thunder and fire!” a British accent called from behind.
Looking up past my own image, I saw Marius in the mirror. He’d changed his gray suit for one of blackest night. A gold tie drew a line down his pressed black shirt. Our reflections—dressed to the nines in our patron goddess’s signature colors—made an attractive couple. We could easily have found ourselves on a red carpet somewhere, paparazzi flashbulbs popping and blinding the world on the sparkles of my dress.
So good was my mood I actually thought he looked quite handsome. Behold the power of a facial. The expression he wore piqued my interest, too. The satyr’s eyes bulged like a child’s on Christmas morning. The slightest of dimples formed on one cheek.
Marius appraised me, his eyes doing laps of my body. Sure, he’d judged me before in his snarky way, but this was different. For the first time I saw something else in his expression. Was that attraction? His stare—laced with this alien expression—poured a shot of heat through my belly. I swallowed hard, shoving down the desire to know what was behind that look.
Then he was back, eyes narrowed, picking me apart.
I leaned over to Simon. Out of the corner of my mouth I asked, “Is he objectifying me?”
I sighed, steeling myself beneath the weight of Marius’s scrutiny.
“Wow,” Marius said slipping his hands into his pockets. “Who knew?”
Fidgety, stomach fluttering now that he’d finished his assessment, I asked, “Who knew what?”
“That you could actually look like a woman?”
Any good feelings for Marius burned to cinders.
I planted a kiss on Simon’s cheek. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Stalking toward the door, I held Marius’s eyes with an arctic stare. He bent forward and turned his cheek toward me.
“Don’t I get one, too?”
Lady or no, I can’t pass up an opening like that. I hauled my arm back and then smacked him across the face.
“Let’s get this over with.”
I stomped out of the salon, leaving the satyr to pick his jaw up off the floor.
Chapter Four
“One Big Mob”
The promise of freedom bolstered my courage as I walked into Caesars with an obnoxious satyr on my arm. For the eight years I’d been on Eris’s list of indentured servants, I lived an existence of minimums. I had a small apartment, a day job with no chance of advancement, and with the exception of Flynn, most of the numbers in my cell were business contacts or take-out restaurants. It may be Eris’s penchant for sucking the joy out of life, or it may just be that I was born under a bad sign, but things never seemed to go my way. I circled the runway while others flew away on the backs of their dreams. My life had become a monotonous holding pattern.
But now? If Eris let me go? I could change that. I could have the life I wanted. I could apply for the jobs I thought I’d be good for, rather than just the ones with an entry-level salary and flexibility. Maybe even try a relationship again, or leave Vegas. My mind swirled with fantasies of all that my future could hold. I practically skipped at Marius’s side as he sauntered into Caesars Palace.
At the door to the ballroom, a ridiculously buff man in a centurion’s costume blocked our path with his plastic pike.
“Give unto my lord that which is his due,” the soldier ordered.
I stifled a chuckle while Marius reached into the black silk of his coat and pulled out an invitation. Passing the folded parchment to the centurion, he said, “What a lovely skirt you’re wearing. Is it Dolce and Gabbana?”
The guard scowled and bent his head over the paper. Finding nothing wrong with our invitation, he straightened his pike and motioned for us to pass.
“Hold on,” a voice called.
All eyes flashed to see the speaker and found him strutting toward us. He was strawberry-blond with features carved out of pale marble and eyes the exact blue of a gas flame. He wore his gray suit well on his lanky frame, but something about the sight seemed wrong. Maybe it was his rakishly spiked hair or the wrinkle at the edge of his smile. This guy wasn’t bred to wear a three-piece.
With the strange, otherworldly sense that came with my brand, my arm grew cold, and I realized it wasn’t even a man. I’d seen too many shows from behind the wings to believe the glamour. He fit into the category of other. But what?
“Let me see his invitation,” the blond said, voice ringing with authority.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, it’s you.” Marius’s mustache twitched. “My employer sends me as her proxy this evening.”
“Your employer is rarely invited to events such as this.” Blondie passed an ice-pick gaze over the parchment, and it shivered in his fingers. As a spell moved over it, through it, magic distorted the air around his hands.
He nodded, satisfied we hadn’t forged our way in. As Blondie returned the invitation to Marius he fixed me with a cool stare. “I know you, satyr, but not your friend. Who is she?”
Before Marius could answer—undoubtedly with something snide—I pushed a step forward and offered him my hand. “Catherine Sharp.”
The corner of Blondie’s mouth hitched up as he gave me a once-over, his eyes lingering over my brand.
“Catherine,” he said. “How interesting.”
“Is it?” I asked.
Without a word, Blondie took my hand. I returned his firm grip, grateful he hadn’t given me a weak handshake for being a petite girl. I hate that shit. With another nod of approval, Blondie backed away and told the centurion we could pass. After sliding the invitation back into his coat, Marius looped his arm around mine, and we breezed into the ballroom.
Under my breath, I asked, “What the hell was that?”
“Ignore him,” Marius said. “That one just likes to cause trouble.”
We rounded a corner, and the grandeur of the event came into full view. Every surface seemed to be bathed in amber light. Ice sculptures and champagne flutes cast back glints of perfection like diamonds on a queen’s throat. Tables set with silver divided the room. To the right, the dining area and a buffet table. The left half of the room had been cleared for dance floor. On stage, a jazz combo belted out “Luck Be A Lady.”
Breathtaking as the décor was, I marveled most at the people. My brand began to itch, to burn and writhe like fire ants were crawling on my skin as I realized every guest—with maybe a handful of exceptions—clearly fell into the category of other.
Faeries. Dragons. Demi-gods and deities. Oh, sure, they all looked like perfectly normal humans, but that’s easy magic. Even Marius used a glamour to conceal his horns and goat legs. Beneath veils and spells, the true masters of the universe led dates around the dance floor and rubbed elbows with one another at the punch bowl. I recognized some of them from my work with Eris: Guests steered clear of Ares’s towering figure. Aphrodite danced with sinuous grace, her mortal companion the envy of all.
Some of the deities, though I didn’t know them, were obvious by their appearance. Like the Nubian princess in her gown of pure white feathers was probably Mother Isis. Then Marius confirmed my suspicions about the sanguine man at the bar when he shouted, “Dionysus!” I had to admit, I had been surprised to see them give one another a Bro hug.
Other guests, however, remained a mystery to me. I’m glad of it. It’s enough to know the gods exist. I don’t need to know them all by sight. And the more guests that arrived, the fewer registered as vanilla human. I was a minority. A very tiny minority in a room filled with cosmically huge beings. I felt so small. So insignificant. My legs seemed to be made not of flesh and bone but pudding.
My face burned hot as August asphalt, and my voice caught in my throat.
“Oh God,” I eked out.
“Quite a few, yes,” Marius said.
My stomach turned sour, and I whirled in my expensive heels. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”
Marius caught me at the elbow and spun me back toward ballroom. “Easy there. You’ve got a job to do.”
“She said a party,” I said breathlessly, “not a fucking gaggle of gods.”
“First of all, they’re called pantheons. Secondly, do you ever relax and have a good time?”
Leaning on Marius for support filled me with a fresh shame.
“Come on,” he said, “she wouldn’t have sent you here if she thought you’d fold.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“Would it make you feel better if I insulted you? Threw you up on the stage and started a rousing game of Slings and Arrows? This is the right crowd for it. Some of the older ones love stoning you pitiful creatures.”
I let out something between a squeak and a moan then sank into a nearby chair.
“One or two at a time is one thing, Marius, but a roomful? I don’t think I can do this,” I said to my knees.
“You can and you will. Otherwise Eris will have a field day with your soul,” he said, lifting me out of my seat. “There’s food over there. Why don’t you go stuff something in your face and try not to talk to anyone. I’ll fetch the strongest liquor the bartender has and start a mainline into your blood. Sound good?”
I nodded fur
iously. “Whiskey. Rocks.”
The creases around his eyes deepened as he gave me a wicked grin. “Well, then, maybe tonight won’t be boring after all. I’ll meet you over there.” He motioned to the long buffet.
As I crossed the room without him, I regained some of my confidence. Maybe he was right. No, scratch that. I refuse to live in a world where Marius is right about things. However, I trusted his centuries of experience with the goddess. She picked me to do this job because I could. Taking Marius’s advice, I picked up a small napkin and pondered the sushi and crudités.
“You can do this,” I said aloud. “Get through tonight and you’re free. Done. Finito.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone spoke way too close to my ear. “Might want to be careful.”
The man standing next to me wore a fashionable suit, his tie askew. His face was young and smooth as a baby’s skin but marred with blotches. A Rorschach blot dark as obsidian here, a patch of alabaster there. The same discoloration showed on his hands and fingers.
Though his face appeared boyish, his short hair came in stark white. It had been meticulously combed to the side in an ultra-conservative style. He held my attention with wild, haunted eyes.
“You start talking to yourself and people will think you’re crazy,” he said.
I felt like I should know him. I squinted, rifling through memories to recall where we may have met. His name danced at the tip of my tongue but never made it into my mind.
“Crazy, I tell you,” he muttered. Shifting from foot to foot, he reached a trembling hand out to the buffet, plucked up a single morsel of sushi, and popped it in his mouth. His head bobbed like a frantic bird’s. “Believe me, I know they’re all saying it. Why else do you think they stay clear?”
I glanced around and, sure enough, the crowd drifted in clouds of divinity far from me and my new friend.
“They stay away from us like we’re made of wildfire. Afraid we’ll bleed on them or infect them with the stink of madness. To them this is a crime scene. Nothing to see here,” he said, voice rising. “Just a loon and a whore having a polite drink.”
I bristled. “Did you call me a whore?”
