Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians (23 page)

“And what?”

“And you didn’t tell me because… Wait, ambrosia…tell me we’re not talking immortality here.”

Again his eyes slid away from mine. Oh, this was bad. “Not yet; not from one dose.”

“Then what’s the downside?”

“You’re going to want more.”

“Hell yes, you ought to bottle the stuff.”

He didn’t even crack a smile. The hand I’d stopped him with formed a claw. “Wait, by ‘want’, you mean ‘need’, don’t you? Like an addict.”

He finally looked me in the eye. “Yes.”

I saw red, great glaring blood-washed crimson.

“I’m going to go now. I need to hit something and right now it’s you.”

“Tori—” He reached out to me.

“No!” I roared. My body shook with the effort to hold myself back.

Fists clenched at my side, I pivoted toward the gate and stalked off. He’d saved my life, a small part of me insisted. More than once, it said. But it wasn’t the part that was winning. Rationally, unemotionally, that was probably true, but I’d watched Pappous struggle with alcohol his whole life, falling off the wagon, clawing his way out, falling again. I’d vowed addiction would
never
rule my life. Nothing was ever going to control me. I felt like my freedom, my independence, had been stripped away, and I was now slave to a
substance
. For all I knew, to Apollo too, as my pusher. It wasn’t as if it was something I could obtain at any corner store. I had no idea if ambrosia withdrawal was survivable, but I intended to find out.

What really made me mad was that I’d known,
known
I couldn’t trust him and done it anyway. I’d thought I was still resisting, but I was wrong. That made me culpable as well.

Still seeing red, I barely registered picking my way over cracks and debris and using directory assistance to place the call to Homeland Security. I did retain enough presence of mind to use the jacket sleeves to hold the receiver and to dial. I knew they’d trace the phone and didn’t want my prints anywhere in evidence. The man I spoke with wasn’t nearly finished with me when I hung up. I felt a certain satisfaction that I was leaving Apollo to deal with them. Poetic justice, in a sense.

Drained now, it was all I could do to walk back to the cars so that I could vacate the area. It suddenly dawned on me that the one vehicle I had was Armani’s and I was keyless. Uncle Christos had taught me how to hot-wire a car. I could only hope I remembered.

I had to fight to stay awake on the drive back to my apartment. Going on autopilot was not going to get me around the downed trees and power lines that littered the roadway in the wake of the quake. I wanted to go right to the hospital to check on Armani, but in my state, covered in mud and blood, they’d likely mistake me for a patient. I’d had enough well-intentioned biological tinkering to last me a lifetime.

I saw the flashing red lights from two streets away and knew with a sick certainty exactly what I’d find when I turned my corner. A fireman with a light stick diverted traffic a few blocks from my building. Smoke rose thick into the air. Unable to process any more blows, I parked on a side street and walked zombie-like as far as the barricades would let me go. My building was up in flames, fully involved or however they put it. That second bolt of lightning we’d ducked out on must have started a fire. And with no one around to put it out…

My knees buckled and I fell to the sidewalk. Everything I had, gone. I’d lived too seat-of-my-pants for renter’s insurance. No, I’d trusted the Fates. I was about ready to pound my forehead on the concrete when I realized I wasn’t alone. One of the onlookers, radiating concern, asked if she could help.

I summoned a weak smile for her. “No, thanks.”

Once again I mustered the strength to move when I was well past the point of collapse and shuffled dejectedly toward Armani’s car, where silent tears streaked down my face until I fell asleep.

Chapter Seventeen

“It’s all over but the end.”

—one of Pappous’s favorite sayings

I woke up, feeling like a rag someone had wrung out and left to stiffen in the overnight chill. For a moment I was so focused on my aches and pains that nothing else registered. Then the morning light shining in my face, my bursting bowels and the fact that I was IN A CAR made an impression. I was homeless.

I checked my pockets for essentials, hoping I’d at least retained an ATM card. My cell phone was AWOL, but other than that I seemed to be equipped to at least prove my identity, shop and get into my office. A tear leaked out when I touched my house keys, and I brushed it away. I tried to tell myself it was just stuff, but among that stuff had been the charm bracelet my parents had given me for high school graduation, which I hardly ever wore because it got in my way, but which meant a lot to me all the same. It had a charm for every part I’d ever played—a hand for palmistry, a tumbler for acrobatics… There was more too, posters from various venues, photographs, letters. It felt like even the remnants of my former life had been burned away. Bad enough I could never return; now I couldn’t so much as look back.

I shook it off. There were things to do. Yiayia was going to go frantic when she heard the news through whatever local feed had ratted me out so far. I needed to find a phone, wash up, change, eat and get some blessed caffeine—not necessarily in that order.

My car was parked in front of my building. After a quick drive by to see that it, at least, had been spared, I headed for the office. A tiny paranoid part of me that hadn’t existed just a week ago whispered that my car might not be safe, and pre-coffee I didn’t trust myself to make sure, so I just continued on to my office without swapping vehicles. I hoped to find a change of clothes tucked away in my gym bag, since I’d already used my spare suit, and a shallow sink where I could do a cursory wash-up.

For the first time I was thankful our poor old office building didn’t have a doorman.
I
wouldn’t have let me up, covered in dirt and blood. Jesus crossed himself as I entered, but said nothing beyond, “
Madre de Dio
.”

“Do we have anything in petty cash?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Great, would you order us in some breakfast? Make it continental. I feel the need for carbs. And espresso.”

“Sure, boss.”

I dragged myself to my office and locked the door behind me. Fifteen minutes later my hair still smelled like smoke and my clothes like clean, honest sweat, but I looked marginally presentable.

“Sit,” Jesus ordered as I emerged.

He must have moved heaven and earth to get a delivery so quickly, but already he had a plate stacked for me with a pastry and an espresso lightened to latte.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I said in a hush, falling into the client chair and taking a huge sip of espresso before anything else.

He eyed me over his own cardboard cup. “Your aunt has called three times.”

“I’ll call her.”

He nodded. “A check and letter came for you this morning by courier. I take it you solved Circe’s murder. Was it the strange man they fished out of the ocean in Santa Monica?”

I’d gulped the rest of my latte already and made it through a pastry and a half, but stopped, queasy and still hungry all at the same time.

“Letter?”

“From the studpuppy.”

My bruised brain took a moment to process that he was talking about Apollo. My words for him were not nearly so complimentary.

“Oh, sure,” I answered, keeping my face blank. “Go ahead and deposit the check. I think I promised you dinner and an explanation. But I’m, ah, going to have to do a little shopping first. Tonight? Anywhere you want to go—within reason,” I added, as his eyes lit up. “There are probably a few things you should know.” Especially if anyone in an official capacity comes calling about what happened at the pits.

“I’ll clear my schedule.”

“Any chance I can borrow your cell phone for the day?”

He eyed me suspiciously. “What happened to
your
phone?”

“Up in smoke. You didn’t see my building fire on the news this morning?”

“My god,
chica
, the way you came in—yesterday’s clothes, all war-torn, I was thinking rave.”

I cracked a smile, felt like the first in days. “Thank you for your estimation of my social life. Phone?”

He handed it over reluctantly. “No roaming.”

Illegal as it was without a headset, I called Yiayia on the way to the hospital. I didn’t want to spare the time to stop off just to get chewed out. I stayed on only long enough to assure her I was fine and would call later. She was going to make me pay for signing off while she was just winding up.

I had to go through the whole rigmarole of showing ID and getting checked off an approved list just to get in to see Armani. Apparently, one way or another he’d been connected with last night’s devastation at the tar pits and environs and everyone was being careful until they knew exactly what was what. I wished them luck sorting it out.

I stood in the doorway of his hospital room for a minute just watching him watch the wall-mounted television. He looked good. Tired, ashen, but alive. I wanted to—the wave of emotion that swept over me was nearly ludicrous—I wanted to climb in next to him and do things worthy of a true-confessions cover story.

“You’re alive,” he said, turning carefully to look at me. “Thank God.”

“Which one?” I asked, embarrassed he’d caught me starring. “You’re looking good.”

He snorted. “Liar.”

“Okay, you look like you’ll recover, which is a helluva lot better than you looked last time I saw you.”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush.”

“That’s the plan. You’re not getting rid of me until you have to toddle down the hall to the facilities and I sneak a peek at you in your backless gown.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“We’ll see.”

We soaked up the silence for a moment, studying each other. It was more comfortable than I’d thought it would be.

“I heard about your apartment building,” he said finally. “I’m sorry.”

I looked away from his brilliant blue eyes then to pull the visitor’s chair toward his bed. “Yeah, well, just don’t tell anyone from zoning I’m sleeping at the office for the foreseeable future.”

“You can probably take Lau’s place. She’s gone. Gonna need a caretaker.”

His gaze had shifted toward the window, as if he looked to find her there.

“Gone where?”

“After the dragon. Just after she dropped me at the ER. Said something about a sacred trust.”

“Great. Now all we need is a Knight Templar and a secret code and our picture is complete.”

“I hope you’re planning to knock on wood, because the way things have been  
going—”

My incipient grin widened into a huge yawn.

“You got room in that bed for me?” I asked. “I sort of passed out in your car last night. Not really conducive to sleep. I’m stiff as a board.”

“I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

“Well, if you’d shove over, I could climb in and see for myself.”

My eyes widened as his went all come-hither.

“You can’t possibly be in any position to—”

“Well, we’ll have to be careful and you’ll have to do something about that privacy curtain.”

I must have stared.

“You’re doing that speechless thing again. I’m going to have to keep this up.”

I ripped the pastel plaid curtain shut. “I’m calling your bluff.”

“Go for it.”

Which was how I found out exactly how much could and couldn’t be done in a hospital bed with an injured cop who gave new meaning to the word “patient”.

Sometime later, after falling sleep in a very unusual position, I beat a hasty retreat when an embarrassed-sounding nurse called from the other side of the curtain, “Um, Mr. Armani, time for your pain meds.”

I inadvertently prodded Armani in a very bad place in my hurry to get out, replace and right clothing. I apologized softly and escaped, avoiding the nurse’s stare on my way out. I ducked into the guest bathroom down the hallway and caught my reflection in the mirror. Oh, that nurse knew exactly what had gone on. If the rumpled clothing hadn’t given it away, my tangled hair and rueful but satisfied smile would have done the trick.

I tried to tamp down on that smile, but it was no use. It was irrepressible. And dammit, I deserved irrepressible after the week I’d had. I ducked into one of the stalls and heard something crinkle as I prepared to sit.
 

Apollo’s letter. Funny that I hadn’t been reminded earlier.

A sudden prickle of unease went through me, and I wanted to toss it, forget everything I knew of gods and other insanity, but there was a curious bit of longing beneath that. I tried to tell myself it was just the extra kick of power and excitement that comes of being “in” on something most people don’t even know exists and not for the man himself. Not after what he’d done. Besides, there was Armani now, and I was not cut out for intrigue or love triangles. I still needed some answers Apollo could provide. In the end, though, none of the justifications mattered. I was curious. Satisfaction was a flap-flip away.

The stationary was textured and pale, what Jesus would probably call “eggshell”. Lifting the flap revealed scarlet foil and a single sheet of notepaper.

For some reason, I hesitated before sliding the card out of the pocket. It held only two words.

I KNOW.

I had a feeling that while the battle was over, the war had just begun.

About the Author

Lucienne Diver does not actually come from circus folk, though you’d never know it to meet her family. She is, however, in no particular order, a wife, mother, book addict, sun-worshipper, mythology enthusiast, beader, travel-junkie, clothes horse and crazy person. She writes the
Vamped
series of young adult novels for Flux Books (www.fluxnow.com), which School Library Journal calls, “a lighthearted, action-packed, vampire romance story following in the vein of Julie Kenner’s ‘Good Ghouls’ (Berkley), Marlene Perez’s ‘Dead’ (Harcourt), and Rachel Caine’s ‘The Morganville Vampires’ (Signet) series.” Her short stories have been included in the
Strip-Mauled
and
Fangs for the Mammaries
anthologies edited by Esther Friesner, and her essay “Pulling Your Swing” is included in the 2011 anthology Dear Bully. Further information is available on her website www.luciennediver.com and blog http://varkat.livejournal.com. You can also follow her on Twitter at http://twitter.com/LucienneDiver.