Hour of Mischief (12 page)

o, this may be an issue,” I said when Itazura and I stopped outside the mansion of my worst nightmares. Bright light spilled from the windows, onto the street and the house glowed against the night sky. The lull of conversation from within made my stomach do ten times more flips than the raucous chorus from the tavern. “I don’t know how to flirt.”

“What?” Itazura stared at me. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating, little thief. Most people flirt, whether unconsciously or not.”

“I guess I’m the exception.”

“You’ve liked a boy before, haven’t you?” Itazura asked.

“No, not in that way.”

“Perhaps your pendulum swings the other way then?”

“No.” I crossed my arms. “I think my pendulum is just broken.”

“Well, Meroquio swings in just about every direction.” Itazura said. “So you should get along great.”

I shot him a look deadly enough to earn the approval of Axira herself and he held up his hands in defense. “Kidding, kidding. Look, don’t worry yourself too much. I hear Meroquio has an effect on people that makes flirting much easier.”

I mumbled a few curses under my breath and fiddled with the left strap of my dress.

Itazura sighed. “Stop fidgeting with your outfit. You look fine, little human.”

“Would you tell me if I didn’t look fine?” I eyed him.

“Probably not. You’d hit me again.” Itazura gave me a push toward the door. “Now go in there and save humanity!” He winked. “Not to mention your friends.”

He made it sound so much nobler when he put it like that and I hated him for it.

I likened entering the party to descending into my own personal Abyss. All around me stood men and women of the upper-middle class, talking, laughing, and drinking alcohol Laetatia would not approve of. They all dressed in rather gaudy clothes, not quite as bad as the upper ring, but almost. Women wore wire corsets that constricted their waists into painful looking hourglass shapes and spiky-toed high heels on their feet. Note to self: if ever without a knife, one of those heels could make a viable replacement.

The men wore high-topped boots and long jackets with bright, ridiculous-looking colors and patterns. Their top hats nearly reached the ceiling and they seemed to have a pocket watch for every pocket, just like Itazura.

Laetatia was right about the mechanical limbs as well. Nearly half of the guests were fitted with some sort of steel attachment. Arms, legs, eyes or a combination of all of them. Some of their limbs were even inlaid with jewels or trimmed with gold and silver. They considered it fashionable, but it only made them appear less human and more like strange mechanical creatures from Artifex’s most hallucinogenic nightmares.

I weaved my way through the crowd, making myself as small as possible. There were a hundred rooms in this place and all of them looked the same to me, filled with extravagant couches lined with decorative pillows and guests talking in low voices. A few times I felt eyes on my back and it took all my willpower not to bolt for the nearest window.

I searched for a crowd. Wherever Meroquio was, he would be surrounded. As I passed through a lavish ballroom, a swell of laughter echoed from a parlor branching off the right side. I slid as discreetly as possible toward the noise, peeking into the room.

It could have been a fancy bar all on its own. Waiters with trays of drinks bustled through the crowd, offering champagne. Small round tables with chairs lined one wall, providing spaces for the guests to sit and talk. And on the other side of the room sat a set of matching couches and chairs, with fluffy, pink cushions and red fringes. A man occupied one of these couches. A man who could be no one other than the God of Love himself: Meroquio.

He sprawled across the couch, with one leg propped up on the cushions and the other leg dangling off. One hand held a drink and the other arm had wound itself around the shoulders of a giddy, young woman. His other admirers surrounded him like a pack of furry volps stalking a trash bin, dangling on his arms, clutching his legs or leaning over his shoulders. As long as they were touching him, they clearly didn’t care about their position.

“How am I supposed to get his attention if everyone else is fawning over him too?” I cursed. “Gods, I’m too sober for this.” I snatched a too-small drink off one of the waiter’s trays as he passed by. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all, girl.” The waiter inclined his head, and then continued on. I stared after him. Hadn’t I seen him in the tavern?

A less than sober woman knocked into my shoulder, drawing my attention away from the waiter and back to the situation at hand: trying to drink myself as far away from sobriety as possible. Not an easy task, considering the alcohol here didn’t have nearly enough potency. I went ahead and snatched up two more drinks and gulped them both down in one go. Then I set the empty glasses down on a smooth, ebony-wood end table and took a deep breath.

Okay, Janet. Think of a plan.

I edged closer to Meroquio and his hoard of admirers, trying to see if there was a place to squeeze in. As I did, I quickly discovered what Itazura meant about the effects Meroquio had on the average human. I found myself contemplating the perfect way his silky smooth locks framed his strong jaw, and the way his light-brown skin seemed to glitter in the bright lights of the chandelier. And–

Damn! Snap out of it Janet. You will not become just another one of those girls.
I considered slapping myself across the face, but a second thought interrupted me.
Wait . . . not just another one of those girls. Be . . . different.

I remembered Laetatia’s words from earlier, about Meroquio’s taste. She said he went after the
interesting
people, not the ones who excelled only at sighing his name.

To get Meroquio’s attention, I had to play hard to get.

And thank the gods for that, because if I had to throw myself at his feet like one of those men and women, I would lose all of my dignity in one fell swoop.

I inched a few steps closer and watched Meroquio, waiting for him to look up at me. I had to wait a long while, because the dear God of Love was too busy laughing at his own jokes and flirting with each of his worshipers. Not to mention he seemed a bit tipsy and unfocused. Maybe not all gods had the same alcohol tolerance.

At last, he smoothed back his hair and glanced up. Our eyes caught for a fraction of a second and the stare lingered just long enough for him to know I was checking him out. Then I tore my eyes away from his–a much more difficult task than you would think–and wandered over to the opposite side of the room, chin high. As if I had evaluated him, but decided I had seen better. Which, unfortunately, I hadn’t.

I picked up my fourth drink on my way to a small table in the corner and sat alone to wait. I counted to thirty-two before Meroquio took a seat across from me.

Suddenly “hard to get” became much harder, I’m sorry to say. Everything about Meroquio’s smell, appearance, and attitude made me want to give into feminine urges I was sure had been nonexistent a few moments ago. One part of me wanted to run as fast as I could. The other part wanted
him
, and such a sensation made my heart flutter and my stomach roll in unison.

Keep it together, Janet.

“I don’t think I’ve seen your face before,” Meroquio said softly, passing me another drink. I downed this one too. I needed to get drunk really fast.

“I’m new,” I said, casting a bored look at his abandoned admirers. Several of them gave me death glares, and I worried for a second that if the elder gods didn’t get me, the jealous humans would. “So who are you? Local player?”

Did I just call the God of Love a local player?

Meroquio stared in surprise before he laughed. “Oh, you are new, aren’t you? If you came here often you would know.” He brushed a strand of his silky locks from his glimmering green eyes. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“No, should I?”

His eyes are a nice shade of green. I like–Shit! Cut it out Janet!

“You should.” Meroquio leaned forward a little bit, much too close for comfort. I could only take so much of his scent without melting into a puddle at his feet.

Damn this god!

“Well, I give up. Tell me,” I said.

“You happen to be speaking to Meroquio himself.” A seductive grin crept over the god’s face.

“God of Love?” I raised an eyebrow.

“The one and only.” He made a casual swooping motion with one gloved hand.

“Sure you are,” I said, looking at my unfortunately empty glass. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his priceless expression and I struggled to keep my laugh in my throat. “That pick up line has been used on me before.” Lie. “By a lot of guys.” Lie. “And you don’t seem much more special than them.” So much lying happening right now.

Meroquio’s grin widened in a way that seemed to say “challenge accepted”. “Oh, I can prove it to you, love.” He nodded to a hallway that branched off the main room. “Mind stepping out with me?”

I was torn between
“Gods no! Get me out of here”
and
“YES! Take me, I’m yours!”
Why did this God play such strange and uncomfortable tricks with my mind?

“All right,” I agreed, slipping off my chair and following Meroquio down the back hall, much to the disappointment of his admirers. A sharp
ping
echoed from behind me as one tried to throw a fork at my head. They missed, either because they had bad aim or they had a very poor tolerance for alcohol.

Middle class.

Meroquio guided me down the hall of the mansion and away from the crowds, resting one hand lightly on the small of my back as he did. My spine tingled at the contact and I resisted the urge to bat his hand away. The softer the lull of conversation became, the antsier I grew. At last he stopped outside a door and held it open to allow me inside.

“After you, my interesting little human.”

Great. Now
he
was calling me “little human”. I was beginning to resent that nickname more and more.

I stepped into a room with hideous, fluffy purple carpet and a bright red couch. Either the people who owned this mansion were poor decorators or this was Meroquio’s personal room, and he just had bad taste.

Whatever the case, I hoped not to end up on that couch by the end of the night.

The door clicked as Meroquio closed it behind him, that charming grin stretching over his face again. “How about I offer you proof now?”

I held up a hand–my
steel
hand, just in case I had to punch him–in front of me, barring him from moving any closer. “Actually, I’ve known you were the God of Love this entire time,” I blurted, relieved I could finally stop playing this dumb game.

Meroquio gaped, an expression that made me want to crack up laughing. “You knew and you still played hard to get?”

“I had to get you alone somehow,” I pointed out. “And
no
, not for the reason you’re thinking.”

“Really?” Meroquio cocked his head to the side. “Hmm . . . most people who get me alone have the same motives.” He gazed at the nearly empty drink in his hand as if searching for the code to my strange behavior.

“I imagine,” I said tightly. “But you might find my motives a bit different.”

“I see.” Meroquio sat down on the couch, head tilted in a way that highlighted all of his best features. Not that he had bad ones. Oh, sonofa–

“So what
is
it you want my interesting little human? After all, you did manage to lure me away from my loyal worshipers. I’ll entertain a request. I owe you that much.” He took a sip of his drink.

“It’s about the apocalypse.”

Meroquio choked on his drink.

It’s funny, but all of the gods seemed to have the exact same reaction. I needed to practice being less blunt about this whole apocalypse business.

Once the God of Love had finished coughing up his beverage, I relayed to him exactly what I had to Laetatia and explained how devastated his domain would be without us humans to . . . engage in certain activities with. I tried to be as collected as possible, praying all the while he would keep his focus on my face and not areas I didn’t want him to stare at.