Coils

by Barbara Ann Wright

  Apart from the whole murder thing.

  *

  Cressida was smitten; that much was very easy to see. She smiled every time Medusa glanced at her. Her cheeks had flamed red when they’d met, and Medusa caught the sweep of her roving blue eyes several times, muddy robe be damned.

  Medusa couldn’t help a few twinges of guilt, even past the ego boost of being desired by a very attractive woman. But she’d been upfront about what she wanted. It was just the implication that June would be rescued before Perseus was killed that had been the lie.

  But June would get rescued. If she’d entered the Underworld as prepared as Cressida seemed to be, she had plenty of time. Time worked differently in the Underworld. From what she remembered of the old tales, the living didn’t need to eat or drink as often as they did in the world above. It was only when they were tempted by the fruits of the Underworld that they felt the need to sate themselves. A strong-willed person could make very little stretch for a long time.

  But how strong-willed was June? Medusa thought about asking, but she didn’t want to put Cressida in mind of eating, either. And she didn’t need Cressida worrying about June when it was going to be a while before they got around to rescuing her, if all went according to plan.

  “So, how many people in the Underworld do the whole soul eating thing?” Cressida asked.

  Medusa grimaced. She hated the practice of destroying the dead. That hadn’t been a lie. Luckily, Perseus was far from innocent. “More than I care to think about. A few gangs deal in the stuff. Those who are less aware get hooked on it and have to keep coming back for more.”

  “Is that why you don’t want it for your sisters? You’re afraid they’ll become…”

  “Junkies? Yes. But the soul of someone as aware as Perseus should keep them going for a long time to come.” She smiled brightly. “And he’s as guilty as can be.”

  “How will you, um, turn him into a shade?”

  “The same way he killed me. If he’s beheaded with a similar weapon to the one he killed me with, that should have enough power to do it, or so say the sorceresses and oracles I’ve consulted.” Like Medea. Medusa had to remember to contact her again as soon as Cressida was out of the room. It wasn’t the most precise plan in the world, but never having killed someone from the Elysian Fields, imprecise plans were all she had. “Of course, that’s only how you kill a hero. There are many ways for us regular dead folks to be reduced to shades, but a hero has to have something…poetic.”

  “I guess you’ve had a long time to think about it.” Cressida flushed. “I’m sorry. That’s very insensitive.”

  “Because you’re calling me old?” When Cressida fumbled for an explanation, Medusa winked. “I know how long I’ve been around, thanks, alive and dead. There’s a point where old passes to ancient and then becomes legend. That’s when age becomes impressive. I was alive long before Perseus found me. My sisters and I were once goddesses in our own right, with our own worshipers, but gradually, our worship fell away, and my tale was changed.”

  “That’s the story most people know, where you’re cursed by Athena.”

  Medusa tossed her hair back, trying for nonchalant and certain the effect was spoiled when a shower of muddy flakes fell around her like dandruff. She tried to cover it with a confident smile. “I was always fearsome. I didn’t need a curse.”

  “But you look so…”

  “Ah, you were expecting the snake hair.”

  “And the gaze that can turn someone to stone.”

  “I still have my powers. They’re just a little dampened. And I choose how I appear, both to the living and the dead.”

  “Oh.” She seemed a little disappointed.

  “You were hoping for more of a Clash of the Titans look, complete with a half-snake body?”

  “I know that movie really bungled the myths, but it was my favorite as a kid.”

  “We love all the movies made about us, even if they’re wrong. They increase our awareness, though the inconsistences do occasionally chap a few asses.” When Cressida gave her a bright smile, she returned it. “Books and movies work differently down here than in the living world. We know about living culture and stories because minds in the living world are constantly thinking about the things around them, the world they live in, and those thoughts trickle down to us.”

  “Adonis said something similar. Trickle-down culture.”

  “If we concentrate on a particular notion, we can see it in all the minds that are thinking about it, so if we want a blockbuster movie—”

  “You just think about it at the same time?”

  “We screen them on the sides of buildings, and everyone shows up to have a good laugh at the myth-based films. I was looking pretty bad-assed in the newest one, metal bikini and all.”

  “But none of them mention your sisters, at least none that I’ve seen.”

  “They’ve been fading for a long time.” Medusa sighed and let some of her real sadness show. “I think the only reason they’re hanging around is because of the Internet. If we had to keep waiting for grad students to research them, they’d have become shades long ago.”

  Cressida glanced up at the drifting shades again. She didn’t seem to notice, but a few had followed her, drawn to that shimmer of life she was probably unaware of. Medusa wondered if she knew they would descend on and consume her if they could, just to briefly share in what it was once like to be alive. Lucky for her, they didn’t have enough form to accomplish such a thing.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something intensely personal?” Cressida asked.

  “Intriguing,” Medusa said, unable to keep a bit of a purr out of her voice. “If it’s about that metal bikini, I don’t actually own one.”

  Cressida laughed a little breathlessly. “It’s not anything, well…” She cleared her throat. “Your sisters are said to be immortal, and Perseus only came after you because he could kill you. But…”

  Medusa nodded. “But why aren’t they still alive? They were never immortal; nothing truly is, and they were murdered with me. But we are the children of a god and a Titan, older than some of the Olympians. Who knows how long we would have lived given the chance? There are still monsters walking the earth, old creatures from an old world, who have learned to hide. My sisters could have survived. I could have. Even if my sisters had perished, with my memories of them fresh and vibrant, they could have been ruling the Underworld.”

  “But you still would have been separated.”

  “There are ways to communicate with the living world. You just need someone there who can hear you. Now the best we can hope for is to kill the child of a god and consume his essence so we can stagger along a little longer.” She didn’t have to fake the wistfulness, the fear of eventual despair. Everyone in the Underworld shared it. The brave smile she put on did have a bit of fakeness, but she tried to tell herself that no matter what, she was doing the right thing. “Don’t worry about it right now. I told you; we’re getting your aunt first. And then you can help me if you choose. I want you to think it through, really consider it.”

  Cressida nodded, her face so downcast and thoughtful that Medusa wanted to both give her a hug and smile in satisfaction. She was very cute when deep in thought, with a little frown between her brows and part of her mouth turned down. Medusa had the strangest desire to pull on one of Cressida’s silky red curls just to watch it bounce back into shape, but she kept her hands to herself.

  The seed had been planted; now she could watch it grow. Cressida wasn’t ready to commit to killing Perseus yet, but she would be, given time. She would see the injustice, would see Medusa’s words backed up by everything in the Underworld, and Medusa had always been good at persuading people. She probably would have been able to persuade Perseus not to kill her if he hadn’t snuck up on her while she was asleep. Sometimes, she’d wished it had happened like in the movies, that she’d gone out shooting arrows and trying to turn him into stone, but he’d found her napping in t
he garden, and it didn’t matter how heroic deeds got carried out as long as they did.

  She pushed thoughts of Perseus away, afraid she would rail against him too hard. She had to let the idea percolate in Cressida’s brain. While they rode the elevator toward her apartment, she gave some thought about how to actually get June back. If Hecate did have her, that wasn’t going to be easy. Medusa would have to set some things in motion while she was pretending to guide Cressida toward Hecate’s palace. Maybe Medusa could arrange to have June rescued by someone else, to have her show up just in time to convince Cressida to kill Perseus. Adding obligation to the mix might push Cressida over the edge into actually doing the deed. And if not, well, Medusa could always hold June hostage until Perseus was dead, never mind that she would rather have the whole business seem like a free act on Cressida’s part.

  Medusa almost shivered. Soon she’d have her sisters back, they would unseat upstarts like Adonis and Narcissus, and the afterlife would be better than any life they’d ever known.

  First things first, though. When they reached the apartment, Cressida stopped in wonder as Stheno and Euryale stepped into the large living room. They were caught, as they always were, between their human and winged snake forms. Scales covered half of Stheno’s body, though her long black hair was as straight and human as ever. Her eyes were black pits like a shark’s, something that once only happened when she was far too angry to control it.

  Euryale’s hair had transformed into snakes, but they were listless, hanging over her shoulders like dead things, their eyes staring at nothing. Wings sprouted from her shoulders, but they were crooked, half-finished and dangling down her back. Both were still beautiful; Medusa couldn’t find them anything but beautiful, but the life had gone out of them. If they faded anymore, she’d be able to see right through them, and then nothing would hold their feet to the ground.

  “My sisters,” Medusa said. “Stheno and Euryale. They’re not much for conversation.”

  Cressida’s face held a look of such pity that Medusa wanted to hug her, but a twinge of guilt wouldn’t allow it. After another look at her sisters, though, she frowned. What did she have to feel guilty for? Saving her family? She turned away before the warring feelings could show on her face. Maybe Cressida would understand even after Medusa tricked her into killing Perseus. Even if she didn’t, it didn’t matter. What needed to happen would happen.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” Medusa hurried toward her bedroom. “Have a seat. I won’t be long.” She almost told Cressida to make herself at home, but she didn’t want to put Cressida in mind of eating or drinking or using the bathroom; that would have her spending some of her precious resources.

  Medusa walked into the bedroom and closed the door, trusting her sisters to call if Cressida decided to wander off, though Medusa didn’t think she would. After all, if Hecate really had her aunt, what could she actually do without help?

  Medusa stripped quickly and stepped in the shower to scrub off the flecks of mud. When she emerged again clean, she paused before her dresser. She was thinking of sensible underthings, something cotton, but thoughts of Cressida made her hands drift toward the red, lacy options. She wound up somewhere in between, a dark blue set, with just a little bit of lace to be interesting, though she told herself she wasn’t going to need interesting. She couldn’t let Cressida that close, not when she planned on tricking her.

  She pulled on a clean pair of jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved tee. She didn’t want Cressida to feel alone in her choice of outfit, and she didn’t want to knock Cressida silly in one of her more slinky garments. Still, she paused as she perused her enormous closet. Showing her underwear might be out, but wouldn’t knocking Cressida a little silly strengthen the chances of her plan succeeding? Would Cressida be more likely to help the more smitten she was?

  “Now you’re just playing games,” Medusa muttered. Game playing was part and parcel of existing in the Underworld, but Medusa didn’t want to play with Cressida more than she had to. “I must be getting soft.”

  She marched to her bedroom window and opened it, pulling a piece of shade fog toward her. She concentrated on Medea, her tall form, bright red hair and electric presence, the way her magic crackled through the air. “Medea.”

  “I was starting to wonder where you’d gone,” Medea said, her voice vibrating through the fog, pitched so that it would carry only to Medusa’s ears.

  “She went to the Elysian Fields before I could stop her.”

  “Did she bring back ambrosia?”

  Medusa frowned at the eagerness in Medea’s voice. She almost said that Cressida had brought back enough to make anyone rich, but she didn’t want Medea getting ideas. “No, she wasn’t able to.”

  “Shame. It would have made a great payment.”

  “As if me owing you a favor and making you the household name for magic again isn’t payment enough?”

  Medea chuckled, and it had the tinge of evil that made her so enticing. “I’m ready when you are. And if I may strum my own lyre, I’ve really outdone myself.”

  Medusa had to laugh. “Strum away. We should be headed your way momentarily. Are all the illusions to get us there in place?”

  “Who in Hades do you think you’re talking to?” The question had a playful tone, and Medusa could tell the famous sorceress was proud of what she’d accomplished.

  “Fantastic. See you soon.” Medusa let go of the shade, sending it to drift with the rest.

  Cressida was sitting bolt upright on the couch, taking tiny sips from a bottle of water. Medusa didn’t know what had put her in mind of it, probably the way Stheno and Euryale stared at her. It was clear she didn’t know what to do with her hands as she watched them, too.

  “Ready?” Medusa asked.

  “Yes!” Cressida bolted to her feet, water dribbling over her hand. Clever girl that she was, she capped the rest and instead of shaking the excess off, lapped it off her knuckles.

  Medusa drew in a sharp breath, struck at something so commonplace being so erotic, but she supposed it was the smarts combined with frugality. Endearing and entirely becoming. When Cressida caught her watching, tongue still out, she froze before straightening, an embarrassed look on her face.

  “Sorry.” She mumbled something else about wasting and wanting, but Medusa cleared her throat.

  “Let’s get going.” She nodded to her sisters. They nodded back in sync.

  Cressida gave them a vague wave. “It was, um, nice to meet you.”

  They nodded again, never speaking unless they had to. Cressida seemed as if she might back out of the apartment. In the old days, she wouldn’t have faced them at all, fearing their power too much.

  As they waited for the elevator, Cressida shuffled her feet. “I’m sorry. Even after what you said, I had no idea.”

  “They’ll get better.” She didn’t add, “With your help,” but she could feel the words between them and knew Cressida felt them, too. It was nearly enough to banish guilt as they hit the street and walked in the direction of Hecate’s real palace. When they turned a corner instead of continuing straight toward the palace, Cressida didn’t seem to notice. Medea’s illusions had to be working, though Medusa couldn’t see the ones she knew were there. Once she was inside Medea’s place, she’d be as susceptible as Cressida, but she enjoyed the shows Medea put together. They were always quality.

  As they walked, they chatted, and Cressida mentioned that she’d studied ancient Greek culture and myth. She said her aunt was a doctor of myth, and Medusa hoped that meant June could survive long enough for Cressida to find her after Perseus was dead. They paused several blocks from the palace in front of a low, long building, Medea’s workshop, though Cressida wouldn’t realize that, not as long as the illusions were working.

  Cressida put her hands up, curling her fingers as if resting them on a fence that wasn’t there. “Here we are again.” She peered and craned as if trying to see the faraway palace, even though the wall of the workshop wa
s only a few feet in front of her.

  *

  Cressida stared at the fence, the acre of lawn. Sneaking in didn’t seem possible; too much open space. And Hecate was sometimes called the goddess of keys, too. She guarded secret ways and paths. The goddess of locking things up wouldn’t have an unbarred back door or a hole in her fence, not unless she wanted one.

  Maybe Medusa planned to barter to get June back. Maybe Hecate would want ambrosia, too, and Cressida could fetch some more, soul eating be damned. Of course, now that she’d pissed off the Flowers gang, Cressida didn’t know how easy that would be. They could have people guarding the entrance to the Elysian Fields, something they probably never had to do. Or they might be staring at two broken ewers of ambrosia and wondering what the hell her game was. Maybe she could slip them a note? Or maybe Hecate would give her something to trade, and then she’d be off on a string of favors across the Underworld, a never-ending quest. She and June could be long dead before it was over, but if they wound up in the Underworld, too, maybe they wouldn’t even notice.

  “Let’s head around,” Medusa said. As they walked around the fence, the lawn blurred and mutated into broken crags. Cressida watched, rapt, as the landscape reoriented itself into something that belonged in the depths of Tartarus, hell for those already dead.

  The palace walls shuddered, sections sliding back into the whole, all of it moving and mixing like an enormous 3D puzzle. It made a harsh, grinding sound, stone sliding over stone with the occasional creak of moving wood. It morphed into a jumble of architecture, still with the odd column or two, but also borrowing from every type of construction Cressida had ever heard of: flying buttresses mixed with Persian motifs blended with Gothic gables. Parapets sprouted from random corners to fight with towers and balconies and renaissance cupolas. A huge, antebellum porch whirled out to circle the second floor, and stained glass windows sprouted between floors, with the occasional door, wood and steel, that opened to nowhere.