Lifestyles of Gods and Monsters

by Emily Roberson

  He doesn’t understand the situation. I don’t get to have friends. Not real ones, except for Icarus.

  I stand up from the cold floor, strip off my running clothes, putting my phone and thread on the counter to keep them safe, and then step into the shower.

  Once I’ve washed off from the run, I blow-dry my hair stick-straight, making sure to get it completely dry. The things I do to keep my mother from sending a stylist to me.

  Now it’s time for the costume.

  I take the chiton down off its hanger, the linen fabric scratchy on my hands.

  It’s been almost a year since I’ve had to wear one of these. My stomach twists with nausea. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to put this thing on. It’s bad enough that I have to wear it for the fourteen days of The Labyrinth Contest, but every year, the extra time for a photo shoot feels irritating. Like why couldn’t they Photoshop me in from last year?

  As I pull the chiton on over my head, I remember the first time I put one on. My mother was there then, to pin the shoulders and drape everything correctly.

  “You look like you belong in another world,” she had said, smiling. “Like you should go right up to Mount Olympus.”

  “Good girl,” Daddy had said, before he gave me my mask.

  It continued the same way for a long time: my mother coming to the room to pin me and make sure everything was fitting correctly, and Daddy giving me the mask.

  When I was thirteen, it all changed, in the seventh season of The Labyrinth Contest. Mother brought Mathilde, her head stylist, and they were trying to pin and change the chiton, pulling it tight over my new breasts, adding a slit to show my legs, and I lost it. The first season of the Paradoxes had wrapped, and they needed material—drama, storylines, characters. I had done everything I could to hide my changing body from my mother, but she was not fooled by baggy sweatshirts. Even at thirteen, I wasn’t stupid. I knew what my mother was trying to do. I knew what she was trying to make me into.

  I broke every one of the porcelain dolls on my keepsake shelf by throwing them at my mother and Mathilde, and then at the door once they fled from the room.

  My mother said that I needed to be punished, that I needed to do a penance. But Daddy made her leave me alone. He got someone to make the chitons the old way and to add a zipper so that I could get into them by myself. After that, I haven’t needed any help to get ready.

  My first penance came later that year for something else, and it is my plan to have it be the only one I ever have to do.

  The white fabric hangs down to my ankles and I slip on the sandals. I put my phone and the ball of silver thread in the concealed pocket.

  I take my mask out of its wooden box.

  It is white, featureless, with holes for the eyes. I wonder what has happened to the ones I’ve worn the years before. A line of ten masks, steadily growing in size. Blank faces. Empty eyes.

  The person I must become to do what I do.

  I tie it on and look at myself in the long mirror on the back of my door. I look like a phantom. Like a ghost come up from Hades to take the souls of the living. Which I am.

  I leave my room, whispering my prayer as I go—Please remove the curse from my brother.

  * * *

  My bodyguards are waiting for me at the doors to the ballroom, where the makeover festivities are happening, and they flank me as I enter.

  The ballroom is transformed—the vast open space with its gilded walls and parquet floors is now a stage set for transformation. The fourteen competitors have been here since early this morning for buffing and waxing, styling and dressing. Open-fronted tents have been built from billowing white fabric, and inside each one, there is a gilded chair upholstered in white, and racks and piles of clothes, a riot of colors and fabrics. It creates a vision of luxury and abundance.

  However, one step beyond the view of the cameras, there are bright klieg lights, electrical cords taped to the floor, and people shouting at the production assistants, who are everywhere. There are at least a hundred people buzzing around this room—grips and camera operators, stylists of all varieties, producers with duties that Icarus has tried to explain to me but I can never manage to keep straight.

  I’m two minutes late, and usually, Icarus would be waiting for me at the door. But he isn’t, which is weird.

  The action swirls around me. Through the holes in my mask I scan the room, looking for Icarus. For whatever reason, he isn’t here. Thankfully, I know what to do.

  This is hardly my first makeover.

  I’m here as a prop. Set dressing.

  Over on one wall, I see the setup for the photo shoot and I head in that direction.

  The fourteen competitors are gathered there, waiting for their pictures. They have their backs to me, facing the photographer. They are in their official uniforms—this year they are black leather, riveted with gold. As is typical for the past few years, the producers have gone with the bridesmaid approach—different styles to suit different body types. In the beginning, it was more of a cheerleader thing with everyone dressed the same, but it looked pretty ridiculous, because the bravest and most beautiful have widely varying body types and what suits a six-foot-tall warrior can look absurd on a five-foot gymnast.

  Even from behind, they look so different from yesterday. It’s amazing what money can do, even for people who were already beautiful. And they know it. They toss their hair, now falling down their backs in smooth waterfalls; they run their hands over their skin, buffed to a shine. Their outfits have been selected for each of the next fourteen days, clothes that are more expensive than the average person’s car. They are world-famous now. This transformation will be broadcast worldwide. The pictures they are taking today will be on the cover of every magazine tomorrow.

  “It’s the Keeper of the Maze,” someone says, and I brace myself as, one by one, they turn to look at me.

  I am thankful for my mask, because the looks they are sending my way are deadly.

  These competitors believe that they will win. As the ads say, The Minotaur is not immortal. Someday, someone will win. However, showing up here in my mask and chiton, I represent the chance that they might not.

  “There you are,” Acalle says as she breaks through the crowd of competitors, Xenodice, the photographer, and an irritated-looking producer following behind her.

  Acalle is wearing a midriff-baring halter top, a tight pencil skirt, and high-heeled sandals that lace up to right below her knees. Her hair and makeup are flawless, and she is holding a clipboard.

  “Acalle,” I say. “Why do you have a clipboard?”

  “Icarus left me in charge of this photo shoot because he got called out,” she says. “Isn’t it great? He says I grasp his vision better than anyone else in this place.”

  The producer does not look like she thinks it is great and Xenodice whines, “Why didn’t he ask me? I’m older … I’ve been on the show longer…”

  “Xenodice, you don’t know what side of the camera to look out of,” Acalle says. “You are eye candy. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Whatever,” Xenodice says, but she waggles her derriere, as though she’s taking it out for a test drive. Sure enough, many of the competitors swivel their gazes to her. She shimmies her shoulders in satisfaction.

  Acalle and the photographer move the competitors around, grouping them and setting them up, then bringing me in at the last minute.

  “Where is Icarus, exactly?” I ask Acalle as she lifts my right arm. This is taking far longer than it should, and I’m hot under the lights.

  “How do I know?” she says. “Icarus said there was a new plotline that would push Heracles right off the radar. Thanks again for that, by the way. I really owe you.”

  “A plotline?” I ask.

  Our world runs on storyboards, each one carefully laid out by Icarus in the months before the show started and tweaked as he saw who made it through the qualifications in Athens. That’s why the makeovers are so important, they
set everything up. The whole thing depends on people rooting for competitors, wanting to follow the competitors. The competitors have roles to play. The good girl. The hero. The bad girl. The villain. The troublemaker. The sidekick. As they go into the maze, the plotlines will be built around them. Hours of viewing. Who will the hero be hooking up with the night before his turn in the maze? What are the new obstacles? Who thinks they will win? Who thinks they won’t? How much drama can fourteen fame-hungry teenagers with too much time and too much money and death in their future generate?

  “Today?” I ask. “Isn’t it pretty late to be adding a plotline?”

  Why am I not in the meeting? Generally, I would be there for anything having to do with plotlines for The Labyrinth Contest by this stage. I tune out for the sex-and-drama parts of the planning, but I pay attention to everything having to do with the maze.

  “I don’t know,” Acalle says, clearly annoyed. “He grabbed that new prince of Athens and left to see Daddy.”

  My heart starts to beat faster.

  Theseus?

  I do not like the sound of that.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Acalle asks as I turn and walk away from the photo shoot.

  SIX

  In no time, I’m on the elevator that leads to Daddy’s office on the forty-ninth floor.

  His secretary is sitting at her desk out in front of his door, filing her nails.

  “Oh gods,” she says, standing up and dropping her nail file. “I wasn’t expecting…”

  I hate the quickly stifled look of panic on her face. I hate the way her hand slips into the pocket of her jacket. I’m sure she is touching a piece of iron that she keeps there. To ward against bad luck.

  Against me and my mask, although in her defense, she doesn’t actually know it’s me, but still.

  She forces her face into a rictus of a smile, pulling herself together. “Can I help you?”

  “I need to speak with the king,” I say.

  “He’s in a meeting,” she says, her tone apologetic. She’s about to tell me to come back in a few minutes, but I’m not having it. I should be in this meeting. If it’s about the contest, it’s related to the Minotaur, and if it’s related to the Minotaur, I need to know about it.

  “I need to talk to him,” I say, letting no hint of niceness into my voice.

  She stares at the mask, touches her pocket again, then presses the button to call Daddy. “Sir, you have a visitor,” she says.

  “I get a lot of visitors,” Daddy says. “Who is it?”

  “The Keeper of the Maze,” she tells him, her voice squeaking.

  There is silence for a few seconds, and then Daddy’s voice comes back over the line. “Send her in. We’re wrapping up here.”

  I brush past her desk and she flinches away from me. I hold my head higher.

  Daddy is sitting at his large wooden desk, and Theseus and Icarus sit in the chairs in front of the desk. They both stand as I come in.

  Icarus is wearing his uniform, and Theseus has on another suit, this one charcoal gray. It’s a good color for him. Again, no tie.

  Icarus is annoyed at my interruption, and he’s not even trying to hide it.

  Theseus doesn’t show me anything. His dark eyes are blank. It hurts my feelings, but then I remember, I’m wearing the mask. He doesn’t even know it is me.

  “What is it?” Daddy asks.

  “Acalle said Icarus was talking about a new story,” I say. “I want to know what it is.”

  Icarus touches his watch. “Aren’t you supposed to be at makeover photos?”

  “Yes,” I say, my tone annoyed. “That’s where I talked to Acalle. And yes, I already took my pictures. What’s going on, Icarus? If there are changes, I need to be in the loop.”

  Icarus looks away, shiftily, I think. Theseus watches me.

  Daddy comes out from around his desk and puts his hand on my shoulder, placating me.

  “I know you want to be involved with everything, but you have bigger fish to fry. You are supposed to be thinking about the maze.” He squeezes my arm. “You haven’t forgotten why we’re here, have you? You haven’t forgotten the gods?”

  “Praise the gods,” the priests in the corner say, and we chorus, “Praise the gods.”

  “Now, you boys get out of here,” Daddy says. “You too,” he adds, gesturing at the priests and at his bodyguards. “Give us a few minutes alone.”

  Everyone leaves, and as soon as the door closes, Daddy takes off my mask, setting it on his desk.

  “Now, do you want to tell me why you have been wandering around the palace in your Keeper of the Maze getup? That’s not how we do things around here.”

  I start to feel very lame that I came tearing upstairs to find out what Theseus and Icarus were up to. I could have waited an hour and called Icarus to ask him. Although I’m not sure he would have told me what’s really going on. He was looking very shifty.

  “Is it about this boy Theseus? I heard you took him running with you. Is this something I should be worried about?”

  “No, no,” I say too quickly, my cheeks on fire.

  “Good,” Daddy says, clearly deciding to ignore my red face. “Don’t forget, Ariadne, he’s an Athenian. We can never trust them.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I say.

  “Whatever happens, you can’t let him distract you from the reason that we’re here.”

  I nod.

  “I understand,” I say.

  “You say that, but I’m not sure you do,” Daddy says, squeezing my shoulder. “Here’s the thing, sweetheart, here’s the thing—the gods don’t ask us to carry any burdens we can’t manage. The gods have faith in you, Ariadne. I need to know why you are having so much trouble with your faith in them.”

  The disappointment is clear on his face.

  I hate that look. I’m failing Daddy, failing my brother. Failing the gods. I have to believe. Like Daddy.

  “Daddy, no,” I say. “I do have faith in them. I really do.”

  “It’s not enough to say it, Ariadne. When you say it, it’s just words. It is with your actions that you will show the gods your faith. You have work to do, but instead, you’re up here, snooping? Where is your head, Ariadne?”

  “Daddy,” I say, “I didn’t mean…”

  He shushes me, still talking. “You’re worried about plotlines instead of the job the gods gave to you and you alone?” Tears pool in his eyes. “This hurts me, Ariadne. Without our belief in the gods, without our absolute fealty to what they have commanded, who knows what will happen? To you? To the Minotaur? Have you forgotten your penance?”

  “No, Daddy,” I say, and the choking feeling rises in me, but I push it away. Anything to not remember that penance. It was four years ago, but still sometimes it comes at me in the night, or when I’m not expecting it, trying to suffocate me.

  He pulls me in for a hug, his arms tight around me. I am surrounded by the smell of him that I love. Wool and cigars and his cologne. He holds me like he’d never let me go.

  “I know you haven’t, sweetheart,” he says. “I know you haven’t.”

  He lets go of me but keeps his arm over my shoulder as we look out of the window. From up here, the lines of people waiting to get into the stadium for tonight’s festivities look as tiny as ants.

  “Icarus and that prince”—the way he says it makes it sound like a slur—“are adding something to The Labyrinth Contest to replace Acalle’s Heracles story. It doesn’t affect you. I promise. Don’t worry, Ariadne.”

  He pulls me in for one last squeeze. “Trust the gods. I do.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I say.

  “That’s my girl,” he says. “You’re the best of them.”

  “Thanks, Daddy,” I say as I leave the room.

  * * *

  I go back to my room and play video games in my underwear for the hours before it’s time to get ready for the night’s events. It’s lame, I know, but I don’t know what else to do. I certainly don’t want to spend
any time thinking.

  So I kill harpies on my VR headset for a few hours before I put on another tasteful black dress and head to the stadium.

  Now I’m in our box surrounded by my family, waiting for the next episode of The Labyrinth Contest to begin. The sun has set outside the stadium’s domed ceiling. Tonight is the official opening ceremony.

  I’m in the front row with my parents and sisters. Theseus is sitting way down at the other end of the row, near the entrance to the box. I am not close enough to talk to him, but his eyes are on me, flashing with interest and humor.

  I force myself to look away, remembering the conversation I had with Daddy. I’m not supposed to be thinking about an Athenian boy. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything anyway. He probably looks at everyone like that. Just because nobody has ever looked at me that way before doesn’t mean anything to him.

  Around us and below us, the stands are packed with people getting to their seats. Families are here with popcorn. Couples on first dates. Old and young and everyone in between. They look at their tickets, and try to get glimpses of my sisters, and laugh when they see themselves on the Jumbotron, while pop music plays on the speakers.

  The music stops, the lights drop, and everyone gets in their seats.

  Silence envelops the stadium.

  A lone panpipe plays, followed by a slow, New Age electronic beat and amplified bouzouki.

  A spotlight falls on a woman in a long robe walking out onto the field, holding a single lighted candle; her image is projected up onto the Jumbotron.

  Everyone is quiet.

  She sings a wordless song, both reverent and eerie.

  Then Daedalus’s voice echoes through the speakers, much slower and more deliberate than his normal speech. “To the honor of the gods, we dedicate this contest.”

  Spotlights find three priests in white robes who lead out a cream-colored bull; not quite as large or as white as the bull that rose from the sea years ago, but still very substantial. The altar is near our box, reminding everyone that Daddy has the gods on speed dial.