Le Cellier, however, has filet mignon, which is an attraction of a different sort. It’s been twenty-seven years since I had one of these, and I refuse to wait even one more day. The restaurant’s interior feels warm and inviting. It’s decorated to appear like an old wine cellar, with pale stone arches stretching between wood-paneled columns and low chandeliers hung beneath pine ceiling beams, all bathed in a dusky candlelit glow. We introduce ourselves to the hostess, who takes my name and, after a moment’s wait, has a server usher us to our table. I don’t even need to “persuade” her to do it; at this point, the magic’s already been done.
Heady from my discovery of new believers the day before, I decided to see if I was capable of a minor spell or two. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a little tweak to the restaurant’s reservation list for the following evening. The effort put me down for the night, too. If I was being honest with myself, I’d admit I’m probably not ready for witchcraft just yet, but I was far too excited to listen to any voices of reason. Even gods are allowed to lie to themselves, after all. Besides, poor decision or not, it worked.
We soak in the atmosphere at our table, perusing our menus while we wait for our waiter to return. There it is, front and center. Mushroom filet mignon. Done. I return my menu to the table with a defiant slap, immensely pleased with myself.
Nathan chuckles. “Hard decision?”
“Oh, just the worst,” I say, scrunching up my nose.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, setting his menu aside for a moment to look at me.
“And you look quite handsome,” I reply. “If you were a god of dapper, we’d be a matched set.”
He looks pleased with himself, glancing at his charcoal-gray jacket and the pale purple dress shirt underneath, its top button artfully undone. “If only. Think of the great and mysterious gifts I could grant to the well-heeled,” he says.
“Never misplace your cuff links again,” I say.
“Wrinkled suits will be a thing of the past.”
“Shoes always shiny,” I add.
He grins, then makes a face. “God, I’m the lamest deity ever. Good thing I’ve got you around to make me look cool.”
I laugh, enjoying the comparison. In my new outfit, with this fancy atmosphere, my ego is only too happy to agree. I’m in a strapless pale pink dress cinched at the waist by a black satin sash. Judging by the way his eyes keep slipping, the combination works on me.
The waiter shows up before I have a chance to do more than beam at the compliment. He takes our requests quickly—the filet for me and the medallions of beef tenderloin for Nathan. “Now, where were we?” I ask as the man heads off to put in our order.
“I think we were busy praising each other’s good looks.”
“I think you’re right. Does that make us shallow?”
He shrugs. “You’re a god of vanity and beauty. Pretty sure it’s required.”
I’m about to respond when I’m unexpectedly cast in shadow. “A god of beauty?” a high, mirthful voice exclaims from above. “Well, who else would use magic to make a reservation? But you are not Aphrodite, I see.”
I turn and look up to take in this strange interruption. It’s a tall, young man in a crisp, tailored white suit with matching shoes that practically gleam with polish. His entire outfit is slick; besides a vivid red tie, it’s all various shades of white and cream that somehow work to draw your attention up to his face. His skin is pale and glossy and his features have a sharpened, almost feminine beauty that seems at once alluring and treacherous. His long black hair is set in luxurious curls, neatly gathered in a wide ponytail that spills down his back. Rich brown eyes flash with good humor and a touch of euphoric madness.
In short, he’s the boy you warn your daughters about.
“What’s this? House wines? We can’t have that,” he says, seeming aghast at our selection of drinks. He snaps his fingers and our glasses instantly go bone-dry. Then he reaches over the table, moving his hands as if he’s cradling something, and suddenly there’s an ancient bottle of wine between them, a deep red liquid spilling from its mouth into the empty glasses. He pours our new drinks with practiced ease, then nods with a predatory smile. “Much better,” he says, more to himself. Then he fixes me with those insane eyes, taking me in as if I’m a drink to be guzzled. “Mmm, very nice, but if not my dear Lady of Cyprus, then who are you?”
I’d like to think I’m pretty sharp, but even a complete idiot could tell you this is my god. The air practically shimmers with his divinity, and the strength of that trick he performed with our drinks sent shivers racing down my spine. I decide there’s no point in playing dumb. “I have many names,” I say in my best warrior-goddess voice. “But you may know me as Freya.”
“My lady,” he says, snatching my hand off the table and bending fluidly at the waist to plant a kiss on my skin. His lips tingle with the promise of endless—and mindless—pleasure. I decide in that moment that this is an incredibly dangerous man. “And you, dear sir?” he asks, turning his head away from my hand to look at Nathan. The way he’s bent over my fingers as he says it, along with the feral grin that pulls back his girlish lips, makes it seem like he’s a savanna predator hunched over a kill.
“Nathan Kence,” my companion says flatly, not offering a hand.
“A pleasure,” the man says, drawing back and straightening. “But where are my manners? I have not yet introduced myself.” He puts a hand on his chest and strikes what is possibly the most self-involved pose I’ve ever seen. “I am the Liberator, the undying source of epiphany and ecstasy”—he gives me a meaningful look as he draws out the word—“of wine and merriment, laughter and madness. I am and will always be your most devoted servant, Lady Freya, for I am Dionysus, and what is happiness without love? Bliss without beauty?”
He pulls a chair over to our table and sits down in one smooth, catlike motion. “Long has it been since a fellow immortal graced me with their presence, and longer still since one of such exquisite loveliness entered my domain,” he says, raising a hand to summon a waiter. I don’t like the way he emphasized the word entered—it’s perverted, and leaves nothing to the imagination. There’s no subtlety to this man.
Nathan rolls his eyes. I’m glad we’re on the same page.
Our waiter arrives quickly, chest heaving as if he’s dashed across the restaurant to make it to our table. “What can I get for you, Mr. Nyce?” he asks breathlessly.
Dionysus fixes the man with a snakelike stare, and those chiseled lips part to hiss a single word: “Everything.”
The waiter backs away at once, leaving for the kitchens. Dionysus turns to me, ignoring Nathan completely. I give my friend a look that pleads for patience. I hope he realizes I’d like nothing more than to snub this shameful man and return to our lighthearted conversation. I can’t do anything overt, though; I must tread very carefully here, because this is not only a powerful god, but a perilous one.
“So how shall I address you, then?” I ask, trying to maintain my sense of dignity and power. “These mortals obviously do not know you as Dionysus, and there are appearances to maintain.”
“Feh,” he says, giving a lazy wave with one manicured hand. “Right now, the only appearance I care to discuss is yours … but I would never dream of denying the request of one so attractive. Save ‘Dionysus,’ then, for more private surroundings. Here, I am known as David Nyce.”
“Of course you are,” I say, wishing I could roll my eyes at him, too. At least the fact that he’s ignoring Nathan has given my companion free rein to poke fun. “Sara Vanadi. And you’ve already met Nathan, my high priest and most trusted companion.”
“Sara. Such a sweet name,” he says, not even looking at Nathan.
Okay, I officially hate everything about this: Dionysus, the situation he’s put us in, the “conversation” he’s leading … It’s all incredibly uncomfortable and hazardous. He’s taking everything I say as an excuse to flirt, and the pitiless chaos that squirms bene
ath his perfect suit is giving me some really dark suspicions about how he treats rejection. I need answers, and I need him to think of me as more than a love puppet.
“Indeed, Mr. Nyce,” I say. “I am honored by your presence and grateful for your company. We have much to discuss, however, for I have been without the companionship of a god for far too long.” I tap Nathan’s foot as I say all this, hoping he gets the message that I’m doing my best to wrangle this bundle of off-kilter divinity and lust beside us, and to just stay calm.
“Ooh, too true,” Dionysus says. “What a sad, empty world it is without the presence of fellow gods. Everything’s better when it’s filled with the divine.”
I suppress a shudder. “On that note, Mr. Nyce—how did you get here? And how have you become so strong in this doubtful world?”
He laughs a high, crazed titter. “You wish to know my secrets? Well, why not? But I assure you, I have far juicier ones I can share. Perhaps in a more … intimate setting?”
“Perhaps,” I say. Ew, ew, ew!
“I can only hope—ah, wonderful!” he says with manic glee as our waiter sets down a few appetizer dishes on the table. He reaches for a platter of cheeses and fruits, grabs a handful, and stuffs them into his mouth. “Mmmf,” he says, rolling his eyes in delight. Nathan and I take the opportunity to exchange a look. The silent message that passes between us is clear: What. The. Hell.
After Dionysus finishes chewing, he turns back to me and clasps his chin in one hand. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes—secrets. Well, I discovered these delightful parks by chance one day. Imagine my shock when I noticed the magic in the air, the fun to be had. These places cannot, of course, hold the most meager candle to the festivities of my forgotten cults, but those are sadly long gone from this world. Even still, the merriment, the laughter, the excitement—it’s always here, every day of every year, bubbling up from millions of dear little mortals. I had to take part. So I invested all my energy, wealth, and time, climbed their ridiculous corporate ladder, and insinuated myself into their system.” He pauses to demolish a plate of ravioli. I notice that no matter how ferociously he eats, he never seems to stain his lips, drip something onto his clothes, or put even one hair out of place.
“Spectacular,” he says, smacking his lips. He drains his glass of wine—a glass I didn’t even realize was on the table until he reached out and took it—and continues his story. “You see, I recognized long ago that I didn’t need worshippers. Filthy things, really. No, what I needed was strength. They’re not one and the same, you know. More worshippers will keep you whole, keep you in whatever form they decide is most pleasing to them, but more belief … aaah … that will give you power, raw and pure.”
“But worshippers believe. That’s what they give you.”
“Anyone can believe,” he snaps, his eyes glinting. “Worshippers, they’re like … like shareholders.” He says the word with utter disdain. “Sooth, they’ll give you money, but they want to control you, to shape your beauty to match their vision. No! I won’t have it. I am perfect as I am—and how could they presume to improve on perfection?”
I have a few ideas on where to start, I think, wanting so badly to say it. But I manage to hold my tongue. He’s on a roll now, anyway. I think he likes the sound of his voice.
“Ages past, I realized I could draw strength from any sort of gaiety or celebration, and all I had to do was have a hand in it. Whatever mystic force empowers us, it sees such events as offerings in my name and grants me a small measure of strength for it. So what if those revelers aren’t cavorting with the word ‘Dionysus’ on their tongues? Why would I want their worthless praise? Or their pathetic ideas of what I should be to them?”
I think I get it. Merrymaking has the same effect on him as the belief of the kids when I’m in costume. “So you made sure you’d have a hand in running the parks, and when people have fun in them, you get a little bit stronger for it?”
“Intelligent and beautiful,” he says, sighing. “How could anyone ask for more? Yes, that’s it exactly. It’s the barest fraction of a drop every time, of course. Each of these ‘tourists,’ they offer a mere pittance of strength, a grain of sand, if you will, but when they come in their millions—ah, how it does add up—power enough to fill the oceans.”
“And you say you haven’t seen another god in years?”
He shrugs and tosses a few pieces of steak tartare into his mouth. “Can’t say I’ve gone looking for them, really,” he says, chewing. “Then again, if I knew you were out there, my dear, I’d never have stopped searching.”
Ugh. Sure, once he actually starts talking about a subject, he never shuts up, but getting him to focus on one is like herding cats. Hungry, perverted cats. Still, maybe I can use his seemingly unstoppable needs to my advantage.
“I’m so glad to hear it,” I say, looking at him with wide, appreciative eyes, “because I’m in trouble, and I think you’re the only one who can help.”
“I am yours to command, my lady,” Dionysus says. He downs another glass of wine, then flashes a gleaming smile at me.
My lady? Where does he think he is? Actually, I don’t care at this point. He can say whatever he wants, as long as he’s on my side. “Good,” I say, thinking about how to phrase this next part. “You see, I’m being chased.”
Nathan gives me an amused look. I think he’s both impressed by how I’ve decided to handle our recent problems and pleased by how quickly Dionysus is falling for it.
“Unwanted suitors? I can understand why men would dog your every step.”
Stop it with the flirting! I want to scream. Instead, I suppress it and just say, “Not quite.”
“Then you are being hunted? There are true villains who wish to harm you?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.”
Dionysus frowns, and I can see the madness flicker in his eyes. “I won’t have it. Tell me who your pursuer is, and I will see to it that their screams echo in your ears for as long as you desire.”
Gotcha. “There’s an organization obsessed with gods,” I say softly. “And one of its members is tracking me. I’ve had to start a new life here to escape him. Kill him for me, and I will … reward you.”
“Give me a name,” Dionysus croons. “And very, very shortly, all that will be left to do is enjoy your abundant rewards.”
I pause, then spit it out like a curse. “Garen.”
His frown deepens and, for a moment, I fear I’ve said something wrong. Then he lets out another high-pitched laugh, and I realize he’s just committed the name to memory, like pinning an insect to a specimen case.
“It will be done,” he says softly.
6
ALL’S FAIR
“What the hell just happened?” Nathan asks as we exit Disney property. We were both silent on our way out of the park—worried, I think, that Dionysus might hear us somehow.
I sigh and fiddle with the car’s air-conditioning controls. “We met our god.”
“And wasn’t that a barrel of laughs. Are they all that psychotic?”
“No, he’s a special case. I mean, did you see how he talked about his worshippers? That’s insane. It’s not how things are supposed to work, Nate.”
Nathan frowns, his eyes on the road. “So what are you really planning on doing? I can tell you don’t want to touch him with a ten-foot pole, and if he manages to do what you asked, well … I don’t get the impression he’s the type who handles rejection very well.”
I shake my head. “Not in the slightest. He’s a mad dog, Nathan. Setting him on Garen was a way to distract him for now, but I’m going to have to put him down, and soon.”
“You gods play rough,” he says, grimacing.
“No, that’s not what’s happening here. This isn’t your typical deific spat. Dionysus has gone off the deep end, and he needs to be destroyed before things get any worse. Look at him—he’s not playing by the rules anymore. He’s gone centuries without real worshippers, and now all his boundaries a
re gone.”
“Well, yeah, he’s nuts and I wouldn’t miss him, but … you also said he’s really powerful. I don’t want you getting hurt, Sara. Can’t we just go somewhere else? Ditch him like we did Garen? I mean, sure, he’s crazy, but are you sure that’s not how he’s always been?”
He’s starting to babble a bit, and I can see he’s really concerned. It’s heartwarming. I’ve missed having friends who truly cared about me like this, and if I weren’t in the middle of plotting deicide, I’d give him a hug for reminding me what I’ve gained. As it is, though … “I can’t leave this to fester any longer,” I say, trying to let him see how worried I am. “You don’t understand what Dionysus is now. He’s a god without constraints. He’s struck out on his own, without the need to please anybody. At some point, he’s going to completely snap and do something really bad.”
“Wait, like what? What are you talking about?”
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