the subtle art, a pygmalion & galatea mythfic

[zombres]

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is another in my series of "mythfics", to borrow the term from my darling etzyofi. In order to fully appreciate these, be sure to look at the casting picspams.)

CAST:



the subtle art (part one), a pygmalion/galatea, multi-character mythfic, pg-13
the designer and his muse -- children of olympus in a very different way. but what could someone, someone with dark intentions, want with them?
A simple confession and she felt weak and heartsick in its wake. Everything about this was wrong. How could she know up from down without her North Star? He was more than a husband, or a lover-she felt unreal without him, a face and figure without life or purpose. Only when he smiled at her, said her name, did she feel the turning of the world. She took her strength from him-without him, she was uprooted and tetherless. (6,006 words)




He sat on the immovable throne carved from stardust, colder than the vastness of space, a deeper shade than the densest black hole, and stared down at the world of men. Men, and now beings beyond them. He understood the Pact, as he understood everything, but it was far removed from him. As everything was.

Zeus was king. This was now undisputed. And while Chronos would bow his head to him, they all knew the truth. That he was ungovernable. That he stood as he always had-apart.

It would have been impossible for him to accept the Pact. If he had, time very well could have stopped. There was no room in his head for mortality and the flittering thoughts of humans. It was already full of stars and the steady, inexorable tick of the universe.

So he sat. And he watched.

But sometimes even the sentinel can miss something.

Or someone.

She ran.

She didn’t know what she was running toward, only that it had to be better than where she had come. Her bare feet slapped painfully against the hard concrete, and the sudden lights blinded her as she emerged from the darkness. But she pushed on, ignoring the pain, fueled by fear and the sheer need to move.

There was a sudden shriek, the harsh squeal of tires and engine gears, and she fell back as the car shuddered to a stop. Her cheek was against the road and all she could see was the vibrating undercarriage of the sports car.

“Seven hells!” The driver was leaping out of the car. She saw red tennis shoes, a pair of ripped jeans, but she couldn’t find the strength to lift her head further to see his face. “Are you alright? Tartarus!”

He knelt beside her and reached out to brush the dark tangled hair from her face. She made out pale eyes, golden hair, but then he blurred-the world tilted-everything went dark.

Apollo stared down at the woman, gaping as familiarity asserted itself. Beneath the dirt and blood and bruises was a face he thought he recognized. He looked up and down the empty street, baffled.

Dionysius was emerging from the wine cellar, a pair of chilled bottles tucked under his arms, when Apollo burst through the front doors. There was a woman in his arms, which wasn’t surprising. The blood, though-that was.

“D, get Morpheus,” Apollo said quickly. “And Aphrodite, too.”

He didn’t hesitate to argue with that tone of voice. He was in no mood to get scorched, for one. And for the other, the poor woman obviously needed a doctor.

Apollo set her down as carefully as he could on the long leather couch against the wall. He had been almost positive that he hadn’t hit her-she had fallen from shock more than anything else. But something had happened to her before she darted into the street in front of him. Her wrists were rubbed raw, as if she’d been… Shackled. He had seen marks like those before. The dress she wore was in tatters. There was barely enough material left for modesty’s sake, but what was left was silk. It had been a designer dress once, if he was any judge.

The elevator dinged loudly and Morpheus strode out purposefully in a tightly cinched robe, his old black bag in hand. Apollo stood quickly, stepping aside as the older god knelt in his place and took one limp hand in his.

“Details,” he demanded brusquely.

“She ran out in front of me, barely a block over. Nearly hit her-thank Elysian I was in the Porsche instead of the Ferrari, or I wouldn’t have stopped in time.”

“You’re saying you didn’t hit her?”

“No.”

Morpheus stiffened visibly, and Apollo knew he’d noticed the telltale signs. “Get to the kitchen. Bring me hot water.”

Apollo had just set the pot down beside Morpheus’ bag when the elevator opened again. Aphrodite stepped out, her satin and lace robe trailing behind her. Even this late at night, half-awake, she was polished porcelain. Poseidon followed a foot behind her, wearing simple sweatpants and a t-shirt. And finally came Dionysius, his bottles left behind in the elevator along with his wrinkled suit jacket.

“What’s going on?” Aphrodite asked, her voice only slightly imperious. She took in the tableau before her. “I can see why you sent for Morpheus, but why me?”

“Because I think she’ll need a friendly face when she wakes up,” Apollo explained. “Don’t you recognize her?”

Aphrodite stepped closer and leaned over Morpheus’ shoulder as he brushed back the long hair to dab a wet washcloth over the woman’s forehead. Her gasp was audible.

“Galatea?”

The eyelids fluttered slightly. She turned her face towards the voice with a soft sound.

“Poseidon, please get my phone,” Aphrodite said, reaching forward to take the woman’s hand in hers. “What happened to her, Apollo?”

“She ran in front of my car. Like she was being chased by the hounds of hell. Beyond that-your guess is as good as mine.”

“These are from manacles,” Aphrodite said. There was a dangerous edge to her voice.

“I think it’s safe to assume that she was being held somewhere against her will,” Morpheus said in an undertone. “These bruises on her arms-they were made by fingers. And these,” he gestured to a series of small red dots along the inside of her arm. “Seem to be puncture wounds. I’ll have to run tests to be sure, but I’d guess she’s been drugged. And heavily.”

Aphrodite hissed with anger, a furious swan. “Whoever did this will pay. And the price will be what they can bear to part with the least.”

Dionysius stood several feet away, arms crossed and a hand at his mouth. He tapped his top lip thoughtfully, brow creased.

“No broken bones though, that I can make out,” Morpheus continued with his diagnosis. “Assorted scrapes, cuts, and some bad abrasions on her feet. She was barefoot when you found her?”

“She is as she was,” Apollo confirmed readily. “No shoes, no jewelry, no phone, no purse.”

Poseidon jogged around the corner, somewhat breathless from running down the stairs. “Here, baby,” he said, holding out Aphrodite’s phone.

She pulled up the number she wanted with two flicks of her finger. But when the call rang through, it clicked onto an automatic message. “I am sorry, but the voicemail you are trying to reach is full. Please try again later.”

When she shut the phone and looked up, the worry in her eyes was unmistakable.

“No luck reaching Pygmalion?” Dionysius said around his fingers.

“His voicemail is full.”

“And when has Pygmalion ever left his voicemail on long enough for it to fill?” Dionysius added. “I have a seriously bad feeling about this. Aphrodite, I know you’ve been busy with your own business lately, but… When was the last time you saw him? Or her?” He gestured at the unconscious woman.

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “Several months at least. The last time I saw them… Was probably last Fashion Week.”

“The only reason I know this is because Ariadne’s got an interest in fashion-but Pyg closed his shop seven months ago. No excuse given. Just shut the doors and walked away from the business. Ari was upset because she had wanted to have him design her wedding dress. I just assumed the old man had gotten tired of the industry. This certainly puts a new light on that, though.”

“Do you think he’s being held somewhere, too?” Poseidon asked.

“Have you ever known Pygmalion to leave Galatea’s side? She’s his muse. His reason for living.”

“I think she’s coming around,” Morpheus warned.

She tossed and turned, like a sleeper caught in a nightmare, before lunging forward with an inarticulate cry, tearing her hand from Aphrodite’s grasp.

“It’s alright, Galatea,” the goddess said soothingly. “You’re safe, at the Lito.”

“Lito?” She stared at them, eyes darting from one face to the next, while confusion and fear warred for control of her expression. “I don’t-how did I get here?”

“I drove you,” Apollo said, attempting a reassuring smile. “You ran out in front of me, remember? Nearly hit you.”

“What’s happened to you?” Aphrodite asked gently. “Where’s Pygmalion?”

“Pyg- I… I don’t know. I don’t know.” She clutched at her head with shaking, bloodied hands. “What is this place? Who are you people?”

Morpheus immediately offered her his hand politely. “My name is Morpheus. I’m a doctor. This is my… sister, Aphrodite. That young man who gave you a lift, he’s Apollo, my nephew. That’s Aphrodite’s boyfriend, Poseidon. And that man in the suit over there is Dionysius. This place is called the Lito-we live here. We’re a rather large family.”

She hesitantly took his hand and shook it. “…You’re a doctor?”

“Yes. I’d like to help you, if you’d let me. Can you tell me what happened? Anything you remember. Anything at all.”

“I… I remember a dark room. There were no windows. Just a door. They kept it locked. I remember… Chains. And ropes. I was always tired, but it felt like I never slept.”

“You mentioned a they-can you describe them?”

“A woman. I remember her. Long, dark hair. Red lips. She laughed all the time. There was a man, too, but I never really saw him. Just an outline in the doorway. Tall. Big shoulders. He never spoke to me.”

“And your name?” Morpheus prompted gently. “What’s your name?”

“…I don’t know. I can’t remember. Oh, gods! Why can’t I remember my own name?” The last came out in a half-shriek, and her face twisted with desperate fear. Morpheus grabbed at her fisted hands as she raised them to punch, to lash out, and she began to kick and thrash as she screamed.

“Poseidon, the sedative in my bag,” Morpheus ordered firmly, grimly holding on as the woman twisted in his grasp.

By the time the drug had kicked in and her screams had faded, half the family had come downstairs to investigate. Persephone hurried forward in only her pink nightgown and slippers, brow pinched with concern, closely followed by Psyche.

“I hate to give her another dose before a blood test, but I was afraid she’d do a damage to herself,” Morpheus said heavily, straightening and brushing a hand through his damp hair. “The number of injection sites I see on her arms alone, I’d guess whoever was keeping her had her drugged almost constantly.”

“Would that account for the memory loss?” Aphrodite asked.

“It could. Until the drugs are entirely flushed from her system, she could have a hard time recalling anything. And given the stress and trauma she’s gone through… She may have built up emotional blocks to protect herself.”

“So what’s the next move?” Poseidon asked no one in particular. “Should we start looking for Pygmalion?”

“Our first duty is to her,” Apollo said firmly, surprising his uncle. “We make sure she heals, and we track down the bastards that did this to her.”

“I agree,” Aphrodite said. She sat down on the edge of the couch, her face softening with an almost maternal love. “I helped give her life. She’s a child of Olympus, in a way. We protect our own. Let’s take her upstairs to a proper bed. Psyche, could you stay with her, and Morpheus?”

“Of course,” Psyche replied softly, privately wondering if Aphrodite had ever looked so sweetly at her own son.

“What’s going on?” Ariadne whispered in Dionysius’ ear. He slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her temple.

“In a moment,” was all he would say.

“I’ll make some scones,” Persephone said with a desperate edge of cheer. “If I remember right, she likes cinnamon scones with her tea. Cinnamon scones and ginger tea. That’ll perk her up.”

Morpheus moved to lift her, only to find Apollo’s hand on his arm.

“I brought her this far,” the younger god said. “Your apartment?”

“That would be best.”

“I’m guessing you’ll be asking me for help next,” Hermes said to Aphrodite.

“Why would you assume that?”

“Because I’m the most disreputable bastard in the family. I’ve got connections the rest of you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. My ear to the criminal underbelly. That sort of thing.”

Aphrodite would never quite get over her distaste for the cocky Hermes, but it was a sign of how dire the situation was that she managed a smile. “If you’re offering your services-”

“I’ve got nothin’ better to do,” Hermes said with a casual shrug. “And it’s not like I’ve got anything against ol’ Pyggy and his missus. I’ll see what I can scrounge up.” And he made his way over to the coat closet, pulled out a red leather jacket, and stepped promptly out onto the empty late night streets.

“Aphrodite.”

She turned to Zeus, her chin tilted with an air of defiance. “Yes?”

“I can see that you’re handling things well,” the King said. “I have faith that you’ll supervise the proceedings in a manner befitting us.”

“Yes, Zeus. I won’t bend the Pact. Not even a little. Unlike others,” she added pointedly, directed at no one.

He tied off the last stitch with a hasty knot before biting off the tan thread. There were bruised hollows beneath his eyes-he had the look of a boxer after a bad bout. When he straightened from his hunched crouch, his back popped loudly in four places.

“Masterful work, as always,” she said, flashing him a pleased smile that would never reach her eyes. “It’s a never-ending wonder, how a man your size, with hands that big,” and she paused to admire the hands in question. “Could do such delicate, fine stitching. I can hardly see the seam in this light.”

“How many more?” he asked wearily, in a voice like the roll of thunder. He had faded greatly in the past months. Had seemed to shrink visibly. She was truly sorry for that, if nothing else.

“Oh, a few,” she said carelessly, circling the figure on the stand with an appraising look. “So lifelike already. I clearly choose the right man for the job.”

“…Can I at least see her? Just for a moment?”

“All in good time, my dear. She’s not exactly fit for company right n-”

He lurched from the stool and had his massive hands around her throat before she could step back. In a rush of movement he had her pinned against the wall, forced up onto her tiptoes by his grip.

“What’ve you done to her?” he demanded, fury burning in his dark eyes. The stool rolled loudly across the floor behind them. “If you’ve harmed her in any way, I’ll rip you apart myself.”

She smiled, the lazy smile of a cat with a mouse. And then her hands reached up to his wrists, and she squeezed.

He released her immediately, unable to do anything else, as all feeling disappeared.

“Don’t forget who I am, sweetie,” she said gently, stepping calmly away as he clutched his hands to his chest. “You may be a very strong man. But you’re just a man, after all. And don’t worry-you’ll be fine in a few minutes. I couldn’t really ruin those lovely hands of yours; not when I still need them.”

She moved back to the nearly finished figure and pulled something from a pocket. It was a tiny glass phial, and it glowed like liquid starlight. There was an unfinished seam across the chest; she slipped the phial into it with a laugh.

“Be a good boy now, Pygmalion, and when you can feel your fingers again-finish this.”

“You know who he is-at least to the rest of the world. A designer.”

“An artist,” Ariadne corrected him.

“Yes, well, he’s always been good with his hands. He’s had to change like the rest of us, to keep up with the trends.”

“Are you going to tell me Pygmalion’s another god? A distant cousin of yours?”

“Oh no,” Dionysius said quickly. “He’s a man, alright. He’s just… not exactly mortal anymore. That was Aphrodite’s doing. She thought an artist like that shouldn’t have to die after fifty or sixty years. Her reasoning was that the world needed someone like him. And when he made Galatea-”

“Explain that, please.”

“Back in the day-the old days, if you’re following-Pygmalion was a sculptor. He could carve a statue that practically breathed. Stuff that put Michelangelo to shame; well, he was a talented guy, and Pygmalion did his best to teach him his secrets, but-”

“Tangent, Steve.”

“Sorry. Right. So he was a sculptor. He made statues for our temples, and they were so perfect that Aphrodite took a liking to him. Said he was the only one who ever got her nose right. And then one day, he carved a statue out of marble that was so beautiful… He fell in love with it.”

“I know artists can be narcissistic-”

“Oh, you don’t understand. This wasn’t a simple case of a guy loving his own work. Aphrodite gave him a vision of his perfect woman in a dream, and he set out to recreate it in dusky marble. And he succeeded, above and beyond what she had expected. And when he finished, and looked at the statue, he fell in love. Because there she was, the woman he’d dreamed about, and she was everything he could have wanted-the only thing was that she wasn’t, technically, alive.”

Dionysius paused to rub a hand across his face with a sheepish smile. “Slim, my family is a cuckoo bunch. You know this. We’ve seduced people as cows, and swans, and flowers. We’ve turned people into trees and birds. We’re bizarre and sort of fucked-up. And when Aphrodite realized that she’d essentially made this guy fall in love with a slab of stone, she decided to be nice for a change-and she turned the statue into a real, breathing woman.”

“That’s… Sort of romantic of her?”

“Hermes and I had a bet going that Eros had a hand in it-that he’d shot an arrow at his mother’s favorite artist in an attempt to prove that she actually had a heart. Anyway, to repay Pygmalion for all of his work and talent, Aphrodite gave him and Galatea a form of the Ambrosia. Not strong enough to turn them into full gods like us, but just enough to give them immortality. And so they’ve been a strange part of the family ever since.”

“But no one noticed when they disappeared?” Ariadne asked shrewdly. “He closed his shop ages ago.”

“Sugar, there’s enough drama around here to keep us occupied for years. It’s hard to keep track of everyone at the best of times.” He got up from the couch and shuffled into the kitchen for a glass of water, yanking off his tie as he went.

“And they still love each other, just as much as they did back then?”

“What’s that?” He peered at her around the open fridge door, eyes narrowed blearily.

“Pygmalion and Galatea.”

“Yeah, as far as I can tell. They hardly leave each other’s side.”

“He must be in pain. Wherever he is,” Ariadne said quietly, tucking her legs beneath her and pulling at a loose thread in the sleeve of her robe. “He can’t know where she is-that she’s safe now. I hope he doesn’t know she’s been so mistreated-I hope he’s not still in a similar situation.”

Dionysius closed the fridge and came back to the couch, sinking down beside her before pulling her into his lap. “I love you, Slim,” he said softly, lifting her hand to his lips. “We’ll make this right. The family will. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

She was at the bottom of a well, looking up at a tiny speck of light. And the water was cold, was drawing her down. Her arms were as heavy as lead weights. She was sinking, falling, drowning…

And then there was a jolt, as if lightning, and she felt a hand close around hers.

Her eyes opened with a gasp. There was light all around her, the warm yellow light of a new morning. There was a plaster ceiling above her, soft linen sheets around her. She was in a bed, a real bed, and there was someone sitting in the chair beside her holding her hand.

She stared at the woman, who was nothing like the other. This woman was all honey hues where the other was icy night-her dark blonde hair fell over her shoulders in gentle waves, and her amber eyes seemed to almost glow in the sunlight. Something tugged at the corners, a sense that she knew this woman.

“My name is Psyche,” she said, as if anticipating the question. “Yours is Galatea.”

And yes, that was right. She remembered that. And this place was called the Lito. The people who lived here were more than just celebrities-they were gods. She existed because of them. She had-

“Pygmalion,” she demanded, struggling to sit up. “Where is he?”

Psyche paused. “…We don’t know.”

A simple confession and she felt weak and heartsick in its wake. Everything about this was wrong. How could she know up from down without her North Star? He was more than a husband, or a lover-she felt unreal without him, a face and figure without life or purpose. Only when he smiled at her, said her name, did she feel the turning of the world. She took her strength from him-without him, she was uprooted and tetherless.

The next words out of Psyche’s mouth upset her even further: “You’ve been here for two days and nights. Asleep, for most of it. It took a while for the drugs to work their way out of your system.”

“We need to look for him,” Galatea said in a rush, pulling at the bedsheets.

“We are,” Psyche assured, stopping her with a gentle hand. “And you can help by telling me everything you remember. Any detail, no matter how insignificant, could be useful.”

“I… I’m all mixed up,” she said, rubbing her temples. “I don’t even know how long it’s been since… Since they took me. I lost all sense of time in that room. It feels like years.”

“The shop’s been closed for seven months.”

A wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. She balled the sheets in her fists. “I can remember the day they took me. I was walking back from the open market with groceries. My hands were full of bags. I heard a car screech, and then there were hands on my arms, one across my mouth with a foul-smelling rag. I remember dropping the bags. Oranges rolling into the gutter. Tomatoes smashing against the sidewalk. And then I was in the car. It smelled new. The men who grabbed me reeked of cologne-cheap stuff that made my eyes water. And whatever was on the rag, it made me sleepy and confused.”

Psyche poured her a glass of water, nodding with sympathetic eyes. “Go on.”

“Then I was in the room. There was a mattress on the floor. A chair. Chains in the wall. Sometimes they’d lock me in them. Sometimes there would be rope. There were two men-one was named Mike, I remember that. He was a tough, a thug for hire. Snake tattoos on his arms, whiskey on his breath. He was the one who would bring me food, chain me up. The other… I never saw his face. He always stood in the doorway, and the light behind him would blind me. I don’t think I ever heard him speak.”

“You mentioned a woman the first night. Can you describe her?”

“Long black hair. Fine cheekbones. Pale blue eyes. Full-figured. She had a harsh voice. A harsher laugh. She’d laugh all the time, staring down at me. She wore stiletto boots and leather jackets. She reeked of sex. I never heard a name.”

Psyche’s lips had tightened into a narrow line of anger. Galatea noticed.

“Do you know her?” she demanded. “You do-I can see it on your face.”

“I have my suspicions,” Psyche said, and there was white hot anger in her voice. “Do you know what she wanted? Why she had kidnapped you?”

“Because of Pygmalion,” she said, and it was hard to speak around the lump of pain in her chest. “She was using me to get to him, to make him do something for her. Sometimes she would call him, have me speak to him over the phone-but only a line or two, just enough for him to know I was still alive, just enough to torture me. And she enjoyed torturing me.” She rubbed at her arms, tears hot in her dark eyes. “If I shouted, she’d have me beaten. She whipped me once, until my back bled. Threatened to take an eye if I ever tried to escape-she laughed when she said that, and added that no one would want a one-eyed model.”

She was shivering from the recollections, and Psyche sat on the edge of the bed to put an arm around her shoulders and hug her tightly, hand rubbing gently as she made soothing noises.

“When we find her-and we will find her-Aphrodite will see to it that she gets everything back tenfold,” Psyche promised.

She didn’t tell her that she had known all this already, that she had seen everything in her dreams like a blurred movie on a shaking screen. Morpheus had opened the way for her that first night while she slept. It was the only way to properly assess the damage. Trauma like that, over such a long period, could leave devastating emotional scars. Psyche had done what she could with her hobbled abilities, smoothing away the sharpest edges and sewing up the ragged tears, all while gathering the evidence she needed from the memories colored with panic and fear.

It was something she hadn’t done since the War. It was something she had hoped to never do again. Part of her would always feel like a thief or intruder, creeping into someone’s mind uninvited. But she also knew it was the best option-time was surely of the essence now, if they were to catch the culprits and find Pygmalion before they did something drastic in the wake of Galatea’s escape.

And the fact that Galatea had spoken so openly about the experiences was a heartening sign. It showed that Psyche’s work had taken, and that she was beginning to already heal. Putting the memories and emotions into words was important, and Psyche had hoped that the outpour would benefit her further.

Galatea hugged her gratefully, comforted by the physical contact. It felt like a lifetime since she had been held with such warmth and kindness. And she had always loved Psyche, with her radiance and smiles and quick mind. She would always care for Aphrodite as a daughter would a mother, but there would always be awe and humility mixed up with the love. She owed her very existence to her, after all, and had been blessed with a good man for a husband.

But Psyche, and Persephone, and Hestia-she felt a sister’s love for them, far more passionate and intimate. They were the goddesses she had a true bond with: Psyche because they had both become immortal through the love of a gifted man, Persephone for her sweetness and unfailing joy, and Hestia for her quiet responsibility and dutiful care. They had each taught her the most important lessons about being a woman. They had made her who she was just as surely as Pygmalion or Aphrodite.

“Persephone’s been on a mad baking spree,” Psyche said, as if reading her thoughts-which could be entirely possible. “She wanted to be sure there were fresh scones for you when you woke up. I think she’s used up every bit of flour in the building.”

Galatea smiled wanly. “I’d like to see her. Is there something I can wear?”

“Absolutely.”

It took several minutes for Psyche to help her get dressed in simple jeans and a loose blouse. Her bruises had all stiffened while she slept, and her inner arms were still angry and inflamed from the dozens of puncture wounds. Galatea did her best to ignore the telltale marks, looking down or up at the ceiling.

“And Gala,” Psyche said softly as they made their way to the door. “I’m so sorry. For our ignorance. We should have noticed. Should have come looking.”

“I’ve never thought you obligated to us,” she replied calmly. “We never expected more from you than what you had already given. If anything, we still owe you a debt.”

“Don’t ever speak of debts,” Psyche said. “Life and love should not be marked down in the tax column. Ever.”

Chronos stirred on his throne. There was a bitter tang to the-for lack of a better word-air around him. Fear and anger, alternately cloying and sharp. Something was happening at the Lito, something that charged the others’ emotions like a huge battery. There was spill off, leaking back into this timeless void. The Pact was at work, siphoning away energy lest it build up into an uncontainable force. He trapped it, as he always did, in an immense hourglass of his design and Hephaestus’ make-it would not do to let such power drift unfettered through the universe. Not even he could fully chart the effect it would have on stars and planets ten million lifetimes away.

And then with a movement that suggested the passage of eons, he turned his gaze and sharpened his focus.

He had dreamt of her last night.

It had been the first time he’d dreamed since coming to this place. She had been in a field of red and white flowers, wearing the gold robes he had draped her with when she was little more than an exquisite statue. Her raven hair was loose and wild in the wind, her eyes sparkled with laughter. She was calling his name, and the sun turned her skin into a burnished copper.

The colors, her smile, the glimpse of her free-he was breathless when he woke, and his heart felt lighter than it had in months. He considered it a good omen, and wondered about Morpheus. Had the Olympians finally realized what had happened?

When the door was unlocked an hour later and she beckoned him sharply, his heart rose further. She was furious in a way he had never seen before. There could be only one explanation: her plans were no longer running as smoothly as before.

“You’ll finish another by tonight,” she hissed. “Or there will be blood.”

For the first time, her threat ran hollow in his ears.

“Wherever he is, someone powerful is hiding him,” Morpheus told the Council. It had been hastily gathered in Hades and Persephone’s apartment, but that hadn’t stopped the Goddess of Spring from baking fresh muffins. She filled another basket while looking intently at the somber god-one slipped from her fingers and bounced across the table leaving a trail of crumbs.

Zeus caught it before it rolled over the edge. “There was no sense of place, you mean.”

“Yes. I found his sleeping mind easily enough-I would have been shocked if they managed to keep me from my rightful domain. But there was no location I could lock onto. He obviously had no idea where he was, I could see that clearly in his thoughts. All I succeeded in was delivering a comforting dream to suggest that Galatea was safe again.”

“Which is admirable work in itself,” Hera said firmly. “Thank you, Morpheus.”

“Why him?” Apollo wondered. “Pygmalion may be immortal, but he’s not a god. He has no power of his own. And the man works in fashion now-what would someone want with a designer?”

“He is impossibly talented,” Psyche said. “When he carved Galatea, even I was shocked by how lifelike she was. You half-expected her to blink.”

“Then perhaps they wanted him to make another such figure,” Hephaestus suggested.

“But what good would that do them?” said Aphrodite. “Galatea was a marvelous piece of art, to be sure, but it took my divine touch to bring her to life. What would anyone do with a brilliant statue-or even two or three?”

“Could she-” Psyche began.

“Absolutely not,” Artemis cut in, seeing the direction she was taking. “She signed the Pact, the same as us. We would have already known if she’d broken it.”

“We all know who you’re alluding to,” Dionysius said pointedly, adding a dollop of brandy to the tea Persephone had handed him. “Can we just say her name already?”

“Names still have power,” Hades replied. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “And if she’s found enough of it to hide Pygmalion from us, to find a way around the Pact-it would be better not to.”

“Okay, then I say we just call her the Bitch,” Dionysius said blithely. “And it seems the Bitch is back, which I know I’m not too happy about. She’s such a killjoy. And the rivers of blood are nearly fucking impossible to get out of the upholstery.”

“She follows her nature,” Artemis said. “Not that that excuses her.”

“I heard she opened a brothel-” Apollo said.

“House of ill-repute,” Poseidon corrected.

“Actually, it’s a dominatrix dungeon,” Circe said. The others turned to look at her. She was sitting alone at the island, perched on a tall stool with her feet tucked behind a rung. She had been rummaging in the giant porcelain fruit bowl, and now pulled out a blood-red cherry. “Very high-end clientele. Extremely pricey.”

“And, for pure curiosity’s sake, how do you know all this?” Dionysius asked with a supremely innocent expression.

“Because the ‘Bitch’ as you call her offered me a job a while back,” Circe said smoothly.

“That’s sorta odd-”

“Ah, I get it,” Apollo said. “You hate men-what could be a better job for you than to be paid for beating them?”

“The crux of the matter is that they would be enjoying the pain. Which is essentially the last thing I want.”

“Did you part on good terms?” Psyche asked thoughtfully, the bridge of her nose wrinkling as it always did when she was weighing ideas.

“There was no clawing at eyes or pulling of hair,” Circe said sardonically. “Let me anticipate your suggestion: this is where I come in as a spy, right?” She let her eyes roam across the room, until everyone gathered had been pinned by her stare. “That is the reason why you asked me to come home and play at happy family with you, right? It’s not as if any of you-barring Artemis-were dying to see me again.”

She pulled the cherry stem from her mouth, tightly knotted, and flicked it at Apollo.

“And as Mother’s not here to be scandalized, I volunteer to play dominatrix. I’m hardly doing anything more exciting right now.”

He felt it, like a wire vibrating at high tension. There was a discordant note amidst the symphony of the cosmos. His gaze turned from the planet beneath him to the row of hourglasses behind his throne.

One was shaking visibly, the light within dimming and brightening, flashing like a warning signal in the void.

The Olympians were immortal, created of divine matter. And while the Pact may have diminished their powers and given them the emotions and senses of mortal-kind, they were still timeless creatures that would outlast the universe.

But if this foreboding proved true-

Someone had found a way to kill a god.