PROLOGUE
October 30, 1919 7:05 P.M.
Fire licked through Noah Green’s lungs. He kept running anyway, ignoring the stitch in his side. Growing up, he’d always been fast, the tall kid everyone picked for games, knowing his speed came with endurance. Once Noah had possession of the ball, he could be counted on to keep driving toward the goal.
Noah was doing that now. Pressing forward, legs aching and his breaths loud to his own ears. He’d keep running for as long as he could. Had to, though his chances of ‘winning’ anything were slim.
He wasn’t playing a game tonight. He’d made a mistake. And now he was running for his life.
Taking a corner, he searched for another burst of speed, the slap of his boots on the pavement echoing off the buildings around him. Lighter footfalls followed behind, so different from Noah’s desperate pounding. They’d matched his perfectly from the very beginning of this race, no matter how fast he ran, and he’d known after only a few blocks that the vampire tailing him was enjoying the chase. And that maybe the only reason he wasn’t already dead was because the fanger wanted to exhaust its prey before pouncing.
Noah didn’t know this neighborhood—he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere several blocks back. The streets and sidewalks were empty and the lights over every doorway dark. A citywide dusk-till-dawn curfew had been in place for weeks, barring humans who didn’t work nights from being outside and, even then, only at their own risk. New Yorkers complained bitterly about the restrictions during daylight hours, but were quick to disappear after sunset, locking themselves in their homes and drawing the blinds to keep the night out. Staying outdoors after dusk was dangerous now that the supernatural beings who’d always lived among them were walking around in plain sight, and every human knew it.
Noah would be inside too if this were a typical evening, either in his own Chelsea flat or his parents’ place in Midtown. He dined there several times a week after work and always stayed overnight. His mother was so certain her unmarried son was languishing alone in his set of rooms, helpless at keeping house or feeding himself. Noah didn’t mind indulging her imaginings. Not when sitting down to eat corned beef hash and listen to her thoughts on finding him a wife made her happy.
He’d been prepared for more of the same tonight. Dinner and talk about Noah needing to be married. But Niels and Marion Green had started in on a far more serious topic during dinner, namely the rash of inter-species crime that had thrown the city into turmoil.
“A young man who lived two doors down was killed this week!” Noah’s father exclaimed. “Meanwhile, we all live in fear, hiding inside our homes every night because it’s not safe to go out. I don’t understand why the mayor doesn’t do something.”
“Like what?” Noah set down his glass. “He can’t just order the fangers to vacate New York, Dad. Most have probably lived here longer than you’ve been alive.”
“And? That’s hardly a reason to let them and the shifters run roughshod over the rest of us.” Niels made a face. “Supernaturals are dangerous, Noah, especially the vampires. The gangs are ruthless, killing people and worse every day.”
“I know.” Noah frowned. He’d heard the stories of humans being taken and changed; they all had. He still knew better than to assume that every person who died or disappeared did so at the hands of a supernatural. “But we can’t pin the gangs’ behaviors on any vamp as if they were all cut from the same cloth.”
“They are cut from the same cloth, and it’s entirely unnatural.” Niels shot a grim look at his wife. “Those things may live among us, but they are not welcome in the human world. Vampires and shifters have their own places to go in this city. They’ve practically taken over Five Points, and there are blood bars popping up all over downtown.”
Marion’s face was haunted as she met Noah’s gaze. “I’ve heard those awful places are full every night, even with the curfew. But … I just don’t understand why any decent human goes near them. Mixing with fangers. Offering themselves up as if they enjoy it.” She shuddered, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Those poor souls are damned.”
Noah ground his teeth and took another corner. He and his friends talked about visiting the blood bars all the time, just for a thrill. Hearing his parents speak like that, though—understanding how profoundly they hated beings they’d never even met—had been painful. He’d stood his ground anyway, firm in his belief that a world where humans and supernaturals were equal was better for everyone, while his mother and father raged back at him, their hurt and confusion plain.
None of it mattered now. Because Noah was so, so screwed.
He’d opted to go home to Chelsea after dinner instead of staying overnight with his parents, hopeful that some time apart would help cool their tempers. But he’d forgotten to heed the time and the darkness falling over the streets, and he’d only traveled a block or two before the fanger had started tailing him. Now Noah was lost with nowhere to hide, and knew that if he died out here tonight, losing him would hurt his family far more than any dinnertime argument.
Voices nearby caught his attention and Noah’s heart leapt, hope nearly choking him. He pulled up short as two figures appeared in his path and almost knocked him off balance.
“Jesus.” Chest heaving, he swung his arms in wild pinwheels, fighting to stay upright as a young girl and boy stared up at him like Noah had lost his mind. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
The boy’s eyes narrowed in his pale face. Though he and the girl looked barely past childhood, he gave a mighty scowl. “Could ask you the same,” he said, voice hard. “Ain’t none of your business.”
The girl sniffed in seeming agreement. “Anyone with eyes can see y’ don’t belong here,” she said to Noah.
“Maybe not,” he started, “but you don’t understand—”
“And I don’t wanna, Mister.” The girl frowned at him. “You oughta go if you don’t want no trouble.”
She jerked her head at a nearby alley and Noah spied what he thought might be a brewery at its end, doors standing open and a broad-shouldered figure just beyond the threshold. But before he could speak again, a hand settled on Noah’s shoulder and the air in his lungs rushed out of him in a single whoosh.
“Off you go, young miss,” said a silky-smooth voice, “before I show you what trouble really looks like.”
Noah stood, unable to move as a figure fitted itself against his back. He heard the kids run off, boots clattering over the cobblestones as they hustled toward safety, but he knew better than to expect they’d send any help. No one was coming. The workers inside the brewery would bolt the doors, and even if they’d had some way to contact the cops, the NYPD weren’t going to risk their own skins for some fool who’d broken curfew. Even if said fool was a tender-age kid working for pennies under the table like the boy who’d run off, or a young man like Noah who just wanted to get home.
Noah’s breath split the silence that followed, and the hand on his shoulder moved, gently cupping his jaw. A second hand took hold of his waist, the light touches guiding Noah around until he was face to face with the vampire who’d chased him. He—it?—was shorter than Noah and slim, with a shock of light hair and ordinary features that belonged to a man. The vampire’s eyes were beautiful, however, shining and so dark. They grabbed hold of Noah more tightly than the hands on his body.
“Oh.”
Noah knew he’d spoken, but it felt like a dream. He’d read plenty about vamps and other supernaturals and learned from a young age to stick with his own kind if he wanted to be safe. That the species shouldn’t mix. And he should be afraid of this being before him, despite his gentle voice and eyes.
Noah didn’t feel any fear, however. And nothing could have moved him from that spot.
He forgot his aching lungs and legs, and the hammering of his heart sounded distant. He’d never been this close to a vampire, at least not that he’d ever known, and saw immediately that they were nothing like he might have expected. His touch wasn’t cold at all but warm, and he was vital, so shockingly alive. Pink lips curved in a smile, while the eyes fixed on Noah saw inside him. Captivated him so totally, he hardly knew how he was still standing. Noah was enthralled. And didn’t mind one bit.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
The vampire’s tone was wonderfully easy, words like caresses over Noah’s skin while a spicy, luscious scent filled his senses. He closed his eyes against the heat buzzing through him, and it warmed his blood in a rush.
“Noah.”
“A name that suits you well.” The vampire was still smiling when Noah opened his eyes, and he moved his hand gently over Noah’s cheek, stroking skin that burned hot. “Look at that blush. And those eyes, mmm. You really are enticing.”
Noah leaned into the touch with no idea what to say. He was probably being rude. But the vampire didn’t seem to mind at all and took another step closer.
“My name is Morgan,” he said. “Would you like to have a drink with me?”
“Have to … I have to work tomorrow. But yes.”
God, Noah wanted. The drink. To hear this Morgan speak. Noah didn’t give a damn, so long as he could have more of that electric touch. He wanted it. More. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t sure what ‘more’ even meant. Nothing could matter when Morgan swept him close and everything else fell away.
Lips too soft to be real brushed against his throat.
The following sting was fleeting.
And it made Noah fly.
The shower’s anemic water pressure did nothing to mask the pounding on the bathroom door. When TD Baylor peered through the daisy-patterned shower curtain, an unexpected surge of water shot shampoo suds straight into his eyes.
“Ow! Shit!” He turned his face into the stream only to have it retreat to a bare trickle. Goddamnit.
“I know you’re in there.” The shrill voice from outside in the hallway was unfamiliar. “You have five minutes to get out.”
TD pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, willing the sting to dissipate. Turns out his willpower wasn’t a match for travel-sized Head & Shoulders. He hadn’t been in here that long, surely— there was still hot water, when any water at all deigned to come out of the shower head. Besides, he’d become an expert at bathroom efficiency. You had to be when you were a guest— and the only man— in an apartment with three women who were virtual strangers.
But that voice didn’t belong to any of those women, the roommates of a dancer he’d met at a summer stock gig five years ago. Angie was the only person he more or less knew in Boston other than his ex. She and her friends had been incredibly kind to let him stay at their place, even though Angie wasn’t technically in Boston herself at the moment, since she was on the road with a national tour of Hairspray.
Maybe there was a fourth roommate, one he hadn’t encountered during his two weeks of couch-surfing? He rinsed as well as he could, dried off on the rather threadbare towel he’d picked up at the thrift store for a quarter, and squinted at himself in the chipped mirror. He needed to shave, but when the pounding started again, he figured that wasn’t an option at the moment.
He picked up his clean boxer briefs from the top of the toilet tank as the doorknob rattled, clicked, and the door was flung open.
“Jesus!” TD fumbled with the towel and held it in front of his groin, blinking blearily at the figure in the doorway. “I wasn’t in here…”
As his vision cleared, he realized the person glaring at him wasn’t any of Angie’s roommates, although he caught a glimpse of Nora’s chagrined face in the shadowy hallway over the woman’s shoulder.
“Five. Minutes.” The woman, whose mouth was pressed into a grim line, folded her arms over a chest that would make any Wagnerian soprano proud. “If you’re not gone, I’m calling the police.”
Nora made a face at TD. “Really, Mrs. Fry—”
Mrs. Fry drew herself up and glared at Nora. “This is a clear violation of your lease. I’d be within my rights to toss you out as well.”
“It’s fine.” TD didn’t want Angie’s friends to be punished on his account. He was the one who was stupid enough to believe his douchebag ex, Steven, when he’d promised TD a job and a place to live. Turns out Steven is really good at offering shit he never thinks he’ll have to deliver. “I’ll go.” Mrs. Fry didn’t move. “Although I’d like to get dressed first.”
She hmmmphed and marched off down the hall. Nora flipped off her retreating back and then leaned into the bathroom. “I’m sorry, TD. We didn’t tell her, I promise. Someone must have seen you come in.”
“No worries. I appreciate you three letting me crash here for as long as you did. I should have left last week.” Except, of course, that he didn’t have anywhere to go. That happened when you completely upended your life and moved all the way across the country for something as stupid as love.
Which, as it turned out, was another thing that Steven offered with no expectation he’d have to put his dick where his mouth was. So to speak.
Nora smiled weakly as she pulled the bathroom door closed. TD sighed and finished getting dressed. At least it wouldn’t take him long to pack. He hadn’t wanted to be a poor guest by scattering his shit around the not-very-spacious apartment, so everything was still in his single suitcase, tucked behind the couch that had been his bed since Steven had informed him stonily that it wasn’t a good time for TD to be in Boston at all, let alone in his townhome.
When he got to the tiny living room/ dining room/ kitchen, though, his suitcase wasn’t behind the couch. It was parked in front of Mrs. Fry. Apparently she was going to supervise his exit. Oh well. It wasn’t as though TD hadn’t endured worse humiliation in the last month.
He’d gotten off the plane at Logan Airport, expecting Steven to be waiting for him with a kiss and some afternoon so-glad-you’re-finally-here sex. Instead, he’d gotten a tight smile and a “Not here” when TD had tried for a hug.
TD could have forgiven that— not everyone was comfortable with PDAs, he got that, and he and Steven had conducted most of their relationship in texts, late night calls, and occasional video chats. But he would have appreciated being treated as more than an inconvenience. They’d been planning TD’s move from Portland to Boston for months.
Apparently Steven had never thought TD would go through with it. Probably because he never does what he says he’s gonna do, the asshole. Remind me again why I thought I was in love with him?
He eased his suitcase away from Mrs. Fry’s gravity well and tucked his shaving kit, T-shirt, and sleep pants inside. The damp towel— ugh. Putting that inside the case was nothing but an invitation to mildew stink. He shoved it into the outside pocket and hoped the stupid thing was waterproof.
With Mrs. Fry staring pointedly at her watch, he gave Nora a hug. “Thanks. I really appreciate your help.”
She squeezed him back. “And we appreciate you fixing the light switch and making dinner every night.” She pulled away. “You weren’t a burden, TD. We were glad to help.”
He kissed her cheek, earning another hmmmph from Mrs. Fry, and then pulled on his coat, shouldered his lumpy backpack, his cordless drill poking him in the spine. He dragged his suitcase with its wonky caster and his sorry-ass self down two flights of stairs and into the gloomy— and remarkably brisk— October morning.
Sighing, he zipped up his jacket, which was perfectly adequate for autumn in Portland, but left a little to be desired in New England. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket— thank goodness he’d already disconnected and stowed the charger before his shower— but before he could make a call, the door opened behind him and he glanced back to see Mrs. Fry glaring at him from the stoop.
Apparently he wasn’t welcome on her sidewalk either. He dragged the suitcase down the street toward the corner and speed-dialed the same number he’d been calling daily for the last two years.
“Hirschel and Park,” said an unfamiliar young-sounding female voice. “How may I direct your call?”
“Eun-Ji Park, please.”
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“TD Baylor.”
There was a pause as the obviously new receptionist checked the client list. TD waited. He knew this drill, since he’d been through it several times before. Hirschel and Park had a history of hiring extremely competent receptionists and promoting them into the paralegal training track.
“I don’t see that name on Ms. Park’s expected caller list.”
He sighed. “Last name’s Baylor. B-A-Y-L-O-R.”
“The only Baylor we have listed is a Taylor.”
TD grimaced. “That’s me.”
“You’re Taylor Baylor?” To give her credit, she didn’t snicker like almost anybody else who ever heard his name.
“Yes.” With a father who’d made a living writing advertising jingles and a mother who was sometimes referred to as the female Dr. Seuss, TD had had no chance when it came to names. “But I prefer TD.”
“Of course. One moment please.”
TD leaned against a lamppost, his suitcase sideways between his feet to keep it out of the way of pedestrians, all of whom, unlike TD, had somewhere to go.
“TD, good morning.” Miguel, TD’s lawyer’s assistant, always sounded as though he’d just consumed his third high-octane espresso, regardless of the time of day. “I’m sorry, but Eun-Ji’s in court. Can I give her a message?”
“I don’t suppose there’s any new development?” TD tried to keep the pathetic hope out of his tone, but doubted he was successful.
“Nothing yet.” Yep, Miguel sounded like he was informing a puppy that they were out of bacon. Forever. “I’m so sorry. I can have her call you—”
“No, that’s okay.” Eun-Ji hadn’t billed TD yet for any of her time during the fight over his mother’s estate. She’d always said they could settle up once probate cleared. He suspected she’d never imagined it would take more than two years— and counting— to resolve the convoluted mess with his mom’s agent. “I just wanted to check in.”
“I understand. We’ll call you as soon as we hear anything, I promise.”
“I know. Thanks, Miguel.” TD disconnected the call and turned off the phone to save the charge. “Now what?” he muttered to the alarm of two guys passing by with a baby in a jogging stroller.
One of them glared at him. “If you don’t keep—”
“Sorry!” TD held up his hands, palms out. “No judgment here. I’m gay myself. Just having a really, really bad day.” He forced a smile. “Cute kid. Congratulations.”
Immediately they both beamed. “Thank you,” the one who hadn’t glared said. “And if you’re having a bad day, can I recommend the caramel brûlée latte at Bean There, Donut That?” He pointed down the block. “It always cheers me up.”
“Thanks.” They both waved and jogged on, their baby cooing and waving her hands like a tiny orchestra conductor.
Because he didn’t want to appear as though he’d ignored their recommendation, TD trudged down the street toward the coffee shop. He’d passed it every day on the way to and from the Harvard Square subway station in his vain attempts to find work, but the prices had made him cut the place a wide berth. Once his mom’s estate cleared, he’d have money. A lot of it, actually, assuming her sleazebag agent— whom he’d mistakenly considered a benevolent, avuncular sort— hadn’t somehow embezzled it all. But after Steven’s epic fail on the job front, he was down to his last ten bucks and change.
“That’s what you get,” he muttered to himself as his suitcase chittered over the cracks in the sidewalk, “for leaving a perfectly good job— in your chosen profession, for fuck’s sake— for the promise of love.”
Well, he’d learned his lesson. Never again. Sex, yes. Companionship, maybe. But love? Nope.
Never again.
Lonnie Coleridge took a deep breath— something he could actually do now that he’d phased out of Limbo and into Purgatory’s more physical dimension— and faced the people perched nervously on the three shabby green room sofas. Most of those present were, like Lonnie, the more recent additions to the company, but several of the ancient Greek contingent were present too.
Man, I could really use a drink. But considering the vending machines against the wall in the barren kitchenette held nothing but Necco Wafers and store brand cola— warm decaf diet store brand cola— he may as well hope for a stairway to heaven.
He wiped his damp palms on the bell-bottomed jeans he’d worn since 1968 and attempted a reassuring smile. Judging by the way everyone’s tension level ratcheted up, he wasn’t particularly successful. “So. I suppose you’re all wondering—”
“Is it true, Lonnie?” Tovah, the petite seamstress squeezed between Wilson, a massive Black pit singer, and Kiku, the master electrician, leaned forward, her hands clasped as though she were praying for a miracle. “Everything’s gone? The sets? The lights? The…” She swallowed, tears glistening in her big brown eyes. “The costumes?”
“I’m afraid so.” Lonnie gave up on reassurance, because frankly, this was a disaster of… well… mythic proportions.
“But how?” Fred, the stocky set construction foreman, sounded bewildered, as well he might. The sets, costumes, even the lighting instruments were corporeal enough— barely— in Limbo for the company to prepare for each year’s production. But they couldn’t actually be destroyed in Limbo, any more than any of the souls consigned there could move on. “Everything was ready for the load-in. We triple-checked. Every blasted Doric column phased out of Limbo yesterday without a hitch.”
Kiku nodded. “Even the lights and the light board made the transition perfectly. At least…” She tugged at the chopstick that held her messy black bun in place. “It looked perfect from our side of the Veil.”
“The costumes, too. Racks and all.” Arachne— in her human form, thank goodness— anxiously fingered her spider-silk shawl. “We didn’t— Lonnie, I swear we didn’t do anything wrong,” she wailed.
Daphne glared at Lonnie as she patted Arachne’s shoulder. “We didn’t. The gods could have had absolutely no objections.”
“No objections,” Echo repeated, wrapping a comforting arm around Arachne’s back.
Lonnie held up his hands, palms out. “Nobody’s accusing you of error. You all did beautiful work, and we should have been ready for tech week starting tomorrow. Except…” Lonnie cleared his throat and glanced sidelong at the corner where a very sulky Hermes slumped against the wall, his normally golden skin slightly green except when it was bathed in red from the sporadic flicker of the soda machine. “It appears that the monthly Cards Against Humanity game between Hermes, Loki, Anansi, and Coyote got a little more… spirited than usual.” He tamped down an inappropriate laugh, because this really wasn’t funny. “There may have been copious amounts of nectar involved.”
“And peyote,” Hermes muttered. He massaged his temples. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any aspirin?”
Lonnie dismissed Hermes’s grumbles. He was one of the twelve ranking Olympians, for Pete’s sake. He ought to be capable of finding his own headache remedies. Although after the shambles he and his trickster god friends had made of the theater, Lonnie was ready to recommend the same ax that cured Zeus’s headache by way of Athena’s birth.
On the other hand, one Athena was more than enough, thank you very much.
Hermes belched and pushed away from the wall, towering over all the ex-humans. “I gotta pee.” He lifted into the air on his winged sandals and aimed himself toward the hallway, his flight path erratic at best.
The group was quiet until he vanished in a flutter of white linen, his exomie chiton short enough to flirt with his butt cheeks.
“Do you suppose the pantheon will be okay with, a, you know, minimalist production this year?” Tovah asked. “One without sets or costumes?”
“In the dark?” Kiku muttered.
“Are you kidding?” Daphne said in a revolted tone. She was still bitter about the fate that befell her while escaping Apollo’s unwanted advances. At least in Purgatory she was human and not a tree, although the skin on her arms sometimes had a distinctly bark-like cast. “Since when do the Olympians make do with anything less than wretched excess?”
“Wretched excess,” Echo parroted. Then again, she couldn’t do much else.
“But if we can’t mount the show with the production values they expect, will we all… you know…” Kiku made a sound like a fizzling outlet.
Lonnie wanted to deny it, if only to calm everyone down. However, she’d voiced their mutual fear. They— the souls consigned to Limbo because they weren’t either bad enough to damn or good enough to ascend— had one chance each year to earn redemption. That chance depended on producing a musical extravaganza that pleased the Olympians and their guests from other pantheons.
One night, one performance, and one of them would be awarded sufficient grace to… move on. Whatever that meant.
That tiny ray of hope— that this year, they’d be the one to be singled out and earn their final reward— was what kept them all tied to this half-life. Occasionally— okay, often— Lonnie wondered if it wouldn’t be better to relinquish all hope and simply… dissipate into oblivion.
He could never decide. But then, his inability to commit to any particular course of action was what landed him in Limbo in the first place. It wasn’t enough, he’d been told the first year he’d awakened here at the Playhouse, to simply not be bad. You had to consciously be good. To the Judgment Committee, indecision was no better than moral ambiguity, and subject to the same punishment.
He met Kiku’s worried gaze. “Hermes has promised to intercede with the pantheon and find a solution for us.”
“I’d pay money to see that,” Fred muttered.
“Do you really think that will work?” Daphne demanded. “Half of us are here because of the Olympians’ excessive self-absorption, lack of self-restraint, and entitlement.”
“And entitlement,” Echo muttered.
Tovah bit her lip. “Daphne has a point. Hermes will have to confess he was the one who caused the problem in the first place, and the pantheon is never particularly good at accepting responsibility for their actions.”
Lonnie forced himself to smile, even though he had doubts of his own. “He promised he would.”
“Yeah,” Wilson rumbled, his rich bass voice filling the room. “But he’s made a career out of thievery and trickery.”
“That’s so,” Lonnie acknowledged, “but he’s never denied culpability. His escapades are sort of a badge of honor for him, the more outrageous the better.”
“Honor among gods,” Arachne grumbled. “Kind of an oxymoron, isn’t it?”
“Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides”— he shrugged—“ it’s not as though we’ve got another option.”
They all nodded glumly.
“It’s all set.” Hermes caromed off the doorjamb. He would have plowed headfirst onto the center sofa if Wilson hadn’t leaped up, caught him, and set him firmly on the worn tiles. “You’re approved for a technician.”
Kiku frowned. “A single technician? We’ve got to rebuild the set and all the costumes, not to mention hang all the lights, since the instruments were destroyed too.”
Hermes didn’t respond, suddenly much more interested in leaning against Wilson’s broad chest than paying attention to the rest of them. Lonnie sighed. He’d need to have another chat with the god about consent, something that was apparently very difficult for the entire pantheon to comprehend.
“Kiku has a point,” he said. “Through no fault of our own, it’s very likely this show won’t be mounted with the extravagance the Olympians have come to expect. The blame will accrue to us, even though we’re the victims too.” No surprise there— victim-blaming was another of the pantheon’s greatest hits. “Couldn’t you request at least three carpenters, an electrician, and six costumers?”
Hermes snorted. “Not likely. One new technician. However…” He stretched the word out, his onyx eyes glinting red when the soda machine lights flashed on again. “They agreed that you could pull in some ringers. Clotho, Lachesis, and”— he mimed scissors with one hand—“ Atropos are on deck for costumes.”
Lonnie’s smile turned to a grimace. The Fates. Wonderful. Just what they needed to set them all at ease.
“Prometheus is handling the lighting design.” Hermes scratched the back of his neck. “You’ll have to work around his schedule, though. The daily…” He pointed at his abdomen. “You know.” All of them, Greek and non-Greek, winced. “They’ve also agreed to push back the performance by a week.”
“A week.” Lonnie kept his temper in check, because losing it with the gods hadn’t worked out well for so many of them. “That set took us all year to build.”
“Yes, but you were in Limbo then. Now that you’re here, in this dimension”— he nudged Wilson’s ribs with his elbow—“ it’ll be a lot easier to hold those hammers, am I right?” He grinned at them.
Nobody grinned back.
Lonnie sighed. “Where are we getting this alleged technician?” Horror pooled in his belly, his eyes popping wide. “You’re not going to kill somebody, are you? Just so we can rebuild the set?”
“Keep your shirt on, Lonnie.” He winked at Wilson. “You can take yours off any time, big guy.”
“Hermes.” Lonnie loaded his tone with warning. Wilson just rolled his eyes.
“Okay, okay,” Hermes huffed. “It’s all copacetic, I promise. I already posted the job description.”
Lonnie shared a mystified glance with Tovah and Wilson. “Posted the job description? Where? Some cosmic call board?”
“Something like that.” He winked at Wilson again and lifted into the air. “Don’t worry. It’s all taken care of.” He zigged and zagged through the air, stopping at the green room door to gaze back at Wilson, hold his hand up with fingers spread between his lips and ear, and mouth call me. Then he blinked out.
Lonnie winced. “Sorry about that, Wilson. I’ll talk to him again.”
Wilson shrugged. “Nah. It’s okay. He’s never gone further than this really awkward flirting. And he only does it when other people are around. No inappropriate god privileges invoked.”
“Must be the first time ever,” Tovah groused. “I’m still not sure I trust him.”
“He’s their messenger, and if nothing else, he takes pride in his work. I’m sure he did what he said.” Lonnie considered the smirk on Hermes’s face as he’d disappeared. Yes, the god would do what he said, but Lonnie wasn’t convinced there wouldn’t be some kind of catch. There usually was with Olympians.
They all began to file out of the green room. “Do you suppose we’ll get to interview the candidates?” Fred asked. “I mean, if they’re not gonna kill anybody, they’ll have to recruit someone who’s already dead, right? Hey!” He brightened. “Maybe we could get Leonardo DaVinci. He was brilliant.”
Lonnie waggled one hand. “I kinda doubt it. He was more of a designer than a builder, and if he’s already moved on, why would he commit to two weeks in Purgatory?”
Arachne’s eyes rounded. “Maybe he ended up in a worse place. Or with a worse fate. You know. Like Ixion on that fire wheel. Or Sisyphus with that stupid boulder. Or, you know, turned into a blasted spider.”
“I suppose it’s possible. But we really need somebody who’s a practical problem solver rather than a conceptual one.”
And probably somebody who didn’t have much to lose. Because you’d have to be damn desperate to agree to mount a show in Purgatory.
