by Rachel Caine
“Olivia,” he said. His gaze fell on her hands, resting on her stomach. “What did you get?”
“He’ll sell pieces of his father’s company at the end of the quarter.”
“Which pieces?” Damon sat beside her, his weight dipping the bench and rolling her a little toward him. He looked like someone she should fancy. He’d told her that all she had to do was take moments from the people he sent, and he would give her a good life. It didn’t seem like a good life should involve shackling. Her eyes were gritty. This was the dry season in this place, on this plane. She blinked.
“The wholesale operations. He believes the future is in supply chain management, not sales of objects.”
“You’ve done well, sweetheart. I never expected . . . never hoped you would do this well.” He paused, switching mental tracks. His eyes sparked, that glimmer that wasn’t a reflection of light. “My grandmother taught me the old ways, to respect the gods that once made Greece a great empire. Even after they left the world, my family kept up the rituals. The sacrifices. We were rewarded with luck, easy charm. But I never dreamed I would come face-to-face . . . that I would have one of my own. Which of them do you follow? Are you like Artemis, or Aphrodite?”
More like them than him, she supposed. “Yes.”
His shoulders dropped, releasing tension. He lifted her hand and placed it in his. “I knew it. You’re a descendant, like me. Not as powerful as they were back in the day, but together we can do something incredible. Go somewhere bigger than this place. You like to make me happy, don’t you, Olivia?”
She nodded.
When he spoke, she surged with devotion, but the feeling was thin, too strong, artificially sweet. When he left her, the devotion faded, replaced by real anger.
Damon smiled, the expression both warm and wanting. Her head crunched, and then something cold trickled into it, soothing away the pain. Olivia smiled back. He leaned down until his lips brushed hers. She opened her mouth—and bit him.
He shoved her back and his hand flew up. But he did not strike her. Instead he backed out of the room, lips parted while blood dripped down his chin.
—
SHE FOUND THINGS.
Lost keys.
Lost rings.
Lost purposes.
To strangers she repeated the things they’d told themselves for years, and they took it for advice. She plucked information and handed it to Damon. The power he channeled surrounded her. It wasn’t his own, merely borrowed, but it shrouded her like a garment made of ether and absinthe, keeping her mind fuzzy, her body weak. It did not touch the other part of her, which grew daily.
She lived in the curtained room and woke each evening to find grease rubbed into the skin over her heart. The flesh of her ankle wore away under the cuff. Her tooth ached, and that made her homesick for . . . somewhere. She didn’t recall the place, just knew it existed elsewhere, where instead of a distant sky she looked straight into the stars, and they were her brothers and sisters.
—
“BUT IT’S A good screenplay,” the young man said. Thick brown hair flopped over his eyes.
“It’s a great screenplay, baby.” His girlfriend snapped her gum.
“It’s already getting buzz, but I want to know if it’s going to go anywhere. If it’s going to get made.” He fingered his bangs, then touched a leather bracelet on his left wrist as he said, loudly, “I’m not in it for the money.”
“Michael Mann would be great for it.” The girl flung a leg over the chair arm and banged the heel of her boot against the side.
“It’s a little more artistic than that, babe. Gondry could handle it, maybe.” He squinted at Olivia. “So, what do you see in my future?”
She saw nothing in his future, nor in anyone’s future. His past contained a clear break. One day he’d changed friends, changed cities, and discarded his family like outgrown clothes. Once he’d dated a girl—not this one—who’d lost an eye in a dart accident, and whose glass eye was prettier than her real one. She was pregnant when he left. But he hadn’t asked about that, and besides, Olivia wasn’t interested in him.
The screenwriter was white noise beside his girlfriend with the red pixie cut and massive black boots. The girl was opaque, either empty of memories or able to block Olivia. That was new, and after the parade of minds she’d handled, new was intriguing.
“I’m fucking starving here, all-seeing Olivia. Give my man an answer already so he’ll buy me a taco. There’s a great place just down the road.”
“It’s not going to sell,” Olivia murmured, barely able to hear herself over a rush of noise filling her head.
“I knew it. This is such a scam!” The screenwriter stood and stabbed a finger at his girlfriend. “I can’t believe you talked me into wasting my time on this shit. Let’s go.” He stomped away.
“Way to let him down easy,” the girl said. She stretched with a squeak and a gusty sigh. “Don’t you want to go, too, Olivia?” She winked and disappeared through the curtains.
The back of Olivia’s neck turned cold, and gooseflesh stampeded over her body. She stood. Her legs shook, from fatigue and the searing pain radiating around the cuff. The cold ran down her back, then wrapped around her middle, the arms of a frozen lover. It filled her with strength and a terrible sense of purpose. There was something she was supposed to do.
She raised the hem of her loose skirt and watched the path of the change moving through her. The red ooze around the cuff on her ankle paled and calmed. The skin flaked off, leaving smooth, tan flesh behind. She walked until the cuff caught and the chain stretched taut behind her, then kept moving. The hook broke free with a pinging snap.
The heavy curtains parted, giving her access to a short tunnel. Five even paces and she stepped onto a patch of packed dirt and breathed in the scent of humanity. Food and cigarette smoke, sweet perfume and sour sweat. She angled her head and met the eyes of a short man in a blue vest that said K&S in gold script. The cigarette fell from his mouth.
She reached a hand into her blouse and ran it through the patch of grease over her breast. It seeped into the seams of her fingerprint, warmer than her body. She raised it to her tongue. Underneath the harsh petroleum and bitter synthetics, she tasted blood and bone and marrow, hope and desperation. It was the taste of sacrifice.
Damon had begged help from the gods and one had answered. The flavor of the power was familiar, bringing to mind the millennia she had endured the requests and demands of the Olympians. As if she owed them for retrieving her from the prison into which they had cast her even though she had not used her strength against them. The grease on her fingertips caught fire and she blew it out. She couldn’t quite put a face to the essence, but that was not her concern right now.
Damon had received a token favor and then wanted more. When she arrived, he had been channeling enough power to capture and enthrall her, which, even weakened as she was, was no small feat. She felt his offering even now. It lingered, open and waiting for all takers.
It had been a long time since Mnemosyne had received a sacrifice. No, not Mnemosyne. Olivia. She had chosen to be Olivia.
She drifted across a gravel aisle and slipped behind a man settling children into the car of a sprawling machine. All around, humans stood in lines, their eyes glazed. Waiting. Grease oozed along the center beam of the ride. She sank her hand into it and called in the tithe. It filled her, a tribute freely given but still full of pain. And beneath that, seeping from the machine itself, a profound sense of sadness. She dragged her fingers down her face, painting slick streaks from hairline to jaw. Damon had wanted the full attention of a god. She would give it to him. She would also give the carnival what it desired.
All around, people rubbed at their eyes and murmured to their companions as they woke from the barker’s compulsion. Her power expanded, waving hazy fronds through their minds. The roar of voices—of feelings, expectations, and dreams—crashed over her. Her chain clanged musically against the metal gate, one
link at a time, as she walked away from the machine.
She searched, focusing on memories of a tall, slim man with jet-black eyes.
Damon always pays for the drinks. That’s enough for me.
Nobody else will let me work for them, not with this record. I owe the man, no matter what fucked-up shit he’s into.
We’re bringing in half the crowd and getting paid twice as much. I don’t care how he does it.
I can’t believe I gotta disturb him the one time he says not to be disturbed, but he’s got a stone cold hard-on for that chick. He said he’d be at the warehouse.
Olivia turned in place until she spotted the top of the structure in the man’s memory. Even set back from the carnival grounds, it towered over the low vending stands. She walked, reveling in the feel of her newly recovered powers as they stretched and constricted, altering to fit inside her chosen form.
She was Olivia Sarkis, and she was the goddess of memory. The years she’d spent learning the restrictions of a human mind now allowed her to function in a crowd, and just enough of the binding remained to dull the flood of sensation.
She’d always been useless in battle, relegated to the sidelines. She had waited behind Cronus when he fought his son, had not raised a hand as she was led into her cell in Tartarus. There she had drifted for years in a flood of screaming misery, bald hatred, and the searing loneliness of the elder gods. It didn’t matter that she was a Titan; she’d never been able to focus enough to resist, to fight. Now, though her body was only human, she could.
Damon, through the powers he’d been granted in exchange for his sacrifices, had imprisoned her again. Such tender arrogance.
The lane ended at the Funhouse of Horrors. Chemical smoke billowed from it and menacing, tinny laughter boomed from the jagged, saggy maw of the entrance. Three girls crept up the steps, giggling, while the rest of the crowd turned down another aisle. Olivia strode past the building. The girls looked down at her and shrieked delightedly.
Behind the Funhouse was a bare field. Across it, a building stood alone and unlit, backed up to a dark stand of tall trees. A white door hung ajar on the side, and Olivia slipped through it. The sound of the dragging chain echoed in the large space.
Thirty-foot recreational vehicles, windows papered with sales sheets, and plastic-shrouded pleasure boats on detached trailers filled the center of the building, surrounded by dust. Surplus that couldn’t be moved in the bad economy. The owner of these things had stored them, patiently waiting for a better day. Damon, fueled by avarice, was incapable of patience.
Bitter smoke hung low and heavy in the air. The scent of fresh blood assailed her nose, bringing with it the image of the all-seeing Edwin, banging the side of his head against a set of bars over and over and over again.
“I know. I know who you are,” Edwin mumbled from nearby, his voice eerily detached.
“And what do we think we’re doing, sweetheart? Couldn’t stand to be away from me?” Damon asked, walking out from behind one of the behemoth vehicles. He wiped his hands on a dark cloth. The light from his phone shone through the fabric of his pants. She strode toward him and he froze for a moment before laughing. The sound rippled through the dim space. “How did you get loose? Convince one of your customers to break you out?”
“You tried to make a whore of me,” Olivia said.
“No.” He was uncertain now. “I would never treat you badly. You know that.” His eyes trailed down her body, his brow furrowing when he took in the slick streaks on her face, the smooth skin of her ankle. A puckered line ran parallel to his bottom lip from where she had bitten him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“You treated me very badly,” she said. “You took me. You bound me and made me steal for you. But I wasn’t the greatest of your crimes.” She forced her way into his mind, and he staggered back against the flat side of a slate blue camper.
“Phoenix,” Olivia said, plucking the memories from him, “was a blonde with a toe ring. Clarissa. Las Cruces was the drunk woman whose friend didn’t want her to go with you. Lani. Lubbock was a sixteen-year-old.” She stopped in front of him. “You were her first kiss, Damon. And then there was Melanie, who wished to run her business the old way, and it wasn’t enough for you.”
The rag landed on the ground in a wet heap. He stared at her as though she were some alien being. That was nearly accurate. His hand latched onto her hip and his fingers dug in.
He leaned forward until his breath stirred her hair. “You are good. Much better than Edwin.” Somewhere in the dark, the man moaned. “So good, in fact, that I no longer need him.” The smoke had a meaty edge. The false mind reader was bleeding, fueling a fresh offering.
“Why not let him go? I’ve given you information that can earn you much money.”
“You’ve tried.” His other hand closed around her wrist. He moved forward, forcing her back. “But rich people, important people, don’t come to the goddamn carnival. And that’s what I need for the type of money I want. I truly do have the favor of the gods, you see. They’ve granted me eternal life. I just have to finance it.”
“I won’t aid you any further.” She had started to turn when he shoved her. The flat of his hand struck the center of her chest and snapped the air from her lungs. Her head cracked against cement and her left leg flared with pain. He’d stepped on the chain, keeping her foot in place, and bones broke when she fell. In the rafters, birds took flight, wings beating as they circled, frantic for a way out.
Her breath came harsh and fast. “I won’t give you anything else. You’ll be on your own. All alone, actually. Your gods? They’re done with you.”
“I feed them! Nobody else can worship them like I can. I’m their favorite son. They need me.” He kicked her. Her still-human body cracked down the side, and she cried out. He knelt beside her and his hands wrapped around her throat, hot and strong. Stars burned in the black depths of his eyes, and she stared back at him while he killed her, there on the cold stone floor.
—
“LITTLE DRAMATIC, DON’T you think?” Thalia asked.
Olivia opened her eyes. She extracted herself from Damon’s new memory. When she stood, her hair fell in smooth ripples down to her waist.
“Oh, he’s so confused.” Thalia frowned, then held something up. “Dog of corn?”
“Thank you,” Olivia said, “but no.”
Damon leaned over the avatar she’d left behind. The dead avatar. Olivia squinted, trying to discern what he was doing.
“He’s checking to see if you’re still breathing. Aww,” Thalia said around a mouthful, “I think he’s regretting murdering you.”
“This memory will replay inside his mind for the rest of his days.” Olivia stretched, testing her leg. It was whole. “I closed his offering. Soon he will discover that he is no longer special. Also he’ll be out of money. It will drive him mad, knowing he snuffed out his chance at greatness and immortality.”
“Oy! When are humans going to learn that immortality thing never pans out?” Thalia looked her over. “Still, that’s a little harsh, Lady.”
“Justice is not my purview, but I believe he earned it. August Kimball will be bankrupt in weeks without Damon’s help. That will be sufficient to break a man like him. Help me free this other one.” Olivia turned away as Damon began to moan, an incoherent sound of grief. She moved between the large, boxy rigs, following the smoke and sound of mumbling.
“Eww,” Thalia said, tilting her chin toward Edwin. “What’s he doing?”
“Being roasted alive, as a tribute. Whatever is left of the tribute after the ritual will be blessed. The barker was mixing remains with the grease he used to lubricate the machines, imbuing the substance with a charm that lured humans and their money.”
“You know, pyramid schemes get a bad rap, but they’re way more hygienic than this.”
Edwin sat in a cage resting on two barrels. The bare skin of his chest and arms was crossed with lacerations, scrawls rather than prope
r symbols, but in matters of sacrifice intent meant more than accuracy. Small fires burned in the barrels, musky with herbs, and his blood dripped steadily down, hissing when it met flame. Piles of broken boards and a bottle of lighter fluid sat nearby.
The man hurt, and Olivia felt satisfaction at the idea of being useful, of saving him from what would have been much greater pain. In the distance, the low fog of grief that had hung over the carnival began to lift.
“I know who you are,” Edwin croaked.
“That’s nice.”
“I won’t tell.”
“Doesn’t matter if you do,” Thalia chimed in. “You’re a pedigreed loon. Nobody will believe you.”
“Oh.” His face fell. He’d had some talent, just enough to addle him. Then, when he drank to quiet his fears, his talent had dried up. “I wouldn’t tell anyway.”
Olivia plucked the cage off the barrels and cracked the lock. Edwin watched her out of suddenly wary eyes. “What are you?”
“I thought you knew.” She glanced at Thalia. “A distraction, please.”
The Muse shrugged, tossed her corn dog away, and raised her shirt. She wore nothing beneath. Edwin gasped and leaned forward against the bars of the cage. Olivia ran her hands over his arms and chest. The wounds sealed, leaving behind small, pink welts. His memories of the event she plucked neatly from his sloppy mind. Thalia dropped her shirt and Edwin slumped back, panting.
They left him just outside the door, left Damon as he stumbled in circles, pulling at his hair. They walked into the cool night air. In the distance the rides, now mostly empty, leapt and spun. Melanie Kimball had loved her business and had remained with it, her own essence trapped in the sacrifice Damon had made of her, until it could be set right.
Olivia looked Thalia over. “You came back for me,” she said.
Thalia jammed her hands into her pockets and shrugged. “Well, you know, I was in the area. And it’s not every day a lowly Muse gets to rescue an elder god.”
“It’s not every day I get to see my daughter. I’ve missed you.”
The girl flushed and broke out in a grin.
