Uninspired Muse (Mt. Olympus Employment Agency: Muse Book 3)

by R. L. Naquin

  Still, I had to do what I could for her. “Is there…” I trailed off, wondering what kind of person she might be interested in, then cleared my throat and tried again. “Is there a particular god you have in mind ?”

  She dropped her fidgety hands to her lap. “Oh, no. No more gods. They’ve brought me nothing but trouble on several occasions .”

  I knew Zeus was—according to Wikipedia—my mother’s father. We’d never actually discussed it, since he hadn’t contributed much more than godly DNA. But it was a surprise to hear Demeter had been with more than one god. I wanted details. But a person simply doesn’t ask her grandmother for a list of who she’d slept with over the centuries .

  I placed my fork on the edge of my plate and folded my hands in my lap. “Alright. Is there a particular mortal you have in mind ?”

  She glanced away from my face and appeared to scrutinize a misshapen clay vase on a shelf on the side of the room. “My word, that thing is ugly. Why would your mother have such a thing in her kitchen ?”

  “Because I made it in art class in junior high and gave it to her for Mother’s Day. Don’t change the subject .”

  “You’ll laugh .”

  “No I won’t.” I considered crossing my heart to seal the promise, but had a vague idea that it might refer to the Christian cross and offend her. “I swear I won’t .”

  She took a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a quick whoosh. “He’s a pig farmer whose land backs up to mine. His name is Greg. I’ve never seen eyes so blue. They’re like sapphires.” Her smooth, golden skin turned pink. “He gave me some bacon last week. I think he cured it himself .”

  I tilted my head, admiring how lovely she was when she blushed. As a goddess, she could look any age she chose. Usually, she appeared to be in her mid-forties—not really old enough to be my grandmother, but older enough to make me comfortable. As she spoke about this pig farmer of hers, she lost years. The few silver strands in her hair returned to golden, and the lines in the corners of her eyes and between her brows filled in .

  As someone close to fifty, she’d been beautiful. Now, she was exquisite. It almost hurt my eyes to look at her .

  It took a moment to realize she’d grown brighter. “Grandmama, you’re glowing.” The longer I looked, the more I had to squint .

  Her eyes were unfocused, and a sort of half smile rested on her lips . “What ?”

  I held my hand up over my face. The light was piercing, even through my eyelids. “Turn it down. Please !”

  “Oh!” Her light faded. “I’m so sorry, love. I was thinking about…never mind. I’ll be more careful .”

  A frantic voice yelled to us from across the room . “Help !”

  I turned toward the window and saw Phyllis. She was at least a foot taller than she had been five minutes before, and her leaves had tripled in size. Several were twice the size of my hand. The reason for her cry for help was obvious. Her roots were protruding from the pot’s drainage holes, and several had wound around and shot upward out of the pot and down its sides .

  “I can’t breathe.” Phyllis’s voice was choked and raspy .

  Demeter and I bolted from our seats and ran to the desperate philodendron .

  “Please forgive me, Phyllis!” Demeter reached her first, scooping up the crowded pot. “We’ll get you replanted right away.” She muttered apologies and self-recriminations all the way out to the greenhouse .

  I trailed behind, worried for my friend. Demeter had let her guard down while talking about her farmer. The glow she’d emitted must have been responsible for Phyllis’s spontaneous growth .

  I’d lived nearly my whole life with Persephone, the goddess of spring, and I’d never seen anything like what Demeter had done to Phyllis. But it explained how Mom had kept her grass so green and why nothing in her kitchen went bad. Mom must’ve been using that same glow, only on a much subtler level .

  The power of the gods was both wonderful and terrible .

  Mom’s workbench was at the back of the greenhouse. I ran ahead and cleared a spot, shoving aside bags of potting soil, gardening tools, and stacks of terra cotta pots .

  Phyllis’s breathing was ragged and loud—disconcerting, especially from a plant .

  Grandmama placed Phyllis on her side and prodded at the roots and soil with her fingers to try to pull it all loose. “It won’t budge.” She held out her hand. “Wynter, hand me the trowel.” She shoved the pointed shovel into the dirt, wiggling the handle as she went .

  Phyllis howled in pain. “You’re cutting me!” A sickly green sap oozed from the severed roots .

  Demeter’s eyes flew open in horror. “How is that possible?” Her hands fluttered around the pot, trying to find a way in. “It’s useless. I can’t get her out.” Her eyes filled with tears. “What have I done ?”

  Phyllis made a choking noise, and her wheezing breaths stopped .

  “Phyllis!” I shoved my grandmother out of the way and grabbed the pot with both hands. “Hang on, Phyllis.” I slammed the pot against the edge of the work bench as hard as I could .

  Pottery shards flew everywhere, and Phyllis took a deep, jagged breath .

  I cleared away the remains of the broken pot and cradled her in my arms .

  She heaved a few deep breaths, her leaves quivering. “Holy moly, that was scary .”

  I nodded. “No kidding .”

  Grandmama stood to the side, an expression of horror on her face. “I nearly killed her .”

  I set Phyllis on the table and went to work gently breaking up the solid mass of roots. “But you didn’t. Everything is fine now. We’re all okay.” I spoke in a soothing voice, trying to calm all three of us .

  But I’d lied. We were not all okay .

  I was doing everything I could to keep the other two from noticing how much my hands were shaking. Demeter apparently had problems controlling her powers. And Phyllis. Well, I’d cut Phyllis’s roots a dozen times during previous re-pottings .

  I’d never seen her bleed before .

  Chapter 8

  O nce we’d replanted Phyllis into a new, much larger pot, Demeter announced she had a headache and went home. And Phyllis refused to talk about what had happened .

  My initial reaction was to go down to the Underworld and corner my mother to discuss all of it—Grandmama’s crush, her loss of control over her powers, and Phyllis’s bleeding roots. Mom’s powers were related to Grandmama’s. Maybe she could shed some light on what had happened .

  Except that Mom was off on a honeymoon somewhere, and I wouldn’t be able to reach her. For now, everything seemed to be okay. Grandmama had pulled herself together, and Phyllis was comfortable with no apparent lasting harm other than an extra foot of growth. I’d have to let it go until Mom came back .

  Between the hangover, the huge breakfast, and the family emergency, I was already late leaving for work. The commute from Mom’s house wasn’t bad, but it was longer than I was used to. I’d have to leave earlier to get to work on time in the future. Not that I actually punched a timecard .

  Once I settled in at work, I sat at my desk for a while, scouring page after page of my client’s artwork on the Internet. People came and went around me, and I barely noticed. I was too absorbed with trying to figure out what made my client tick .

  Apparently, Gordon was a private guy, despite the pages and pages of interviews I found. Everything was about his work. From time to time, he’d mention that he practiced yoga or that he disliked hollandaise sauce. But there was nothing anywhere about women he’d dated, was married to, slept with, jilted, or was simply seen with at a party. And there wasn’t a whisper about his mysterious illness .

  Gordon Gordon kept his private life to himself. If it wasn’t so frustrating, I’d have been impressed with his discretion .

  A shadow crossed my computer screen, and I jumped when someone put a hand on my shoulder .

  “You’re a little twitchy today.” Audrey hopped up to sit on my desk, her legs swinging
beneath it. “ Everything okay ?”

  I shrugged. “I’m researching this Gordon Gordon guy. I overdid it with him a few days ago, and he ended up in bed with a fever. Trying to figure him out a little better before I go charging back in .”

  “Maybe your bubbles were too small .”

  I rotated my chair and frowned at her. “Why would that matter ?”

  She gave an exaggerated eyeroll-sigh combo. “The bigger the bubble, the lighter the touch. Small bubbles are quick thoughts like bunnies. Bigger bubbles are more gentle and slow moving. You should have learned this in training .”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “You were my trainer .”

  She reached out and snagged a mini chocolate bar from the dish on my desk. “Your trainer sucked.” She ripped off the paper and stuck the candy in her mouth .

  No arguing that. She’d hated me when I’d first arrived. Probably better to change the subject .

  “So, what’re you up to today ?”

  She swallowed, then picked through the remaining Halloween candy in the bowl. “Well, I need advice, actually. I’m having problems with your clients .”

  My heart thudded in my chest. “Which one?” They’d all been doing so well the last time I’d seen them .

  “Wow. You look all kinds of worried. Chill. I’m having trouble getting Armando to settle on a soup for the Christmas menu. He keeps waffling between butternut squash and crab bisque. I wondered if you knew the best strategy to get him to just calm down and pick one. Once he does that, we’re done .”

  “Wait. So, he chose the entree ?”

  “Sure. We nailed that down on the first day. He’s going with beef Wellington. It sounds delicious. I’m thinking of making reservations .”

  “No!” I sat back in my chair and covered my face with both hands. “No, no, no.” I dropped my hands in my lap .

  Audrey’s eyes were wide. “What’s wrong? Are their health-code violations? Why shouldn’t I make reservations ?”

  I waved my hand at her. “No, the beef Wellington. Didn’t Polly tell you what I said? Don’t let him do the same menu he does every year. He’s bored. Don’t let him take the easy way out. You have to push him. He’s having a crisis of faith in himself. If you don’t inspire him to really test his own limits, I think he’ll quit and go work for his uncle in the shoe store. You have to remind him how great he is .”

  Audrey’s face paled. “Oh. Hell, I nearly screwed the pooch on this one .”

  “Wynter!” Kayla rushed into the office, her designer bag nearly spilling to the floor. “Thank the gods you’re here. I’d have called you over the weekend, but I didn’t have your number .”

  Looking at how frazzled she was, I wasn’t sure I wanted her to have my number. “What happened ?”

  “Tracy dropped her stained glass on the floor and half of it shattered. She’s supposed to have it to the committee in two days. She’s devastated and won’t listen to anything I say .”

  My first reaction was a wave of nausea and the urge to yell at Kayla for letting it happen. I took a calming breath before I went ballistic. She was already panicked enough for both of us .

  “Okay. Let’s think this through. Can any of it be salvaged?” My voice sounded a lot calmer than I felt .

  Kayla nodded. “About a third of the panels .”

  “Good. Okay. Here’s what you need to do. Go back to her and encourage her to call the committee. She’s stubborn and a perfectionist. She’d never think to ask for help. But the auction is actually a week and a half away. They love her work, and it brings in a lot of money. They’ll give her an extension if she’d just reach out to them. Don’t push her to work. Right now she’s in shut-down mode. Buy her some time, first. She only needs a few more days. I’ve seen how fast she can work when she thinks she’s got plenty of time .”

  I still wanted to be sick, but I also knew I was right. The damage couldn’t be fixed in two days, but it probably could be fixed in four or five. Tracy would get back to work once she regained her confidence and a workable timeline .

  Kayla and Audrey exchanged a silent glance. They both looked less shaken .

  Kayla shook her head and snagged a handful of M&Ms. “I can’t believe you had five clients .”

  Audrey nodded. “Respect, sister.” She grinned and snagged another mini chocolate bar .

  If only I could do as well with the one client I had left .

  I found Gordon in his living room, sitting on the rug in front of a gas fireplace, legs stretched out to the sides in what looked like a painful yoga position. Front-facing kumquat greeting the moon, maybe? What did I know about yoga? Nothing. The answer to that was nothing .

  Maybe his legs were cramping and he needed a good stretch. Whatever the reason, he wore nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, and he was reading a gardening magazine. So, there was all kinds of weirdness greeting me .

  None of it was making art happen .

  I’d made a huge mistake pushing him as hard as I had the last time. This time, my plan was to observe, then figure out a way to ease him into action. Audrey’s advice—better late than never—to blow bigger bubbles would help .

  It wasn’t a fully thought out plan, but it was a starting point .

  Gordon appeared to be feeling fine. No fever, lethargy, or aches I could determine. I still hadn’t figured out what the hell he was sick with. According to the Fates, though, he was dying. It would be in my best interest—and more importantly, his—to find out what he had .

  I curled up on the couch behind Gordon and watched him read in his underwear. He was muscular, but thin, more like a swimmer or a runner than a football player or a weight trainer. His dark hair was free from the ponytail I’d seen before, and it fell halfway to his shoulder blades. Very artist-like. I wondered if he kept it long because he liked it that way or if it was an affectation .

  The man barely moved for long stretches of time. I nearly dozed off a few times, waiting for something to happen .

  Then, like a toddler on Kool-Aide, he was up and gone so fast, I had to scramble to follow .

  He trotted to his bedroom, bare feet slapping on hard wood. I caught up with him at the doorway and scrambled out of the way as he darted out again with a knitted afghan tossed around his shoulders .

  It wasn’t that I would have been in his way in my invisible state, but it felt weird when they walked through me. The sensation was worth avoiding .

  Gordon disappeared into the room he used as a studio, and I trailed after. I found him crouched in a corner with his back against the wall and a sketch pad and a pencil clutched in his fingers. His brow was creased in concentration, and he ran his tongue across his lips every few seconds, as if his mad scribbles were taking all the moisture out of him .

  If I could have, I’d have brought him a glass of water and some lip balm. Sometimes, being a Muse made me feel less helpful, not more .

  Because he’d tucked himself so tightly in the corner, I couldn’t see what Gordon was drawing. He mumbled to himself, smudged his work with his fingertips, then tilted his head while he examined it .

  He groaned, then threw the pad and pencil. Had I been corporeal, the pencil might have stabbed me in the leg. Instead, it shot through me like a blow dart .

  “Nice aim.” I’d been so quiet since I’d come in, the sound of my own voice startled me. “I wish I knew what was making you so emo .”

  He let out a long sigh. “I’m so alone .”

  I froze. Again, he’d spoken out loud in a way that sounded like he’d heard me. Mark had done that awhile back when he’d been my client. I’d never figured out if it had been coincidence or a weird connection between us. Now it appeared to be happening again. Other clients didn’t hear me, even when I was blasting them with bubbles and good advice. They only got the idea of it, not the actual words .

  I cleared my throat. “How can I help you, Gordon?” Silly as it was to think he could hear me, it was worth experimenting .

  Silen
ce .

  I stood over the sketchpad he’d thrown and examined his drawing. A woman’s face had taken shape amid the rushed pencil marks. Her cheekbones were high, her nose narrow, and her eyes a little larger than I thought realistic. Not anime-character large, but large. I was hardly an art expert, though .

  “She’s pretty, Gordon.” I glanced up at him as he rose and strode to the window. “Who is she ?”

  He hugged himself and leaned against the glass. His breath left a circle of condensation. “She’s gone now. She left me. Alone.” He used his finger to draw a heart on the fogged glass, adding a jagged break through the center .

  I wanted to say something encouraging. It was my job to say something encouraging. But mending a broken heart wasn’t my forte. Nothing coming from me on this subject would be comforting .

  Hell, I couldn’t even manage a friendship with the guy next door without botching it .

  Gordon shuffled to a stool in front of a partially worked canvas and gazed at it, his shoulders slumped. He rolled the stool to the nearby bench and squeezed dabs of paint in several colors onto a well-used palette .

  The painting was a pastoral scene of prancing unicorns, dancing maidens, and chubby cherubs. There wasn’t anything particularly special or even focused about it, as if he’d half-heartedly slapped his greatest hits up there and hoped for the best .

  Also, the maidens had no faces. It was creepy. They danced across the canvas like pincushion dolls waiting for their button eyes to be sewn on .

  I shuddered. “Dude, no. Do you really want this to be the last thing you create on this Earth ?”

  He ignored me. Or didn’t hear me, which would be fine, since he wasn’t supposed to hear me. Instead, he dipped his brush in several shades of pink and white, swirling them together, then painted over a cherub’s face, making it resemble the eerie, faceless maidens .

  “Good grief.” I slipped my bubbles and wand from my belt and dipped. “Slow and easy this time.” I took a small breath and blew gently into the larger end of the wand. A slow, swirling bubble emerged from the other side, growing to the size of my fist and drifting off toward my stubborn client. It touched his hand and popped. “You can do better than this, Gordon. Paint what’s in your heart, not a rehash of everything you’ve ever done .”