Rise of the Blood

Chapter One

"Sometimes you’re the bug and sometimes you’re that sticky tape they get all stuck on.

I’m pretty sure that’s worse."

—Pappous, the strongman with the weak heart

Diminutive. Diminutive? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m five seven, for gods’ sake ."

I was staring down at a national tabloid newspaper that Jesus (pronounced Hey-Zeus)—part-time office assistant when no auditions demanded his attention and full-time diva—had just thrown onto my desk. My very own face stared back at me. Or, more accurately, gazed across a dinner table at Hollywood hottie Apollo Demas. The photographer had used some kind of filter or something to make the whole thing appear dreamy. A filter or magic, because I knew exactly where and when the pic must have been taken, and I’d been mad as hell at the time.

Really? Jesus asked wryly. "That’s your take away from this?"

"My take away is that if the rumors about me and Apollo won’t die, someone has to. I’m perfectly willing for it to be him."

Jesus looked at me in horror. He lived in hope that he could match-make the two of us and that, in gratitude, Apollo would launch his acting career … at which point he’d bid me a sayonara, sister and leave me entirely without office support. It was a terrifying thought, considering he was the only one who understood his filing system.

You think this was his doing? he asked.

I took a huge swig of the coffee from the to-go cup sitting on my desk to give myself time to think. The coffee was a lot more palatable than the headline, even with the scalding.

I don’t know, I said finally.

You could call him and find out.

You know I can’t do that.

I know you won’t.

But he didn’t know why, and I wasn’t about to enlighten him.

Anyway, the damage is already done. Do you suppose Armani has seen— On that note, all three of our phone lines lit up at once.

Jesus snagged the phone on my desk. Karacis Investigations, he said, putting on his professional voice—one-third less ennui than his norm. Hold please. He punched another button. Karacis Investigations, he repeated for the benefit of whoever was on line two.

No, he said as I crooked an eyebrow at him for a sign as to our sudden popularity. Miss Karacis is not available for comment.

My head fell back against the headrest on my chair. I couldn’t wait for the universe to rescue me. I was going to have to kill Apollo myself.

Italian stallion on line three, Jesus said, making me realize I must have missed something while I was plotting Apollo’s death.

Armani. Crap.

I shooed Jesus out to his own desk to deal with the lit up lines and answered my phone, punching the button for line three.

Quickly, before Armani could get a word in, I said, Listen, whatever it looks like, it’s not what you think.

Dead air.

Armani.

"What’s not what I think?" he asked, voice tight and contained.

Uh, that’s not why you called?

"What’s not why I called?"

The article.

What article? he asked in a strangled voice that indicated how hard he was working to stay patient with me.

I swallowed hard. "The one in the National Informer." He was silent again.

"Someone get me a copy of the Informer," he suddenly roared, which told me that he was at the station. Whoever got their hands on that copy would know even before he did what the ruckus was all about. It would spread through the station like wildfire. The whole police force would know by noon. In LA that was no small thing. I pulled the receiver away from my ear to bang it against my temple.

Tori, he said loudly, calling me back to the conversation before I could give myself a concussion, "that’s not what I called about, though you will tell me everything. The speed with which he got back to business told me that it was serious. Zeus and Poseidon have escaped."

My heart stopped. My own gorgon glare couldn’t have turned me to stone any more effectively.

Hephaestus? I asked.

Still behind bars. The other two called up a humungous storm. The prison had to be evacuated. They escaped during the transfer. Hephaestus wasn’t so lucky.

So they’re … loose?

Yeah.

Since when? The facility was hours away, but with gods that could be the blink of an eye. Do I need to be worried?

No, we can take you into protective custody, get you to a safe house until they’re caught. With any luck, it won’t be long.

My precognition kicked me in the gut at that statement, and I knew otherwise. They weren’t going to be caught within the next few hours or even days … maybe not at all by conventional methods.

No, I answered, before I could lose my nerve. I’m not running. If they want to, they’ll find me anyway, and I still haven’t finished packing for the wedding. Or started. Wait— For a second I wondered if a threat to my life would be enough to get me out of the whole thing. Watching cousin Tina star in the role she was meant to play—Bridezilla—was so not my idea of a good time. But in my crazy clan, weddings were sacred, and Yiayia’s wrath was a little more terrifying even than the greater gods. No, never mind. Yiayia would kill me if I didn’t show. And she’d talk me to death first. Zeus and Poseidon would probably just kill me outright.

Still, you weighed the risk, didn’t you? he asked.

Wait until you meet my family, then you’ll understand. Armani was my date. Poor man.

If they’re all as … wonderful as you …

I snorted, one of my more graceful habits. What word were you really going to use?

Quirky came to mind.

Well, they are that.

There was a pause, during which I heard the distinctive sound of newspaper crinkling, and then, Um, do you want to tell me about your intimate little dinner with Apollo?

I let my head hit the desk. It hurt.

What was that? he asked.

I’m trying to brain myself.

You sure you’re equipped for that?

Some boyfriend you are.

At least I don’t make headlines with other men.

You knew all about that dinner. I called you from the porch, remember, asking if murder was still a crime.

You don’t look ready to kill him here.

But I could tell he wasn’t seriously concerned. He had far bigger worries.

The second we hung up, my buzzer sounded again. "E! News on line one," Jesus said gleefully.

I thought you took care of that.

"Honey, that was line two. Some rinky-dink San Fernando Station. This is E!"

Tell them they have the wrong lady.

"Chica, I’m fairly certain they have better facial recognition software than the LAPD. I don’t think they’re going to believe me."

You’re an actor … act. Make it convincing.

He huffed. If E! had been calling for Jesus, I was sure he wouldn’t be dodging the call. I just hoped they wouldn’t offer him enough to sell me out. Maybe I ought to rethink that bonus he kept hinting about.

Lines two and three lit up again while he was dealing with E! I was considering my escape when Jesus’s voice suddenly rose, and I heard his composure slip.

Come again?

There was a pause as he listened to the person on the other end of the line before he sputtered, "Well, you … you just … Hello? Hello?"

I didn’t worry too much until Jesus flew into my office, ignoring the still-ringing phones. He never did that, lest it be his big break calling, unable to reach him on his cell. He looked pale, his eyes were wide and, even more shocking, I didn’t think he was acting.

Tori, he said. Not boss lady or chica or even his signature sniff. I think we’ve just received our first death threat.

It wouldn’t be my first threat, actually, but I hadn’t seen fit to worry him.

We? I asked, more curious than alarmed. I already knew that Zeus and Poseidon would probably come gunning for me. It was actually fairly considerate of them to issue a warning. Maybe Armani could trace the call.

"Well, you, really, but who knows who he might go through to get to you? He clutched his hands to his chest. I’m too young to die."

I ignored the histrionics. Calm down. What did the caller say?

Well, he said, rolling his eyes to the heavens as if it helped him remember, the connection was horrible, mind you, so I didn’t catch everything, but the gist of it was, ‘Tell her there’s nowhere she can run that we can’t find her.’

I blew out a puff of air. You call that a death threat? I’d had worse. The god of the dead, now there’s a man who knew how to issue a threat. As for Zeus and Poseidon, why bother warning me? Wouldn’t it be easier to ambush me if I wasn’t on my guard? Not that I wouldn’t be after their prison break. But there had to be more to it. To convince me there was no point in protective custody? They couldn’t know I’d already come to the same conclusion. Reverse psychology? Wanting me running scared? In the end, it didn’t matter. I was going to do what I was going to do. I’d have to fight them either way, I might as well do it on my own terms.

What would you call it? Jesus asked. I passed on that one.

Call Armani. Let him know about the call in case he can track it. I picked up the phone myself.

"Who are you calling?" he asked.

Apollo. You happy now? I’m pretty sure that call was about a case we worked on together. I may want to kill him myself, but he deserves to know I won’t be the only one gunning.

Be gentle with him, Jesus said, leaving and closing the door behind him like I might actually want privacy while I gave Apollo hell. Because that’s what I was planning to unleash.

But all I got was his voicemail.

"Kalimera. Please leave me a message. If this is the press, lose this number. If this is Tori, I’m on it."

Well, so much for that, except that he’d now given my name to anyone who didn’t already have it. I left him a message about Zeus and Poseidon. I didn’t bother reading him the riot act. He was one step ahead of me there. If I was lucky, which didn’t seem terribly likely given my morning so far, he really was on it and all I’d have to worry about was two escaped gods with a grudge.

Lucky me.

Chapter Two

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Lucky for me your Pappous has a ’stigmatism.

—Yiayia

An hour later I hesitated in the entrance to Chi Chi’s, the upscale spa Christie insisted on taking me to for wedding prep. I gave it one last try. You do realize that the last time I set foot in one of these places, someone got killed .

Christie, my BFF and absolute polar opposite, gave me a look. Your point being?

I’m just saying, there’s precedent.

So you want me to believe you’re superstitious about spas?

I shrugged. It could happen again, you don’t know. Might even be me who snaps.

I wasn’t a mani-pedi sort of girl. I wasn’t any sort of girl. Somehow, I’d managed to achieve total womanhood without any of the LA rites of passage—no wax on or wax off, no shellacking, seaweed wrapping or other creative forms of torture in the name of beauty. I believed firmly in don’t file what ain’t broke.

It’s a risk I’m willing to take, she said wryly. Tori, you’re going to be a bridesmaid in a destination wedding in one of the most romantic places on Earth. What kind of friend would I be if I let you go with raggedy-ass nails and pores the size of champagne bubbles?

Champagne bubbles, really? I asked, pleased.

Honey, that’s not a good thing.

My smile fell. I did mention there’ve been death threats, right? Armani wants to put me into protective custody. I probably shouldn’t be out in public at all.

"I thought it was Nick these days. Anyway, the man just wants you in his custody, probably with handcuffs and other restraints. Safest place for you is in public with lots of witnesses. And before you start in on the expense, don’t. Just don’t. It’s my treat."

But—

No buts. She put her hand to my back and virtually propelled me through the doors, knowing I wouldn’t dare hip check her after she’d helped me take down a killer cult and rescue Uncle Christos just last month.

A woman with the longest, straightest, whitest-blonde hair I’ve ever seen rushed out from behind a counter at the sight of Christie, gripped her by the shoulders and gave her an air kiss to each cheek, which Christie returned. Me, I was too busy watching to be sure she wouldn’t accidentally puncture Christie’s flesh with her dagger-like nails—gold swirled with black.

Chi Chi, Christie said, stepping back and turning talon-lady toward me. This is my dear friend Tori. She’s a blank slate. I want to give her the works.

Chi Chi eyed me, her brown eyes as dark as her hair was light. It was a striking combination, but her diamond-studded nose ring distracted from it all, focusing attention on the wrong part of her facial landscape. Apparently, I had my own pause button—Chi Chi’s gaze hadn’t dropped any lower than my brows.

We have a lot of work ahead of us, she said to Christie. I think we start with the threading.

Threading? I asked, but not with actual fear. Absolutely not.

Of the brows, Christie explained. They’re a little … untamed.

I imagined whips, Chi Chi in full lion tamer regalia. I suspected she could take me in a cage match.

Um, okay. Show no fear, I reminded myself. We’d better get started.

As she led me away, I looked over my shoulder at Christie for reassurance. She gave me a double thumbs-up and turned toward another … stylist? masochist? glamscaper? … who was coming to take her away, ha, ha. I wondered what Christie was having done, then decided I didn’t really want to know. She was due for some kind of swimsuit shoot in the French Riviera around the time I’d be in Greece enduring Bridezilla and my crazy clan. I assumed scary words like Brazilian were in order. The fact that I even knew a Brazilian wasn’t just someone from Brazil meant I’d been associating with Christie for far too long.

I survived the eyebrow threading, but the facial … I wondered why the guys at Guantanamo Bay bothered with waterboarding when extractions seemed so much easier and, apparently, less controversial. Having a young thing with too much bosom leaning over me with a telescopic lens that made molehills into mountains on the level of Vesuvius was not my idea of a good time. Then she squeezed. I nearly erupted right out of my chair.

Ow! What did you do, file your nails to points? I asked, batting her hand away when she came back for another round.

Some of your pores are impacted. When was the last time you had a facial? Do you exfoliate?

"Exfoliate? Do I look like a tree? Wait, don’t answer that." With my hair, I definitely tended toward bushy.

Brittany, as she’d introduced herself when I entered her lair, pushed me back into the rack … er, chair … with a strength that said she could probably bench press me and the horse I rode in on. I’d fought gods and goddesses, but Brittany … clearly she was a force to be reckoned with.

It will go faster if you stay still.

Don’t struggle, said the spider to the fly.

I crossed my arms over my own much smaller chest and tried for stoicism. I failed miserably.

Afterward, I lay there with cucumbers on my eyes and some sort of soothing or detoxifying or gods-knew-what-kind of balm on my skin when Katy Perry’s California Girls suddenly blared right in my face. See, torture. I was pretty sure Chi Chi’s had cornered the market.

Then I realized that all the music I’d heard so far had been low key and new-agey. This was definitely not on the menu. It wasn’t coming from my phone, which would melt to slag if I’d ever made it ring out a Katy Perry song. Any self-respecting phone would.

I peeled a cucumber off one eye and squinted around me. An eye stared back—huge, golden brown, long lashed. I jumped out of my chair, and there was no Brittany to hold me back. The other slice of cucumber flopped to the floor.

The music squealed to a halt and a Whoa! issued from the magnifying lens that had been right above my head. The eye pulled back to reveal brows, hairline, cheek and, finally, a full face—Hermes, god of mischief.

"So not a good look for you, agape, he said, eying me top to toenails. Your pores are the size of—"

"Would everyone stop obsessing about my pores?" I nearly shouted.

Sorry, I didn’t realize I’d hit a sore spot.

I forced myself to breathe slowly and count to five. Bashing the magnifying glass would only hurt my hand. Hitting Hermes himself would be so much more satisfying. He’d scared me half to death.

What do you want? I asked. And get to the point? I’m relaxing here.

Yeah, you look really relaxed. Maybe a nice massage?

He waggled brows at me that not only hadn’t been threaded, but were threatening to merge and mate with his hairline.

Pass. For all I knew that was next on Christie’s menu of masochism. The point?

Oh, you’re no fun. The point is, you owe me. I’m here to collect.

I owe you for what?

Keeping your friends safe during the last battle.

You mean locking them in the bathroom?

Did they escape unscathed?

Yes, I answered reluctantly.

Then I did my job.

Crap. It was impossible to win an argument with the god of mischief. By the time I was born he’d already had thousands of years of talking his way into and out of trouble.

"Fine. What do you want?"

Her number.

Whose number?

Your friend.

Tori, Christie’s voice carried from outside the room Brittany had tucked me into, far enough back, I’d have thought no one could hear me scream, let alone converse with ancient pains in the butt. You all right? I hear voices.

Cerberus crap. A big steaming pile.

I’m okay. Just … watching a video on my phone.

You’re supposed to be relaxing.

Let her in! Hermes said gleefully. Three’s a party. Then he gave me that all-over look again. Hmm, maybe not. Though you do clean up pretty well.

Gee, thanks, I mumbled.

What’s that? Christie asked.

Nothing. I’ll shut it down.

Uh, okay. It’s just … the girls thought you might be talking to yourself. They were worried.

Great, I was a crazy talking, walking disaster with pores the size of volcanic craters.

Could the day get any better?

How about that number? Hermes asked.

I glared at his face in the magnifying mirror. I don’t pimp out my friends, I said in a hush.

So who’s asking you to?

"You’re a god. You can’t get her number for yourself?"

She’s unlisted.

I wanted to smack my head on something—hard—but it would probably leave a mark Brittany would feel compelled to fix. I didn’t think I’d survive it.

I thought about Hermes’s request. If I denied it, would he turn up in Christie’s bathroom mirror as she stepped out of the shower? It was exactly the sort of thing he’d do. Maybe the fact that he wanted to start out a little more conventionally was a good sign, something to be encouraged? As if Hermes needed encouragement.

Tell you what, I said, "I’ll give her your number. If she calls, she calls."

"That’s the kind of tit for tat I can expect? Honey, I credited you with much better tits."

I looked down at myself. Really?

Well, perhaps not. Anyway, this will barely touch your debt.

Fine, whatever. Are we done here? Before the spa folk come at me with straightjackets.

Unless you want to hear about—

I don’t, I said quickly, slapping at the mirror to torque it away and break our connection.

—the plot— I heard as he spun away from me. I rushed to grab the mirror back into position again, but he was gone.

There was a knock at the door, followed almost immediately by it opening. Everything okay in here? Brittany asked, looking around like I was a babysitter who might have snuck my boyfriend in after hours.

Sure, except I think my face might be starting to crack.

She smiled at the thought. Great. That just means you’re done! You lay back down and I’ll clean you up and turn you over to Valencia.

Oh goody.

If there was more torture, I didn’t even notice. I was too busy thinking about Hermes’s last words. As soon as Torquemada here was finished with me, I was going for the cell phone I’d actually left in my spa locker along with my clothes. Then I was going to blackmail Hermes into telling me what I’d missed.

But Hermes wasn’t taking calls—at least not mine—and Valencia waited outside the locker room door to take me to some fresh hell, pacing and looking in impatiently while I tried my call again, as though her time was more precious than mine. Probably it was, if we were talking hourly rates.

I left a message and surrendered myself.

Christie was already sitting in what looked like a dental chair, her feet soaking in a solution tinted by the Tidy Bowl man.

Polish, Valencia said.

It was like she was speaking Greek, only that I’d have understood. Um, no, I’m good.

She snapped a finger toward a wall rack of nail color. Pick your polish, she ordered.

Oh. I’d been afraid that after all of Brittany’s work, she’d been talking about some kind of buffer or something that would shine me up to a high gloss. Uh, you pick.

What color is your bridesmaid’s gown? Christie asked.

Puke green.

She lowered the magazine she was holding—the one with the star who cheated on the other star, making their new movie promo a study in awkward. Seriously?

For reals. Only I’m sure they call it something a lot fancier.

Christie canted her head like she was trying to envision me in puke green. Val, give her the crushed shell shellac.

Wait, shellac? I asked. But clearly I had no power here; Val was already off to do Christie’s bidding.

"The way you live, yeah. It lasts for, like, ever, and I know you won’t just go home and take it all off with nail polish remover."

How do you know?

It doesn’t work like that.

How does it work?

That’s for me to know and you to find out.

You know, lady, you have an evil streak. I have a friend who would be just perfect for you. And by perfect, I mean that you two together would be truly terrifying.

Sounds intriguing. Is he cute?

Why don’t you call him and find out for yourself?

Then I proceeded to tell her all the reasons why it was a very bad idea. The warnings were barely out of my mouth before I realized they were like waving a red cape at a bull or a flame before a moth. Christie had terrible taste in men. Hermes was just her type.

I’d have felt a lot worse if Christie a) wasn’t a grownup, and b) hadn’t just had me shellacked against my will.

We were followed when we left the salon. With plots afoot and escaped enemies on the loose, I didn’t think I was being paranoid at my concern when a black SUV with tinted windows followed us out of the parking lot.

Christie, I’m going to pull over here, I said, keeping an eye on the SUV in my rearview mirror.

She looked where I indicated. This grease pit? Are you kidding me? You can have a heart attack just breathing the air.

They only gave us rabbit food back at the salon. I’m starving. And anyway, I’m testing a theory.

How much the seams of your bridesmaid’s gown are likely to hold? Do you hate it that much?

I did, but that was beside the point. At the last possible second, I cut across two lanes of traffic to take the turn into a fast food drive thru. I checked the rearview mirror as I switched to see the front of the SUV jerk suddenly into the nearer lane, leaving the back still sticking out. Next came a brake squealing, metal-crunching impact as another car struck the back of the SUV, causing it to rock on its wheels. I was recalled to my own driving by my front wheel thumping over a concrete piling. I righted our trajectory, pulled into the drive thru line and grabbed my phone out of the car’s cup holder to report the accident. It was still ringing when the SUV raced off, leaving the scene and the driver of the other car staring stunned after it, half out of her own vehicle. She looked around then, as if to see if anyone else planned to report the rear ending, shrugged and got back into her car. Just another LA day.

I ended the call and relaxed back into my seat. What was that all about? Christie asked.

But, crisis averted, the munchies had kicked in with a vengeance, and I was totally focused on the drive thru menu board. "They serve