“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 grown-up, 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 L.A. 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 sweet potato fries now? Awesome!”
“Tori.”
“Oh, sorry.” I turned a sheepish grin on her. “I don’t know. It might have been those enemies who escaped. Or someone they hired to follow me. Or…”
“Tori!”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”
“How?”
“Tomorrow, I leave for Greece.”
Where the old gods would have the home court advantage.
Chapter Three
“Is it bad or is it Tornado Tori bad?”
I surveyed the wreckage of my apartment. Well, the apartment I was housesitting for Detective Helen Lau, Armani’s former partner, until her return from traveling with honest-to-gods dragons. I knew I’d forgotten something. I just couldn’t think what it was.
“It’s not like they don’t have stores in Greece,” Armani said, frustrated. He’d been fully packed before we went to bed last night. That’s right, I said “we” and “bed”. Couldn’t wait to see the look on my mother’s face when she heard we were sharing a room or the inquisition my father was likely to unleash on Nick. Nick, I had to practice that. Bad enough we’d be shacking up. If I couldn’t even convince my family we were on a first name basis….
“I can’t kick the thought that I’m forgetting something important.”
Then it came to me. Oh, Hermes’s hairy arse—it wasn’t the thought I had to kick, it was the habit. The ambrosia. I still hadn’t thought of a way to take it with me. Without it—sweats, shakes, loss of concentration, cramps, pain and a better than average chance of death. So, nothing serious then.
“Me!” Came an announcement from the doorway to the apartment. “You’re forgetting me. But now I am here, and all’s right with your world.”
Oh hell to the no. Jesus?
I stared at him and his flaming-red luggage.
“How did you get in?”
“Nick buzzed me up.”
I looked at Nick.
“I did ask first, but you were sort of…frantic at the time.”
“But…but…” I stopped, took a deep breath and said, “Jesus, you are not going to Greece with us. I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t fit in my carry-on. Hell, I’m not even sure your personal items would fit in my carry-on.”
“Not to worry.” From the man-purse slung over his shoulder, he produced a colorful piece of paper with a barcode. It looked suspiciously like a boarding pass. “I have my own ticket.”
“But—”
“You said that.”
“But—”
“Chica, it does not bear repeating. Apollo said that he had it covered, and he does. I am here to run your interference.”
“What interference?”
“At the airport.”
I could feel steam about to come out of my ears. If I built up any more, I could power my own way to Greece. I gave him my dead stare, the one that brooked no resistance…if only my power ran that way. “Why would there be interference at the airport?” I asked through clenched teeth. One more evasion and I was going to blow.
Jesus cut his gaze to the side, a sure sign that he was about to prevaricate.
“Tori,” Nick cut in, “I think he’s going to have to explain on the way. Our cab’s here.” He looked up from his phone to me. I hadn’t even heard the alert, I’d been so focused on Jesus.
“Fine, but this isn’t over,” I said, trying to impress it on him with my look. Hard to do when he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
I nearly gave myself a hernia swinging my carry-on over my shoulder. I was no wilting flower, but somehow by the time I was through loading it up with all my electronics, enough books to get me through umpteen excruciating hours spent in airports and on planes, and things like jewelry I couldn’t risk putting in checked luggage, it weighed a ton. Armani—Nick, dammit—didn’t risk a direct hit with it by offering his manly muscle.
He did, however, hold the door for us all, and I allowed it. After all, I’d have done the same for him, only he got there first.
I held my questions until we got into the cab—Jesus chose to sit up next to the driver, so my laser-like stare had no effect on him. I had to make do with my words. “Spill,” I ordered.