Brandywine Investigations Page 23

  It was a first for Ing, a family dinner that flew by and was over way before she wanted. Artemis was saying her good-byes, and a sick dread clawed at Ing's insides. What if I don't see her for the next sixty years, like how long it'd been with Gran? What if I never see her again? Not like you can ask a goddess out to the movies.

  Ing stood by the door, trying not to let her misery show, trying desperately to come up with something to say, anything that would mean she could see Artemis again. She opened the door, peered outside, then surprised Ing by taking her hand.

  "Hey. Want to come to Olympus with me?"

  "Wait… what?"

  "I have this festival to go to tomorrow. And I hate dancing alone." She didn't quite wink, but Ing could've sworn her eyes twinkled.

  Now Ing was the fishmouth. All sorts of things should've come out, like thank you, and yes, I'd love to, or something witty like well, you met my family, after all. Instead she squeaked out, "Should I pack?"

  Artemis laughed, short and sharp. "Ha! No. I'll get you anything you need. Will you? Ing?"

  Ing squeezed her hand, waved goodbye to her folks, and followed Artemis, goddess of the wilds, out into the moonlight. They had a party to get to.

  Epigraph Three

  Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.

  – Lao Tzu

  Pack Up The Moon

  Brandywine Investigations 5

  By Angel Martinez

  A Nagging Feeling

  Chapter One

  Beautiful days were a shame to waste on chores or obligations. Azeban threw his head back to soak in the sunshine from the bright October sky. His oversized sunglasses remained politely in place, of course. He'd had a talk with them about staying put while he was in human aspect. Two things he couldn't change when he altered appearances—his eyes were one of those things and humans paid attention to him for all the wrong reasons if he left them uncovered. Gluskabe's fault, of course, though Azeban couldn't stay mad about it after all the centuries in between. Too much to do.

  He stood on one of the granite boulders at the top of the hill surveying the piece of city spread out so nicely for viewing with his crow companion, Kaukont, perched on his shoulder. His city. Fine, not his in an ownership sort of way. The death lords had declared New York neutral ground for immortals that year so no one owned it, but it was one of his favorite human places. A squirrel stopped to twitch her tail and chitter at him.

  "Don't give a flying squid about your stash, friend squirrel," Azeban told her with a soft laugh. "I'm here to take from humans, not rodents."

  That only made the squirrel angrier. She was shouting about not being dismissed so flippantly as Azeban leaped from his rock and half-jogged, half-slid down the hill to where several footpaths intersected. Good thing Gluskabe shrank the squirrels so long ago too. Their anger was dangerous enough now that they were small. He shuddered to imagine them still elephant-sized, as they had been when the world was new.

  Human languages from all over stroked his ears. Couples, groups, and families consulted phone screens and took pictures. Kaukont flew down to a spot in the grass, cocking his head to search for insects. Azeban shot him a wink and let out a contented sigh. Perfect. Tourist buffet. He swept off his floppy-brimmed hat, set it on the ground beside him, and pulled out four brightly colored balls from his coat pocket. With practiced ease and his best, brightest smile, he tossed the balls up and down a few times before he began juggling. Some of the humans watched and smiled as they walked past, but no one stopped or tossed money into the hat. Not yet. He didn't expect it yet.

  A little boy of about six came up the right-hand path, kicking at gravel as he trundled after his parents in a bored, feet-dragging fashion. He clutched a stuffed pony in one hand and the hem of his mother's jacket in the other.

  "Psst! Hey," Azeban called to him in a stage whisper. "Little boy with Fluttershy. Throw me something."

  The little boy squinted at him suspiciously, but he let go of his mom, stuffed a hand in his jeans pocket, and threw Azeban a plastic lizard. The throw was a little low and to the left. Close enough for Azeban to snatch it from the air and add it to his juggling.

  He flashed the boy a grin. "Something else."

  The little boy's parents had stopped to watch too, part curiosity, part concern. With a scowl of defiance, the boy threw his pony to Azeban, where she became a pink-and-yellow blur of plush and shining wings in his juggling loop.

  Azeban nodded to the parents. Park-goers were drifting his way. He laughed and raised his voice. "Something else! Make sure you stand where I can see you and toss me stuff!"

  The little boy's mom dug in her purse and sent a bottle of nail polish at him with a gentle and pinpoint-accurate underhand toss. It joined the loop in a red blur.

  "Thank you, ma'am. Something else!"

  Kaukont retrieved the truly badly thrown items from the grass and dropped them into Azeban's juggling from above, much to the delight of the watching children. By the time he'd ceased his calls for something else, he'd added a lighter, a collapsible umbrella, an unopened pack of gum, an apple, a hairbrush, and one of those sets of plastic keys humans gave babies to chew on. Why anyone would give a baby something so hard and poorly shaped for chewing, he had no idea. Quite a crowd had gathered now, and the hat beside him happily accepted the occasional bills and coins the humans tossed in. Time for something more showy and drastic.

  One by one, he caught the objects flying about his head and tossed them unerringly to their respective owners. He held up a finger, asking the crowd to give him a moment, then pulled a cloth-wrapped bundle from the inside pocket of his long coat. When he unrolled the cloth, six lovely, beautifully balanced knives winked at him in the sunshine. Now, normally a scruffy little man pulling knives in the middle of a crowd might have sent people screaming. But he'd established himself as the harmless entertainer already. The humans simply watched with eager curiosity.

  "A little space, folks," he said with a jaunty semicircular sweep of his knives. "So long as you stand back a teensy bit, this is only dangerous for me."

  In a trick he'd learned from a certain Norse fire god, he set the blades alight. That had been a fun night of sex and mutual exchange of neat tricks. Loki could be a great fuck buddy when he wasn't being all morose about his family.

  Azeban hefted the flaming knives so his audience could appreciate the pretty flames and once again began to juggle. He did fancy behind-the-back shit. He tossed them high and spun in a full circle just in time to catch them and keep juggling. The hat began to fill with cash. His audience was hooked like good little fishies.

  Kaukont called a warning, and out of the corner of his eye, Azeban caught movement that was too hurried for the normal strolling crowd. He risked a quick head turn and spotted the uniforms hurrying toward him. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

  "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your kind attention and your generosity." Azeban caught the knives one by one, extinguishing them as they came down and stuffing them back in their cloth pouch. He'd have to secure them properly later. "But I'm afraid I have to run."

  He swept up his hat, pinching the brim shut so he didn't lose any of the cash, and dashed back up the hill. Luckily, the crowd was confused and slow to part for the pursuing officers. Even with his short legs, Azeban got away with time to spare. When he had a few paths and trees between, he ducked into a thick stand of bushes and changed, his human form melting downward and his thick gray-brown hair spreading to cover his body in fur.

  When his aspect change finished, he was just a big raccoon standing in a pile of castoff clothes. He took a few breaths to calm himself, chuckling softly at how hard his heart still hammered after a chase. Earth and sky help him if he ever lost that sense of excitement. Life just wouldn't be fun anymore.

  "Caw!" Kaukont had caught up with him, landing beside him with a rush of wings. He dropped a fat wallet at Azeban's feet to add to the spoils.

  "Thanks, Kau. It does
look like a good haul. Considering. Kinda forgot that the legal street-performer thing without permit doesn't apply to fire juggling in the park. Ha! Humans just have too many rules to remember."

  Now he had all the time in the world though, so he spread out his coat with his clever raccoon paws, set all of his things—including the money-filled hat and his sunglasses—inside and carefully rolled all of his belongings into a bundle he could carry by taking the tied sleeves in his teeth.

  Not that he had to move. Would've been fine to stay right there in the bushes until nighttime, but it was too nice a day. He picked up his clothes and trundled off through the park until he found an isolated patch of sun in the middle of azalea bushes for a lovely nap. Curled around his bundle, he let out a contented sigh and fell asleep with the sun warming his fur.

  Twilight had reached fingers into the park by the time he woke again to a feeling of creeping unease. Disturbed, he stretched his short raccoon arms to the sky and kept on stretching until he'd attained his human aspect again. He dressed quickly, sniffing the air, trying to catch a hint of what had woken him. Not that he didn't have any idea. The dread clutching at the base of his spine was warning enough. Still, when he was counting his money and the voice came whispering in his head, he had to clamp down on a yelp of fear.

  Azeban… Azeban… why are you hiding from me?

  It was time to run again, far and fast. He could take the Ways and slide around the traditional paths of the human world, but there could well be traps waiting for him there. He slid his shades back on, set his hat firmly on his shaggy head, and headed for the train station.

  Mrs. Kaminsky's daughter was back again. Charon found himself hard-pressed to keep his professional mask in place.

  "Haven't you got it off her yet, Mr. Stygian?" Her hard blue eyes tried to drill through him. "Aren't you a professional?"

  An ordinary undertaker might have been intimidated. Charon the ferryman, the ancient dreaded being who for centuries had decided according to payment and sometimes whim which souls would enter the land of the dead, merely stifled a weary sigh.

  "Mrs. Murray, your mother left clear instructions—"

  "She's dead, and it won't make any difference to her," the woman snapped. "I'm not leaving without it."

  Charon stared at her impassively from behind his respectable teak-and-rosewood desk. In centuries past, he might have bared his fangs and drawn off his gloves to show his claws. He would have shown her the abyss in his eyes and sent her screaming. As Karl Stygian, funeral director, he had a business to run though. Sending the families of clients into hysterics wasn't sound business practice.

  His height alone as he unfolded himself slowly from his chair made her edge back and swallow hard, but he merely nodded politely. "As you wish."

  What he really wanted to say to her was far less polite and anatomically impossible, but business. He tried his best not to stalk as he left his office, down the hall to the back room where Yvonne, his mortician, was preparing Mrs. Kaminsky's body.

  "She's insisting."

  "Boss, no," Yvonne whispered, her face pale under her scattered freckles. "You can't give in to that horrible woman."

  Charon shook his head. "I won't. But to keep the peace and to keep her from harassing my staff, I can let her think I am."

  He pulled a shelf out among the many drawers in the wall and retrieved a little velvet box. Inside, a plain gold-plated ring with a synthetic stone nestled. A simple illusion forced upon it made it appear to be a twin of Mrs. Kaminsky's beautiful yellow diamond in its art nouveau setting. Even the best appraiser would be fooled.

  Yvonne gasped when he showed it to her. "But that had to cost you a mint."

  "It's not real." Charon lifted one shoulder in a hint of a shrug.

  "Even if it's cubic zirconia. Nice ones cost."

  "Oh, I am very much aware. But I have, ah, emergency funds set aside for this sort of thing. Our dear lady here will be buried with her wedding ring. We'll put gloves on her so her spiteful, self-centered daughter will think the one on her mother's finger is a false ring. And so help me, if that woman cries at the funeral, I may just slap her."

  Yvonne shook her head with a fond smile. "You're just an old softie behind your scary crypt-keeper look, aren't you?"

  He drew himself up so he loomed over her, trying to make his face as forbidding as possible. "Don't dare tell anyone. I will take drastic and terrifying action. Like hiding your lunch."

  "Horrors. Secret's safe with me, Boss, as always." She patted his arm and pulled new latex gloves out of the box to get back to work. She was the only one of his employees who knew all of who Charon was. The retention rate for his receptionist position and the mortuary assistants was abysmal—Yvonne was the only one who'd been with him long enough for him to trust. "Why do you care so much, Karl? Seriously."

  "Because it's my job to care for the dead. It's been my job for a long time." He offered her a crooked smile. "Even when I still poled spirits across the Styx, I believed they still deserved dignity. They should have their wishes respected, even if they're mortality-challenged now."

  "You know I'd ask you to marry me if you weren't so weird." Yvonne's nose crinkled. "And so old."

  Charon chuckled at that and brought the false wedding ring to the woman waiting in his office. Yvonne often teased him like that, both of them knowing they had no interest in each other. She'd been with him several years before he'd told her the truth about himself, and by that time, she wasn't at all surprised. But something in her offhand remark had rubbed raw this time, some small part deep inside him scraped to bleeding, the part that whispered different, outside, does not belong.

  One of these things is not like the others. And where by all the rivers did that come from?

  Ages, eons ago, even though he had the endless work of ferrying souls to occupy him, that strange, lonely twinge had hit him sometimes. Lord Hades had always known somehow and would come down to the riverbank. In his own realm, at the height of his power, of course he had known.

  The souls will wait, Char, he would say, and he would take Charon by the arm to lead him up to the palace to sit in companionable silence and play tavli until the ache went away. He dearly loved his lordship for many reasons, and Hades's unwavering friendship over the centuries had cemented his loyalty. But for all his fierce and unequivocal feelings about Lord Hades, it wasn't the sort of love that closed around two people in a sort of bubble of emotional defense. He had never been in love with his lordship.

  In love had never happened for him. Attraction, yes, from time to time, but most beings simply feared him, which wasn't the best basis for a relationship.

  He laughed softly at himself as he waved good-night to Yvonne and saw to the last bits of straightening before he went home. Such an avalanche of odd thoughts today. He blamed their less-isolated life these days, now that Hades had a human lover living with him and his son and nephews visited frequently. Charon had become sociable, of all improbable things. He even attended a book club.

  Granted, the book club included a minotaur librarian, a faun, and several Maenads, but still. Book club. Not where a universally feared offspring of night and chaos expected himself to end up.

  He was turning the chemicals' labels facing front in their cabinet before he locked up for the night when a distinct change in presence disturbed the room. There had been no changes in air pressure or temperature, nothing physical, but anyone attuned would have felt the prickling along the skin. He turned to find a shade floating near the center of the room, the wispy aspect of an elderly woman in jeans and a button-down, holding a pair of gardening gloves.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Kaminsky," he said in his best don't-scare-the-ghost voice.

  "Hello, Mr. Stygian. It's nice to see you again." While most ghosts only recognized Charon as a voice of authority, in this case they had met while she was living. Mr. and Mrs. Kaminsky had made their funeral arrangements with Stygian Funeral some years before.

  "Whil
e it's lovely to see you, and I know this is a bit abrupt, but you do realize you're deceased?"

  "Oh, yes."

  Charon cocked his head, puzzled. "Then why are you here to see me? Are you having… difficulties?"

  Can't you find the way? or Are you lost? always sounded so condescending. Phrasing was important when communicating with the dead.

  "It's trickier than I thought it would be," she said with a pensive frown, even as she bent down to tug at a non-existent weed. "The light's there. I see it, but I haven't been able to go through. As if there's something in the way."

  Charon leaned on the counter with his clawed fingers laced together. He wore gloves with clients, who found it a charming affectation. His staff just thought he liked his manicures long, sharp, and black. "It's hard letting go. Your house. Your garden. All the things that made you happy here."

  "Did you give Gina my wedding ring? I know she must have bullied you for it."

  "I did not. Still on your finger." Charon pointed to the embalmed corpse all prepared for the viewing the next day.

  Mrs. Kaminsky gave a satisfied nod. "Good man. I don't know how I gave birth to such a shark."

  He spread his hands. "It can happen to the best parents. Now, Mrs. Kaminsky, it's time you should try moving on. You have new things calling you."

  "But—"

  "Turn around, ma'am. Do you see it?" It could be anything according to belief, but Charon found he still had a knack for encouraging spirits toward that next phase of existence no matter what pantheon or spiritual path they had internalized in life.

  "I see it. The light's been there the whole time. I just had trouble."

  "You simply need to walk there. Maybe turn a bit. Edge around if head-on isn't working."

  Her eyes crinkled in amusement. "Mr. Stygian, are you saying I'm too fat to fit through into the afterlife?"