Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians (11 page)

Later, after I snapped to, I might convince myself that it was a combination of the booze and Armani’s earlier rejection, but right then I didn’t give a damn about anything—the danger of playing with fire, the fact that I was lip-locked in a public place with a
very
public figure. Nothing but the fact that just being pressed up against Apollo’s sculpted body was foreplay enough. When his hands brushed my ribs, I nearly squirmed to get them somewhere more effective, already so hot and wet that if he’d decided to take me right up against the wall, I’d have been ready for him.

I’d like to say that when Apollo took my hand and led me out through a side door into a low-lit alleyway that I came to my senses, but Yiayia would have to wash my mouth out with soap. The truth was that I was hormone-poisoned to the point that I was barely aware of anything but the urge to continue where we’d left off. It was the howl of a dog that finally penetrated the erotic haze. I don’t know how long the mournful baying had gone on before it registered—a hound dog. Not unheard of, but rare in ultra-urban L.A. Potentially a precious lead on the Strohmeyer case. Then Apollo shifted against me and I almost didn’t care. Almost. But that brief lifting of the haze was enough to bring me back to myself.

Damn, I had to be thick or suicidal, or maybe all of the above. I
knew
the stories of Apollo’s conquests—the conflicts, the transformations, the illegitimate children, not to mention the funeral pyres.

I had to go. Apollo protested as I pulled away, looking shell-shocked when I stopped him with a raised hand and a shushing. It was hard to hear over my own still-heavy breathing, so I held my breath, attuned myself to the sound.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, once I had the direction down.

“What, because of a
dog
? If it’s that damned K—” he bit off whatever he’d been about to say and my knowledge of mythology failed to fill in the blank, but I gave it a pass.
 

“Look, it’s not all about you. This is another case.”

I took off like the hounds of hell were chasing me rather than the other way around. Melodramatic, I know. Honey was probably a very nice dog, but still there was that sense of having escaped the fire—the very hot, seductive—dammit, I needed to focus.

For the better part of an hour I tracked the baying hound, but either it was on the move or someone was having a lot of fun at my expense. One final wounded yelp and the sound stopped dead just before midnight. My heart sank even as my abused feet rejoiced. The second wind that had propelled me had died out about twenty minutes into the fruitless chase, and I was ready to collapse.

Tomorrow I’d get back on the phone to the shelters and to animal control to make sure they hadn’t forgotten my interest. I’d check in again with the city about new dog licenses. Tonight I planned to fall asleep in my clothes.

I hailed a cab and kept myself awake with self-flagellation. So far I was batting a thousand on this whole PI thing. No doubt if Uncle Christos had stuck around both cases would already be wrapped up with neat little bows. Apollo would have no reason to stick around tempting me to greater heights of stupidity; the company account would be lush. We’d even have money to remodel. Nights like this I cursed him for running off.

Chapter Ten

“Never invoke the gods unless you want them to appear. It annoys them very much.”

—G.K. Chesterton, no relation

I hadn’t had enough to drink last night to give me a hangover this morning, so I had to be suffering the after-effects of stupidity. That or the fact that my late-afternoon nap had rendered me sleepless until the wee hours of the morning. Anyway, I now had a pounding headache that was even starting to tunnel my vision.

The only upside to my day so far was that Jesus was out on an audition and so not available for snide commentary on the bags beneath my eyes—
so
not Luis Vuitton, darling. God, I’d been around him long enough that I could supply my own put-downs. No physical presence needed.
 

I groaned as I sat at my desk, head in my hands, praying for the pain meds to kick in and my vision to clear.

When the damned singing fish above my door started talking, it didn’t immediately register as anything more than an auditory hallucination, my ears deciding to betray me as well. Slowly, so as not to jar and further pain my head, I looked up, panning only my eyes toward the pesky Pisces. I
knew
I’d taken the batteries out of the damned thing.

“What?” I asked, cranky about feeling foolish.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t the deep voice seemingly with its own reverb saying, “We need to talk.”

“Look, whoever you are, my head is about to split itself down the center. Whatever you have to say, stick it in a memo. Jesus, if this is some kind of crazy candid-camera thing you’re fired.”

“I AM POSEIDON, LORD OF THE WATERS AND YOU WILL LISTEN!” the fish boomed, doubling its previous volume.

It felt like someone took a sledgehammer to my head with each word.

“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth, “but only if you exercise a little volume control. Otherwise, you’re shark bait.”

Through the pounding on my brain it was hard to consider what antagonizing the god of the oceans might do to my summer tanning options.

“You will leave my people alone,” he commanded, conceding maybe a decibel or two. “We will look to our own.”

My left eye twitched. “
Really?
Where the hell were you all yesterday when one of
your own
was trying to put me to sleep with the fishes?”

The rubber fish flapped annoyance. “You did not need our intervention.”

“Funny, ’cause from my perspective I was this close—” I demonstrated with my fingers, “—to a watery grave.”

“ENOUGH!” the fish bellowed, causing me to wince.

“Oh yeah, this new form of yours—
real
intimidating,” I continued, knowing I was pushing my luck, but pissed off and curious about the results all the same. ’Cause that approach had done wonders for the cat. “Maybe if you showed yourself… Though, you fitting the killer’s general description and all, maybe there’s some reason you don’t want to come out and fight like a man.”

The only warning I had was a nasty-sounding gurgle-belch before a flood of brackish water exploded forth from the fish’s mouth. I jerked back from my desk as if the stream would hit me then laughed at my own fear. “Ooh, swamp water—very scary!”

And suddenly the flood became a torrent, an entire swollen river bursting its banks. Not so funny after all. Easy enough to run away myself, but my office! Uncle Christos’s security deposit!

Something had to be done. I grabbed my desk chair and pulled it with me toward the door, trying to shield my eyes and make progress against the stinging force of the geyser. The chair and I were knocked to the floor once and nearly twice before I managed to get it in place and climb unsteadily aboard. Blinded now by the torrent, I reached for the fish, feeling my way to the mounting, which I ripped from the wall. Plaster rained down on my head and the fish had gone from soaking the rug to soaking me.

The chair keeled over as I jumped down, sprinting toward the outer door with the still-spewing fish like a football player headed for the end zone. I raced down the fire stairs and out into the alleyway.

The flood had trickled to leaky-faucet level and no doubt Poseidon’s spirit had long since departed but I took great pleasure in cramming the damned fish into the dumpster where it belonged anyway.

Maybe I’d saved my office, but for the second time in two days I was soaked to the bone and madder than a wet hen. Pisses me off when my day sounds like a freakin’ country-western song.

I squelched my way back to the office to survey the damage and arrange for a wet vac. My nose wrinkled involuntarily at the swamp-water smell of the place. It would be just my luck if the damage seeped down into the office below and I had
two
repair bills to worry about.

At least I kept a change of clothes for myself at the office—I’d say for “just such emergencies”, but who the hell anticipated plastic fish gushing pond scum? My life had gotten too damned weird.
I
was the investigator; I was the one supposed to put people in the know. So why the
hell
did I get the feeling that I was the blind man in the game of bluff? It seemed everyone else knew the playing field and gamboled around taunting me, dangling the truth just out of reach.

If there was anyone I should damned well be able to expect straight answers from it was my client. Come hell or high water—oh wait, I’d had near misses on both—he was going to answer my questions. I didn’t care if he was akin to Hollywood’s crown prince. He’d signed a contract; we’d played tonsil hockey in a club alley. One way or another, I ought to be entitled.

I picked up the office phone and jabbed in his private number from memory. It occurred to me that somewhere in the adrenaline rush to save my office the headache had disappeared. At least something had gone right.

To my surprise, the man of the hour actually answered.

“Hello,” he said, voice low and a bit hoarse—I refused to think husky—as if I’d woken him.

“Apollo, it’s Tori. We need to have a conversation.
In person
.”

I heard movement. Bed sheets rustling? His throat cleared and he came back to the receiver sounding a bit more normal. “What’s happened? You sound upset.”

Give that man an exploding cigar
, I thought.

“What, you mean you don’t
know
? Your freakin’ Oracle didn’t give you a heads-up on this morning’s little visitation?”

“I’ll be right there,” he said, sounding urgent now, though I couldn’t figure out what I’d said that would prompt it.

“Wear old shoes,” I suggested, but the receiver had gone dead in my hand.

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” Apollo asked as I showed him in.

I’d considered meeting with him in Uncle Christos’s office, but I had a point to make.

“Big,” I agreed, waiting until we’d both squelched across my floor to say anything more.

A comment or question on the moisture wouldn’t have been uncalled for but Apollo kept silent, perhaps wisely guessing that it had something to do with my call.

Once we were seated, I pinned him with my very best glare and began. “Let’s cut right to the chase. You did not hire me because you thought Circe’s death had anything to do with your business. I doubt any of your old crowd gives a damn about the talent agency, and you knew before you even entered my office that we were dealing with one of the divinities. So, you can talk or I can walk, ’cause I’ve had it up to here—” I held my hand to my hairline, “—with the lot of you right about now.” And with myself for not tossing him from my office at the get-go.

His eyes widened, but the only other movement was that of his chest expanding and contracting as he breathed. The seconds ticked by and I relaxed back into my chair, watching his thought process dance over his face—consternation, caginess, resignation. I was pleased with the last. The interview would go so much faster if I didn’t have to browbeat Apollo into submission—not that the idea didn’t have its perks.

“No,” he answered finally. “No one gives a damn about the agency. You want the full story, fine, I’ll give you everything I have, but it isn’t much. Something odd is going on. Circe is the first death that I know of, but some of the old-timers have gone twitchy and others have seemed to disappear. The oracle has been broadcasting “Get the hell out of Dodge” on all frequencies, and I want to know what the hell is going on. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to turn tail and run, even if I had anywhere to go. Since no one on the inside is talking, I’ve had to go to an outside source.”

I’d liked it better when I thought Apollo might have some answers.

“If something’s going on in godland, why would you be left out of the loop?”

“Damned if I know. Maybe because I was working with Circe, who no one in their right mind trusts, and got tarred with the same brush. Maybe there’s some kind of vendetta thing or war between factions that I’m just not part of. I was up front with you that I want to find out what happened, what Circe was involved in, to be sure I don’t get the fallout.”

“So what changed your mind?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You didn’t show up at the club last night because of my irresistible charm, such as it is. You knew where to find me; you knew about the attack, and you were ready to pull me from the case. Conclusion: you’re holding out on me. Care to fill me in?”

Apollo stood abruptly, nearly upending his chair onto the sodden carpet. He filled the room, pacing the six or seven steps the office allowed, but somehow the squishing sound of each footfall diminished the effect.

“If you put others on the spot nearly as well as you do me, you must be a very good investigator. Yes, I went there to fire you. I’d been warned away from investigating Circe’s death. Specifically, I’d been told that your life was in danger, but I got the distinct impression last night that pulling my financing wasn’t going to take you off the case.”

He wasn’t looking at me as he said it and something told me there were gaps in the story.

“What else?”

Apollo had stopped in front of my doorway and was eying the twin holes I’d left in the plaster. “You know that headache?” he asked, barely audible with his back to me.

I blinked at the complete non sequitur. “Ye-ah,” I answered warily.

“Well, that’s kind of a side effect.”

“Of what?” My heart rate had kicked up and this time it didn’t have anything to do with his proximity per se.

He finally turned, measuring my reaction from there, “A bit of an edge.”

“Tell me,” I said, already rising to cut off his escape.

“Just a little precog,” he answered, holding his ground. “Think of it as your Spidey sense, an early warning system in case of danger. The headache won’t last long. It’s an effect of waking up pathways in your brain previously closed off. All I did was open some doors.”