Brandywine Investigations
Brandywine Investigations
Family Matters
Angel Martinez
Edited by
Jude Dunn
Cover by
Rebeckah Murray
Mischief Corner Books, LLC
Copyright
About the Book You Have Purchased
This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the authors. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Editor: Jude Dunn
Cover Artist: Rebeckah Murray
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First Edition
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ISBN-13: 978-1985323896 (paperback)
DISCLAIMER: Books, Bulls, & Bacchanals was previously published as individual story briefly. It has been re-edited and had a few slight story changes for the omnibus.
BRANDYWINE INVESTIGATIONS: FAMILY MATTERS © 2018 Angel Martinez
Books, Bulls, & Bacchanals: Brandywine Investigations 4 © 2018 Angel Martinez
Midwinter Dancing: Brandywine Investigations 4.5 © 2018 Angel Martinez
Pack Up the Moon: Brandywine Investigations 5 © 2018 Angel Martinez
All Rights Reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: All stories within Brandywine Investigations: Family Matters are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are fictionalized. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The story contains explicit sexual content and is intended for adult readers.
Any person depicted in the Licensed Art Material is a model and is being used solely for illustrative purposes.
PUBLISHER
Mischief Corner Books, LLC
Dedication
For all the librarians everywhere and for everyone who has ever loved a trickster god.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
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iPad: Apple Inc.
Contents
Trademarks Acknowledgement
Books, Bulls, and Bacchanals
1. Feast and Family
2. Uncle Hades's Door
3. The Eternal Library
4. Leander
5. Not Quite a Relative
6. Dots On Ti's Map
7. The Librarian's Bodyguard
8. Maenads and Murder Weapons
9. Old Fears, New Anxieties
10. Unsettling Truths
11. Wild God, Reticent Bull
Epilogue
Midwinter Dancing
1. Interlude
Pack Up The Moon
1. A Nagging Feeling
2. The Everlasting Glass
3. Arrivals and Vanishings
4. Azeban in the Domains of the Dead
5. Picking Up Strays
6. Uncomfortable Shelter
7. Reading to a Raccoon God
8. Overheard While Sulking
9. Trickster Cabal
10. Into Tamoanchan
11. Azeban's Lightbulb
Epilogue
Dear Reader
About the Author
Also by Angel Martinez
Also by Angel Martinez
About Mischief Corner Books
Epigraph One
Librarians are the secret masters of the world. They control information. Don't ever piss one off.
– Spider Robinson
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People can lose their lives in libraries. They ought to be warned.
– Saul Bellow
Books, Bulls, and Bacchanals
Brandywine Investigations 4
By Angel Martinez
Feast and Family
Chapter One
Bloody stones of Tartarus. Who had the balls to be making all that racket at nothing-thirty in the morning?
Dionysus, god of wine, parties, and divine madness, cracked an eye and couldn't even manage a respectable groan. Someone stepping on a broken bagpipe, maybe, but not a nice, masculine groan. The racket nearby was bad enough. The interrogation lights for damn sure would have to go.
Trying to call out for someone was a bust. He wasn't getting past tortured-bagpipe stage yet. He did manage to flop onto his back, his arm falling off whatever he was lying on and smacking something hard.
Ow.
Another few moments in awareness hell allowed him to puzzle out that the unholy racket was one of his cats giving herself a bath at the end of the sofa and the interrogation lights were bits of sunlight squeezing past the edge of a curtain. His living room curtains. He was fairly certain it was his living room.
"George?" he managed in a croak that would have shamed a raven.
"He's still sleeping, Boss." A lovely face with several eyebrow piercings resolved out of the general blur. "Kind of curled up at your feet on the floor."
"Oh." The lovely vision held a bag of ice to his jaw, which felt better than it should have. "Meghan?"
"Yep. All my life. Glad to see you're on the way back to us."
"Still mostly dead. Need a drink."
Meghan frowned as she smoothed back the tangled snarl of hair from his forehead. "You need some water, Boss. And a shower. Bad."
"Too early in the morning."
"It's after two in the afternoon."
"My point exactly."
She shook her head and offered an indulgent smile as she slid an arm under his shoulders to lift him for a drink. Of water, damn the luck.
He was one of the few pantheon gods who still had direct human worshippers. His groupies really, though Maenads came and went over the years. They wandered into Dio's life when they were young, often alone and desperate. The cliché scenario of families turning on their children when they came out sure as shit wasn't cliché for the kids. The troop took them in, and sometimes they only stayed until they found their balance and moved on. Meghan, bless her, had been with him for nearly seven years.
"Someone clock me?" He shifted his jaw, trying to determine how bad the damage was.
"Hard to say. Things got a little tangled and messy there. Might've even been someone's foot."
Dio lifted the blanket to find he was stark naked underneath, bloody nail tracks decorating his skin like some grisly batik experiment gone wrong. "Good crazy town or bad?"
"Definitely good." Meghan's attention wasn't on his reaction though as she mopped with a wet towel at something on his face. "You need a recap? What's your endpoint for last night?"
At least his blackout was due to a descent into orgy-induced madness and not the violent kind. They'd had a concert, Orphic Egg. He played bass for the band, his brother Hermes on guitar with their friend, Orpheus, as front man and singer. Drums rotated between a handful of trusted musicians, with George on the kit last night. Good crowd, good set. They'd all stayed to dance and party after…
"We went somewhere? Someplace that wasn't the Tar Pit?"
"Rave. Old warehouse. The music, the strobes, booze, you did that thing where you start to dance, and everyone around you gets all grabby." Meghan dabbed at what he assumed were gashes on his neck, since they stung. "Whole place was in orgy-trance state in minutes, you right at the center. Bottle of wine in one hand while you let them rip your clothes off."
"And you?"
"Stayed out of the blast zone, Boss. I was designated spotter last night."
"Ermph." Dio shifted to half recline against the leather sofa arm. Except it wasn't leather under his head. Smart Meghan, putting a sheet under him. "Everyone all right?"
"Yeah. Oh, you know, bruises and scratches. Fiona may have sprained an ankle. Nothing major."
He closed his eyes against the sudden sting. The relief never faded in its sharpness, always, always hitting him brutally as it headed off the rising dread of who did I hurt this time?
"Good." His traitor voice wavered, hoarse and grainy. "Meggie?"
"What's wrong, Boss?"
"Why're you still with me?"
She laughed, more of a muted snicker. "Oh, so it's one of those mornings. Should I start singing 'As Long As He Needs Me?'"
"Eew. No. You see me as a controlling psycho thug?"
"You know I love you, Boss, and that I'm here to, you know, look out for you and the kids. But I know I don't have to be here."
He nodded, then squeezed his eyes shut again, because nodding was such a bad idea. So many things he should say to her, chief among them being it's time for painted wings and giant things to give way to other toys. Which made him think of Hermes's lover and how Hermes hadn't given up his dragon—and he was thinking in zigzags again.
"Thanks," he said, so he wouldn't sound as crazy as he felt by spewing the half-dozen non-sequiturs on the tip of his tongue.
"Aspirin, grapes, and keep the curtains closed? Or do you have somewhere you need to be today?"
"What day is it?"
"June twenty-second."
The next groan at least had gathered volume and clarity. "Oh, fuck me with a drumstick."
"Not my thing, really. What did you just remember?"
"It's Evil Stepmom's birthday in two days."
"Right. The Heraia festival. What would the family say if you didn't show for the feast tonight?"
"Whatever they say, they'll make it into some huge daytime drama. Like I slaughtered puppies or something."
Meghan tucked the blanket under his arms and lifted him to a sitting position. Probably sitting. If the floor would stay still. "You promised your dad you'd try harder not to deliberately piss her off so much."
"I hate these things. Don't make me go."
"How old are you again?" Meghan tsked as she somehow got him moving toward the bathroom with the blanket wrapped around him. "Dionysus, god of wine and whining."
"Hey!"
"Even if you don't like some of the family, all your favorite siblings will be there." Meghan said it gently as she steered him into the shower. She never scolded, but somehow, even when she'd been barely eighteen, her disapproval could gut him. "And they won't have any of the good wine if you don't go."
"Now that would be a tragedy," he muttered and handed the blanket out to her as he turned on the spray.
A dutiful appearance on his part, talk to Herm, Hephaestus, and Aphrodite for a bit. Maybe Artemis might even show up. He stood under the hard jets, head down, palms braced against the wall, letting the water pound his headache into submission, berating himself for being petulant. While he wallowed, Meghan would be making him hangover breakfast. He didn't have to ask.
With the exception of passing physical contact during orgies, Meghan had never been his lover. Oh, she adored him, but not in a romantic way, and he would never take a mortal lover again. Never. One-night stands and group sex, fine, but nothing more. A friend like Meggie was worth twenty lovers, anyway. But it was high time he encouraged her to move on.
"Soon. Before the summer's over, for sure," he muttered to the shampoo bottle.
Half an hour later, clean, fed, and in his favorite silk dressing gown, Dio got down on the floor beside George, stroking the base of one of his horns. "Georgie, I have to go to Cruella-mom's pre-birthday thing. You coming with?"
George snorted on the end of a snore, one of his hoofs kicking out and thumping against the coffee table. "What? Why are you up?"
"No rest for the wicked." Dio stretched out, leaning his head on his hand. "Meggie brought me back to the land of the living so I could be a good son and go to this stupid party."
"You go." George made a weary, shooing motion. "I can't deal with the reality-show drama of your family right now."
"Not even to visit your faun buds? You don't have to go to the damn feast."
"Just let me die quietly in peace here, Boss."
Meghan appeared with a blanket, blowing the purple-streaked bangs out of her eyes as she bent to cover George. "Are you saying you're afraid to go without an escort?"
"More like a chaperone," George muttered and pulled the blanket up over his head until only his little goat horns stuck out.
"Of course not." Yeah, okay, I'd feel better with backup. "Just checking. So, you know, George doesn't feel abandoned and stuff." Under the blanket, George snorted while Meghan offered her most indulgent smile. "You could pretend to believe me. You know. To make me feel better."
"Of course we do." Meghan held out a hand to help him back up. "I'll call over to Angelus Corp. and see if big brother's coming to get you."
"I can get my own sorry ass to Olympus!" Dio lowered his voice when George groaned. "Sorry, sorry. Don't call him. Herm's just going to rag on me."
"You're sure? You still look a little green."
"I got this." Dio swaggered to his bedroom to change, pumping one fist in the air. "I got this." What I've got is a headache as annoying as a cruise ship full of sugared-up four-year-olds. I need some serious sartorial therapy.
Everyone dressed to impress for these feasts. Dio preferred dressing to annoy. He flung open his closet, more of a small cavern half the size of his bedroom, and ran his fingers down the row of clothes hanging on the left, closing his eyes to drink in the feast of tactile delight. Silk, leather, cotton, textured synthetics… Ooh, velvet. He stopped and opened his eyes, snickering at the shirt his fingers had picked. Midnight-blue lace trailed from narrow black-velvet sleeves and a single mother-of-pearl button at about navel height served as the shirt's only fastening. Perfect.
How did they make velvet, anyway? Were there herds of velvet animals running around somewhere with a suede dog nipping at their heels? What would you feed velveteens? Would they get ruined if it rained?
"Stop it. Focus." Dio shook his head hard enough to feel his defective brain sloshing around. "No getting lost in weird shit right now."
Black-leather pants that he managed to shoehorn into without help and a pair of English riding boots later, one eye's long black lashes heavily encrusted with mascara, and he thought the look would do. He could have gone for over-the-top with the leathers that had eyelet cutouts up the sides and a pair of black heels, so he congratulated himself on his restraint.
"Yes?" Back in the living room, he twirled slowly. "Am I set?"
Meghan tilted her head, the skull and tombstone dangle earrings clinking. "It needs something. Isn't this a formal thing?"
"Hmm. True." Dio jogged to the bedroom, rummaged around on the closet's top shelf, and returned to her with a top hat perched on his head. "There. Ironically formal."
"Perfect!" She clapped her hands in delight and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Try to have fun, Boss, but, you know, not too much fun."
"All right. Stay by the front door until you hear me gone."
"Backwash. I know."
Dio strode to the extra bedroom in his condo, the one he kept empty for just such occasions. Most of his family could move between planes smoothly by simply thinking about it or creating doorways between. No muss, no fuss. Okay, Uncle Hades had to split the ground open to get to his realm, but death realms were different, not so easy to get to.
But his doorways? Auntie Em and storm cellars came to mind. He started humming under his breath, calling the power up from his core, the weird, wild tangle at his center waiting to do his bidding. More or less. Usually. One hand held out in front of him, palm out, the other hand keeping a firm grip on his hat, he pushed out against the strange, gummy resistance he always hit b
etween the planes. Winds howled and skirmished around him. The bedroom door slammed shut. The sliders on the closet rattled wildly as if they might try to fly south for the winter. A dust devil formed in the far corner. He really should talk to the cleaners about that. Concentrate, you idiot. He pushed harder against the barrier, an additional headache blooming behind his left eye, and a golden sphere appeared at waist height in front of him. Yes. Almost there.
The glowing ball expanded raggedly in fits and starts, odd shapes and pseudopods jutting out from the initial sphere in frantic, changing spurts. But the whole construct grew, even if it was a messy process. Just as Dio's headache reached pounding, the swirling mass began to clear from the center out, becoming an opaque window showing the cedars and olive trees of the outer court on Olympus. Dio shoved a shoulder through, holding onto his hat, wriggling from the human world to the Olympian realm one limb at a time until he stumbled out onto the paving stones in front of his father's palace.
"Having trouble, shrimp?"