“Way to go, Theo.” While Dennis spoke, Theo walked over to the stereo and turned the volume down just enough so he could hear and be heard. “I’m impressed. You must have finally learned to play the game, kiss the right asses, huh?” Dennis continued. There was no malice in his voice, but his apathy made the words sting all the more. “Just like good old Nate Balinski. Tenures and titles, while I’ve got tits and ass. Still think you made the right choice? You let Nate know anytime he wants to party again, he should come on by. I miss that little shit-kicker.”
This really was just like old times. Dennis always did like Nathan best. Theo hid his ire with a tentative sip of the brown liquid. The drink was like honey fire. Delicious and warming and stinging all at once. Some of his frustration melted away.
Dennis fell back on the couch. He draped a naked woman over his lap so Theo would have a place to sit down.
“Look,” Theo began, trying to sit very straight so he didn’t accidentally stare at the woman’s breasts or legs or any other part of her that was bared before him. “I just thought maybe you could help me with a little problem.”
“You need uppers? Downers?”
“Not that kind of problem.” He reached into his satchel for his laptop. “See, I know you’re an expert on neo-pagan Greek cults…”
“You mean fraternities?”
“Uh, no. I was thinking more like Dionysian throwbacks. Specifically, the Eleusinian Mysteries. Maybe you can take a look at this outline I’ve made of the ritual. Then let me know if any of the local pagan groups might possibly be mixed up in the gang that murdered the SNL actress last night.”
“What the fuck, dude? You trying to get me kicked out of grad school?” Dennis didn’t sound particularly angry at the thought, just amused. He took a big swig from his own jar of brew and then a long puff on a joint.
“Nothing could get you kicked out,” Theo couldn’t help retorting. “Certainly you’ve slept with enough students and gotten enough minors drunk, but NYU still lets you stay.”
“That’s because they need me, dude.” True, Dennis was the most gifted scholar of Ancient Greek and Latin whom Theo’d ever met. He seemed to have extraordinary insights into the ancient mind. No program could bear to let him go, even though he was easily the most profligate grad student in history.
Theo downed another swallow. It tasted good. Really good. He’d forgotten just how delicious Dennis’s concoctions were. “So you don’t know anything?” he asked again, less urgently this time. His laptop slipped out of his hands.
“Look, bro, I don’t get out of the house much. When I do, yeah, I sometimes go for some retreats upstate. We do some singing, a little drumming, a lot of dancing. You know. Some shrooms. Some weed. All totally natural, see. No gory shit.”
The sitar music came to an abrupt halt. Only the soft snores of one of the passed-out women broke the sudden silence. Dennis looked up in surprise. Selene stood stiffly before the stereo, her arms crossed.
“No gory stuff? Are you sure about that, Dennis?”
“Who’re you?”
Theo made a feeble effort to rise. “This is my friend Sel—”
“Celia,” Selene interrupted, glaring from beneath the low brim of her baseball cap. “Really, Dennis? No drunken rages? No tearing limb from limb? I’d think a guy like you might be into that.”
“I don’t know who you think I am, sweetheart, but—”
“I know exactly who you are.”
“I doubt that.” Dennis smiled. He retrieved a remote control from under a pile of old pizza boxes and turned the music back on. He cranked the volume and leaned back, eyes closed.
Theo felt the wailing music vibrating deep in his bones like some seismic event. He took another swig of the liquor. He nodded in time to the music, and the motion made the world slip a little before his eyes. The woman on Dennis’s lap opened her eyes a slit. Huge pupils. Like she wanted to take in every bit of light.
“You’re in my sunbeam,” she murmured, and slid off Dennis’s lap to stretch herself, catlike, over Theo’s. He had a distinct impression that this wasn’t what he wanted—her limbs were too round, her hands too soft, her hair too blond and too long. Then she arched her back and purred, and he no longer cared that she wasn’t the woman he sought, only that she might give him what he needed. The sun lit the strands of her honey-colored hair into fire, but it felt like cool water on his fingers. One of his hands slid down her spine, stroking every knob like keys on a piano. He could almost hear the music radiating through her skin. Could see it pouring off her in waves of color.
A drum joined the sitar, a rolling, vibrating, liquid drum, speeding the blood in his veins. Now he was playing the woman like an instrument, his hands fluttering and patting and pounding on her ribs, her thighs, her ass.
“Schultz!”
Theo squinted through the haze of smoke and lust. Someone was calling him. Celia? Who was she? Had he come in with her? Surely not. No woman so beautiful could be with him. He beckoned her onto the couch. There was room for one more.
The woman with the honey hair had flipped onto her back and was slowly pulling off his blazer, then pushing up the shirt underneath. Her tongue followed her fingers, tracing a wet line from stomach to chest. He groaned and wove his fingers once more into her hair, pushing her face more firmly against him. He was shirtless now, and her breasts pressed against his stomach. Dimly, he heard a door slam shut. Celia was gone. He forgot her in an instant.
On the other end of the couch, Dennis lay entangled with the other woman. Theo took another swallow of liquor, then poured a splash in the cup of the woman’s collarbone and licked it clean, the salt and sweat only intensifying the flavor.
Dizzy, he poured the rest of the drink onto the crotch of his own pants. The woman lapped greedily at the twill. After lying beside Selene last night, unable to do more than hold her, the woman’s tongue felt like the promise of manna to a starving man. Theo was pounding her back again, playing his song. He felt his voice, unused since seventh-grade choir practice, rising up to join the sitar’s melody. He closed his eyes as the woman began to tear at his pants. “There’s a button…” he began halfheartedly. Some small part of him remembered he’d bought these pants at Macy’s and they were his only khakis left without stains and maybe he shouldn’t let them be ripped apart, but then that little spark of reason was extinguished in a wave of ecstasy as her tongue found his flesh.
Then he was flying. Literally flying. He opened his eyes and the ground was spinning beneath him. His feet were off the ground. He spread his arms wide and watched the world pass by.
Then he watched it come rushing toward him. Too fast, too fast! he thought just before he slammed into the ground.
Selene had to resist kicking Theo while he was down. He looked so pitiful lying on the sidewalk where she’d dumped him. She contented herself with prodding his bare rib cage with the toe of her boot until he rolled over onto his back.
“Wake up, you idiot.”
He cracked his eyelids. His pupils were still dilated, his eyes unfocused. He threw an arm across his face and groaned in the sunlight.
“You’ll survive. You just had too much to drink.”
She’d almost left him. She’d made it about two blocks before turning around. If their roles were reversed, she realized, Theo never would’ve abandoned her, no matter how furious he was. And if she hadn’t rescued him, who knows how long it would’ve taken him to escape the apartment? Bacchanals could go on for days. She was shocked he’d ever made it through grad school at all with “Dennis” for a roommate. It gave her new respect for Theo’s strength of character—a respect currently challenged by the fact that his fly was open, revealing bright orange underwear and an unmistakable bulge that filled her with equal parts anger and… something else she’d rather not name.
Theo finally sat up. He peered at her, still shielding his eyes, and then rubbed his face so hard she was afraid he’d tear it off. “Did I? Holy Roman Empire…�
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Now she knew he’d truly lost it.
He retched a little. “I know better than to drink his shit…”
She refused to help him up. A goddess expects proper homage from her worshipers, and it took all her willpower not to accuse him of betraying her with the woman upstairs. He heaved himself onto all fours then finally lurched to his feet, swaying slightly. “I didn’t think you were coming,” he managed.
“I got your text.” It’d been too good to be true. A Bacchic expert named Dennis Boivin? The God of Wine was as predictable as the rest of the immortals. “Dennis” meant “servant of Dionysus.” “Boivin” was derived from Old French, meaning “Wine Drinker.” His presence in New York City wasn’t actually that surprising—many of the gods wound up in large metropolises, drawn to the aura of power they projected.
Theo patted his bare chest distractedly. “My shirt?”
She shrugged and lifted one disdainful brow.
“And oh, God, my pants.” He zipped his fly, but the button at the top came off in his hands. A huge wet stain spread from his crotch. “That’s not what it looks—I don’t think—it was just that girl—”
“Schultz. Stop talking. If you’re going to let some woman put her mouth all over you, that’s your business. It’s clear that’s what you really want—you don’t need to be ashamed of it.” She spoke with careful insouciance, hoping he couldn’t hear the anger lying just beneath the surface.
“What?” He blinked and shook his head as if trying to clear it. “No, that’s not what I want. She’s not what I want.”
She snorted, trying not to fixate on the implication of his words. “You certainly weren’t pushing her away.”
“You’re angry with me.”
“Only because you’re wasting time.” She glared at him, silently commanding him not to push her further.
But whatever power of compulsion she’d summoned beneath the waterfall had faded in the light of day. “Last night—” he began.
“No.” She held up a hand. “Don’t.”
Theo frowned at her. The expression looked out of place on his features. She wondered if her own face looked so sour when she scowled. No wonder men were afraid of her.
“The hierophant’s not going to wait for you to explain yourself and neither am I,” she went on before he could protest. “We need to keep moving.”
He gestured to his damp pants. “Well, I can’t walk around like this.”
“It’s the East Village. No one will notice.”
That wasn’t precisely true. They’d already gotten their fair share of stares from tourists and eye-rolling from locals.
“Please? Come on, the shirt I can do without.” From the appreciative stare of a passing Goth girl, Selene guessed he was right. “But the pants. I look like a homeless runaway.”
“You fit right into the neighborhood.”
“I’ll have to go buy something.” He reached into his back pocket. Then into his front pocket. Then, frantic, into his back again. “My wallet. I think it fell out.”
“More likely, Dennis stole it.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“No?” Selene sighed. Even gods weren’t immune from the needs of the almighty dollar. Dionysus could easily make a fortune selling his wine or his drugs, but he’d never had any common sense. She’d warned her father not to let him onto Olympus, but Zeus had been as enthralled by his liquors as everyone else. If it weren’t for stony-eyed Athena, who insisted Dionysus not serve his drinks to the gods, they might all have fallen into a stupor for the next three millennia. Now it seemed “Dennis” was a petty criminal, a New Age acolyte, an eternal grad student, and possibly her twin’s accomplice. She wouldn’t know for sure until she went back and confronted him—as one child of Zeus to another.
“Oh no. It’s not just my wallet. I left my bag up there. My computer, everything. I didn’t even realize—”
“I’ll go back and get it.”
“It’s not safe. I’ll do it.”
“You can barely stand up straight. And I’m not stupid enough to drink anything.” In no mood to be swayed by his concern for her, she left him there, shivering and shirtless. Served him right. Still, she could hear his teeth chattering from halfway down the block. Sighing, Selene dropped her backpack, yanked her belt from around her slim hips, and pulled off her flannel shirt. She tossed them both to Theo, picked up her pack, and marched back to Dennis’s building in her tank top.
Chapter 36
HE WHO UNTIES
Selene opened the apartment door without knocking. The music no longer blared. The two naked women sprawled, unconscious, across the floor. The man she knew as Dionysus sat on the couch alone, a joint hanging from the corner of his mouth, riffling through the contents of Theo’s wallet.
“Find anything interesting?”
“Wha—” Dennis looked up, his face bright red. Even the god of shamelessness could feel embarrassed about stooping so low.
“Just give me the wallet.”
“My friend gave it to me, don’t you remember?” he soothed, puffing smoke toward her.
Selene leaped over the coffee table and onto Dennis’s chest like a pouncing cat, her knee pressing his solar plexus, her face an inch from his. “I said, give it to me.”
“Kronos’s balls…” Understanding flashed across his face. “I didn’t recognize you.”
She rolled off him, snatching Theo’s wallet as she went and shoving it securely into her pants pocket. His computer lay on the floor; she stowed it in his satchel and slung the bag over her shoulder.
“Artemis—”
“Don’t use that name,” she snapped, glancing at the two women.
“No worries, sis, they can’t hear a thing.”
“What’d you give them?” She sniffed at the open Goya bottle on the table. “Let me guess. Kykeon. What did Theo call it? The ‘specialty cocktail’ of the Mysteries. Gets people to do your bidding, huh?”
“Just helps them do what they really want to do anyway.”
“Disgusting.” She slammed the bottle down.
“Oh? You get mortals to obey you by pointing arrows at their throats, if I remember right. My way’s a bit more humane. And much more fun.”
Selene whipped a kitchen knife from her bag and leaned over the couch, holding the point to the pulsing vein in the side of his neck. “Yeah, but my way’s also effective. And not just on mortals.” Dennis didn’t even flinch. “Tell me where your thyrsus is.” The Wine Giver’s pinecone-tipped staff was clumsy and inelegant, but any divine weapon was better than none.
“Oh, babe, my thyrsus is way too big for you to handle.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Selene pressed the point of her blade closer to his skin. He laughed in her face, and she winced in the eye-watering fumes. “Chill. It’s not here. Haven’t seen it since I lent it to an undergrad for her production of The Bacchae. I’d swear it on the Styx, but since the river probably doesn’t exist anymore, guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.”
She pushed herself away from him and paced the filthy room, moving aside piles of pizza boxes and dirty laundry with her toe. As unlikely as it seemed that Dennis would leave his last remaining divine attribute just lying around, it was even more unlikely that he’d let a mortal use it as a theatrical prop. Still, with Dennis, anything was possible. She rummaged through his closet, nearly coughing in the overpowering stench of weed and fermented fruit.
“Told you. It’s not here. Now will you get the fuck out?”
She moved closer to him and pointed her knife once more in his direction. “Tell me this. Did you give kykeon to my twin so he could control his men? Is that how he got a bunch of hipster musicians to murder three innocent women?” she demanded.
“The word ‘lunatic’ must have been invented for you, Moon Goddess. I assume you’re talking about that crazy shit on TV last night, but it wasn’t me. I don’t get off on death and destruction.” He crossed his arms behind his head and leane
d back more comfortably into the leopard-print upholstery. “Sex and drugs are more my thing.”
“Just because you didn’t wield the knife doesn’t mean your hands are clean. Your drink is helping the Bright One revive the Eleusinian Mysteries—which just happen to have a connection to Bacchanalian worship. You can’t resist the chance to get strong again.”
“Strong again? There’s a good old Bacchanal every night in every bar across the world. The others may be fading, but plenty of mortals still worship the almighty bottle. So don’t look at me. I’ve been happily holed up here with Tanya and Bree for the past few days. Haven’t left the apartment.” He reached beneath his robe to scratch lazily at his famous balls.
Selene’s stomach heaved with revulsion. “I don’t trust you for a second. Where else would they have gotten their hands on kykeon?”
“Oh, please. I teach that recipe to anyone who asks. Why be greedy?” He held out the bottle to her.
She scowled and shook her head. “And we think the next ritual will be in a theater. Any explanation for that?”
“Get real. Every fag and hag in this city loves theater. That doesn’t make them my minions. Not like my lovely maenads here.” He leaned down to put his hand on Tanya’s—or perhaps Bree’s—bare buttocks and began to rub desultorily. “And Apollo presided over theater, too, in case you’ve forgotten.” He yawned cavernously. “Besides, why would I bring back the Eleusinian Mysteries when I was the one who destroyed them in the first place?”
“What do you mean destroyed them? You were worshiped by them!”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t my idea. You think I liked hanging out with Persephone?” He feigned a resonant snore. “You know drunk maenads are a hell of a lot more fun than prissy harvest goddesses.”
“Then you joined the Mysteries because they gave you power.”
“Naw, my own cults were more than enough for me. I joined because Dad made me. Because our all-powerful father was shitting his pants with fear.”
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