Little Gods (4 page)

Samaelle stopped walking. “All very fascinating, but why are we following her? She's not even part of our pantheon. If she's disobeying authority and misbehaving, shouldn't we support her, just on principle?"

“Well ... If we threaten to report her to Zeus, we'll have some leverage if we ever need anything from her..."

Samaelle put her arms around his neck and looked at him. “Oh, Maddie, more blackmail? You've got dirt on half the immortal beings in the universe, and you never use any of it. What could you possibly need from a Muse?"

“You never know,” he said, embarrassed. “Don't you believe in insurance?"

“I'm the reason people need insurance.” She drew a fingernail down his chest. “I've got an idea. Instead of chasing Thalia, let's find a room, and a bed, and enjoy having human bodies. We
are
on vacation."

“That sounds good,” Madisen admitted. “But I hate to pass this up. How often do two fallen angels meet a Muse? It seems like we should do
something.
"

“We can. Tomorrow morning we'll look for Thalia."

“Why, if not to blackmail her?"

“Maddie, I told you already, we're on vacation. We'll find her, and we'll fuck with her. We'll have fun. She can't tell anyone in her pantheon if we mess with her, because she's practicing illegally.” She grinned.

Madisen grinned back. “You're the best."

“You're a close second,” Samaelle replied.

“Andrew Jackson. Was he one of ours?” Samaelle squinted at the statue in Jackson Square, shielding her eyes from the morning light. The smell of fresh-cut grass and flowers filled the air here, unlike the beer-soaked atmosphere a few blocks away.

Madisen turned from his contemplation of Tarot readers and beggars. He squinted at the monument's plaque. “Hmm. Not sure. He did some impressively nasty things to the Cherokee, but he wasn't all bad. He loved his wife."

“I'll never understand His criteria for what makes a good person,” Samaelle said, rolling her eyes upward.

Madisen chuckled. “Come on. Some of the shows are starting. Thalia's probably around."

Samaelle shaded her eyes. She pointed to a bearded black man in a ragged camouflage coat. He gestured violently and shouted at a trashcan. “Is he a street performer?"

“I don't think so,” Madisen said uncertainly. Angels, fallen or otherwise, weren't known for their appreciation of human art. “I think he's a paranoid-schizophrenic. That guy with the fifteen-foot-high unicycle, I'm pretty sure he's a street performer."

They joined the crowd gathering around the unicyclist. He'd set up in front of a large church, and he exhorted the crowd to move in closer, off the church steps, because otherwise the police would arrest him for obstructing the entrance.

“Sounds like our kind of guy,” Samaelle said. “You really think Thalia will be here?"

“Street performers are perfect for her. They aren't famous, they leave no artifacts, and they turn into nobodies as soon as the show's over. If Thalia's working with any performers, it'll be these, because Zeus would never notice. Why else would she come to New Orleans?"

“So where is she?"

“There,” Madisen said, and pointed. Thalia, still in black but without her goth friends, stood on the edge of the crowd, in the front row. The unicyclist ran a constant patter, waiting for the crowd to get bigger. The tourists were laughing already, and Madisen imagined their wallets bulging, ready to disgorge cash in exchange for a good show.

He looked around. A jazz quintet played a few benches down, and a mime performed beyond them, fencing with a nonexistent sword against an invisible opponent. Neither had a crowd comparable to the unicyclist's. “Having a Muse is good for business,” Madisen said. He and Samaelle stood near the back of the crowd, where Thalia wouldn't notice them, but they had a decent view.

Thalia stepped into the cleared space and spoke to the unicyclist, then kissed him on the cheek. He grinned, tipped his ragged top hat, and blew a whistle. “Come closer! Come on!” the unicyclist called to the audience. Thalia stepped back to watch. She bounced on the balls of her feet, delighted, clearly thriving on the audience.

The performer mounted a small unicycle and pedaled, rolling to the edge of the crowd and back. He juggled a handful of oranges, then threw them into the audience. He cracked jokes and did stunts as his crowd grew larger.

“This is art?” Samaelle said. She'd once said the same thing in the Louvre.

“So it seems. I don't pretend to understand."

“Should I throw my sword into the spokes of his wheel?"

“Let's wait a while. He's just getting started."

The show went on, and the crowd swelled. The unicyclist rode back and forth on a narrow board resting on two sawhorses. He balanced on a makeshift see-saw. He told stories about being arrested, and made fun of tourists in the crowd, who laughed good-naturedly at being singled out.

After about ten minutes he called for volunteers to help him mount the fifteen-foot-high unicycle. Three men held it while he climbed, finally settling himself, arms extended for balance.

“Now?” Samaelle asked.

“Soon."

The unicyclist pointed to a small boy in the audience. “Hey, kid! See those torches? Pick them up—by the white ends, not the black ends—and throw them to me one at a time!"

The boy threw the torches underhand to the unicyclist, who caught them to “oohs” and “ahhs” from the audience. The unicyclist lit the torches and juggled them while pedaling inches from the edge of the crowd. The audience applauded wildly.

“I've got an idea,” Madisen said. He knelt and touched the little boy on the shoulder. He whispered without speaking, and the boy giggled. Madisen stood up.

“What'd you do?” Samaelle asked.

“What we always do. I made a suggestion."

The boy ran into the square and shoved the unicycle. The rider shouted as he fell forward into the crowd. The torches flew from his hands. People screamed and tried to dodge out of the way. The falling unicycle didn't hit anyone, but the rider tumbled to the edge of the church steps. One arm twisted under him unnaturally, and he screamed.

“That's entertaining,” Samaelle said.

“Look at Thalia.” Madisen pointed.

The Muse pressed her hands to her face and shook her head, as if denying what she saw. A few people helped the cyclist get up, but Thalia didn't approach him.

Madisen and Samaelle sauntered toward her. “Hi, Thalia,” Samaelle said. “That was a hell of a show. I loved the grand finale."

She looked at them, bewildered. “What? I—"

“We know who you are, Muse,” Madisen said. “Do you know us?"

“Imagine me with wings,” Samaelle said.

Thalia took a step backward, toward the wrought-iron fence surrounding Jackson square.

“The sword might have tipped you off,” Madisen said. “Didn't you wonder why she was wearing it?"

Thalia looked at them, wide-eyed. “People do weird things in New Orleans. I don't associate swords with ... angels?"

“You should,” Samaelle said. “We're fond of them."

“We're fallen angels, actually. Not so different from you. We both put ... ideas into people's heads."

Thalia stiffened. “You did this? Why? What have I ever done to you?"

Madisen and Samaelle exchanged glances. “You haven't done anything to us,” Madisen said.

“We do things to others,” Samaelle said. “Because we like to. Because it's fun."

“Certainly you can relate."

Thalia tightened her hands into fists. “I'm nothing like you. I help people, inspire them, and you...” She shook her head.

“Drive them to destruction. Like you do, if I recall. A matter of a few dead comedians?"

“Your kind did that,” she said bitterly. “If anyone did, if they didn't do it to themselves. Zeus blamed me, but I made their lives better. Not like you."

“You talk pretty big for somebody who's been kicked out of her own has-been pantheon,” Samaelle said. “Do you know how many artists we have in Hell? Do you think their painting, or singing, or whatever stupid crap they did, keeps them from the fires?"

“I'm almost certain it does,” Thalia said. “Inside, where it counts, I'm sure it does."

“Don't you have some other artists to attend to, Thalia?” Madisen said casually.

Thalia crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you going to do?"

“Follow you around,” Samaelle said. “Ruin some careers. Tempt a few artists to more interesting pursuits. See how long it takes you to crumble."

“Then we'll probably report you to Zeus."

“Why?” Thalia backed up against the iron fence.

“We're on vacation,” Madisen said.

“It beats the hell out of sitting in a bar."

Thalia drew herself up. She barely topped five feet, but she seemed much taller for a moment. For the first time, Madisen felt uneasy. The Muses were old, maybe older than he was.

“No,” Thalia said. “I won't allow it. Not this time."

“How're you going to stop us?” Samaelle said. “Inspire us to death?"

“Good idea,” Thalia said.

Something hit Madisen in the back of the head, stunning him. Everything went fuzzy, and he fell to his hands and knees. While in human form, he had human vulnerabilities. When his vision cleared, he saw a silver trombone lying on the bricks, a head-shaped dent in the bell. He looked up groggily.

The white-painted mime ran toward Samaelle. She drew her sword, snarling. The mime made a sword-drawing motion in the air. Samaelle lifted her sword, startled, to parry his intangible strike. With a clang and a shower of sparks, her sword spun away. The mime extended his empty hand as if it held a foil, and a drop of blood appeared at the base of Samaelle's throat.

This can't be happening, Madisen thought, and then a clarinet bounced off his head. The members of the jazz band bore down on him. None of the tourists, walking and talking around them, seemed to notice. The protective coloration of the supernatural, Madisen thought clinically. A black man jammed a flute into Madisen's stomach like a cop wielding a nightstick. Madisen doubled over, coughing.

“We're going to get you for this, Thalia,” Madisen said. He struggled to stand upright. “You'll never get away."

“Think so?” Thalia said. “This is only half what I'm going to do to you."

A caricaturist rose from a nearby table and flung sheets of paper and sharpened colored pencils at Madisen and Samaelle. The wind blew the paper into Madisen's face, blinding him.

He heard the clang of a guitar striking something solid, and the back of his head exploded into pain. His eyes filled with white light, and he fell.

Madisen opened his eyes and looked up at fluffy white clouds. His skull thundered. I see a rocking horse, he thought. And there, in that big cloud, a dragon.

He moaned and sat up, touching the back of his head. His fingers came away bloody.

Shattered instruments, paper, and pencils littered the bricks around him. He crawled toward Samaelle, who lay prone on the ground, and touched her shoulder. Someone had hit her in the forehead with a saxophone. The imprint of sax keys stood out on her skin.

Madisen blinked. Everything looked strange. Instead of seeing people and buildings as he always had, he saw their essential shapes, their underlying structures. He admired the church's spires, and noted the shifting of light and shadows on the ground. Must be the head injury, he thought.

Samaelle opened her eyes. “That bitch,” she slurred. “Let's get out of this skin and go after her. She can't knock us out when we're ethereal.” She stood and tottered toward her sword.

Madisen sat on the bricks, frowning. He picked up a red colored pencil and looked at it, then at Samaelle. The pencil almost exactly matched the shade of her hair. He reached for a stray sheet of paper.

Samaelle returned with her sword. “We have to move fast, before there's an ambush. She said she was going to do something else, right? What do you think she's planning?"

Madisen scribbled something with the pencil.

Samaelle looked around suspiciously, tapping her foot. “What are you doing, Maddie? We have to get going."

“Hold on,” he muttered, drawing furiously. “Just a minute, I want to finish this."

“Finish what? There's no time!” Samaelle swung her sword in angry little arcs.

“Come and see,” Madisen said, lifting the pencil from the page.

Samaelle knelt, frowning.

Madisen had drawn a picture of her, barely sketched in, but capturing the lines of her face and the fall of her hair. “What do you think?” Madisen said, his voice anxious, as if the answer mattered very much.

Samaelle looked at the picture. She chewed on one long red fingernail.

“It's pretty good,” she said.

The Witch's Bicycle

Even her bicycle was evil.

A heavy black chain wrapped around the frame and front tire secured the bicycle to an iron lamppost in front of Antiquities and Tangibles, a cramped and jumbled antique store downtown. The bicycle seemed to strain against the chain like a half-starved greyhound, skeletal and ferocious. It was a heavy bike with wheelguards that had been new in the 1950's. The frame was dusky red, the color of rubies from a long-forgotten treasure trove. The handlebars curled like ram's horns. A headlamp on the front glittered in the afternoon sunlight, throwing bright flashes. The seat was pitted black leather, and the spokes were bright, shiny chrome. The pedals were spiked to grip the soles of shoes, and to cut anyone foolish enough to try and pedal the bicycle barefooted.

The bicycle's owner emerged from the antique store. Her hair and her dress were the same red as the bike frame, like faded silk roses, her black leather beret matched the seat, and chrome rings flashed on her fingers. Her eyes, before she put on her sunglasses, were as bright and reflective as her bicycle's headlamp. She carried a plastic bag with a real drawstring, and something inside the bag rattled and clattered. Something old and obscure, surely, as it had come from Antiquities and Tangibles, the Sargasso Sea of the antiques trade, the place where only the most marginalized and unappreciated remnants of the past fetched up.

She unlocked the chain and wrapped it around her waist like a belt, then fastened it, spinning the combination lock into nonsense numbers. She dropped her bag in the chrome basket behind the seat and mounted the bicycle. Her boots were leather, with chrome buckles. She cooed to her bicycle, and it seemed almost to steady itself, as if some gyroscopic mechanism kept it upright. As she pedaled away down the sidewalk, she sang, and the hum of the smoothly oiled bicycle chain and the rasp of the fat tires on the pavement seemed to sing with her.