Bad Blood

by Lucienne Diver

  I grimaced. “I’d be terrible company tonight. I’m sorry. Rain check?”

  “Okay,” she said doubtfully, “but when you’re up to it, I also wanted to get your opinion on my new head shots.”

  I’m pretty sure I kept my groan internal. As soon as we’d hung up, I realized that Christie never had answered my question about whether she’d known the dragon lady.

  Chapter Three

  “Gods, like lima beans, should be avoided at all costs—and if unavoidable, taken in very small doses.”

  —Avra Spyropoulous, a.k.a. Yiayia

  My alarm went off way too damned early Friday morning. Normally, unless I had an appointment, I rolled in somewhere between ten and eleven. Today, though, Neo Cain, alias Kasim King, had said he’d be by first thing for the envelope. I could have let Jesus handle the handoff, but I wanted to—well, in all honesty, I didn’t know what. Maybe ask him some questions to watch for his reactions.

  After a quick shower, I ran mousse through my hair, scrunched it a bit and let it be. I had only two options with my hair—fuss way too damned long and look like I stepped out of a Clairol commercial or not mess with it at all and get passable, if irrepressible curls. Anything in between, like blow-drying, and I was frizz city.

  My wardrobe was pretty much all variations on a theme—black to which splashes of color could be applied via scarves, camisoles or pins. Easy to mix and match. Not feeling at all sporty today, I chose a black pants suit over a periwinkle silk tank with matching scarf and low-heeled boots. Somehow, looking together made me feel more together, like I was putting on my professional persona. World-weary PI. Yup, been there, done that, perfectly unfazed by psycho killers and crazy contracts.

  I’d been in my office all of five minutes when Jesus burst in, literally glowing. Jesus didn’t glow. He sniffed; he raised eyebrows. At most he looked mildly amused at your expense.

  He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for support. “Someone here to see you and all I can say is oh. My. God!”

  I was dumbfounded. “Well, who is it?”

  “If I find out you’ve been hiding him from me—”

  “Jesus, who is it?” I asked again.

  “It’s Apollo-freakin’-Demas. About a case, he says.”

  Ignoring the lightning bolt of shock that struck me, I opted for infuriatingly calm. “And that’s surprising why? We are investigators—at least one of us is.”

  “Honey, stars like Apollo do not shop downtown for PIs. They have their people call someone else’s people who hire some firm at a chichi Hollywood address. They do not appear in person, in the a.m.” As if this was a crime. “I hear Travolta insists on doing all his business at night, just so he doesn’t get mobbed.”

  Put that way…

  “Well, we’ll never know what it’s about unless you show him in, assuming stars like him wait around. Go. Oh, hold up.” I unlocked my desk drawer and handed him the envelope. “If Kasim King shows up, give him this.”

  Jesus saluted, then turned on his heel and marched sharply out of my office.

  I slid my chair back in preparation to rise in greeting, then forgot all about it in the next second when all of a sudden, there he was—Apollo-freakin’-Demas, all six foot two ridiculously ripped inches of him. I had one of those bizarre romantic-comedy moments where the world contracts, spatial relationships are meaningless and he was all there was in the world—just his turquoise eyes meeting my bronze, silently speaking volumes. All those statues carved in his likeness were such pale imitations as to be sacrilege.

  Then I shook it off.

  “Okay, I get it. If I stipulate that you’re a hottie, can we cut the act and move on?”

  The look on Apollo’s face was so worth the price of admission.

  “How?” he asked.

  He was already rebounding with an intimate smile, but at the same time his gaze sharpened, as if he were suddenly really focused on me and not just whatever had brought him in.

  I shrugged. “Cynicism. It’s a gift.”

  “And not your only one.”

  “Oh. You. Charmer,” I deadpanned, choosing blatant insincerity over the more overt and somewhat-soggier rudeness of a raspberry.

  “You think so?” he asked undaunted.

  “Isn’t that why you bring in the big bucks?”

  “Oh, is that why? Nothing at all to do with my talent then,” he shot back.

  Damn, he was good at the banter. The more I felt myself responding, the more inexplicably irked I became. “I don’t think you came to me for a critique. Why don’t you take a seat and tell me why you’re here.”

  Apollo grinned, as if he could see right through me. He tugged my distressed leather guest chair into a position more to his liking and didn’t so much settle in as take it over. His long legs stretched out before him, his posture relaxed just slightly and his arms curved around the rests. I tried not to notice the way that strained the black silk T-shirt across his pecs or the way the supremely fitted jeans outlined his thighs.

  When I dragged my gaze back up to meet his, I was disconcerted to find him studying me the same way. Well, not the same exactly—not like a starved person eyeing filet minon—more like a birder avidly noting the characteristics of some rare or maybe previously undiscovered species.

  He seemed in no hurry to begin, so I gave him a prompt. “Why don’t I set the scene, get the ball rolling? My assistant tells me that stars like you don’t come down from the heavens for mere mortals like me, so I’m guessing this is too confidential to trust to an underling? And, since I’m a little outside your social strata, you probably didn’t pick me out of the phone book, so dish.”

  “Dish?”

  I rolled my eyes. Interactions with Armani aside, I wasn’t generally this big a pain in the ass. I just had a tendency to give my inner wiseass free rein when something put me off-kilter. It tended to tip the scales back in my favor.

  “That’s your cue to jump right in, the water’s fine.”

  Apollo cocked his head to one side. His lips quirked and his eyes sparkled in what I took to be—oh holy freakin’ moly. He wasn’t the least bit put off. He was, gods help me, intrigued. The old tales had more than enough warnings about what happened to mortals naïve enough to play with gods. I had no urge to become immortalized as a flower, tree or monster. Not that he was, of course, a god. The whole thing was just silly. Even if those azure eyes, the red-gold hair, the sun-kissed warmth of…

  Apollo settled back into his chair and rolled his shoulders, drawing my eyes to that fantastically sculpted chest, which nicely matched the washboard abs below. He crossed one ankle over the other knee; the denim looked soft to the touch, as if—I became aware of two things: one, I hadn’t blinked in a while, and two, Apollo knew exactly what he was doing.

  I cleared my throat and pointedly brought my gaze back up to meet his. I didn’t think my look was any too warm, but he didn’t seem likely to catch cold.

  “Very well,” he said finally, “I’m here about Circe Holland.”

  He paused for my reaction, but, receiving none, since I’d already figured as much, went on. “I understand you’ve started an investigation into her death.”

  Suspicion niggled at me. “Really? And where are you getting your information, the Delphic Oracle?”

  He registered surprise that I’d made the connection. “Psychic to the Stars,” he admitted. “And before you ask, not that Network. They gave us all a bad name. Anyway, if you don’t already have a client, I’d like to hire you to track down the killer.”

  I shouldn’t have been so flummoxed. Certainly, it didn’t speak volumes for my competence as an investigator. I’d expected to be questioned, maybe, because the police had let my name slip and Apollo wanted to hear about Circe’s final moments. I hadn’t expected to be hired if I so chose. Hard as it was to refuse a “god”, that was by no means a given. On the one hand, a successful case for Apollo might give me an entrée into L.A. high society and real mone
y, which for an office on a shoestring budget was nothing to sneeze at. On another, it meant getting entangled with beings orders of magnitude beyond my experience. On the third hand… Hell, I hadn’t even taken the case and was already counting on extra limbs just to keep track. And was he just going along with me or was there really an Oracle?

  “Your Oracle can’t tell you who did it?”

  He shook his leonine head. “It doesn’t work that way. The Oracle gets flashes of the future—not the full picture. Just fragments, usually of pivotal events. Apparently, Circe’s murder didn’t rate.”

  “But I did?”

  Wow, that smile should be registered as a deadly weapon. “Apparently so.”

  Huh. Okay then. “What’s your connection to Circe?”

  “We were entering into a partnership. If her murder has anything to do with the business, I need to know.”

  “Very sentimental.”

  His laugh was a surprise, deep and even more intimate than his smile. It washed over me with a tingling heat, sending a hormone cocktail shooting through my veins. It took everything I had not to gasp.

  My lids had started to lower when he stopped and speared my gaze with his own.

  “It has been a very long time since anyone has taken me to task. I think we’ll get along very well, you and I.”

  My body responded to that despite the warning klaxons blaring away in my brain. The urge to satisfy my curiosity warred with my need to get him the hell out of my office before any other needs became more urgent.

  “Take it down a few notches or this conversation is over,” I said, digging nails into my palm to try to redirect my focus.

  Apollo eyed me, gaze too intense. Anger started thankfully to override my erotic impulses.

  “Sorry,” he said finally. “You took me aback and I let down my guard.” He closed his eyes momentarily and something I couldn’t put into words shifted, as if his presence dampened.

  I sucked in a deep breath and took my time letting it out, trying to expel the tension along with it.

  “That’s what you’re like without effort?” I asked, glad to hear that I sounded almost normal.

  He shrugged. “It’s a curse.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “No, really. I understand that it can be…overwhelming. I’ve lost—” He stopped there.

  Either he was as good an actor as advertised or he really did know. Based on the old tales, I wouldn’t have been the first to run from rather than into the fire.

  “About that, why’s an actor getting into the talent biz?” I asked, suddenly uncomfortable with the intimacy.

  His eyes flashed, lighting an answering flash fire that could be either fear or excitement. “Don’t be coy, Ms. Karacis. Ask the question that’s really on your mind.”

  Whatever powers Apollo possessed, he certainly wasn’t a mind reader if he thought I could narrow it down to just one question.

  But in the end, maybe I could—if I could figure out a way to phrase it without sounding stupid.

  “Are you—I was wondering about the origin of your name.”

  Apollo’s, I don’t know, aura dimmed further and it was as though a cloud had passed before the sun.

  “Oh no, it is your limb. I will not test it for you. It will save time if you simply accept, and I do not like to dance around when we can get straight to…business.”

  His eyes had a lock on mine, denying me the comfort of looking away.

  “Fine. So you’re a god,” I said, going him one better and making it a statement. “Why acting then? Why lower yourself to reading someone else’s lines? And why leave at the top of your game to manage other talent?”

  He offered a feral smile. “Better. Yes, I am that Apollo or Hobal or Shamash or any number of gods in any number of cultures. Names do not have the power they’re believed to possess. What you call someone is less important than the fact that you call him at all. As to how far we have fallen—that story, my fair lady, can fill volumes. Suffice it to say, as we turned from men to fight amongst ourselves, so they turned from us. Now, we must sing for our supper.”

  “But—”

  He held up a hand to stop me. “By the time we realized that the tithes had dried to a trickle and the cupboards were bare, we were too late—other gods had taken root and we discovered, to our shame, that our powers had waned along with our worship. We had not the power to oust the usurpers. Ancient history.”

  My mind was reeling, a million thoughts vied for attention, chief among them that Yiayia would give her right arm to be in my place, meet the Apollo, ask and receive answers.

  “I tell you this,” he continued, “only to let you know what you’re up against. We may no longer rule the earth, but we are far from powerless. This case will be dangerous, even for you.”

  Even for me—what was that supposed to mean?

  “Why leave acting? I’d think the idolatry would be just like old times.”

  He answered with a wry grin. “I can only pass off my failure to age for so long. Sooner or later, I will have to start taking on,” his lips curled, “paternal roles. I had thought that perhaps it was time for a sideline.”

  “You mean, besides the whole psychic gig?”

  “Like I said, business is down.”

  “Okay, so you’ve done the prognostication thing and the acting, that still leaves a lot of time unaccounted for since your heyday. What’ve you and the others been doing all this time?” Yiayia might know, but she’d throttle me if she ever found out I’d had the chance to ask and didn’t.

  But Apollo was already shaking his head. “Need-to-know basis,” he said, “and you don’t—”

  “Need to know. I’ve got it. Fine, enough about you. Let’s talk about me—what do you mean dangerous to investigate even for me?”

  He stared and I wondered if I’d finally managed to set him aback. “Don’t you know?”

  I stared back. “Let’s say I’m in denial. Buy me a clue?”

  He raked me up and down. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re practically glowing with it.”

  “With what?” I asked, frustrated.

  “Power.”

  I snorted. “Whatever. Okay, so let me get something straight—you’ve got this problem having to reinvent yourself because you don’t age. Meanwhile, Circe’s got to pull a Lady Bathory and practically bleed peasants to achieve the same result?”

  His eyes widened. “I wondered about that. She’s what? Second generation, I think, one of Helios’ brats. The thing about Circe is—was—no one prolongs contact beyond the necessary. She’s a shrewd businesswoman, but you’d check for keys, wallet and soul on the way out, if you know what I mean. So, I didn’t ask and she didn’t tell.”

  “I see. Very ostrich of you.”

  “Ostrich?” he asked, cocking his head to one side.

  “Head in the sand, you know. It’s not as if you fell down from Olympus yesterday.”

  The blinding smile was back. “I just like hearing you explain.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know. I’m cute when I’m flustered. Look, save the charm for Jesus. He’ll get a lot more out of it. I’ll have him set you up with a contract and you can give him the retainer.”

  “Does this mean I’m dismissed?” he asked, radiating amusement.

  Hell, the harder I tried to give him the “no go” sign, the bigger his smile.

  “Not just yet. I want to run the killer’s description past you—see if it rings any bells.”

  He shrugged. “You can try, though if we’re dealing with one of the old ones, there’s no guarantee he was wearing his true form.”

  “You assume it was a man.”

  Again he shrugged. “It is my understanding from the news reports—the police themselves told me very little—that the physical damage was extensive. While the female of the species might be deadlier than the male, it’s been my experience that they’re also more subtle and less likely to get their hands dirty doing the deed.”

/>   It was a sweeping generalization and, like most, riddled with exceptions, but not unreasonable.

  “Ah, well, in this case anyway, I think you are correct, though I see no reason that a—” I choked on the word god, “—being that could shift form wouldn’t choose to look like everyone else. This guy stood out—tall, scaly, green.”

  “I see your point. Still, scaly and green covers a lot of territory. Any of the water divinities would fit your description, though it probably puts Poseidon in the clear, since he’s got a reputation of shifting for every piece of tail…”

  “Thanks so much for your help,” I said struggling not to roll my eyes. “One more thing before you go—I’ll need access to Circe’s files.”

  “Let me know when you’d like to view them and I’ll set it up.”

  I nodded. No point wading in until I had more of an idea what I was looking for.

  Apollo rose to leave, once again drawing my gaze to a completely inappropriate inventory of his attributes. I stepped back as he stepped forward, then realized how silly that was. There was an entire desk between us, and he probably meant only to shake my hand. Perfectly normal, like sealing the deal.

  I forced myself to meet his eyes, already heartily tired of the amusement I knew I’d find, and raised a hand to shake. The jolt as he wrapped his long fingers around my hand caught me unaware, and for the first time in my life I almost understood the meaning of swoon. My knees felt a little weak as he turned the hand over and breathed across the knuckles before kissing them. Then he was gone. At least he’d had the decency to close the door behind him so that Jesus wouldn’t find me in a puddle on my chair.

  Chapter Four

  “Windex, feh. What is this Windex joke everybody keeps making? Anybody with a brain knows Ouzo is the secret. Then if you’re not better, who cares. Pain’s gone.”

  —Helen Karakis, one third of the Karacrobats

  “Detective Lau already offered me a cup of the paint stripper you guys call coffee, so I’m guessing she’s got the role of bad cop for the day,” I said by way of an icebreaker. Not that I didn’t appreciate the strong silent type, especially when he came tall, dark and intense, but Armani’s silences spoke volumes. Right now, we were on volume “A” for “Annoyed” that I’d delayed my visit to the station.