The Immortals

by Jordanna Max Brodsky

  Whatever extraordinary healing had occurred last night in the shower seemed to have been an isolated incident. She tied a makeshift tourniquet tightly around her knee, removed her gloves, and pulled her baseball cap low over her face.

  Wincing with the pain, she jumped up to grab the grate overhead. When the sidewalk stood momentarily empty, she held on with one hand and used the other to raise the hatch. She pulled herself through and walked, as nonchalantly as possible, across the sidewalk to where Hippo waited. Kneeling beside the dog, she retrieved the blanket snippets, letting Hippo smell each in turn. “These are our killers, girl. So promise to keep a nose out, okay?”

  Selene limped away from the hospital and into Central Park, heading toward the North Woods, a patch of dense forest at the park’s far northern end. After a few minutes, she came to the small, gurgling spring once known as Montayne’s Fonteyn. It spurted forth between two rocks, feeding into the nearby stream. A small iron ring protruded from an overhanging boulder: In the nineteenth century, long before water fountains, a ladle had hung from the ring so passersby could drink from the spring. But even before the ladle, before the park was a park, before a white man called Montayne gave the spring his name, a Lenni Lenape girl had shown it to Phoebe Hautman, a silver-eyed white woman who tracked and hunted better than the cleverest warrior.

  Beside the spring, a small waterfall rushed over a cliff of boulders and into a larger, fast-moving stream. Checking first to see she had the secluded area to herself, Selene sat beside the water, removed her boots, and rolled up her pants. Motioning Hippo to stay on the rocks, she waded into the water.

  As she suspected, the fresh, rushing water had a healing effect, just as it had when she’d been the Goddess of the Wild. The wound did not disappear entirely, but she watched as it scabbed over before her eyes. “I’m getting stronger. It’s really happening, Mother,” she murmured. “I just wish it were happening to you.”

  She felt the dappled sunlight kiss her cheeks and looked up through the leaves at the sky—as blue and clear as her father’s eyes. Was Apollo right? Will it be my fault if my mother dies? she wondered. Am I wasting my time searching for a killer of thanatoi, when an Athanatos stands poised on the shores of the River Styx, ready to cross over to the land of the dead?

  A fly settled on the nearest Danish. Little black mandibles nibbled at a crumb of jellied apricot. Theo didn’t bother shooing it away. At least it was something to look at.

  The walls of the small interview room (Theo couldn’t help thinking of it as an interrogation chamber) were completely bare. At this point, he almost wished Brandman would come back. At least his bulldog face would relieve the monotony.

  The detective had grilled Theo for an hour, asking again about his whereabouts the night of Helen’s murder (in my apartment watching Battlestar Galactica reruns while grading papers), his relationship to Helen (yes, she was my girlfriend for a while, and yes she left me, but no, I didn’t want her dead, for God’s sake), and his status within the department (sometimes university politics are more soap opera than symposium, you know how that is). For most of the questioning, the young black detective he’d seen during his first foray to the precinct house had also been present: Maggie Freeman, plump, fresh-faced, and a good deal more pleasant. But if Freeman and Brandman were playing “good cop, bad cop,” it wasn’t working. From Theo’s perspective, it had been more “silent cop, asshole cop” than anything else. Finally, Brandman got around to asking Theo to outline his Mysteries hypothesis one more time. While the two detectives took diligent notes, Theo ran through the first five days of the ritual until he reached the present.

  “Tonight’s the start of Day Six, the Pompe,” he explained, “meaning ‘procession.’ It starts off on a morbid note, at a cemetery outside Athens. Then it gets a little rowdy during the journey down the Sacred Way. And finally it ends all hush-hush at the secret Telesterion, or ‘Hall of Completion,’ in Eleusis. So, if we want to catch them before the procession gets started, we should hit the city’s graveyards. Otherwise, it’ll be hard to predict where they’ll show up.” He went on to explain the last days of the ritual, trying his best to keep things simple and engaging, just like he would for a classroom of economics majors.

  When the little lecture was over, Brandman placed his notes carefully in a manila folder, then sat back and stared at his captive for a long, painful moment. “There’s one thing… or one major thing in a whole slew of things… I don’t understand, Professor.”

  “Ask. I want you to understand so you can catch these guys.”

  “Why. Why would anyone bother?”

  “Because it’s a powerful Mystery.”

  Brandman’s brow wrinkled. “It was powerful, three thousand years ago—”

  “About sixteen hundred years ago would be more—”

  “—but not now, Professor.” He sighed, a bit dramatically. Theo noticed Freeman stifling a grin. They’re playing with me, he thought. Brandman tapped his papers more exactly into place. “You’re an Ivy League man, right?”

  Theo bridled. He knew that tone. It meant that someone was about to accuse him of being stupid just because he’d been smart enough to attend the best schools. The detective leaned an inch forward in his chair. Theo found himself staring at a single gray hair protruding from Brandman’s otherwise impeccably trimmed nostrils.

  “You know about Occam’s razor?”

  Theo nodded. “Lex parsimoniae, ‘the law of parsimony.’ All things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

  Brandman looked to Freeman, who joined him in a brief golf clap. The older detective then spun the folder to face Theo, so the professor could see the densely written page of notes and calendars created from his testimony. “Does this look simple to you?”

  Theo bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from retorting.

  “You know what I think is a much simpler explanation, Detective Freeman?” Brandman asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “That our professor here had something to do with the gruesome murder of the woman who broke his little heart in two. He’s trying to distract us with a wild-goose chase across the city based on some ancient mumbo jumbo. And I think that if there really is some ‘Mystery Cult’ involved, then Schultz is probably the one heading it up.”

  Theo choked a little. Brandman pushed a paper cup of water toward him with a solicitous smile.

  Now, hours later, staring at the Danish, Theo realized, That’s probably when I should have asked for a lawyer. But the two detectives had left the room after the accusation, and no one had ever read him his Miranda rights.

  Eventually, a technician had arrived and asked to take blood and hair samples. Fingerprints, too, although he assured Theo he wasn’t being arrested. Theo complied without question. At some point, Freeman had returned to escort Theo to the men’s room and bring him cold coffee and a box of Danish. Normally, he abstained from junk food—he’d read too many terrifying articles in the Times about killer preservatives and carcinogenic chemicals—but if they kept him much longer, he might have to relent. He was eyeing the least offensive of the bunch—a round pastry with a sweet cream cheese center—when he heard a raised voice in the hallway. The nearly soundproof door prevented him from catching the words, but he recognized Brandman’s gravelly voice.

  Moments later, the door swung open and Brandman, red-faced, strode into the room.

  “Well, Professor, you’re free to go. We’re not bringing any charges at this time.” He adjusted the cuffs of his suit as he spoke, as if to distract himself from whatever rancorous thoughts raced through his head.

  “Really?”

  “Do you want to stay?”

  “Not unless you change the menu.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. The taxpayers can’t afford ‘arugula,’ or whatever it is you usually eat for your afternoon tea.”

  You walked into that one, Theo thought. Antagonizing Brandman further was, he decided, counterprod
uctive. “Sorry if I sounded like a prick. Thank you. For the Danish. And for letting me go.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank the criminal justice system. We can’t hold you indefinitely. And—so far at least—we don’t have enough evidence to secure a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Because I didn’t do anything.”

  “You lied about your relationship with the victim. You threatened a policeman. And tonight, we’ll be searching every cemetery in Manhattan because of you, even though it’s probably a colossal waste of time. You’ve done plenty, Professor, trust me. Stay close. We’ll have more questions for you. I guarantee it.”

  Chapter 17

  HUNTRESS OF THE WILD BOAR

  Selene and Hippo left Central Park at 100th Street. A block and a half later, they reached the Twenty-fourth Precinct. Selene didn’t need to come down this particular street to get home. But she knew this precinct had jurisdiction over the section of Riverside Park where Helen Emerson’s body had been found.

  “Theodore Schultz is inside,” she said to Hippo. “Probably talking his way into even more trouble.” The dog looked up at her, tongue flapping.

  “You think that’s funny, huh? Might be good for him to be in a bit of danger, right? Get him out of the library. What do you think, should we stay and talk to him? Or leave this one to the cops and go worry about my own family for once?” Hippo wagged her tail. “That’s an awfully noncommittal gesture,” Selene complained.

  She moved to sit on the steps of the library across the street, staring at the entrance to the police station, still unsure if she should wait or not. She certainly wouldn’t go inside. She hadn’t been inside a police station since 1975, when she last wore the uniform. She’d hated that outfit—the miniature fedora perched on her head, liable to fall off at any moment, wide-heeled pumps made for walking, not climbing or sprinting, and worst of all, the stiff blue knee-length skirt. She and Geraldine Hansen had often laughed about that skirt. Every time they detained a suspect by kneeling on his back, they had to choose between splitting the seams or hiking it up and displaying their pantyhose-encased buttocks to the world.

  Back in the 1920s, when the Huntress joined the force the first time, she hadn’t worn a uniform at all. The original “patrolwomen” were meant to be motherly figures—they didn’t even carry guns. She’d never been able to tell Geraldine about that experience, of course, but she’d often thought the young woman would’ve enjoyed hearing about the NYPD in the Jazz Age.

  Silver-eyed Melissa DuBois had applied to join the newly established Policewomen’s Bureau using a stack of references painstakingly forged by Swifty O’May, the fastest officer on the force, known for chasing down criminals for dozens of city blocks without breaking a sweat. They might have called him Superman, if the character had been invented yet. To the Huntress, he was just Hermes.

  Her tenure at the all-female Bureau was a heady time for the Relentless One. For the first time in centuries, she found herself among a group of women who shared her passion for protecting the innocent and bringing the men who harmed them to justice. Against her better judgment, she’d made real friends. She clung to the job like a lifeline, careful never to kill the men she arrested or reveal any of her more suspiciously preternatural attributes. She wanted to remain Melissa DuBois for as long as possible.

  Yet after twenty years on the force, when her companions had grown stout and gray and she remained as young as ever, she’d had no choice. One day, Melissa DuBois fell ill. A week later, she was dead. The Huntress moved to a new neighborhood, took a new name, and forgot the friends she’d abandoned. But with or without a badge, she’d never forgotten the women she’d sworn to protect.

  And I’m not about to now, Selene thought, staring at the precinct house. He won’t escape. Not this time.

  “We’ll wait for the professor, Hippo,” she said, scratching the dog behind her ears. “Mother will understand.” As if in response, the dog bounded up, tearing the leash from Selene’s grasp, and loped across the street. “Come back here, you ridiculous—” She stopped her scolding when she saw Hippo’s target. Theodore Schultz had finally emerged.

  The professor stood a few careful paces shy of Hippolyta, his shoulders hunched. The dog didn’t look happy to see him, but she also wasn’t growling. More confirmation of his innocence: Hippo didn’t recognize his scent from the blankets.

  “Schultz,” Selene called.

  He started as if from a dream. “Ms. DiSilva?”

  As she approached, he stood up a little straighter, his look of surprise dissolving into one of relief. “I didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said with a small, crooked smile. He’s handsome, Selene decided. In a scholarly sort of way.

  “Well, I’d almost given up on you, but I see they finally let you go.”

  “Yeah, they never formally arrested me,” he sighed, rubbing at his chin as if he expected to have a full growth of beard—as if he’d been in the slammer for three months rather than in a station for three hours. “Just took me in for questioning. The lead detective thinks I’m involved.”

  “You’re no killer, Schultz.”

  “I wish you’d tell that to the cops. They can’t decide if I’m a bookish crackpot, eccentric but harmless, or a malevolent mastermind about to slaughter another victim.”

  She cocked her head. “Neither, I don’t think.”

  “I was thinking more Indiana Jones, myself. Saving the world while rakishly handsome and incredibly erudite.” His sudden grin coaxed a dimple to his left cheek, matching the one on the tip of his pointed chin.

  Hippo woofed at him, and Selene gave him a cold stare. She had no intention of encouraging his flirtation. “Sounds like Hippolyta disagrees with your assessment.”

  “Hippolyta!” Schultz’s eyes lit up. Selene cursed inwardly, realizing she’d opened up a whole can of worms (a whole Pandora’s Jar, she thought ruefully) by mentioning a Greek name.

  “You named her after the Amazonian queen,” Schultz went on. “And you recognized the chiton and the wreath. Even the sex crines braids. Since when is a PI also a myth geek?”

  “Hippolyta wasn’t a myth,” Selene couldn’t help herself from replying, rather tersely.

  He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and frowned skeptically. “Well, that depends on how you define ‘myth.’ If you mean she was a historical person, as far as I’m aware, the literature on the subject is inconclusive. Most likely, the Amazonian legends are reflections of the ancient Greek patriarchy’s fear of matriarchal societies. After all—”

  Selene was saved from the lecture by his cell phone.

  “I’m sorry, I need to answer this,” he said. “Gabriela? You’ll never believe where I just spent the last three and half hours. What—how did you? It’s online?” He was pacing the sidewalk now, his face pale as he listened intently. The woman on the other end spoke loudly enough for Selene to hear her screeching through the earpiece. Something about the “Pervy Professor” and a “person of interest” in Helen’s murder.

  “No, thanks for telling me. I was bound to find out soon enough. I’m okay, hon—” Selene wrinkled her nose at the endearment. “Not about to drink my poison hemlock quite yet. I’ll be fine. But I have to go. I love you, too.” He hung up and leaned against a nearby lamppost for a moment. Before Selene could ask him what was wrong, he straightened and started walking back toward the precinct house.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “To tell Detective Brandman where to shove his unwarranted assumptions. Might just get myself arrested for real.”

  “Wait!” Impulsively, she placed a hand on his forearm. His tendons jumped beneath her fingers as if he’d been hit with an electric shock. She pulled her hand back quickly. “What happened?” she asked, trying to cover her discomfort.

  He turned toward her, his face a mask of anger, and she couldn’t help feeling a tug of empathy. “Somehow the press got wind of the fact that the cops hauled me in,” Schultz said. “It doesn’t even matter
that I’ve been released. According to the always reliable Twittersphere, I’m a person of interest.” The hand clutching his cell phone shook. Selene wasn’t sure if it was from rage or fear.

  “They don’t have a choice. Since you’re Helen’s ex-boyfriend, they have to investigate you.”

  He nearly jumped. “How did you—”

  She shrugged. “Men don’t usually stand by rivers mourning their dead professional colleagues.”

  “It was a long time ago,” he said tightly. “I don’t see why it’s anyone’s business.”

  “It’s everyone’s business actually. Although her current boyfriend is the more obvious suspect.”

  “Fiancé actually.”

  “That was fast.”

  “He’s pretty hard to resist. And he loved her, that was clear just by looking at them together. Besides, he’s got an alibi. I, on the other hand, was dumb enough to be all alone. Like most nights. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go commit professional suicide.” He turned back toward the precinct house.

  “You may want to rethink,” Selene said, gesturing toward a news van rumbling down the street toward them. “Seems news has spread.”

  “Shit-balls.”

  “Just turn back around and walk calmly. Follow me.” This man had information she needed—she couldn’t afford to have him back in jail or terrorized by reporters.

  Theo walked beside her, glancing nervously over his shoulder every few steps. Under his breath, he kept up a nearly incomprehensible stream of vituperation. “Gonna shove my Ivory Tower so far up his… Twitter my ass… Teach him to mess with a classicist…”