3
“What doesn’t kill you doesn’t necessarily make you stronger. Wiser, maybe, but don’t count on it.”
Christos Karacis
I opened my eyes to the face of an angel—the fallen variety. The kind designed to lead others into temptation and have them thank him for it. Repeatedly. To make matters worse, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his weight slanting the mattress so that my body seemed inclined to slide toward his.
Apollo’s golden hair was wild, like the corona of the sun, like it would look after someone had run their fingers through it, clutching his head to their breast or … elsewhere … urging him not to stop. My mind supplied an image of me in that position, Apollo above me, gazing down with those impossible turquoise eyes turbulent with emotion …
I shut it down, closed my eyes and focused on breathing. In and out. No, that was bad. Just … bad.
“Move away,” I said through gritted teeth.
Apollo shifted fractionally, but I could feel him staring at me still. My body cried out for contact, but I ruthlessly ignored it, even though every single cell seemed to strain toward Apollo. I felt alive. More than alive. Manically, enthusiastically, quite definitely, hyper-alive. Full of light and energy. My eyes snapped open at the realization of just what had to be heightening all my experiences.
As my gaze met Apollo’s, I struggled to find a well of anger to tamp down my libido and was surprised not to have to look too hard, though I must have known on some level that this was what would happen if Apollo rode to my rescue. Some part of me must have decided deep down that I could die another day but not while the family was counting on me to track Uncle Christos and not while there were new murders, massacres really, begging to be solved. I didn’t have the luxury of the moral high ground. No, as much as I wanted to blast Apollo with both barrels of my wrath, I was the one to blame here. I had to take responsibility.
Still, my “thank you” tasted like ashes on my tongue.
“Stop. Your effusion is just embarrassing,” Apollo said, brushing aside a sweat-soaked lock of hair obscuring my vision. The jolt it sent straight to my heart made me cranky.
I touched the back of my hand to my mouth and it came away wet. “Drool, eh? Sexy.”
“Very funny.”
“I feel funny.” I couldn’t hold his gaze. It was just too intimate. His eyes were aqua and glowed like the sun reflecting off the Mediterranean. They made me think of skinny-dipping and the power of the surf, surging. I cut that thought to the quick. “Seriously, though, thanks for coming,” I said reluctantly. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“What, and miss the chance to make you beholden to me?”
“Think again, buddy. In my book, this just makes us even.”
Apollo tapped a finger on his lip, pretending to consider, but not putting much effort into making it look sincere. “Really? By my count, that makes twice I’ve saved your life and you’ve—oh wait, you have yet to reciprocate.”
“Damn you and your scorekeeping. Tell you what, you let me know when you’re going to throw yourself in front of a train, and I’ll be there to stop you. No, really.” Two could play at sincerity.
Apollo’s eyes rolled upward as if he could spot the heights of Olympus right through my ceiling. “It doesn’t work like that.”
I sighed. “Fine.” I looked down to be sure I was decently clothed, unlike the last time I’d woken in a bed with Apollo, and started to rise. Apollo looked regretful, but didn’t try to keep me there.
I was pleased that all my parts seemed to be in working order. It was the first day in what seemed like forever without the shakes. I didn’t have to pretend I was fine. I wanted to give a rebel yell, but that would be undignified. And heavens, having built up my skid row junkie image, I didn’t want to blow it all in one fell swoop. “I need to wash the stink off, and I need food, not necessarily in that order. The least I can do is offer you something.”
I wandered into the kitchen and started opening and closing cupboards, as if elves might have stocked them while I was out. “Um, how about omelets? As long as you don’t like anything in them. More like scrambled eggs, really. Or, I make a mean cinnamon toast.”
He followed me in and lounged against my cabinets. He looked good standing there, and my brain tried to remind me that bedrooms weren’t the only places for fun and games, but those thoughts were by now used to being ignored.
“I’m not hungry, thank you,” Apollo announced as he watched me play at domestication. “I left a … supply … for you in your refrigerator. I suppose you’ll have to let me know when you need more.”
“So, what’s the catch here? What do I owe you?” Rather than look at him, I went about getting the fixings for scrambled eggs and toast. Normally I’d opt for cereal or a Power Bar rather than actual home cooking, but I felt the need for something hot and filling. Besides, I was bursting with excess energy I needed to channel.
“Dump your detective.”
Armed with a tub of butter and a spatula, I whirled on him. “Just because you saved my life doesn’t mean you get to dictate how I live it.”
“Are you yet on a first name basis?”
“Yes.” Most of the time. I dropped everything on the counter and attacked the butter with a vengeance, tossing a glop into my pan and barely waiting for it to heat before adding the eggs. “Anyway, it’s none of your business.”
“He’s not for you. I have seen—”
“What do you know about the dead bodies on top of Mount Lee?” I asked suddenly. I didn’t want to know my future … or Nick’s. I’d read enough of the myths to learn that knowing the future often led people to play right into their doom. The whole self-fulfilling prophecy bit. The only thing to do with that power was mark it “return to sender.”
“The ones in the news?”
“I sure hope there aren’t any others.” I chopped the eggs to within an inch of their lives before sliding them onto a plate and carrying my feast to the table. Apollo sat down across from me. It was such a strange homey scene with the morning light streaming through the windows. All we needed were steaming mugs of coffee and newspapers to help us ignore each other.
“They are related to the earlier trouble?” Apollo asked.
I froze, first bite nearly to my lips. “Trouble? No euphemisms before coffee. Anyway, I think they are. There’s the location for one. Plus, the remains of all the bodies would barely fill a chum bucket, so I’m doubtful it was your average man off the street who whacked ’em. Oh, and the Feds asked me some pretty oddball questions. Wanted to know about biological warfare.”
Apollo’s face went all over strange before tightening into a mask.
I swallowed the bite in my mouth. “What? Does that mean something to you?”
“Maybe. Can you tell me any more about the attack?”
“Not … really.” Not except for that strange dream with the gnashing teeth and slashing claws, the details of which were already slipping away from me. And anyway, it was just a dream. A vivid, terrifying, heart-pounding dream, but still. Unless …
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he wheedled.
I eyed him. “I’ve seen yours.”
“Innuendos aside,” he said.
“Oh, can we do that? I didn’t know it was an option. Anyway, that’s all the info I have except for a nightmare where it was me on that mountain with claws and teeth coming at me from everywhere.”
Apollo went as white as the china, which, with his tan, was an incredibly impressive feat. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“What is?”
“You remember that gift I gave you?”
“Oh, you mean besides the deadly addiction?” Apollo waited patiently for me to remember manners. I hoped he wasn’t holding his breath. “The precognition … yeah, I remember. Interesting side note, it now comes with GPS.”
He didn’t look entirely surprised. “Well, you may also find that you have very vivid dreams. You’ll want to pay attention to them.”
Damned to addiction by day, haunted by horror at night. My life was really some kind of John Carpenter dream come true. I wished I’d slammed the door on Apollo back when I’d first laid eyes on him. I’d known he was dangerous, but couldn’t resist him any more than a moth could resist dashing itself against the flame.
“So you’re saying these dreams have meaning. Are you guessing or do you know something?”
Apollo shrugged. “There’ve been portents, sightings … nothing concrete.”
“Buffy was right, then. We really are living on a Hellmouth.”
“The underworld isn’t Hell—well, except for Tartarus. The Elysian Fields are there too, don’t forget.”
“I was trying to be clever. Okay, Mr. Literal, what does all this have to do with the bodies?”
“Well, the rumors are that a fissure has opened into Hades’s realm. Anything could be coming up through it. Escaped souls, Erinyes, Cerberus himself—” He stopped.
“Now that’s a thought. The Erinyes … the Furies … they wouldn’t attack without provocation, but Cerberus … In your dream, the attack came from all sides?” I nodded. “A three-headed beast would certainly account for that. Plus, it’s said that black venom drips from his jaws. I’ve never had the privilege of seeing for myself, but if it’s true, this might be the biological weapon the federal agents inquired about.”
“Oh, bloody hell—” I held up a hand before he could protest. “I know, I know, but bloody Tartarus lacks the same oomph. I don’t suppose the whole problem can be solved by asking Hades to bring his dog to heel?”
“It might.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“Well, for one thing, they don’t exactly have cell towers down there, so it’s not like you can call up and ask him. And since you’re still alive, you can’t just pop down for a visit. But mainly, Hades keeps Cerberus on a pretty tight leash, and I can’t imagine that he’s just gotten loose.”
“So if Cerberus is running amok, it would mean—what? That Hades has lost control? That he’s let Cerberus off the leash?”
“Perhaps. We did put his brothers in jail. Hades could be distracted enough to drop his tether. Or he could be letting Cerberus play in our world as revenge. Or … it could be more than that. He might have Cerberus hunting something specific.”
“Something like—?”
“You.”
“Great. Really and truly awesome.” I pushed my plate away, unable to eat another bite. “I mean, who doesn’t like a good fight to the death?”
“Tori, this is—”
“Nothing to joke about. Yeah, I get that. But sometimes life’s too absurd not to laugh.”
“So now we’re finishing each other’s sentences?”
“Only because you’re so predictable. Don’t read anything into it.”
He studied me for a moment, a look that made me understand the eyes as windows to the soul cliché. I felt like he could see straight inside me to things hidden even from myself. It was eerie, more exposing than standing naked on the Santa Monica Pier.
“Stop that,” I said.
His serious look changed to an obnoxiously knowing smile. “Are there any other services I can provide for you before I go?” he asked, reaching to brush my hair away from my neck. The flesh there sat up and took notice.
My mouth dried up as I tried to form the word no all while my body screamed yes. This was the dangerous Apollo, the one who could swallow me whole. The one I’d run from … was still running from. I hadn’t talked to him since then or since my relationship had heated up with Armani and Apollo had sent me that strange note—I know.
He leaned in and bit down suddenly on the flesh that he’d cleared. Not hard. Just enough to flood my system with longing, to start me fantasizing … He ended the nip with a kiss and rose without another word, giving me his back.
Always leave them wanting more, I thought. And gods, did I want. But I couldn’t have. An ambrosia addiction was one thing. An addiction to Apollo … that I would never survive.
Then suddenly he was gone, and I was left with nothing more than a plate of congealing butter, half-eaten eggs and my thoughts, none of them sunny side up. Ten minutes later, I got myself in hand. It was Sunday morning. I could either watch cartoons, follow leads or go to church, which would make my mother way too happy, now that she was almost speaking to me again. Besides, recent events had thrown a monkey wrench into the belief system I’d never fully developed. Being me, I chose option B, or snooping, as my mother called it.
LA doesn’t really get moving until well after noon, so the streets were nearly deserted on my drive to the office. I was able to get a parking space right out front. Given the hour, even the mom and pop deli on the corner wasn’t open for business, so I was going to have to fend for myself coffee-wise when I hit the office. No biggie, since aside from cinnamon toast, scrambled eggs and grilled cheese, it was the one other thing to which I could apply heat and expect something palatable to result.
There was no supernatural trill of alarm this time when I opened the office door, just the normal oh my gods reaction to the sight of fingerprint powder on every surface. It was a wonder that I’d forgotten for even an instant. The LAPD had taken a lot of prints, including Jesus’s for comparison—mine were already on file because of my gun license—but it was too soon to tell whether any were unaccounted for by staff and clientele.
I started coffee, turned on Jesus’s computer so that I could pop a CD in to make cleaning tolerable and gathered supplies. The Arctic Monkeys belted out a song as I scrubbed.
The coffee was ready before the cleaning was done—I had a sixth sense about these things—so I gave myself a well-deserved break, doctored a Kong-sized mug for myself and sat down at Uncle Christos’s desk. Since it was Sunday, the banks would be closed, but I was almost certain Christos would have things set up so that he could manage his accounts online. He was pretty computer savvy for an old guy. All I had to do was figure out his password. If I was really lucky, he’d set the computer to automatically remember. Given his chosen field, I thought he was probably too smart for that, but I could hope.
Sure enough, once the computer was up and running, I played around on his browser, and found that his bank’s website was bookmarked, but no account numbers or codes were programmed into memory. Account numbers I had covered. The password was going to be trickier. Important dates were the most common numeric codes, which banks seemed to favor, but after trying Christos’s birthday, my Aunt Helen’s birthday (taken from us all too soon in a freak accident), and their anniversary I gave up, afraid the browser would lock me out for too many bad attempts.
I turned to Christos’s blotter for clues. It was one of those huge paper calendars that covered nearly the entire surface of the desk. The top sheet was still for November of last year, when Uncle Christos had left with a jolly wave and an order that Jesus and I keep the home fires burning. He was fried, he said, and needed an extended vacation. Didn’t know where he’d end up or when he’d be back. All we knew was that he was starting out in the general direction of north—toward the Napa Valley, wine country. This did not exactly come as a shock.
There were two numbers scribbled in the blotter’s margins that I thought traced to the San Francisco/Napa area. Christos’s own cell phone had stopped working long enough ago that the number had been reassigned, which did wonders for the family fears. I opened up a reverse telephone directory we had bookmarked on the web and went to work. The first number traced to a Residence Inn that, when called, had no record at all of a Christos Karacis, not even as far back as November. Or so they said. The second number I found was registered to an M. Olivieri. I didn’t know if M. stood for Mr., Ms., or Marsupial, but I hoped I was about to find out.
The phone was answered on the second ring—a woman’s voice, either weary or wary. It was hard to tell based on the simple, “Hello.”
“Hello, I’m—”
“Casey?” the woman asked, all trace of reserve gone. “My God, is that you?”
“Um, no, ma’am. My name is Tori Karacis. I’m a coworker of Christos Karacis. I’m trying to get in touch—”
“I’m sorry,” she cut in quickly. “I can’t help you. I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry, I’m—I’m waiting for a call. I can’t stay on the line.” And, sure enough, she didn’t.
I tried the number again. M. Olivieri certainly didn’t pounce on the phone when it rang … and rang … surprising for someone waiting for a call. In fact, I ended up in a perfectly lovely one-sided conversation with her machine, during which I left my cell phone and landline numbers, snail mail and email addresses, and why I was calling. Any time, day or night, I said, she was free to call. I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
If I had to drive up to Napa to flash my PI license and Christos’s photo … well, I supposed I’d be paying for my own gas. Tina’s destination-Delphi wedding had to be costing a small fortune, and I didn’t think my expenses were in the budget. At least if I found Christos for her I could plead poverty to get out of going myself. I doubted I’d be missed.
But I wasn’t ready for a road trip just yet. Not, at least, until I knew what I was getting into. I had sources … okay, I had the Internet, but it was a start. I Googled M. Olivieri and came up with about a thousand sites, none of which seemed relevant. I tried “Casey Olivieri” hoping that whoever “M” had been so anxious to talk with shared her last name. The first article tagged Casey as the top scorer a couple of years ago on her high school field hockey team. The second was more enlightening: “Mother Cries Cult.” It was dated six months ago.
In a cry that echoes the still relevant question, “Where have all the young girls gone?” many California families are lamenting the loss of their children. Less than a year ago, the national Back to Earth movement swept into town, drawing to it many disenfranchised youth irate over the treatment of our planet and its resources. Many have moved into the Back to Earth cooperative, while others have a more casual connection.
One mother, who asked not to be identified, bemoaned, “We never see Joan anymore. They have no phone—at least, not that they let the kids use. Our letters are returned to discourage ‘raping the mother for her flesh,’ my daughter’s own words! I haven’t seen her in five months.” Another mother went so far as to call the Back to Earth movement a cult.
According to police spokesman Eric Denny, they’ve found nothing to support this claim. “The Back to Earth residents are all above the age of consent, and we found no evidence of coercion.”
A member of Back to Earth, Casey Olivieri, who asked to be called Narcissa, commented, “We’re pretty upset by all the fuss. What nobody gets is that you’re all living in a cult of convenience. Disposable everything—fast food, instant gratification. It’s all me me me, now now now. Back to Earth is all about renewal, replenishment, respect. Everyone else needs to get a grip and a clue before it’s too late.”
The group’s founder was unavailable for comment, but his California branch officer adds that, “Anyone interested can learn more about us and earth-friendly living on our website. It’s our one concession to modern life and a paper-free environment.”
Well. I blinked. A cult. But, hey, if they were hooked in to the Internet, I should be able to hack them. Okay, not me exactly. That was illegal, and anyway, I was ill-equipped, but a friend of Jesus’s about whom the less I knew the better … For now, at least, I could check out the website, see what Back to Earth professed to be about, maybe get a phone number or address or something that a hands-on, young-in-body/old-in-spirit kind of gal like me could wrap my skills around. My foot was already beginning to tap with impatience at every hourglass icon.
Casey Olivieri had covered the basics in that article. Back to Earth’s home page was pretty tame. Lots of photos of dewy leaves, tree frogs and the like, vivid enough to warm the cockles of any nature geek’s heart. The rhetoric was all philosophy—reduce, renew, replenish, thinking long term, living off the land, leaving no trace, yada yada yada. There were links to organic farming sites, articles on mulching and natural fertilizer. There was a number to call for more info, but no street addresses, no officers’ names, just vague references to co-ops on which their policies were practiced in various states—Florida, Oregon, Utah and California among them.
Any group so stingy with contact information made me suspicious. But if they were up to no good, they had to be on someone’s radar. I picked up the phone to call Detective Beverly.
“’Lo,” she answered, sounding like two syllables were just too much.
“Wow, when was the last time you slept?” I asked politicly. Because I was known for that.
“What day is it?”
“Um, Sunday?”
“Already?” She sighed. “What can I do for you?”
“What do you know about the group Back to Earth?”
Dead silence. Not a cricket was chirping.
“Where did you hear that name?” she asked.
“So you do know it?”
“I asked you first.”
“Actually, I believe I asked you. You just chose not to answer.”
Another sigh. I almost wished I could feel the breeze through the phone. The office was like an oven. “Christos … might have mentioned it.”
“And you weren’t going to say anything to me?”
“Tori, there must have been a reason he called me. Whatever is going on, it might be too dangerous for you to go poking around. Too dangerous for him,” she added, before I could protest. “It might require more finesse than you tend to exhibit.”
Come on, my finesse ranked right up there with my politicness.
“You’re saying what? I’d go in guns blazing? Half the time I keep mine locked in my desk drawer.”
“I’m saying you should let the pros handle it.”
“Hello, PI here.”
“Yeah, and how new is the laminate on your license?”
“Look, I got this far on my own. Either you can tell me what you’ve got on Back to Earth or I can just keep poking the turtle and see what snaps.”
“Turtle … really?”
“Snapping turtle. Very threatening. So, what’ll it be?”
She sighed again. Probably a personal best for me. “Fine, what do you want to know?”
“Only everything.”
Which wasn’t much. Back to Earth hadn’t tried to file as a church for tax-exempt status, but was incorporated as a single proprietorship. Owner: Dionysus Bach. Dionysus. I didn’t like it. Not one bit. There were far too many gods in my world already. Whether Dionysus was the real deal or just played him on TV, nothing about the name gave me the warm fuzzies. In fact, those bodies atop Mount Lee, the ones the Feds had questioned me about … those had been torn apart much the same way the big D’s obsessive followers were known to shred those unlucky enough to fall prey to them at his festivals. Only, the Feds had mentioned inhuman bite marks. No, of course the pieces couldn’t fall that easily into place. In a way, I was relieved. The thought of Uncle Christos all tied up with frenzied floozies …
“What’s that?” I asked, having lost the thread of the conversation about the time I started imagining Uncle Christos being torn limb from limb.
“I said they’ve more or less stayed away from LA, for reasons we suspect begin with Scient—and end with—ology. They don’t exactly encourage competition.”
“And you think Christos is on the run from this Back to Earth cult? Or trapped inside?”
“I don’t know. We—our phone call was cut off. But he’d definitely seen something, and it had him scared.”
Christos scared. The two didn’t even belong in the same sentence. He hadn’t left the circus because he was afraid of heights and couldn’t bring himself to join the family acrobatic troupe, like me. (Or been asked to leave because he couldn’t keep his snooping to a minimum and unearthed dirty little secrets no one wanted brought to light.) He’d left because it was too tame.
“Well, damn,” I said, because that about summed it all up.
“My thoughts exactly.”