The Wildcard (Like Flies Book 2)

by Fallacious Rose

  "You should never believe a promise made in hell," said Ereshkigal, taking her by the arm. "One given, one returned - it seems fair. Now, perhaps, you and I can get to know one another a little better, my feisty little platinum-haired angel."

  Chapter 33

  "You sent her." Green accused the three goddesses wrathfully. "And now you’re saying that this Ereshkigal has decided to keep her. Did you know that would happen? Did you?"

  Artemis shrugged her shoulders, annoyed. She didn’t like the tone this girl was adopting - as if a mortal could hold a goddess to account. She was beginning to have some sympathy for Frigg’s point of view - she would not want to be the mother in law of this presumptuous slut.

  Only Ishtar showed some sign of remorse. She reached out and patted Green on the shoulder.

  "I am sorry. We misjudged Ereshkigal. She is not like us…living in a land of darkness and dead things, she has become a little strange. We made a mistake."

  "You made a mistake – and my best friend is stuck in Hell."

  Isis spread her hands.

  "You are distressed, I understand. But there are greater things we must consider, Green, than you and your friend’s welfare, or even Baldur. Ruby was a mortal and mortals die - sooner or later. Orpheus is our one hope of victory - or the whole world dies. What would you want – one human to be saved, or all of you?"

  Green couldn’t speak. She wished she could obliterate them all - if only she was a goddess, and had the power. Baldur blazed back at his aunt.

  "You say mortals die, as if it is a fault they have. A knowledge of death and the limits of life gives them compassion, mercy, love. We immortals have lost that - we treat them as expendable and we treat each other no better. Don’t be so quick to judge."

  Isis looked down her long nose, her mouth twitching in irritation.

  "In your attachment to these tokens, you forget that they are but pieces in a game. We created them, we can destroy them, and we cannot preserve them from death even if we choose to. There is no war without casualties and this is a war, make no mistake. Set has no mercy, and compassion is weakness."

  "It is not weakness to weep for the fate of a friend."

  "It is weakness" barked Artemis, "In a war, grief is a weakness that will get you killed. But let the mortal weep, she cannot help it. I liked the girl myself - she had spirit - and was sorry that Ereshkigal kept her, the bitch. I would retrieve her if I could..."

  "You’re a goddess. Of course you can get her back – or what use are you anyway?" Green burst out, stabbing her finger at the huge shaggy woman in inarticulate rage. Artemis lifted a warning fist. Baldur leapt between them, eyes blazing.

  "Enough," said Isis, looking from one to the other, brows raised into her hairline. "Grieve, then – but think, Set’s power is gaining, and soon the Game will end. We are neck and neck – but while Orpheus has fallen back, Demetrios has made conversions, and those conversions will mean souls for Set. So we must think – what can be done?"

  Artemis lifted her bow and snarled.

  "Kill him like the beast he is."

  Isis shook her head impatiently. Sometimes her sister had no sense at all.

  "You know that we cannot. It is not permitted. We would lose all we have, in the Game."

  "Seduce him," suggested Ishtar. "I did so myself, once. Demetrios is a handsome man, he must be susceptible to women. Many great men have fallen for love of a woman."

  "More great women have never even begun, for the love of a man," growled Artemis.

  Green looked from one to the other. They had already forgotten Ruby, absorbed in planning their road to victory. If these women collected more souls than Set, they could choose to postpone doomsday - maybe forever. If they lost - it would serve them right, but the price was too high. She swallowed her grief and anger.

  "That’s not going to work. Demetrios has a fixation on Naina – he thinks she’s the Virgin Mary - and no woman’s going to be able to compete with that. Not even a goddess."

  "Surely," said Isis, "mortals will soon perceive that this cult has no basis in evidence, that the Healer is corrupt, that miracles do not occur…"

  Baldur’s cool voice interrupted.

  "Oh, but miracles do occur. Set is cunning enough to know that a few loaves into fishes, a cancer cured here and a blind man who now has sight, will convince even the most sceptical. I have heard of miracles brought about by the Healer – and they convince far more than any logic of yours, aunt."

  "Enough about what will not work," Artemis grunts. "What will work? We have Orpheus now, we have Green – useless though she appears to be. We should be able to defeat this upstart. I for one think we should be able to arrange some accident, some illness..."

  Isis and Ishtar both opened their mouths to argue her down, but Green interrupted. She received three cold, immortal glares.

  "I have an idea."

  "Another idea? Do tell," said Isis. "We are all ears."

  "Ok then. You all know that there was a huge cult before The Light, which had lots of members and money – but it collapsed about fifteen years ago, when I was a kid. We studied it in social psychology. You know why it collapsed? Because the film star who was the public face of the cult, its biggest asset, decided he’d had enough and decided to denounce it – on live TV - and expose everything that had been really going on. Including the head honcho’s child abuse network and their cosy relationship with the Italian mafia - everything. One minute, this cult was the most powerful religious movement in the world. The next year, it was cat food."

  "So?" Isis raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  "So if we could get Demetrios to confess that the cult sucks, on live prime time TV – the whole thing would collapse, then goodbye to Set’s chances of winning the Game. Right?"

  She looked around at the still, perfect faces. Baldur squeezed her hand. It was weird as – discussing apocalyptic strategy with a group of goddesses. You just do what you have to do.

  "Oh yes." Ishtar’s voice dripped sarcasm. "I am sure that Demetrios is dying to confess, given the opportunity."

  "He will be," said Green simply. "I have a plan."

  Baldur grasped her shoulders firmly and turned her to face him.

  "If you are thinking what I think you are, then I forbid you."

  "You can’t forbid me," Green looked up at him sombrely. "I have free will."

  Chapter 34

  Green climbed out of her yellow cab in front of the huge corporate headquarters, and blinked. The House of Healing lived up to its name. She had to give Dionysos - or Demetrios - credit - it was beautiful. In a city of thrusting phallic symbols in glass and concrete, the House gleamed like a crystal forest, a tracery of vine leaves decorating the veined marble portico between pillars of twisted white wood. This, it said with every stone, every shining fancy of its construction, is a place where you can find what you’ve always wanted - a place of dreams.

  Green walked up the pristine steps - Demetrios must pay a fortune in cleaning services - and into the foyer. A low white desk faced her across the dappled space, with a couple of glamorous receptionists pretending to be busy behind it. She steeled herself. She couldn’t just ask to see the boss - could she?

  "Can I help you?" A brown haired young man came out from a side door, smiling warmly. He looked so like an ordinary, friendly, helpful young guy that Green had to assume that’s what he was.

  "Um - I’m a very old friend of Demetrios, and I was wondering whether it would be possible to see him, just for a very short time. I’d be happy to make an appointment and come back, if he’s occupied. He must be a very busy man these days."

  The brown-haired guy smiled deprecatingly.

  "Demetrios? You mean The Healer? He is always occupied, I’m afraid."

  "Well," she tried to look ingratiating, "maybe if you send up my name, he’ll be able to find five minutes. Like I said, we’re really old friends, and he did tell me to call by, if ever I, um, was in the area. "

  Tha
t wasn’t a lie, at least. Demetrios had said - way back in Greece, that day when he’d come to the hotel room like a travelling encyclopaedia salesman, trying to get her to sign up for the fledgling cult - to come to him if she was in trouble. That was then - and now the fledgling cult was a fully grown carrion bird, its wings shadowing the world - and she was in trouble.

  "Wait here," said the guy, waving her to a white leather sofa. What was it with Demetrios? Everything here was white or green or crystal. And covered with vine leaves. Of course - Dionysos, thyrsoi and vine leaves. She remembered that misty morning, the drum beating, the naked middle-aged women whirling around, careless of their nakedness. She wondered what had become of Aunt Elena. Probably still heading out with the gang every spring for a run on the hillside.

  Just as Green was beginning to think she’d been palmed off, the brown-haired guy came back, accompanied by a vision in eighties shoulder pads and killer heels.

  "Come with me," said the vision, giving her the warm, tender smile that seemed to be New Hope’s trademark. "The Healer will see you now."

  She rode up in a plush, mirrored elevator - again, white with vine leaves trailing over the walls and ceiling - and stepped out on the forty fourth floor, the vision clasping her right arm in a grip that was half guidance, half restraint. Green stared around, impressed despite herself.

  She followed the assistant across the thick, dark green pile carpet, looking in awed disgust at the luxurious trappings. So this, she thought, is where all those donations go - not to hospitals and battered wife shelters as New Hope liked to suggest in their public spiels. Floor to ceiling glass windows surrounded them, offering a panoramic view of New York.

  The forty fourth floor screamed rich, powerful - and wild. Potted grapevines streamed everywhere, fitting themselves into every marble cornice and cranny. Ancient, one armed marble statues of naked women, satyrs with embarrassingly large dimensions, and dancing fauns lined the walls. A fountain of pure gold played in the middle of the floor, and an aulos sang heartbreakingly from the internal sound system. The vision took a crystal goblet from a side table and dipped it into the fountain.

  "Champagne," she explained mellifluously. "We offer it to all The Healer’s guests. We call it the Water of Life."

  "Er - thanks."

  The last time Green had drunk anything provided by Dionysos, she’d fallen into a stupor and then gone off to hunt her then-boyfriend to the death. As the vision led the way ahead, Green surreptitiously tipped the Water of Life into a pot plant.

  Demetrios sat – or rather, lay – on a velvet couch, eating grapes. He reminded Green of nothing so much as Nero fiddling while Rome burned - but he was a hell of a lot better looking than any Roman emperor. His hair was long and glossy and rippled halfway down his tanned, muscled back. He wore nothing but a white sarong around his waist, and his torso was lithe and golden brown. Even though she’d never fancied him, she could see why so many women - and men too - fell over themselves to get near to this Mediterranean wet dream of a man.

  As she came towards him, he stood up and greeted her with an effusive embrace. He smelled of expensive after-shave and hair oil. Green coughed.

  "I thought you would never come." His voice was just as she remembered - deep, sensual, and all New York.

  "I thought I never would either," she admitted, perching on the edge of a white leather armchair, in obedience to a lordly invitation. "The fact is, I’ve got something to ask you."

  "Ask away."

  The God had told him to expect the girl, at some point. There was nothing that the God did not know - did she expect to surprise him? He almost laughed in her face - but instead, looked at her gravely, waiting for her to lay her pathetic cards on the table.

  "I want to talk to Dionysos. Or Set."

  Demetrios laughed out loud then, showing both rows of his magnificent white teeth under full red lips. He selected a fig from a platter on the glass topped table in front of him and popped it in his mouth, then offered the platter to Green. She took one - well, she was hungry.

  "You think you can demand to see God? Green Beatrice Hennessy, God decides when and where to come to us, not the other way around."

  "Right." Green chewed the fig. It wasn’t bad. She could have used some water to wash it down with - but not from that fountain. From Demetrios’ smug expression, she knew that Dionysos wasn’t far away. He could be in this room, listening - and with luck, he probably was. She tried to will her nerves into an alert stillness. For such a long time, she’d been afraid of him - it was too hard to just stop, now - even though she knew he was powerless to do anything at all. Her mind said there was no danger. Her gut said ‘run’.

  "I understand. I’m not demanding anything. I have a proposition he might be interested in, that’s all - and I want something in exchange."

  Demetrios looked genuinely shocked.

  "You would bargain with the God? You have no idea what you are dealing with, my dear - the God is not to be bargained with, like a gypsy in a market!"

  Green paused. Set or his mistress Naina were probably in the room right now, listening to this conversation, and eavesdropping on her thoughts. You couldn’t control your thoughts – a god would see them whether you wanted them to or not. She had to be sincere.

  "I don’t like your god, Demetrios. So let’s get that clear, right from the start."

  Demetrios popped another grape into his mouth.

  "Honesty is always appreciated."

  "But I don’t like the other gods either," she explained, watching him chew. For a good-looking man, he had fairly bad table manners. She could see the pale green cud of the grape, appearing and disappearing between his whitened teeth. "I have a problem, and I want your God - Set, Dionysos, whatever you call him - to help. In return I’ll give him something he wants. That’s it - plain and simple."

  Green kept her mind on the three goddesses, images of their smirking, callous, perfect faces staring back at her. She did hate them. That was true. Demetrios curled his lip.

  "I see. What can you possibly offer the god - any god - that could interest him. Or her. Your life, perhaps? Why should he even want your pathetic life - when he can throw you out that plate glass window any time he chooses."

  "I’m not offering him my life - we’ll all be dead in two months from now anyway, Demetrios - I’m offering him Orpheus."

  Demetrios put his wine down on a side table, interested, as a cat who suddenly notices a lizard crossing his path.

  "And in return?"

  "I want my friend Ruby back. She was sent down to hell to find Orpheus by those bitches," she let the genuine anger rise in her voice, "and Ereshkigal kept her, and sent him back. I don’t care about Orpheus, but I do care about my friend."

  "You have a lover," he accused suddenly, fixing her with his ivy-green eyes. "An immortal. What role does he play in all of this?"

  "He forbade me to come," she said honestly. It was true - Baldur had forbidden it. He didn’t want her to walk into the lion’s den. It was too dangerous, he said. She’d defied him.

  Demetrios leaned back again, apparently satisfied. His eyes flickered to the side, and she knew she was being watched by others.

  "Baldur can’t get my friend back, and neither can his aunts,” she said, talking to those others. “They say Ereshkigal won’t give them what they ask. But Ereshkigal is Set’s sister. I’m thinking maybe she’s fond of him - if anyone is." Fat chance.

  Demetrios stroked his chin, clean-shaven and smooth as an advertisement.

  "You say you can offer us Orpheus," he said. "What do you mean, exactly?"

  "I could kill him for you," she offered, looking away for the first time. It wouldn’t be a bad thing for them to see her as doubtful, now - she didn’t want to look like killing people was all in a day’s work, like some kind of hired assassin. Everyone here knew that was a lie. "But that would just make him a martyr - he’d be a hero straight away, another dead star, with people holding memorials in his hon
our, and his songs being played over and over on the radio - he’d be three times as popular as ever he was when he was alive."

  She waited, to let that sink in. Demetrios knew enough about crowd behaviour to know that was true enough. He knew a lot about crowd behaviour.

  "So what I’m offering, instead, is to take away the thing that makes him what he is - his right hand. He can’t play without his right hand, and even the lyre of Apollo will be no use if he doesn’t have the means to play it. Without the lyre, he’s just a voice - it’ll take the soul out of him."

  "You’d do this? How?"

  Green looked up through her lashes. Demetrios didn’t look convinced. Why would he be - a girl like her, who’d never hurt a fly in her life, suddenly offering to cut off the hand of a famous rock star? Even if she wanted to, what was she going to do - march into his house with a chainsaw?"

  "He’ll see me alone," she explained, "because he’ll want to talk about Ruby - he still loves her, and he wants to go back for her. I’ll tell him that Ereshkigal will give Ruby up, if he sacrifices his right hand, so he’ll do it. Probably he’ll need to be knocked out first - and you’re right, I’ve never cut off someone’s hand before. But that’s how much I love my friend. I don’t suppose you get that - seeing as you don’t have any friends, do you."

  Demetrios’ eyes widened. He hadn’t expected the girl to be honest - and he hadn’t expected her to be so matter of fact about something like this. But they could see into her mind, and they saw nothing to distrust. And they liked the idea of cutting off Orpheus’ hand - he could feel the Madonna’s anticipation, her red delight in the mutilation of an enemy. Of course, Ereshkigal wouldn’t give the girl Ruby up, if she didn’t feel like it. But there was no need to say that.

  "Bring me the singer’s hand," said Demetrios, his hand running lightly over his pectorals, "and Dionysos will see to it."

  Chapter 35

  "I am not sure," says Set, chewing his underlip. "I suspect that she is hiding something. Baldur would not allow her to do this."