Her plump, carefully-painted lower lip slides out into a pout. “We’d be happy to help you with anything, but you never want our favors.”
I let that sit for a minute, deciding whether it’s worth it to take the easy shot. Does she even know that favor has another, sexual, meaning?
“Now, that would send the viewing numbers through the roof,” Acalle says, getting in there before I can. I laugh involuntarily. Acalle is straight-faced; anyone watching at home would never guess that there was any more going on inside her head than in Xenodice’s.
“What? What’s so funny?” Xenodice says, looking back and forth between us.
“Nothing,” Acalle says. “It would take too long to explain it to you.”
Out the windows of the car, the motorcade is making its slow way down Temple Row, the crowd pushing up against our car, trying to get a glimpse of who is behind the tinted windows. They’d be having a fit if they knew the Cretan Paradoxes were in the car.
“What do you want me to ask Daddy for?” I say, making my voice nicer. Because that’s what I help them with. They get me to ask Daddy for things that he would say no to them about, and they help keep Mother away from me. Daddy disapproves of their show and their boys and their Spandex, and Mother disapproves of my hooded sweatshirts and video games. It’s a fair trade, in my opinion.
“Shoes,” Xenodice says. “I need you to talk to Daddy about shoes.”
She holds out her tiny foot in its platform seven-inch stripper heels. “These are so over.”
“Didn’t I talk to Daddy about shoes two weeks ago?” I ask.
“Yes. That’s the shoe shelf life,” she says. “I will not be the subject of a magazine profile on the Cretan Paradoxes as shoe repeaters. We are not economy-class princesses.”
“Okay,” I say. “Shoes.”
I turn to Acalle. “Is that what you want, too?”
“No, mine’s harder.” She has a businesswoman’s look now. “I don’t want them to bring Heracles here.”
Xenodice spins and looks at her. “You didn’t tell me that! You have to see Heracles! Everyone’s been waiting on it! Do you look at your feed? Everyone is talking about #acalleandthelion, #roundthree…”
Last year, when Heracles came to visit my parents, Acalle and the great hero started a torrid affair—everything caught on tape, of course. It was great for everyone—Heracles had been out of the public eye for a while, so it got everyone talking about him again. For Acalle, it pulled her up into the A-list. It’s one thing to be a pretty princess flirting and wearing hot clothes, but when she got the attention of the most famous hero in the world, that sent her into the stratosphere.
They fought and Heracles went away, then he came back in the winter, promising he’d changed. He hadn’t. They fought and made up several more times before he left again.
“The ratings of every episode of Paradoxes with you and Heracles beat everything else at the same time, in every demographic,” Xenodice says.
“I know,” Acalle says.
“They’re hoping to stop the ratings slide by bringing Heracles into The Labyrinth Contest,” I say, adding my voice to Xenodice’s.
The Cretan Paradoxes have always been wrapped up with The Labyrinth Contest. The contest was what first put my sisters on the map. In the first season, ten years ago, when Xenodice was fourteen, she was so beautiful that no one could miss her. A star, even then. My mother loved it. She welcomed the photo shoots and endorsement deals, invitations and opportunities that were coming for Xenodice and Acalle after that. Then they got their own reality show, The Cretan Paradoxes, five years ago, and now being famous is a full-time job for my sisters.
The Cretan Paradoxes generally goes on hiatus during the two weeks of The Labyrinth Contest because it wouldn’t make any sense to be in a ratings battle with ourselves. Things change, though, because this time we are adding some Paradox energy to The Labyrinth Contest. My sisters will be involved in the makeover episode, and the plan is to have Heracles do some individual training for the competitors and color commentary on the runs through the maze.
However, the biggest ratings driver would be Acalle with Heracles. There are fans who would watch fifteen hours of blank screen if they thought they could find out what is going on with Acalle and Heracles.
“I know about the ratings,” Acalle says, frustrated. “But I don’t want to see him!”
“Why not?” I ask. “It seemed like you were into him.”
“I am, when he’s sober.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. “When he’s drunk…”
She looks at me, showing the fierce intelligence that she normally keeps hidden behind Xenodice-style doe eyes. “He scared me last time. It hurt.”
“It was hot!” Xenodice says. “That’s why everyone loved it.”
“I didn’t,” Acalle says simply.
The car stops at the palace.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll make sure they put you in a different plotline, one that you don’t hate.”
I can do that for my sister. Even though it will probably cost me something big. Nothing is free.
“Thank you,” she whispers, squeezing my hand.
When the car door opens, Acalle’s face is beautiful and sexy, what anyone would expect. She adjusts her skirt, pulling it up the millimeter necessary for the paparazzi to get the flash of underwear that they prepaid for, and she gets out of the car into the flashbulbs that follow my sisters everywhere they go. I give a few seconds for the cameras to trail them before I get out of the car and make my way inside.
I have to walk quickly, weaving my way through the crowd of VIPs, camera crews, and tourists; I don’t want to be late for the debriefing meeting with Daddy. I’m not expected to stay long—I’ll give my report on the competitors and he’ll want to confirm that I have everything I need for tomorrow. But he hates it if I’m late.
* * *
When I get to the fifty-ninth-floor dining room, one of Daddy’s bodyguards opens the door for me. The other one stands along the wall with his arms crossed, watching the doorway. The two priests stand against the back wall in their white robes, a cage of doves at the ready in case anyone needs to decipher the will of the gods at a moment’s notice. My mother keeps lobbying in favor of the throwing of stones, since doves are a mess, but Daddy is a traditionalist.
Daddy is at the head of the big table, facing the plate-glass window that looks out at the sparkling city below, and my best friend, Icarus, is sitting beside him. Icarus is young, only nineteen, the same age as Acalle, but he’s been working on our shows since elementary school.
He came here with his dad, Daedalus, from Athens when he was a baby, leaving Icarus’s mother behind. Daedalus is a genius, an inventor, producer, visionary, but he’s not the most practical person in the world. Daedalus says that before Daddy brought him to Crete, he could barely manage to keep the electric bill paid, much less afford everything he needed for inventions. So they made a deal—Daddy is Daedalus’s patron for life, fully funding all his projects, but he and Icarus can never work for anyone else. Like my sisters, they can leave the island for shows or projects, but only for a limited time, and always with minders. For example, he’s been in Athens for over a month producing the qualifications shows and training.
I’ve asked Icarus if he ever wonders what his life would be like if he had grown up in Athens, but he says it’s a pointless question. “My dad made the choice he did; what’s the point of talking about it?” One time, I asked him if he remembered his mom. “How could I? I was a baby when we left,” he said. His voice was expressionless, so I couldn’t tell how he felt about it.
He took over producing The Cretan Paradoxes two years ago, and he just started as showrunner for The Labyrinth Contest because his dad wanted to go back to making inventions. Because Icarus is my best friend, I can tell he’s nervous about this meeting—his first with Daddy since he became the showrunner—but I’m not sure anyone else can see it.
Daddy is holding his cold
martini in his hand while his dinner waits under chafing dishes on the sideboard. This will be a quick meeting. Daddy cannot stand waiting for his food.
“There’s my girl,” he says, standing up to give me a hug when I come to the table. With his arm around me, I can smell the wool of his suit, the cigars he smokes, gin, his cologne. The whole complex of things that say Daddy. Safety. Home.
Daddy sits back down, and I take the chair across from Icarus, giving him a little wave.
Icarus has a tablet with the data from this afternoon—it shows the minute-by-minute ratings, comparisons to the year-over-year numbers, and our engagement stats. The trend line is clear. The Labyrinth Contest is pulling the lowest first-day numbers in its history. Not that the opening parade is normally a giant draw or anything, but it’s generally better than these dismal numbers.
“You know our problem, Icarus,” Daddy says. “If people don’t believe that the Minotaur can be beaten, there’s no reason for them to watch. No one puts up a camera at a slaughterhouse. Nobody wants to watch an execution. They want a fight. You’ve seen the same numbers I have. Our best ratings come when the competitors have a fighting chance. Like that one girl, two years ago, the one who used the rope off the wall—what was her name?”
“Lydia,” I say. She was a runner, skilled at throwing knives, long and lean, with her hair in a braid down her back. She survived the maze for three hours, the ratings growing with every minute, every obstacle beaten, every desperate stratagem. I wasn’t watching at the time, but I’ve seen the replays. She stripped a rope from one of the obstacles off the wall and used it to set a trap for the Minotaur, tangling and tying him down.
Our audience had tripled by the time he finally finished her off.
The next day, in the maze, I put salve on the rope burns on the Minotaur’s body and comforted him from the pain. I got him ready for the next competitor.
My stomach clenches; I don’t want to go through it all again. But I will.
“Yes, Lydia,” Daddy says, nodding. “We need more like that. More competitors who are worthy of my Minotaur. More who can put up a fight. The gods sent this contest to me so we could show our triumph over Athens. To make up for the loss of my son…”
He takes another drink of his martini. Talking about my lost older brother always makes him upset.
“The Labyrinth Contest is on so we can show that even their best and most beautiful, their strongest and smartest, aren’t enough to beat my Minotaur in my maze. However, my victory doesn’t mean a thing if no one is watching.”
“Yes, sir,” Icarus says. “I understand.”
Daddy leans in toward Icarus, his voice dropping dangerously.
“I don’t need for you to understand,” Daddy says, then roars, “I need for you to do something about it.”
Icarus stays in place in his chair, staring at Daddy, but he blinks repeatedly. He’s hiding it well, but he’s intimidated. I’m sure Daddy has seen it, too.
Daddy stares at him for a silent second, making sure he has the point, then he turns to me.
“Ariadne,” he says. “You want to tell me what was going on today in the VIP box? Why you were laughing instead of watching the competitors?”
I think of that boy in the box. His eyes on me. His smile. Like this isn’t deadly serious.
“It was nothing, Daddy,” I say. “It won’t happen again.”
“Better not,” he says, patting my hand. “Now, tell me what you’ve got. Any thoughts on the competitors? Anyone we should be watching?”
“The Amazon,” I say. “Hippolyta.”
“Hippolyta is a star,” Icarus says, pulling up a picture of her on his tablet and showing it to Daddy. It’s a still from one of the qualification episodes in Athens last month, and she’s just navigated some insane challenge in booty shorts and a gold sports bra.
“Do you think she’s a threat in the maze?” Daddy asks me.
“Maybe,” I say. “I can’t tell yet. She’s brave, that’s for sure. The question is if she’s smart enough.”
“We’ll see,” Icarus says. “I’ll assign a camera crew to follow her.”
“Also the tall guy who looks like a Visigoth,” I say.
“Vortigern,” Icarus says, calling up a picture on his tablet. It’s a video from weapons training in Athens after they qualified—Vortigern throwing a spear. One of the first things that the competitors learn in their training is to use the maze against the Minotaur. They are not allowed to go in with weapons, but they can use anything they find there.
“He’s good at weapons, and built like a tank,” I say. “He might be able to cause some damage.”
“That’s my girl,” Daddy says, resting his hand over mine. “I’m sure you ask yourself why you have to do this while your sisters are off gallivanting for the cameras, with their shoes and their helicopters and those boys.”
“I don’t care about all that,” I say. Because I don’t. I don’t want to be doing what my sisters are doing. That is for sure. I’d just rather not be doing this, either.
“I know,” Daddy says, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “You aren’t like the others. Not like other girls at all. That’s why you’re my favorite—but don’t tell your mother; she says we’re not allowed favorites.”
I feel the warmth of his hand on mine and I know that I am loved. Safe. Protected. His favorite. Sometimes I think he even forgets that I’m a girl at all. Sometimes I think I might be enough to make up for his lost son.
He lets go of my hand and picks up his glass. “You kids get out of here. I’ve got one more meeting and then I need to eat and talk security with my team.”
Icarus stands up, and I wish I could leave now and go to my room and get lost in VR for a few hours before I have to face the next two weeks, but I can’t because I promised to help Acalle.
“Um, Daddy,” I say, and he looks over at me.
Icarus sits back down. He hates having anything happen that he doesn’t know about, so there’s no way he’s going to leave me alone to talk to Daddy.
“You’re still here?” Daddy says, his light tone softening the words.
“Not for long,” I say. “Acalle and Xenodice wanted me to ask you something.”
“What do those silly girls want now?” he grumbles.
“Xenodice wants shoes,” I say.
“Shoes, shoes, shoes…,” he says, but then he calls to his bodyguard, “Cut a blank check for Xenodice—item, shoes.”
“Yes, sir,” the bodyguard says.
“What else?” Daddy says.
This will be a tough one. “Acalle doesn’t want you to bring Heracles in.”
“What?” Icarus says too loudly, and I glare at him.
Daddy takes a sip of his martini. “Did she say why?”
“She says she’s afraid of him.”
Daddy makes a dismissive sound. “Afraid? What’s that about? That boy wouldn’t hurt a fly…”
I decide not to bring up that the reason Heracles had to do his labors was because he murdered his wife. Or that he nearly killed his best friend the last time he was here. The gods have forgiven him, so it’s not polite to mention it. It does seem pertinent to this question, but Daddy wouldn’t appreciate me saying it. He always says that if the gods have forgiven someone, it isn’t our position to judge.
“She seemed very serious,” I say, looking at Icarus this time. “She wants a different plotline.”
“I’ve already storyboarded—” Icarus starts, but I interrupt him.
“She’s scared, Icarus. Acalle is scared.”
I let that sink in. Acalle isn’t scared of anything.
“Can’t you think of something else?” I say.
“What do you say, kid?” Daddy asks Icarus. “If we’re taking out Heracles, I need something even better.”
“Please,” I mouth at Icarus.
“Okay, okay,” Icarus says, the wheels turning. “I’ll come up with something blockbuster.”
“It had bette
r be,” Daddy says. “Now, get out of here, kids, my food is getting cold.”
Icarus puts an arm around me as we walk to the door, giving me a squeeze. “Gods, it’s good to see you,” he says.
“How were your meetings—” I start to ask, but he interrupts me.
“Not now, Ariadne.”
The bodyguard opens the door for us. “Five minutes,” he says to someone standing in the hallway.
When the bodyguard closes the door behind us, I see who he was talking to. It’s the boy from the VIP box, standing right there, leaning against the wall.
His stance is casual, like he isn’t getting ready to go talk to the most powerful man in Crete. The most powerful man in the known world, actually. He isn’t as relaxed as he seems, though, because I can see a tightness to his face. A nervousness.
Who is this kid? Why is he waiting to see Daddy?
Then he sees me, and everything in his face changes. It’s like the sun comes out.
He takes two steps forward.
“Well, hello,” he says, holding his hand out to me.
I let him shake my hand. His hand is much larger than mine, and the calluses brush lightly against my palm. It doesn’t feel like any other handshake I’ve ever had before. There is nothing businesslike or impersonal about his hand on mine.
“Ariadne,” he says, not letting go of my hand. “I’m so glad to see you in person. You’re my favorite Paradox.”
The hair stands up on my arms. “I’m not a Paradox.”
I pull my hand back from his.
“Yes, you are,” the boy says, looking at me with undisguised interest. “You most definitely are…”
“No,” I say, shaking my head and fighting disappointment. “I’m not on The Cretan Paradoxes. You have me confused with my sisters.”
“I promise that I don’t. You’re there; you have to know where to look—in the background. You’re the one to watch. Not Acalle and Xenodice.”
One of my sisters’ favorite things to do is to try to trick me into appearing on The Cretan Paradoxes. They attempt, so far without success, to draw me into their plotlines. I’ve never had a full appearance on their show, but it’s true that I’m sometimes seen walking through a room or slamming my door or flipping off the cameras.
Lifestyles of Gods and Monsters Page 2