Lucienne Diver - Rise of the Blood

“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.