Blood Hunt

by Lucienne Diver

  “Stunning,” he said.

  Multisyllabic. Still, it didn’t dim my smile. I was going to prom with the hottest guy in creation. Or anyway, Hollywood’s version of prom.

  “I have something for you,” he said, pulling a jewelry box from where it had been hidden behind his back. It was big, velvet and the color of a red carpet.

  Wait, I’d seen this scene before, hadn’t I? Hoity-toity affair, red dress, velvet box. It was Pretty Woman. “Borrowed?” I asked before opening. I didn’t want to fall in love with something that might be fleeting. I hoped that wasn’t any kind of metaphor for the man I’d be wearing on my arm.

  “A gift,” he said.

  “Oooh,” I answered, my heart leaping. I reached for the box, almost afraid. Whatever was inside… I couldn’t wait. I opened the lid, ready to see rubies or diamonds or something stunning and priceless and absolutely wasted on me in daily life. Instead… I stopped breathing until it became desperately urgent to do so. Inside was a necklace of gold coins. Antique gold coins. Ancient. They were strung onto a gorgeous chain, either equally old or made to look so. It was absolutely perfect. And to go with it, hammered gold hoop earrings.

  “No tears!” Roslyn scolded sharply as they started to well up. She rushed forward with a tissue and dabbed very carefully at my eyes, preserving the makeup.

  “Can I help you put it on?” Apollo asked.

  I turned my back for him, catching his eye in the full-length mirror. He gave me a wink and then had to look away to concentrate on the clasp. He brushed his hand down my tattooed wings when he finished, sending a delicious shiver through my body.

  I handled the earrings on my own.

  When I was finished, I turned and gave him a kiss, regardless of Roslyn’s gasp. I was pretty sure kissing was on her proscribed list, and I didn’t give a single damn.

  Apollo’s phone buzzed from an inner jacket pocket, and he liberated it to check the read-out. “Right on time,” he said. “That’s our limo.”

  I might have squeaked just a bit. It was the moment of truth. “I have to transfer a few things to my clutch,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  Roslyn and Spike packed up their kits as I rushed for my clutch and to transfer the things I was likely to need. And then Apollo saw them out and whisked me away into the limo with a hand barely touching my back, his heat still coming through the silky fabric. I felt like Cinderella getting into my pumpkin coach.

  “I don’t think your plan is going to work,” I said to Apollo when we were on the way.

  “Why not?”

  “You wanted everyone to see me without wings to put to rest all the crazy speculation, but no one’s going to recognize me! I don’t even look like the same person.” My laugh ended in a snort.

  “Especially when you snort,” he said, a gleam in his eye. “So sexy.”

  I punched him in the gut, but not hard. Not after everything. He pulled me close and held me against him. Mostly, I thought, so that I couldn’t get enough clearance for a decent swing. But it was…nice. Weirdly domestic, if I ignored the fact that I was in an outfit that all told certainly came to more than I made in a month, headed for a red carpet event where I knew no one but the trickster god and his former wife/my former enemy, about to face a firing squad of cameras…

  There was a reason, after all, it was called a photo shoot.

  “Breathe,” he said, feeling my tension.

  I did. In through the nose and out through the mouth. It worked so well, I did it again.

  There was traffic around the threatre, and we encountered the police directing it well before we arrived at the limo line letting people off at the red carpet. Apparently, there was no question of pulling out of the line of cars, parking around a corner and slipping into the theatre through a side door. I knew, because I asked.

  “Five minutes on the carpet,” Apollo whispered in my ear. “I promise.”

  He lied. The butterflies in my stomach turned into vampire bats, flapping in a frenzy, as we pulled up for our turn on the walk of fame. Apollo got out first and reached in for me. I willed myself not to trip on my heels or step on the hem of my gown or anything else and, for a wonder, it actually worked. I got out—if not smoothly then at least without bloodshed—and hit the on-switch for my smile. Luckily, I had some experience at that anyway from my circus days. My fear of heights had kept me out of my family’s high-flying act, but I’d still had to make myself useful with dancing bears, hoop-jumping poodles and about any other act that made patrons go “Awww!” Once I’d gotten too big to be cute, the Rialto Brothers had tried to make me sexy with sparkly leotards and the whole nine yards. If they’d had Spike and Roslyn at their beck and call, they might even have succeeded.

  As soon as my feet hit the carpet, I felt overwhelmed. Fans screamed from behind barricades, security guys easily the size of a circus strongmen stood by to hold back trouble. Cameras aimed our way like the eyes of a thousand spiders, with which I had some experience. They were nearly as terrifying.

  I kept my smile in place and my arm through Apollo’s. My clutch gave me something to do with my other hand. Otherwise, I’d have been at a loss.

  Then the first microphone came our way. It stopped in front of Apollo, and a short male reporter with spiky hair, hipster glasses and a bright purple ascot in lieu of a tie stepped up to ask what lovely lady he was escorting and whether it was true that he’d just signed Thalia Day away from her former agency. Apollo had a…I’d never known what to call it—a glamour, an aura, a presence? Something that was as natural to him as breathing that he had to focus on dimming down when he didn’t want to get tackled by willing women…or men, for that matter. Now he dropped the shield or whatever kept it in check, and I almost staggered back with the power of it. The entertainment reporter in front of us, who I was fairly certain I should know, suddenly licked his lips and gasped for air as though Apollo had stolen it all.

  Apollo smiled and I heard women in the crowd sigh and shush each other for the chance to hear what he had to say.

  “This lovely lady is my girlfriend, Tori Karacis.”

  “Tori Karacis!” the reporter repeated loudly, a hand going dramatically to his cravat. “The same woman who was pictured with you in New York with, dare I say it? Wings.” He leaned in closer with the microphone, and if I wasn’t mistaken, his cameraman leaned in as well.

  Apollo laughed, and it was enough to send shivers all through me. The good kind. “As you can see, she’s completely wingless tonight. Well, except for those tattooed on her back.” He gave me a little spin, and I followed his lead, showing off my ink for the camera. “The only thing that flares is her nostrils when I make her mad.”

  I swatted Apollo and the reporter laughed, all very theatrical. “Who could stay mad at you?” he asked.

  “No one,” Apollo answered, “which is just the way I like it.”

  Another limo must have pulled up and disgorged its passengers, because suddenly the reporter’s gaze flitted past us.

  “Enjoy the premiere,” he said, by way of dismissal, and rushed forward a few steps, leaving us in his wake while he tackled the next guest.

  It went on and on like that. A woman aimed her way toward us and then ran interference, guiding us to the reporters she wanted us to chat with, body-blocking us from others.

  “Tori, Natashya. Natashya, Tori,” Apollo said in rushed introduction to our body-blocker. “Natashya’s my PR person.”

  “Charmed,” she said. “Now, you’re going to want to talk to Nicole Kent. She’s the one with the hot sheet…”

  And on it went. “Who are you wearing?” “Is it true about Thalia?” “What do you say about the rumor—” “Is it true the mishaps on your last film cost—” Sometimes we were pulled off into small alcoves with banners or other insignia, sometimes not.

  My teeth were in danger of breaking
from how hard I was clenching them together to keep my mouth shut. The reporters didn’t really want to hear from me, although every once in a while I was called on to do my spin and show off my ink. I didn’t mind this so much, as it gave me a moment to relax my smile before my facial muscles went into spasms.

  And then we came to a stop as we waited for the trio in front of us to finish up. A sudden throaty laugh rose up above the others, and I felt Apollo…flare. There was no other word for it. Through our link, I felt a sudden awareness, maybe even sexual. No, definitely sexual. As if all of the sudden his libido had sat up and taken notice.

  “Who is she?” I whispered. “And also, down boy.”

  The woman the voice had come from was in an electric blue dress with side seams that…didn’t exist. Instead there was silver lacing holding the front of the dress to the back. Very thin silver lacing leaving a couple of inches of honey-gold skin clearly visible all the way up her sides.

  “Aphrodite,” he said quietly…and not happily, I was glad to note.

  “Yes,” she said, spinning around as though she’d heard him, which I couldn’t imagine was possible with all the background noise. Still…

  “Apollo!” she said, pushing aside the men to either side of her—one silver-haired and the other blond and twenty to thirty years his junior. She threw open her arms, and Apollo had no choice but to snub her or disentangle from me so that he could receive her embrace. They stopped short of an actual hug, grabbing each other by the elbows and doing the kiss to each cheek. “What a pleasure to see you!”

  The cameras were full on us now, and I wondered what would be made of the spectacle. I’d browsed Yiayia’s godly gossip site a time or two for research, and I knew from it that Aphrodite was essentially the current Mayflower Madam. I wondered what she was doing on the red carpet.

  “Oh, but where are my manners?” Aphrodite asked. “Let me introduce you.” She let go of Apollo to latch on to the silver fox beside her. “Apollo, this is Fletcher Alvarez, world famous producer. We’re discussing production of my memoirs. Fletch, this is my dear old friend Apollo Demas.”

  Fletch held out his hand dutifully, but it was me he was looking at. “Well, well, and who is this?”

  He took his hands back from Apollo as soon as humanly possible and grabbed my hands in his tightly enough so that I couldn’t easily escape. It struck me that he and Aphrodite were perfect for each other. Both had that predatory gleam in their eyes.

  “This,” I said, tired of letting Apollo speak for me, “is Tori Karacis. I’m a friend of Apollo’s.”

  “And a media darling in your own right, isn’t that true?” asked the blond boy…because now that I looked, he really wasn’t much more than a boy. Twenty-one or twenty-two, maybe, but in such a way that he could play a teenager if the role required it.

  “Ah, the feathered femme fatale,” said the reporter who’d been interviewing the trio, trying to insert herself back into the conversation. Apparently, she’d seen my tabloid photos…and who hadn’t. But I’d been war-battered then, far less femme fatale than an avenging angel. And my wings were not feathered.

  “I prefer silk to feathers,” I said, showing off my gown.

  The reporter tittered, and the blond boy, surprisingly, came to my rescue. “I’ll drink to that. In fact, I shall. Let us be off in search of champagne.”

  He took my other arm, leaving Aphrodite with a single escort. I glanced at her to see how that went over, but she looked more fondly amused than irritated, and I was relieved not to have made yet another enemy as we headed into the foyer. It was absolutely opulent with its high, frescoed ceilings, gilt accents, chandeliers and wall sconces giving off soft golden lighting. Arrayed all around us was more beauty than the mind could possibly process…and that was just among the assembly. I expected familiar faces everywhere I looked, and I wasn’t disappointed, though I was surprised by the number of faces I didn’t recognize.

  Blond boy flagged down a passing server, liberated two flutes of champagne and handed me one, leaving Apollo to fend for himself. Luckily, snagging champagne was well within his capabilities.

  My new friend clinked his glass against mine, made as if to drink and then paused with the glass nearly to his lips. “But wait, I haven’t introduced myself yet, have I?” There was a certain glint in his eye that made me think for a second of Hermes. It was set off by a trench-deep dimple on his right cheek.

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “Roman. Roman Accor.” He said it like Bond. James Bond.

  “You might know him better as Eros,” Apollo said, his voice distinctly dry. “Or Cupid, but that brings to mind cherubic little boys flitting around in cloth diapers, and we all know you’re not nearly so innocent.”

  I stifled a smile by taking a sip from my champagne. Now that Apollo mentioned it, my mind’s eye couldn’t help but picture Roman in the traditional Cupid costume. It was…an interesting image.

  “Now, now,” Aphrodite cut in, snagging her own champagne and one for her companion. “Can you still be so bitter all these many years later? He said he was sorry.”

  Apollo shot a glance at Fletch, but the producer was scanning the crowd, raising his glass here and there, presumably to acquaintances or business cohorts, and paying no attention whatsoever to the conversation.

  Still, Apollo leaned in closer to Aphrodite. “He turned Daphne against me. She begged to be turned into a tree. A tree, for gods’ sake. Even leaving aside the heartbreak, do you know what that does to a man’s ego?”

  Aphrodite rolled her eyes. “Oh, like you had a shot to start with. Daphne had taken a vow of chastity.” She said it in the same way someone might mention drinking hookah water or licking Steve Buscemi’s toes.

  In a few thousand years, a god was bound to have some bad relationships, but Apollo seemed to have more than his fair share. The story with Daphne had started with Apollo taunting Eros about his archery skills and Eros taking offense by unleashing one of his golden arrows on Apollo to inspire love for the nymph Daphne and then taking aim at her with one of the lead arrows that caused revulsion. The resultant pursuit was the stuff of epic poetry…and ended with her begging for escape and her father turning her into a tree. Why a tree was a mystery to me, but myth and legends were full of those kind of stories.

  I looked to the blond boy, Eros, who seemed content to let them battle it out. He met my gaze and winked, dimple still clearly in evidence. Weirdly, it was not entirely without effect.

  “Darling,” Aphrodite said suddenly to her companion. “Isn’t that Layton Jennings over there. Didn’t you want to have a chat with him?”

  He dropped a quick kiss to her cheek and was off before the words had faded, raising his glass to catch the attention of a tall, gorgeous, African-American man with a smooth head that absolutely needed no adornment.

  Oddly, I felt a pull of my own and looked up to scan the crowd. Even more oddly, some instinct had me not only searching, but sniffing, scenting the air as though I could catch a whiff of…blood.

  Only it wasn’t a scent. It was a pull, a tug, as though something called to me blood to blood.

  Richie had to be somewhere close by.

  I couldn’t see him, not in the throng. But I knew he was there. I could feel him. I didn’t imagine Ian was far behind…or that it meant anything but trouble.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Through our link, Apollo sensed my sudden high alert.

  “What is it?” he asked, quietly.

  I leaned in close to murmur, “They’re here.”

  As if on cue, the “they” who actually joined us were Hermes and Sigyn.

  Hermes actually dressed up very nicely, his mischievous eyes a glittering accompaniment to his night-black tux and his gold vest. Sigyn was in a matching dress of liquid gold which left one shoulder and arm bare and the other covered by a long sleeve ending in a crystal cu
ff. But I didn’t really have time to appreciate the cut.

  I was so distracted searching out the Roland brothers that I missed it when Hermes stared too long at Aphrodite’s décolletage, though my attention was drawn back when he gasped suddenly at Sigyn’s elbow in his gut.

  “I think we’d better mingle,” I said to Apollo. Meaning, of course, hunt down our killers. I’d never thought to find them here and didn’t even want to think about who they must have killed to get in.

  “After you,” Apollo said, sweeping a hand out to lead the way.

  I took a step forward and realized that Apollo wasn’t behind me. Aphrodite had stepped into his path. “Not so fast,” she said. “I’ve heard that Athena is in town, which means something big. You need to tell me if something’s brewing. I have to protect my investments.”

  Apollo stared down at her, though he didn’t have to look far. She was a tall woman. Apollo seemed to weigh the advantage of moving her bodily out of his path versus simply answering her question.

  “This is not the time or the place,” he said tightly.

  “Oh, lover.” She said it for my benefit, I was sure. “When else am I to ask? You don’t call. You don’t write. I never, ever see you anymore.”

  I shot him a glance at the clear implication that she had seen him in the past…in a professional capacity. He didn’t blush, but then he’d had ages to get over that sort of thing. It wouldn’t have taken him very far in the entertainment industry…especially not in the direct-to-video films in which he’d gotten his start.

  “Fine then. Quickly. We’re not looking at a war—yet anyway—but if Set gets free…”

  “Set?” she asked, loud enough in her alarm to draw glances from all around us.

  “Right now we’re searching out his new recruits, which is why we have to go. A word of advice—if the Roland boys are patrons of yours…you might want to put them on the black list. If they call, notify the police…or us…right away.”

  Her eyebrows arched nearly to her hairline. “Then they’re guilty? Truly? I never kiss and tell, of course, but it’s hard to imagine such fine young men having anything to do with murder.”