by S W Clarke
“I got it. Now we get the hell away from it.”
He cleaned me up with a few gauze pads, pressed one over my shoulder with some tape. I threw my sweater back on, and we ran out of the bathroom and through the barbershop. When we hit the alley, we headed for the nearest dumpster.
Justin handed me the tracer, a minuscule capsule no bigger than an allergy tablet. “Go ahead.”
“Sayonara, and fuck you,” I said as I tossed it in. And I thought: May we never cross paths again.
But of course, that was a dream of a hope.
↔
When we came into the McDonalds, Hercules and Cupid were engrossed in the TV beside a hearth where a fake fire burned. Between them, they had about half a dozen Big Macs, and even more balled-up wrappers.
“How,” I said as we approached, “did you even …?”
Cupid turned to me with lettuce sticking out of his full mouth. He just pointed at Hercules.
“Whatever,” I said as Justin and I sat. I got to work with the first-aid kit, treating my arm.
Hercules pressed an entire hamburger into his mouth as a prelude to his question. “Is it done?”
“It’s done,” Justin said. “We need to get out of here. But first, we need new names.”
“Names?” Cupid said.
Justin pointed at himself. “You can call me Joe.”
“Joe?” I said.
Cupid raised a finger. “There’s about a 50/50 chance of being named Joe if you live in this city. It’s a good choice.”
Justin shifted his eyes to Hercules. “And you?”
“Eurystheus, in honor of the king who bestowed my twelve labors upon me to atone for my crimes,” Hercules declared.
“No,” Justin said, “you’re Mike.”
I gritted my teeth, waiting for the two of them to argue over Hercules’s undercover name.
“Mike,” Hercules repeated. “Mike is a fine name.”
The tautness inside me eased; Hercules had sensed the tension of this situation and decided to be agreeable. That, or maybe he did think Mike was a fine name. Either way, he wasn’t the authoritarian I’d imagined Hercules of legend would be. He had more compromise in him than that.
Another reminder that stereotypes were frail shells, easily broken.
“And you’re ...” Justin began, his eyes on Cupid.
Cupid waved his hands in the air. “I’m the only one here who’s lived in New York. I get to pick my name.” He paused. “I’m Harper.”
We all turned to him in confusion.
He plucked at his coat. “Come on, I look like I walked straight out of a United Colors of Benetton ad. I’m a Harper.”
I shrugged; it was exactly what I’d thought earlier. “He’s right.”
“All right, then.” Justin stood, grabbed a Big Mac and bit into it. “Then let’s go find these apples.” He said apples with the disdain of an atheist in a chapel.
We all rose—Hercules gathered his remaining burgers from the tray like he was looting a treasure chest—and passed out of the McDonalds as taut as wires, all four of us.
We were going to need a drink or two once we got to the club.
Chapter 11
Outside Nymphos, a bouncer sized us up with folded arms. Except he was shorter than Hercules by more than half a foot, and Hercules, who’d taken a cue from the bouncer, stood in the same folded-arm pose. I could tell he was trying to fit in, make the right impression, but he was more intimidating than anything.
I tugged at Hercules’s arm. “Just stand normally.”
“All right.” He shifted both hands to his hips and pressed his chest farther out.
“Just put your hands down, Herc—I mean, Mike,” I snapped. As an Other who’d had to deal with few non-humans, I hadn’t realized how annoying it would be to babysit a demigod who’d only spent two months in the modern world. Sometimes he was a paragon of wisdom; other times, Hercules seemed impossibly dense.
But he did as I asked. His hand brushed the back of mine as it lowered to his side, and I stepped away toward Justin, who had pulled out his ID to show the bouncer.
The bouncer’s eyes flicked from Justin’s license to his face. “Canada, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“Get it?” The bouncer half-smirked. “Canada, eh?”
Justin’s first reaction was to groan, but he quickly shifted it into a laugh. He slapped his thigh. “I get it, eh!”
I laughed with them, and stepped close to Justin as the bouncer waved him through. When he saw me trying to sidle in, the bouncer pointed at me. “What about you?”
My ID still had my old, redheaded appearance; it wouldn’t work at all. So I turned on my encantado sultriness, gazing up at the bouncer from under my eyelashes. “I forgot to bring it. I hope that’s OK.”
His eyebrows lowered, face warming. Still got it, I thought as he nodded me through.
Justin held the door open for me, but I hesitated as Hercules and Cupid stepped up to the bouncer.
Cupid went first, holding out his license with his arm straight up in the air. Even then, he barely reached the bouncer’s waist. “You’re Cupid?” the bouncer said, examining the card. “Like, the Cupid?”
“Cupid of Eros. There’s a distinction.”
“Where’s your …” The bouncer’s fingers wiggled in the air. “You know, bow and arrow and wings?”
“The wings are hidden,” Cupid explained. “And I would never bring weapons into an establishment like this.”
Of course, we all knew Cupid’s bow and arrows were hidden under his jacket.
The bouncer flicked Cupid’s ID between his fingers. “It says here you’re two thousand years old.”
“That’s right.”
“You look about three.”
“Three thousand?” Cupid looked offended.
“No—three years old.”
“Oh!” Cupid chuckled. “I moisturize.”
The bouncer looked conflicted. “So you’re permanently a three-year-old child.”
“Listen, buddy.” Cupid seemed to be building toward a fight, but then he gave a long sigh. Both his hands raised, palms facing upward. “You know the actor who played that kid in that show?”
“What actor? What show?”
“You know, the guy who had the condition.” Cupid made a face, then, “Whatcha talkin’ ‘bout Willis? Well, he had this condition that made him look forever young, and ...”
The bouncer burst into laughter, and the rest of Cupid’s explanation was drowned out. The man slapped his thigh. “Oh, I get it. That’s great—get in there, kid.”
Cupid yanked his ID out of the bouncer’s hand and looked like he was about to say more, but I yanked him through the door. “Don’t,” I said.
“But he thinks I’m some sort of … of …” Cupid’s hand flailed through the air, searching for the word.
“Whatever he thinks you are,” Justin said, “you’re in.”
Cupid let out a frustrated huff and leaned against the doorway, arms folded.
When Hercules stepped up, he and the bouncer surveyed one another. The bouncer took in his ankle-length yellow corduroys, his sweater, his bouncing locks, the club still at his waist. Shit, I should have told him to lose the club.
“ID?” he asked.
“I’m Mike,” Hercules boomed, breaking into a full-toothed grin.
The bouncer hesitated, but he couldn’t stop his own smile. “Mike?” He rubbed his chin. “Mike, why haven’t I seen you around before?”
“Oh my GoneGods,” I whispered to Justin. “Is he …?”
“Yep,” Justin said, “he is.”
Hercules lifted one shoulder. “My path didn’t take me through the Big Apple until tonight.”
“I’m glad it did.” The bouncer leaned toward Hercules and whispered something I couldn’t hear, then patted him on the back.
When Hercules met us in the doorway, he had to duck and turn sidelong to get through.
“What did h
e say to you?” I asked.
“Who?” Hercules asked.
“The bouncer,” Justin whispered.
“Oh, that’s Ralph. He told me his favorite sequence of numbers.”
“Oh my GoneGods,” I said to Justin as we turned toward the hallway. “The bouncer gave him his number.”
“His number?”
“He likes you,” I clarified.
“Ahh, good. I like him, too. His girth impresses me.”
“Are you …?” I let my question hang, not finishing it. I didn’t want to be rude.
“Herc here swings both ways,” Cupid said, leading the way down the dark hall and removing his jacket as he did. “And let me tell you, not a man, woman or anyone in between could resist him back in antiquity. That hose was perma-drained.”
Justin and I burst into laughter, covering our mouths. If Hercules noticed—or cared—he didn’t show it. The demigod just strutted.
We took off our own jackets as we came into the club. A sultry, lyricless music ebbed around us, growing as we entered the dim cave where a goddess of a woman was in the process of entwining her legs around a pole.
The four of us stopped together, watching her milky, impossibly long limbs undulate to the music. With both hands she pulled herself up the length of the pole almost to the ceiling, then straightened her legs as she swirled around the long piece of metal all the way down.
When she touched the stage, her legs were wide open, and I knew I wasn’t the only one whose eyes followed her thighs all the way up to the little slip of lace keeping all of this PG-13.
A smile touched her lips as she met eyes with Hercules, and I sensed him puff up. Irresistible indeed.
A young hostess appeared beside me, evidently pegging me as the only one able to form words. “Booth or table?”
“Booth,” I said. Better for privacy.
“Drinks?”
“What do you have?” I asked, still surveying the strip club. The dancer on stage had swept back up onto her feet, her mint-green hair swaying around her head as she gripped the pole with one hand. Tiny twinkle lights framed the catwalk beneath her, a constellation of stars in the encroaching darkness. I couldn’t tell if the club was empty, because I couldn’t see much of anything beyond the edge of a table some six feet off.
That made sense. I had been to a few strip clubs in my time—I may have even danced on a stage or two when I got drunk enough—and nobody in the audience wanted to be looking at each other.
The young server’s fingers touched my unhurt shoulder. “Are you Others?” she whispered.
All at once, my focus centered on her. She could be a World Army plant, or just an Otherist. Either way, she got a skeptical glare. “Why do you ask?”
Her hand lifted. “No offense. It’s just that we have some fantastic Ambrosia.”
“Oh.” It had been decades since I’d had Ambrosia—and even longer since I’d had a good cup. And as it turned out, the stuff was too potent for humans. It was, in fact, restricted in most countries to Others only. “Sure. We’ll take three. And one beer.”
The hostess smiled. “Feel free to claim any booth—you’re the first ones here.”
When she left, I turned back to the other three. None had even registered my conversation with the hostess, all six eyes still fixed on the dancer on stage. “Guys, let’s go sit.”
No one reacted.
I stepped in front of them, clapped my hands. “Guys.”
Still, no reaction.
I groaned and slung one arm through Justin’s and the other through Hercules’s. They allowed me to lead them over to the nearest booth, and Cupid followed like an imprinted duckling as we all squeezed in. Hercules’s thighs pressed up against the bottom of the table, forcing it to a slant.
Up on stage, the dancer had removed her bejeweled top, now swung it around one finger. Except no one was looking at that finger.
“Is that one of the Hesperides?” I asked Hercules.
He took a moment to answer. Just as I was about to repeat my question, he shook his head. “Just a human.”
The dancer left the stage, and the lights dimmed before the next performance. When they rose again, three nearly identical dancers slipped out from backstage, each of them not so much walking as pooling onto the stage, their movements as fluid as water. The first was blue-haired, the second a soft purple, and the third a deep red, all three holding hands in a line as they poured toward the end of the catwalk.
They looked like Victoria’s Secret models, except they moved better. Like liquid sex. Their hips gyrated in infinity signs as they came forward, which I didn’t even realize was possible for hips to do (and I’m an encantado, which is saying something). But it was mostly what was above those hips that captured me.
“Unreal,” Cupid murmured.
“How do they …” Justin began.
“Can those be real?” I asked. “They’re like …”
“Perfectly laden wineskins,” Hercules finished.
We couldn’t take our eyes off them.
The drinks arrived, but none of us reacted.
All at once, the three dancers stood together at the end of the stage, opened their mouths, and harmonized. They sounded like angels. More than that: their voices transported me, and I found myself hardly in my own body. I felt like I was up on stage with them, and the world sliding around me in slow motion. The lights slid to watercolor, and I didn’t know how much time passed before Hercules jarred me to life by clapping his empty glass on the table.
The demigod pointed. “That’s them.”
Chapter 12
Whoever these women were—I was still dubious that the actual Hesperides had become strip club dancers in New York City—they were fantastic. All three of them moved in synergy as they sang, periodically flouncing their mini-togas to throw us a glimpse of what lay beneath.
And what lay beneath you could bounce a Canadian half-dollar off of.
I could try to shift a thousand times and I’d never be close to what they were. Damn girl, I thought, Hercules might not be the only one who swings both ways.
Justin and I were supposed to take this moment to strategize about getting to Times Square, finding the resistance. But as I watched him sip his beer and chat with Cupid, I saw the tension easing from his shoulders for the first time in weeks.
“This,” Cupid was saying as they watched, “is one of the purest examples of eros—love of now. We often referred to it as theia mania, or madness from the gods.” He chuckled as Justin ogled the redheaded nymph. “I guess we were wrong about that.”
Justin nodded, taking another sip of beer. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s momentary, immediate, but overwhelmingly powerful. Do you feel it?”
“I feel it.”
I grinned; as an encantado, I didn’t feel jealousy over my lover enjoying the sight of other women, other lovers. For us, sexuality came in many forms and expressions. If it made Justin happy, it made me happy. And as anxious as we both were about finding the resistance, the loving part of me wanted to allow him this time. Just a little space between the bad and the terrible. War was long, after all, and every soldier needed R&R, at the risk of his sanity.
“You see,” Cupid went on, “modern love romanticizes eros. Having a crush, falling in love, being head over heels for your lover. But all have a common thread.” He waved a hand in front of Justin’s face, which my boyfriend didn’t even notice. “A loss of control.”
I chuckled, but Hercules appeared grave. “A frightening thing.”
“Herc here still feels the ancients’ fear of eros.” Cupid took a sip of Ambrosia. “In the ancient world, humans and gods alike dreaded it.”
“Why?” I asked. We encantado loved lust as much as we loved love—each and every part of it. I couldn’t imagine fearing such a thing. I gestured to Justin, who didn’t seem to be following our conversation at all; his eyes were still locked on the stage. “Yeah, he ‘lost control,’ but it’s harmless.”
Cupid raised his eyebrows at me. “Have you never heard of a spurned lover driven to depression? Or even murder? Therein lies the true danger of the madness of love.”
Well, he had a point. A good one.
I finished my Ambrosia. “If you feel this way about eros, then how can you possibly bear to be Cupid of Eros?”
“Ah.” He raised a chubby finger. “Because the only moment we have is this one. We don’t have the future, and we don’t have the past. It’s in the present that we make our lives, and while lust may be terrifying, there’s also a reason why the modern world is obsessed with romance. It makes us feel alive.”
Silence fell over the table, and I contemplated Cupid’s words. They struck hard and deep for me, given the creature I was. Given the centuries I’d spent falling in and out of lust and love, driven by it and drawn to it like a mammal to water.
Hercules’s chuckle drew me out of my own head. “And to think,” he said, “such wisdom from a demigod who looks like a toddler.”
This broke Justin out of his spell. The whole table started laughing, and even Cupid cracked a smile. “Yeah, yeah … laugh it up. But every one of you knows that love of now is the only love you can trust.”
I took a deep sip of my Ambrosia, and as it burned down my throat, I turned to Hercules. “So where are these apples?”
Hercules remained stone-faced, set a finger to his lips. “Speak quietly of them, for the Hesperides will hear.” He leaned toward me. “They’ve hidden them. Perhaps behind that curtain.”
I took another long sip as we both gazed at a curtain near the back of the stage. “Before you go rooting around back there, how do you know these women are the Hesperides?”
His finger lifted to the three on stage. “I saw them once, long ago. You see, I first completed this labor for King Eurystheus, who tasked me with sneaking into Hera’s garden and plucking three apples from her sacred tree. The Hesperides—those nymphs before us known as Aigle, Hesperia, and Erytheia—guarded the fruit with their lives.”
“Who’s who?”
He jerked his chin toward the blue-haired one. “Aigle. Her name means ‘dazzling light.’ ” Over on stage, her blue hair gleamed almost in technicolor, and she was in fact the flashiest of the dancers—the dazzler of the three—as she gripped the pole and swung around with the other two surrounding her.
