Naina stretched and preened, pleased with the afternoon’s work.
"Why shouldn’t she be telling the truth? She loves her friend - and perhaps Baldur not so much, now that she doubts his love for her."
"She does not doubt. You failed."
"Yes, she does!" Naina insists. "And well she should, for there is his son to prove his falseness."
She glanced over to where her son played unaware, his hair bright as Baldur’s own. Her look was proprietary rather than affectionate, for she was not made to be a mother. Still, he had the looks of his father, and of that, she was proud.
"Indeed." Set gave the child a cursory look. "But as for the girl Green - she loves that empty-headed figurehead, and this talk of exchanging the hand of Orpheus for the girl Ruby - I smell a rat."
Naina examined pearly fingernails.
"It does not matter. If she takes the hand he uses to play the lyre, then we will win. If she does not, we have lost nothing."
Set looked doubtful, though for once, Naina was correct.
"There is more to this plan - but I cannot see through it. The girl has closed a part of her mind - this should not be possible for a mortal."
"I have been in that mind," Naina said lightly, "and I can tell you, within five minutes I was so bored I would have left of my own accord - if I had not had a task to undertake."
Set made an irritable gesture. The girl might be a brainless mortal, but Naina was fast becoming unbearably tedious. One of these days, she had to go.
Chapter 36
Don Vorsatelli took off his earphones. He couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard.
"Who’s this Set guy?" he asked, looking from one to the other. "Some kind of senior cult manager or something?"
"He is a god," explained the guy with the long hair. "Or so Demetrios believes. You know that New Hope is built around the cult of Dionysos, do you not?"
Vorsatelli blinked at the precise use of English.
"Sure," he said, "everybody knows that. So - just to be clear - he wants Orpheus’ hand, right? He must really have it in for the guy."
"Yes," said Green and Baldur at the same time.
"Orpheus hates New Hope," Green explained, "He’s always saying how stupid it is, and making jokes about it at his concerts. So the feeling is kind of returned."
The man from the New York Times rubbed at his stubble. He’d heard plenty of weird things about New Hope - of course there were stories, cult adherents who’d been chucked out and decided to talk - or somehow managed to free themselves of the spider web of brainwashing in which the cult excelled. There’d been the occasional documentary, featuring disgruntled employees - but people got bored, and New Hope moved on, and grew. Nothing like this, though.
"You think he believed you, when you said you’d cut off Orpheus’ hand?"
"I think so." Green took out a knife, and a box. "He gave me these before I left."
The journalist leaned forward.
"Don’t bother to look, they’re not identifiable. Just a common or garden sharp knife, for cutting off people’s hands, and an ordinary box big enough to hold one. I guess he didn’t want me to have to bother buying one at Kmart."
"But when you - I mean if - you give him this hand, and then the girlfriend doesn’t come back from the dead, what does he think will happen then?" Don Vorsatelli pushed his hand through his comb-over, settling the strands back in place. The knife looked like something a gangster would play around with. Dead girlfriends didn’t come back, that was one thing he was completely sure of. "He must know you’re going to be pissed off."
"He would deny any bargain." Baldur said. He was a stunning guy, that’s for sure. Looked like a fucking film star - but then, so did that Demetrios guy. The bad guy and the good guy in your typical movie, dark and fair. But the weirdest eyes he’d ever seen. Guy was probably wearing contacts - Vorsatelli had never seen that eye colour in anyone else, and he’d seen plenty. Almost clear, like a glass of water. "After all, there is no evidence, and he would have what he wanted, already."
Vorsatelli nodded.
"Sure, I get that. He’d just say you were a disgruntled cult member, or some woman with an obsession. You got history with Demetrios, you say?"
Green explained the history, and Vorsatelli listened, chewing at his lip. She was careful to leave out the supernatural elements - but without them, the story sounded pretty lame. She wouldn’t have believed it herself.
If that was Demetrios speaking on the recording, from the wire the girl had been wearing - well, he was even more wacky than Vorsatelli would have given him credit for. Girlfriends sent to Hell and brought back, hands cut off, and the most idolised rock star in the world right now - it had all the elements of a prime time special. But the girl - she’d sounded like she was right into it, though she was pretending she was a sceptic now. All that talk of Ereshkigal - was that the name, he’d have to google it - and Set’s sister, and the rest? If you asked him, they were all a couple of eggs short of a dozen.
"So I take it you’re not planning to really go cut off the guy’s hand." Well, a guy had to ask. Some loonies would do anything for a cause - or for media attention. The two of them looked up.
"Have you ever heard of Snow White?" asked the blonde guy, in an accent Vorsatelli couldn’t quite pin down - could’ve been some kind of Scandinavian.
"Yeah..."
"The wicked stepmother tells her huntsman to take Snow White out in the woods and come back with her heart in a box. But the huntsman cannot bring himself to kill such a beautiful, innocent girl - so he kills a lamb instead and takes its heart back to the stepmother, in place of Snow White. The stepmother is deceived - she thinks Snow White is dead."
"Wasn’t that in some movie with Meryl Streep or something?"
"Uma Thurman," corrected Green.
"But it never really made sense. I mean, you can tell a lamb’s heart from a person’s heart, can’t you? She can’t have looked at the damn thing properly." said Vorsatelli. "Anyway, where would you get a hand from? You thinking of raiding the morgue? If so, I better tell you that’s illegal in this country - and any other place I’ve ever been." This whole thing was getting weirder by the minute - and he was used to weird stuff - he was a fucking magnet for it.
"He would know Orpheus’ hand because of the ring he wears," Baldur explained impassively. "His dead girlfriend Ruby gave it to him, so he never takes it off."
"Oh yeah?" Vorsatelli wasn’t convinced.
Green sat forward, her eyes fixed on his face. She was a thin, pale thing -but he wouldn’t like to get in her way, he thought.
"If I brought Demetrios a hand - and he believed it belonged to Orpheus - and you had it all on camera, could you use that to run a story? Would it fly?"
"It’d be big news," agreed Vorsatelli, his face closed. "No doubt about that. But I couldn’t take part in anything illegal - and you’d probably be arrested for doing it. I’d stay well away from this if I were you."
Baldur and Green exchanged glances. Vorsatelli, looking at them, sighed. It was obvious they were just going to do whatever the fuck they were going to do - whatever shit they got themselves into because of it. He wasn’t going to get involved - not at this stage. There’d be questions - FBI questions. He raised both his hands and stood up.
"Look, guys, this has been pretty interesting stuff, and if that’s really Demetrios, he’s even loonier than I thought he was. But I’m not going to be involved in anything illegal. My advice to you is to let it go. You know you’re getting into some pretty dangerous stuff here, don’tcha."
"Yes."
Vorsatelli looked from one to the other, and fiddled with his tie. There was definitely something going on in the background, and it wasn’t just young love.
"Folks’ve disappeared. New Hope denies all knowledge, but..."
"We know.
"Say you do go in there, all wired up. What are you planning to do with the real Orpheus - I mean, the rest of him. I me
an - damn it, he’s supposed to have lost a hand. How’re you going to swing that? You know, I gotta tell you - there’s no way this plan is going to hang together. All Demetrios - or this Seth guy - has to do is place a call to Orpheus and he knows it’s all bullshit. Then I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, wired up and standing right there in the top floor office."
"We can swing it. Orpheus is a friend - he’s prepared to play along. He hates New Hope as much as we do." Green tried to look experienced and cynical - like a hard woman. She sensed Vorsatelli wasn’t buying it.
But Vorsatelli cracked a lop-sided smile. "Yeah, I read about it in Rolling Stone. But he doesn’t hate him enough to lose a real hand - does he?"
"The hand will be real enough that Set -and Demetrios - cannot tell the difference."
Vorsatelli leaned back cynically. This couple were playing him - and there was something off about their story. He had a nose for it. But he didn’t pick up any bad intent. Whatever it was driving them, it wasn’t something evil. Where was the guy from? Iceland or something? Those frozen eyes...
"You know, this is one of the craziest plans I ever heard in forty years - and I’ve heard some damn crazy ones. If it works, I’ll eat my hat...and my shoes."
Green looked at his shoes. They were brown leather.
"I hope your hat’s a sugarloaf," she said.
Chapter 37
Orpheus looked tired and sad. He was clean - at least Hell had done that for him - but Green almost wished there was some drug that’d take away the stricken look in his eyes. Still, it hadn’t affected his music, which had more raw power now than even before, when Orpheus was a relatively happy - if zonked out - star.
He looked a lot older. Gone was the pretence at being a wild man of rock and roll - the mess, the constant swearing, the drinking. He still dressed for the fans - those leather pants still hugged his lean hips - but he’d grown up, and suddenly.
Green put an arm around the bowed shoulders. "I miss her too."
Orpheus bent over his knees, and clutched his head in both hands.
"She went down there for me - and I went down there because I was a fucking moron. I’ll never forgive myself."
"She went down there because she loved you - so you might as well make it count. "
"I try." He picked up his favourite guitar, and began to pick out a tune. "I was working on an album a couple months ago, Songs for Ruby. It was going to be the best I’d ever made, but now..."
Without Ruby, it was pointless - and without his right hand, he’d never play again anyway.
Green’s heart ached for him. But even if they didn’t do this, Songs for Ruby would never be finished - because by that time, in another six weeks, they’d all be dead. What would Orpheus say if he knew? He’d probably be glad - because he’d assume that death meant reuniting with Ruby. Only, Green knew, it wouldn’t. Death would mean - death.
"You sure you want to do this?"
He brushed the tangled hair out of his eyes, and looked at his hand on the guitar strings, spreading the long, calloused fingers.
"She gave up her life for me, so I guess I owe her," he said. The ring Ruby had given him, a big gold band inscribed with both their names, twisted on his finger.
"Then take this," said Green, handing over an unstoppered bottle. "I warn you, it’s strong as fuck. When you wake up you’re going to have one hell of a headache."
"That’s not all I’m going to have." Orpheus smiled wryly, and drank the contents in three determined gulps. He burped, and fell back on the couch, unconscious. Green pulled an ear. No reaction. Now, she thought, I’d better get to work - there’s not much time.
That night, Manchester Stadium was filled to capacity. A backing band, Crazy Breakers, had already come on and done a few numbers - and they were good - but the crowd was waiting for Orpheus, and growing restless. They sat waiting with their peace badges, their rainbow tee-shirts and their happy boots. They held hands and they held placards, "We love you Orpheus" and "Let the truth prevail", and they told each other how love was more important than war, than politics, than greed. And then, they got impatient.
"Orpheus! Orph-e-us! Orph-e-us!"
Someone in the front row started stamping their feet, and it caught on. Before long the whole venue was hammering feet on the floor, a man-made earthquake. It was peaceful, relatively good-humoured - but even this crowd could exhaust its patience.
"We want Orpheus!"
But Orpheus didn’t appear, and eventually, his embarrassed manager came out on stage and held up his hand for quiet. Into the hush, he looked around solemnly.
"There’s been an accident. Unfortunately - and I feel just as badly about this as you do - Orpheus won’t be able to play tonight."
There was instant uproar. Loud booing split the air, and some of the crowd started stamping their feet again, this time in anger, not impatience. The manager, Tyson Ball, put both his hands in the air.
"I’m really sorry folks - all I can say for now is that there has been a really serious accident - Orpheus is alive, thank god for that - but he really isn’t going to be able to play for you tonight. I promise you, he’s as heartbroken about this as you are. Obviously your tickets will be refunded..."
"What’s wrong with ‘im" shouted a man with long green hair and eyebrow piercings. The rest of the crowd took it up, till the chant swelled from the front to the back of the stadium.
Ball clasped the microphone in both hands as if it was a lifeline that could pull him out of this crisis and straight up to the clouds.
"I can’t give you the details yet - but I’m assuring you it’s major. Our apologies to all of you here tonight - I know this must be a huge disappointment to you all..."
He was drowned out by the yelling of disgruntled peaceniks - although one or two people were already turning to each other in concern rather than anger. Gradually the mood changed. From disappointment at having come all this way to see the greatest rock show in the world, people began to wonder what could possibly be wrong, and to worry about Orpheus himself - was he ill? Had some psycho attacked him? Was it terrorism related? There were tearful faces as the crowd shuffled out of the great theatre, and many of the women were sobbing. Orpheus had that kind of effect on people.
In Orpheus' apartment, Green switched off the live TV coverage, which the three goddesses had been watching with fascination.
"Sorry about that."
He looked heartbroken. He’d never done this to his fans before - just left them waiting for him, waiting for music that would never come.
He eyed them all wearily.
"It’ll cost the promoters a fortune. And guess who they’ll try to get to spring for it."
"I know. We’re hoping..."
"I want Ruby back," said Orpheus, cradling his bandaged arm. "And I’ll do whatever it takes to get that to happen."
"You do know," said Artemis, "that Set rarely keeps his promises."
"If he doesn’t keep this one, I’m going to go back down there with an M22 and blow that fucking woman’s head off," said Orpheus, looking at the three goddesses with distaste.
"I presume you mean Ereshkigal, not Ruby," remarked Ishtar. She put out a soothing hand and stroked his locks, lingering. "I would be only too happy to see that white-faced cow bite the dust."
Green picked up the box, squeamishly. She didn’t like to think about what was inside.
"If Set doesn’t get Ruby out of hell, I’ll come with you," she said.
"And you will all be stuck there, ministering to Ereshkigal’s filthy lusts," remarked Artemis. "Take the hand, then, before it rots, and give Demetrios what he wants."
Chapter 38
Demetrios looked at the object on the table with disgust.
"You carried this all the way from London?"
"On the plane. Yes."
You couldn’t get a knife past airport security, or a bomb. But Denver had waved her straight through - because a severed hand doesn’t show up in cargo. Thank G
od. Otherwise the whole plan would have fallen apart. She looked at the object on the table, still lying in its plastic wrapping, and shuddered. There was no need to feign horror - she felt it, completely.
Demetrios looked up, his green eyes a mix of respect and distaste.
"No wonder you made such a good maenad," he remarked, replacing the lid on the box. "You have no scruples, do you - when there is something you want."
She nodded, grateful for once to be sitting in the low chair opposite his polished black desk. If she’d had to stand up, she would have been sick all over the expensive carpet.
"I’m not proud of what I’ve done. Orpheus’ music moved people, it gave them hope. Now he’ll never play again."
Demetrios leaned back, contemptuous.
"He was nothing but a sex-obsessed pop star. Mick Jagger, Jim Morrison, Justin Bieber... "
"Justin Bieber!" Green couldn’t help exclaiming. "You're comparing Orpheus with Justin Bieber? Not to mention the Rolling Stones. Even I know better than that."
He had the grace to look sheepish.
"I don’t follow popular music. I prefer baroque. Classical music will last for ever - these rock musicians will last ten years, if they’re lucky. In any case, he’s finished now. I hear his fans were extremely disappointed."
"People were weeping when they left," Green said, watching his face. "There’s so much love out there for Orpheus - they could have been furious, they could have ripped the place apart - but they were just worried about him. His fans are all wearing black for him, now."
"And what about you? If they knew what you’d done, your life wouldn’t be worth a dime, would it?"
"I guess not. But he’ll never tell anyone. He’ll make up a story."
Demetrios’ lip curled.
"You know, once the excitement has died down, he’ll be just a memory. Then all those fans looking for something to believe in, they’ll go looking again - and guess who will be here. New Hope. Waiting."
Green said nothing, trying to contain her nausea, until he’d finished the traditional gloating. God, did every bad guy in history have to do this?
The Wildcard (Like Flies Book 2) Page 18