Leif bit the inside of his cheek, mulling that point a bit and finding his second in-person threat to have a little more traction than the first. On the other hand, what was he supposed to do, wander around calling out for Zeus? It sounded like an epic waste of time, to say nothing of the problems of being a pawn in some Olympian chess game. Weaseling out of it sounded a whole lot easier. Now that was something he was good at.
“So,” he began, “you’ll punish me for not doing what you need me to do—”
“Correct.”
“—except you don’t know what it is that you need me to do in the first place. Maybe my doing nothing is what you need me to do. You think of that?”
“You cannot resurrect a god by accident.”
“Won’t know until you don’t try.”
Apollo grimaced. “Frankly without the vision, my mind would boggle at the concept of you being capable at all, but the fact is, you have the potential. You must try!”
Leif chuckled. “A little green guy once said, ‘Try not. Do, or do not.’ Until you’ve got some strong idea of what it is I need to do, I’m choosing the latter. And maybe I’ll tell the other gods what you’re pulling if you keep harassing me, eh?”
Apollo fixed him with a glare like the beating desert sun—or what Leif assumed the beating desert sun would be like, anyway, having grown up in the near-perpetual showers of northwestern Washington.
“Mr. Karlson, those who threaten gods rarely have the chance to make further mistakes.” The god held the gaze, and Leif couldn’t look away. Sweat trickled down his back. His mouth parched. His entire body felt as limp as a dishrag. “What makes you think they would take your word against mine?”
Leif swallowed. Apollo’s gaze cooled.
“You wouldn’t really hurt me,” Leif managed. “You need me. Just . . . let me think about it, okay?”
Even as he said it, Leif was fairly sure he wouldn’t do a damn thing. Well, maybe if it were as easy as pushing a button or something, but anything more than that and he wasn’t getting involved. True gods or no, getting caught up in their affairs sounded like a colossally stupid idea, especially for the weaker side. The others would find out eventually, and they’d stop him.
Plus, the latest Complete Warfare game was coming out tomorrow. He had plans to immerse himself in that as much as humanly possible.
Apollo took another sip of his tea, never letting go of Leif’s gaze. Leif broke first and did his best to disguise his slipping nerve as confident detachment. He guessed it worked about as well as his childhood dog could spell. Then motion at the café entrance caught his eye: Tracy Wallace had returned. She scanned the café for the holder of her wallet.
He had only a moment to wonder if she’d be able to enter the god’s sound bubble when it ceased, and the café ambiance flooded back into Leif’s ears as abruptly as it had gone. Leif’s startled-yet-manly flinch caught Tracy’s attention just as he knocked his own mocha out of his hand. The cup struck the edge of the table and would have spilled to the floor had not Apollo darted down to catch it inches from impact. Tracy had the nerve to smirk.
Apollo smirked as well and set the cup back on the table. “These sorts of things were always so much easier three thousand years ago. I shall be patient with you for the moment, Mr. Karlson. We shall see what fruit that bears.” He stood. Tracy began to make her way toward them. “In the meantime, we will continue to watch you. Should you pass up an obvious opportunity, I will hear of it.”
Leif cleared his throat and gathered up the cup again in an attempt to recover. “Fine. My company’s here, so you should probably go if you want to keep this a secret.”
With a final stern look, Apollo turned to leave. His back was to Leif as he passed Tracy. Leif had only a moment to gasp at the suspiciously sharp pain that pieced his chest before it vanished and he found himself smiling excitedly and standing to meet the suddenly lovely television producer.
Outside, Thalia attempted to console an increasingly frustrated Apollo who was walking in disguise down the sidewalk. “It’s just the hero’s journey. This is how it’s supposed to happen! He’s got the call to adventure; now he’s resisting. This is how it always goes.”
“No, it is not how it always goes. They sometimes go right away. The brave ones do.”
“Oh, very well, not always. All I’m saying is it’s not the end of the world. So he’s not answering the call right away—you just have to be patient. I always thought it more interesting when heroes do the resisting thing at first anyway.”
“I’m not looking for interesting, Thalia. A great many things depend upon this.”
The Muse slid her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder. “It’ll turn out all right.” She gave his arm a pat.
What worried Apollo, of course, was that things did not always turn out all right. Even if a hero did finally take up the call, the typical events that persuaded him to do so tended to be decidedly unpleasant things that the hero—or more importantly, those who demanded his aid in a café with patience far beyond what was deserved—might have avoided if he hadn’t been so damned reluctant in the first place. This assumed Apollo could even apply the term "hero" to Leif at all.
Perhaps Apollo would have been even more worried if he or any of the Muses had spotted the mortal watching Leif Karlson. This concern would likely have inflamed further with the knowledge that the mortal’s mother was an immortal conspirator responsible for Zeus’s murder. Had Apollo known that the conspirators had persuaded Aphrodite to pierce Leif’s heart with an invisible arrow of love designed to preoccupy him with lustful distraction, an arrow which she shot from the café’s kitchen door moments after Apollo stood and walked away . . .
Well, why dwell in the hypothetical? Apollo did not know.
Neither, for that matter, did Leif.
Neither did Tracy Wallace.
Neither did the president of the United States, the Society for Archery-free Cafés, nor the director of the Red Herring Fishing Society.
Aren’t lists fun?
CHAPTER TEN
TO: All Olympians
FROM: King Poseidon
RE: Release of monstrous creatures
Congratulations to all of us on a successful first press conference announcing our Return. Many of you have suggested the return of monstrous creatures to the world. We have all bred a number of them during the past few millennia for the creature design contests; they now swell the pocket dimension in which we’ve stored them nearly full to bursting. You may therefore release half of them into the mortal world—or as many as you can until I say otherwise, I have yet to decide. I know you will all agree that such measures will make the world more interesting and give the mortals something to do.
Furthermore, I see no reason you may not give occasional aid to mortals against the monsters if you wish, or sabotage the efforts of undeserving mortals to slay one of your own creations if you wish that. Whatever. Yet heed this command: do not allow the mortals to know that it is we who sent the monsters into the world! Mortal resentment toward any god in this matter will eventually spread to cost all of us worship. This is also for their own good: they may not admit it, but mortals crave heroism and things to slay.
Finally, let it be known that my octo-shark is the most fearsome beast in history! If a mortal can kill it, I’ll eat my trident. Or maybe I’ll just use my trident to skewer the one responsible; I’ll ride that wave when it comes.
—Inter-Olympian memo, June 19, 2009
“USUALLY YOU LET SLIP what sort of beast you’re looking to tangle with, ’time we get this far. I’m thinking either you’re angling to make a surprise of it, or you don’t have a damn clue yourself.” Dave pulled his hot dog from the campfire, eyeballed it for some ineffable quality, and then bit off the tip before returning the rest to the heat. “Last surprise I had was the harpy,” he added, his mouth still full. “Didn’t much care for that.”
Dave eyeballed Tracy and Jason across the fire with m
uch the same scrutiny he’d given the hot dog. The Monster Slayer cameraman, Dave had a face that suggested he’d chosen the proper side of the lens on which to work. His personality wasn’t much better, but he had a great eye for camerawork.
Of course, he’d had two eyes before the harpy. The shot he’d managed to get at the cost of his other eye was the same one that put Monster Slayer on the map. Tracy admired his dedication.
“We don’t know exactly what it is,” she answered. “The ranger whose horse it ate claimed it was somewhat man-shaped and about ten feet tall.”
“He saw it from a distance, don’t forget,” Jason added.
“Whatever it is, it’s about half a day’s hike from here to its territory, given the reports. And it cut the horse in half with one blow. Ate the ranger’s dog entirely.”
Dave grunted. “Wide lens, then.”
Jason flashed a grin and bit into his own hot dog with zero scrutiny. “The things you get me into.”
“Hey, I’ve got a feeling about this one, all right? It’ll be good,” Tracy said.
“As good as when I saved those hikers that cyclops captured?” Jason asked. He never missed a chance to mention his favorite episode.
“Maybe. I’ve got a strong sense of something. Call it producer’s intuition. Strong intuition.” She turned to Dave with a smirk. “Like he wouldn’t jump at any excuse to go to Vegas.”
“Damn right,” Jason said, “and like you wouldn’t either. You have fun with your new friend last night, Tracy? I know you went out after him.” He winked with all the discretion of a nude crossing guard.
Dave turned his eye to her. “What’s this, now?”
About a ten years her senior, Dave was protective of her in a way she neither needed nor wanted, and the same went for his advances toward her when the show first began. At least she had to turn him down only once before he backed off. His protective attitude started after that, likely an attempt at keeping her available until she came around and fell for him or whatever. She supposed it was better than constantly fending off his advances, especially since he was too good at his job to replace.
“Nothing,” she told him. “Just a weirdo.”
Dave grunted. “Vegas has ’em in spades.”
“Pun intended?”
“How’s that?”
Jason laughed. “This one wasn’t from Vegas. He trailed her all the way from Bellingham. Stole the poor guy’s heart, then broke it! Come on. Tell the story.”
“No.” She fixed Jason with a warning glare. Sometimes even hearing about another man making a pass at her would foul Dave’s mood. At best, he’d be even more of a crank. At worst, he’d be too distracted to do his best work. She hoped Jason would get it.
His nod assured her he did, yet Jason had a habit of thinking it more fun to pretend otherwise. “If you don’t, I will.”
Yup, she thought. There we go.
“Yeah, c’mon, Tracy.” If Dave’s smirk were any more satisfied, it’d have started clapping on its own. “Tell us all the story of the poor man whose heart you broke.”
Tracy removed her glasses. She polished them with the end of her sleeve while she stalled for time and considered the long odds that Jason would let it go if she refused. “Fine. You’d just embellish it all.” The largest spider she could find was going to find its way into his tent.
It is a little-known fact that the act of beginning a story sends a miniscule spark through the nether-stuff that binds together what mortals have obsessively labeled as reality. Such sparks speed near-instantaneously to the most appropriate Muse, who then decides whether or not to aid in the story’s telling based on numerous criteria: the subject of the story, the worthiness of the teller, and, most important, the local “whether patterns” (i.e., whether or not the Muse is already sufficiently entertained or feels like lifting a finger at that particular moment).
By virtue of being a true story, the spark set off by the beginning of Tracy’s tale burned with a weak historical flavor. It sped its way through the Earth’s core to Clio, who at that very moment was in Paris attending the opening of a new exhibit at the Napoleonic Museum and who frankly—and some would say anticlimactically—couldn’t be bothered.
The irony (and Muses do love irony, which either adds more or less irony in this case; authorities are undecided at the time of this writing) is that, had Tracy intended to make the story funny rather than as dull as possible so as to rapidly end the conversation, the spark would have traveled the grand total of twenty-five feet. Such was the distance to where Thalia perched in a pine tree, watching the whole affair—or had been watching, anyway, until getting drawn into a conversation of body language with a particularly belligerent owl. Though the whims of Muses are impossible to predict, it’s highly likely Thalia would’ve taken up the cause of a story told right in front of her, were it in her area of expertise.
But it wasn’t, so she didn’t. On the plus side, it would leave her less distracted when what happens later happens.
Later.
On a further plus side, the preceding tangent has caused us to happily miss the entire bit where Tracy tells how she returned to the Sacred Grounds café to retrieve her wallet from the suddenly love-struck Leif—who was both less obnoxious (in the sense that he was being friendly) and more obnoxious (in the sense that he was, if you follow, being “friendly”). Moreover, we have missed the word-for-word recap of his clumsy attempt at kissing her hand, the description of how he called across the café to order an unwanted drink for “the most beautiful woman in the world,” and the tedious account of his wounded denial that he had, in fact, stolen her wallet just to have an excuse to see her again. Under normal circumstances it would be possible to go back and review such things in greater detail; however, there is a horde of bloodthirsty creatures scheduled to soon descend upon the campsite, and they are, as you may imagine, particularly touchy about being kept waiting.
We now rejoin Tracy’s narrative as she describes her escape from the situation.
“I don’t know why I told him where our next hunt was. You know how sometimes things feel more persuasive if they’re detailed, right? I should’ve said, ‘I have to go now, I have to catch a plane,’ or something. Or, ‘I’ve an appointment,’ or maybe even, ‘If I don’t leave now, I’m going to chew my own arm off.’”
“Last one’s tougher than it sounds,” Dave commented.
“But anyway, I specifically tossed out that I needed to catch a plane to Vegas, and the rest just spilled out when he asked. I was rushing, I wasn’t thinking. So then I get out of there, not looking back, right? Down the street to the hotel, went up to my room, finished packing. I didn’t even think of the guy again until I checked out and saw him sitting there in the lobby.”
“Yeah, sure. He was on your mind all the way up that elevator, I bet,” Jason teased. “Your handsome geek, stealing your heart.”
“Bite me.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Let her tell it,” Dave shot.
Jason just smirked.
“He say anything?”
“Nope, just watched me. I think he said, ‘Hi,’ at the door as I left, but all that got him was a nod and me walking faster. In hindsight I might have spotted him at the airport when we were checking bags. I figured I imagined it.”
“See? Fantasizing.”
Tracy ignored the comment. “So long story short, he followed us to Vegas. I don’t know how he found out where we were staying. I guess he bribed the room service guy or something because the next thing I know, I’m opening the door and he’s standing there with the cart looking giddy.”
“Psycho,” Dave grumbled.
“Just what I thought, but I was too stunned to say anything. He wasn’t really threatening or aggressive or anything. Perfect gentleman—I mean, except for the stalking bit. Didn’t even have a creepy smile on his face or anything. Just apologized and asked if he could come in and talk.”
“You let him in?”
&nbs
p; “No, I didn’t let him in! I couldn’t even say anything. I just slammed the door on him after I regained my wits.”
“And grabbed your sundae,” Jason added.
“Well, duh, I’d already paid for it. Except a few minutes later, he was still there, just hanging out in the hallway. I mean I guess I could’ve just ignored him, but I yanked the door back open and told him to go the hell away or I’d call security.”
“He had the cutest lost puppy look on his face,” Jason said.
Dave shifted. “You were there?”
“Headed back to my room with a little company.”
Tracy rolled her eyes. Jason had a knack for finding fans—female ones, especially—anywhere they went. Or perhaps they just were attracted to his looks and cash and weren’t fans until he informed them how fantastic he was. He was actually frighteningly subtle about that last part too. At least at first.
“So up comes Jason and asks if everything’s okay—and you know you could’ve gone on past; I can fight my own battles.”
“Yeah, but women love when men come to the rescue.”
She skewered a marshmallow and plunged it into the fire. “I didn’t need rescuing, and since when do you care what I think?”
“I meant the other woman. Had to keep her engine running, ya know.”
Tracy’s eyes rolled anew. “Uh-huh, no one cares.” She pulled her immolated marshmallow from the fire, waited for the flames to blacken it completely before blowing it out, and then pulled the charred perfection off the skewer to pop it into her mouth. “Soh thehnm Jhashon—”
Jason cut her off. “I told him he’d better stop bothering the lady or I wouldn’t wait for security to toss him out. That usually works. Except I think I’m less intimidating when I’m drunk, ’cause he didn’t just turn and run.”
Tracy swallowed quickly and nearly choked to speak before Jason could elaborate. “Well, no. But then he left.”
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