Sirenz (6 page)

I turned away, disgusted.

Shar glared at him, then gestured angrily at her feet and my feathers. “Is this … permanent?”

“Only if you don't finish your assignment.” Hades smirked. “But I'm sure you won't let that happen.” He stood and stretched languidly, then disappeared.

Shar sneezed. “This is a problem. I'm allergic to feathers.”

Chinese Fortune Cookie Say …

This is a disaster! Not even a good pedicure will disguise these!” I wailed. “No peek-a-boo pumps, no strappy sandals!”

“You're not alone in this Greek tragedy,” said Meg derisively. “Look at me! What if someone sees this? Or maybe you know someone at your fancy salon who plucks chickens on the side?”

Okay, Meg was right. She had it worse. I could imagine the horror on people's faces if she wore a tank top. Back wax? Not going to cut it.

“Just don't get naked in front of anyone,” I offered.

“Brilliant, Shar.”

She turned around and around, trying to see her feathers in my full-length mirror.

I thought it was a good idea
, I mused as I tried to shove my bird toes into a pair of bunny slippers.

No go.

“Oh for God's sake! Not only do I have ugly feet, but they're bigger!”

“Stop whining, Shar. It gives you an excuse to go shoe shopping.” Meg was trying to tuck a stray feather back down into her shirt. It refused to stay put. “Grrr! Let's order some pizza while we figure out how to deal with this.” She stomped off to the kitchen. I followed.

“No pizza!” I shouted after her. “Remember what happened last time?”

She tapped her cute little size nine-and-a-halves impatiently. “We can do Chinese—but only if it's vegetarian.”

I jammed my fists onto my hips. “I'm a carnivore, and I want barbecued ribs and pork fried rice.”

Meg huffed, blowing up her bangs. “Fine. I'll order.” She muttered something under her breath about vultures.

“Top of the food chain, baby,” I replied sweetly. She didn't respond. I returned to my room to find footwear that fit.

“About twenty minutes,” she said a few moments later.

I was trying on all my boots. No dice. My former feet were narrow. All I could get into were my Uggs and some ratty old sneakers. My talon clicked on the marble floors as I dejectedly went to set the table with the Limoges china I'd seen in the dining room cabinet; leave the paper plates and plastic cutlery for the school cafeteria. When the doorbell rang, I reached for my glasses—no need to entrance the delivery guy—but I couldn't find them. I'd have to make do. When I opened the door, a rich aroma of garlic and roasted meat escaped from the boxes he carried.

“Meg! Food's here!” I yelled, averting my eyes. I grabbed the packages out of his hands. “Here's a fifty. Keep the change. Bye.”

I thrust the bill into his hand and slammed the door. Two seconds later I heard the ding of the elevator, but just to be sure, I looked through the peephole. He was gone.

“Miss Manners would not approve,” drawled Meg.

I made a face. “The Siren mojo. Didn't want him drooling all over the doorstep.”

She threw up her hands. “Half the world's population is at risk. What's next?”

She followed me into the kitchen and I opened the boxes. Finding her dinner, she took a fork from the drawer and headed over to the couch.

“Aren't we going to eat in the dining room, with the china?”

Meg looked at me defiantly. “I'm watching
Judge Judy
while I eat.”

“We have to attract a sophisticated man who's dined with world leaders and the ultra rich. Even with our new talents, we might not get past the front door if we act like pigs. Learn some manners. After we get rid of Arkady, you can go back to eating off trays.”

Grumbling, she clicked off the TV, plopped her veggies into a bowl, and slumped at the table.

“Thank you,” I replied primly, my back straight. We ate in silence for a bit before Meg grew restless.

“I can't just sit here and eat.”

I put my fork down. “I know. I want to be done with this too. I'll Google Arkady's name and see what comes up. You check the iPhone apps. See if you can find one for portals. Hopefully there'll be at least one or two places close to where he works or parties. But you're not excused until you eat your vegetables.” I caught her trying to suppress a smile.

After dinner, we hit the electronics.

I couldn't find much on Arkady. There were barely any records of him appearing in public at all. I clicked through my meager list hoping Meg would have more luck. But she wasn't saying much. I knew that whenever Meg was quiet, it either meant it wasn't good, or it was worse than I thought.

“Well, I found an app for the portals … ” Her fingers ski
mmed over the iPhone. “And a bunch of other stuff too. Listen to this:
Abacus. Sundial. Don't be a Creten
”—she peered over the iPhone at me—“for those who want to know about godly etiquette. But wait, there's more: Lost? Try the
Go Homer
GPS.” She paused, and curled her lip into a disgusted sneer. “
Feeling Illiad ?
At least he has Pandora.”

“Meg, the portals? Where are they?”

“The men's room in Madison Square Garden, near level G,” she said finally.

“Gross.”

“The locker room at the 34th Precinct.”

“Not going there.”

“The Wonder Wheel at Coney Island.”

“Useless.”

“The Botanical Gardens, next to the huge cactus.”

“Unlikely.”

“The city morgue.”

“No way.”

“I'll take the men's room over the morgue any day,” she volunteered, to my surprise. “This list doesn't get any better. What have you found so far?”

“Hardly anything. Arkady's boutique and executive offices are on Fifth Avenue. That's basically it. He's become a recluse. Never seems to go anywhere public anymore.”

“Not surprising.” Meg nibbled an almond biscuit. “But we don't have to know his life story. What does he look like?”

“I couldn't find any pics of him online except this. Look.”

She leaned over my shoulder. “He's wearing gloves and a hat pulled down to his chin. You can't see anything! We won't know him even if we're standing next to him!” Walking over to the counter to the food bag, she rummaged around inside. “Here, catch!”

She threw a fortune cookie to me. I caught it midair. If only I was this coordinated in gym. I snapped the cookie open, pulled out the message, and choked.

“You okay?” Meg asked, alarmed.

“It says,
He's hiring interns. Go apply. XOXOXOX Hades
.”

Meg looked fearfully at her cookie.

I frowned. “Open it. Apparently he's giving us help.”

“That's what I'm afraid of. Look at all the
help
he's given us so far.” With great reluctance, she crumbled her cookie and read the message. Her face turned bright red. “
Wear a turtleneck sweater and keep your mouth shut. H
.”

Ouch! Oh well, hopefully there'd be no more nasty surprises or omitted details.

Over breakfast the next day we went over our plan.

“If we have to deal with guys, you do all the talking. It worked with the cab and delivery guy,” Meg said as she handed me my sunglasses. “And we'll both try to get as much information as we can from females. That way we can both talk.”

“We'd better get moving,” I said. I slapped on my fave shades—Dolce and Gabbanas—and we headed out. We'd decided that it probably wouldn't be a good idea for Meg to go to an interview with buds in her ears. This was not going to be easy for her.

“If you have to talk to a guy, just watch your words,” I told her. “Don't get bossy.” She gave me a curt nod.

We started walking toward Fifth Avenue. I decided it was better to burn off some nervous energy so I didn't mention getting a cab, although the wind was starting to pick up and I could feel my nose getting red and runny. Or was that from her feathers? She only had one or two. What would I do if she really started sprouting them?

I recognized the building as soon as I saw it.
House of Romanov
glittered in crystals embedded into the stone. We gave our names to the—thankfully!—female concierge at the desk, who sent us to the executive offices on the tenth floor. Riding the elevator in silence, we ignored the friendly gaze of the FedEx man. We pushed through double glass doors to the receptionist's desk and got in line behind another girl about our age.

“Please, please,
please
, can't I take my resume to his office? How about to his secretary?”

The receptionist, a voluptuous woman with red hair and piercing green eyes, puffed with indignation. “No. Resume here.” She pointed to a black tray where other papers lay.

At that moment, a door flew open and a fake-baked, super-slim man burst out. His black hair was smoothly plastered to his head and matched his fitted slacks and silk shirt. He was sweating big time, and it was making his eyeliner run.

“Mr. Arkady is not happy!” he squeaked, in a slightly Spanish accent. He whipped out a silky handkerchief and dabbed his forehead.

From the offices beyond, we heard unintelligible yelling.

“
Dios m
i
o!
” he squealed, then crossed himself and sashayed away.

“On second thought,” said the girl, picking up her resume from the tray, “maybe I'll apply at Betsy Johnson.”

“Goodbye.” The receptionist wagged a finger toward the door. The girl scurried away.

Arkady Romanov was not going to be easy to deal with. If that was him shouting back there, he sounded deranged and dangerous. Super-fab!

The receptionist turned to us. I gulped and heard Meg do the same.
No way are we getting past Ms. T-Rex.
And we didn't even bring resumes. I started to push the glasses off my face and got ready to plead our case.

“Demi, where's the schedule for the show?” said a svelty male voice.

Quickly, I slid my glasses back on. We turned around. Another guy had walked into the reception area. A lock of wavy dark hair caressed his forehead and his mouth crooked up higher on one side, with a dimple. Black jeans and an open-collared white silk shirt clung to a bootylicious body. He didn't have eyeliner on, but his blue eyes were just as mesmerizing.

It was
him
! Sweet Jeans!
Oh mama
. When Meg inhaled sharply, I knew he was having the same effect on her.

“Hey, it's you two! What are you doing here? Come to hunt me down?”

Would you surrender?

“Uh, we're here to apply for the internships,” I stammered after Meg nudged me.

“Get out! I'm Mr. Romanov's personal assistant. If you two feel as passionate about clothes as you do shoes, you'll be a great fit.” He held out his hand. “By the way, I'm Jeremy Jamison.” He gave us both a disarming smile that made my knees weak.

“I'm Sharisse.”

He nodded and turned to Meg. “And you are?”

She was afraid to answer, I could tell. Unintentionally using her powers on Sweet Jeans and sprouting new feathers had to be her biggest worry. Well, at least she wouldn't be able to talk her way into going out to some club with him. Then the horror dawned. I wouldn't be able to bat my eyes into a date either!

Finally, she spoke.

“Meg,” she answered timidly. She smiled prettily—scary pretty—and stuck out her hand for him to shake.

Total foul! That's my approach!
But before he could say anything else, Demi the receptionist interrupted him.

“Not so fast, Jeremy. They have to fill out applications.”

We'd forgotten about Ms. T-Rexy.

“I do the preliminary approvals.” She curled a mauve lip. “And it's not looking good for these two. Resumes?” She crooked a long and forceful index finger, its nail polished to match her lipstick.

Meg fidgeted.

“Oh, ahem,” I stuttered. “We could drop them off tomorrow. Or email them tonight.”
Hades said go, so we went. Why couldn't he just get us the jobs? It probably amused him to watch us squirm.

Jeremy leaned on a corner of the bare and gleaming silver desk. “Look, I'm desperate for help. Give them the forms, Demi. If you two can start work tomorrow, you're hired. Unless”—and he turned the charm full blast on us—“I find out you're spies for another house.”

We both shook our heads vigorously.

If Demi could refuse him, she simply wasn't human. But why was he doing this for us? Was it our Siren powers at work? Meg had only said one word and I'd made no direct eye contact. Nervously, I wiggled my remaining toes. They didn't feel different. The last thing I needed was to grow another talon. I'd have to get custom-made shoes. How fun would it be to explain those ugly feet? I forced my concentration back on Demi.

She quirked an auburn brow. “I don't think so. There are to be no exceptions. For anyone. Mr. Romanov depends on us
to protect him from …” She gave us a scornful look. “Undesirables.”