Chapter 11
LEADER OF THE MUSES
“She’s his sister,” Theo explained to the bouncer at the Bowery Ballroom stage door for the third time. “Just tell him we’re here, and he’ll let us in.”
The dour man with a pencil-thin beard crossed his melon-thick arms. “Mr. Solson is performing. Onstage. Right now. What do you not understand? Either you’re on the backstage pass list, or you’re not. Do you want me to interrupt him in the middle of a song to ask him if he wants me to let in a bleeding chick and a half-dressed man?”
Theo noticed Selene’s balled hands and knew it wouldn’t be long before she knocked the bouncer senseless. But he also knew the man had a point. Their trek through the train tunnels had left them coated in a thin layer of soot, and the combination of his own coatless state and the blood-soaked bandages peeking from beneath Selene’s hat made them look more like half-crazed disaster refugees than the long-lost relatives of one of the city’s most popular indie rock stars.
“Let me handle this,” Theo said softly.
“Selene?” A young woman peered past the bouncer, her eyes round. “You’re Paul’s sister, right? Dickie, let her in! My goodness, you poor thing!”
And just like that they were past the ropes, following a wisp of a woman into the club’s cramped back hallway. She waved down a passing roadie and asked him to bring a first aid kit, then turned back to Selene, nearly shouting to be heard over the acoustic folk rock blasting through the walls. “I’m Sophie. I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Paul’s girlfriend.”
“I need to speak to my brother immediately.”
“He’s in the middle of—”
Before Sophie could finish, Selene was striding down the hallway toward the stage entrance.
Theo held up a placating hand to Sophie. “I’ll get her, don’t worry. It’s been a rough night.” And it’s about to be very a rough day. Dawn had just begun to lighten the sky. In keeping with his God of the Sun persona, Paul’s concerts coincided with the sunrise. His rabid fan base didn’t seem to mind. Theo, on the other hand, could barely stand upright.
When he caught up to Selene, she was standing in the wings with her hands over her ears, ignoring the stage manager’s angry threats. To Theo’s relief, Sophie appeared shortly afterward to pull the man away, assuring him Selene posed no danger to the musicians onstage.
I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Theo thought, noticing the fury in her eyes. He had a nagging suspicion she might leap onstage and drag her brother off in the middle of the chorus.
Sophie tapped Selene on the arm and stood on her tiptoes to yell into her ear, “Two more songs and then a set break.” Theo felt like he could blow the young woman over with a well-aimed sneeze. With her shabby chic clothes, stick-thin arms, and heavily made-up eyes, she looked like a Victorian urchin. Selene just nodded curtly, not even deigning to make eye contact with her.
Paul Solson, the God of Music, Poetry, Prophecy, Plague, Healing, and the Sun, stood in a spotlight playing a gleaming acoustic guitar, singing his face off to a crowd of adoring fans. As always, he wore his golden curls long, just brushing his shoulders. He’d dyed the white streak in his hair that mirrored the one in Selene’s—now there was nothing about him to indicate he was any older than his mid-twenties.
He’d gathered the front of his curls into a topknot. To the audience, it probably seemed a perfectly practical, if somewhat eccentric, hairdo for a sweaty, hardworking hipster, but Theo recognized it as a style worn by Roman maidens and often used in statues of Apollo to represent the god’s indeterminate sexuality.
Even without the hair, there was something almost womanly about him. He stood as tall as Selene, but while her flesh was marble and her lean muscles perennially taut, a certain softness overlay Paul’s frame. His skin was tawny honey, his movements as languorous, and Theo could almost taste the sweetness of the God of Music’s voice on his own tongue. The rest of the band panted, their faces unnaturally flushed, but Paul performed effortlessly. Theo had the distinct impression his voice would reach the back of the club even without the microphone, every note tugging at the heartstrings of his fans, who listened raptly as if to the revelation of a god.
“How long’s the set been?” he asked Sophie.
“Two hours straight,” she replied. “The rest of the band’s about to drop, but Paul never gets tired.” She sighed with adoration. “There’s no one like him.”
So either he’s still supernatural, or he’s high on cocaine.
The song ended to a roar of approval from the crowd. Selene lowered her hands from her ears, ready to spring forward.
As if sensing her distress, Paul suddenly glanced toward the wings. His eyes grew wide; the instantaneous communication between the twins hummed. Even Theo’s mortal senses perceived it. If this is what it looks like when they don’t know each other anymore, what must it have been like before their estrangement? he wondered. For a moment, he could picture them, side by side in white tunics, gleaming bows drawn, hunting their enemies across the hills of Attica.
Paul turned back to the crowd. “One more before we take a break. This one’s dedicated to the first girl I ever loved.”
At that, Selene grunted and put her hands over her ears once more. Sophie turned a distinct shade of pink and wandered over to the edge of the proscenium so she could be as close to her boyfriend as possible. Theo wondered what lies Paul had told her. Could she really believe she was the first woman he’d given his heart to? Even if she didn’t know he was a god—and a famously promiscuous one at that—he was a rock musician.
Selene didn’t take her eyes off the singer either. But her gaze was filled with anger, not love.
“Your twin’s really good,” Theo said quietly, knowing she could hear him even over the din. She shot him an annoyed look. He was, after all, stating the obvious. Very gently, he reached for her wrists and urged her to lower her hands. She snarled, but complied.
The drumbeats had slowed to a mournful march, the keyboardist picked out a syncopated roundelay, and Paul strummed his guitar in counterpoint. His voice soared over the room, teasing octave after octave.
Sweet, sweet-voiced Muses,
Sweet-voiced Muses,
Tell me of the long-winged Moon.
She climbs through the sky
With an all-seeing eye,
And the mountains shake,
The forests quake
At her bold, bold heart.
Her bold, bold heart.
Theo threaded his hand through Selene’s. He recognized a few of the lyrics—some came from the Homeric hymn to Artemis and others from the hymn to Selene the Moon. But Paul had put a spin on it all his own. He launched into the second verse, clearly an ode to himself borrowed from the hymn to Helios, the Sun.
Sweet, sweet-voiced Muses,
Sweet-voiced Muses,
Tell me of the tireless Sun.
His bright rays beam,
His bright locks stream,
And his stallions rear
When his chariot draws near
To his bold, bold love.
His bold, bold love.
On the chorus, the whole audience joined in, a great wall of sound.
Sun and Moon,
Midnight or noon,
Never together.
Never together.
Apollo, called Phoebus, “Bright One,” was earning his epithet: Paul’s skin seemed to glow as if he were the Sun once more. His eyes shone a luminescent golden-brown while his sister’s glowed faintly silver. Then the band dropped out, the audience fell into a reverent silence, and Paul sang the coda a cappella.
But never say never.
When the mountains shake
And the forests quake,
They’ll dance together.
Their love’s forever.
Their love’s forrrrrrrrrr … eeeeeeeev … UUUCHK!
A gasp from the audience.
Face horror-stricken, Paul raised a hand to his neck as if to throttle his cracked voice. There was a long moment of terrible silence. Finally, wary applause, growing into a halfhearted ovation.
“Bring down the lights,” Sophie hissed to the stage manager. “Get him out of there.”
The other band members stumbled offstage toward the dressing rooms, looking like they might pass out at any moment. Paul walked toward the wings like a man in a dream, his gaze unfocused. Up close, Theo realized Paul’s divine visage was a facade. His golden eyes were veined with red, and sweat had turned his topknot into a limp, wet wad. He handed his guitar to the stage manager as if thrusting away a dangerous animal.
Sophie rushed toward him. He held her tightly, his chest visibly heaving. After a long moment, his gaze met Selene’s. He left Sophie with a reassuring kiss and crossed to his sister, falling into her arms. Selene stiffened and didn’t return the hug, but she didn’t push him away either. Sophie watched them with a hand pressed against her chest, obviously moved by the touching reunion.
As usual, Selene seemed to have no idea how to console those in distress. She patted Paul’s back awkwardly.
Over her shoulder, Paul saw Theo and stood upright. He wiped a sweaty lock of hair from his face. “Hey,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just cracked in front of six hundred fans. “What’s up, Theo?”
“Great show,” he replied without thinking. What else does one say backstage to a rock star?
“Thanks, man,” Paul said, massaging his throat as if to rub away the strain. “You know what I always say about the power of music—under the spell of pulsing notes, the eagle sleeps on the scepter of Zeus, relaxing his swift wings.”
You always say? Theo thought. You mean the Pindarian odes always say. Mentioning Paul’s plagiarism, however, seemed about as tactless as pointing out his cracked voice. Selene, of course, didn’t see it that way.
“No eagle could sleep to that racket,” she said with a single raised brow. “You sounded like shit out there.”
Paul’s attention snapped back to his sister. “Well, you look like shit.” He spoke with all the vitriol only a twin sibling was capable of, but the finger he reached toward the bloody cloths on her forehead was gentle. “What happened to you?”
She dodged his hand, her eyes darting to Sophie and the bustling roadies crowding the wings. “Let’s not discuss this in front of your entourage.”
Paul nodded, his face suddenly gone vague. “Yes, yes … it’s coming …” he murmured, before heading off down the hallway without another word of explanation.
“What the hell is he talking about?” Selene asked, staring after her brother.
Theo could only shrug. He was far too tired to understand much of anything anymore. “He’s the God of Prophecy, right? The oracles are supposed to be cryptic.”
Selene followed her brother into a small dressing room that reeked of cigarettes, sweat, and whiskey. Her nose wrinkled, but the room was warm and dry and a far sight better than roaming dank underground tunnels in the middle of the night. Theo slumped into a patched armchair.
Her twin went straight for a row of bottled water on the counter. After downing one without taking a breath, he started on another.
Selene couldn’t believe it. “Aren’t you even going to ask about Hades?”
“Hades?” Paul looked completely bewildered.
“He’s dead! Weren’t you listening on the phone yesterday?”
“Oh shit.” He rubbed his face. “Yeah, of course I remember. I just …” His eyes looked glazed. “I thought maybe it was a dream.”
“A dream? What are you on? Coke? Speed?” Selene demanded, ready to slap the sense back into him.
Theo leaned wearily forward in his chair, chin propped in his hand as if he couldn’t hold up his own head. “I wish tonight were just a dream. But I’m afraid the man with a gun who chased us out of Selene’s house was very real. Normally he wouldn’t have been a problem for the Huntress, of course—except for the whole he could fly thing.”
“He wore Dash’s cap,” Selene said, her voice tight. “Which means the Messenger sent someone to kill me.”
“No, no.” Paul shook his head as if trying to clear it.
Maybe he’s drunk, Selene thought. Or just whacked out from centuries of hanging with musicians—isn’t that how rock stars’ stories always end?
Paul crushed the empty water bottle in his hand. “This can’t be Dash’s fault … but something’s coming.”
“What do you mean, ‘something’s coming’?”
Paul closed his eyes for a moment. “I’ve been having …”
“Prophetic visions?” Theo asked, sounding hopeful.
But Paul shook his head. “My prophecies were of the future … these are visions of my past. I’m not sure how to explain it except …” His voice slowed, as if dragging forth long-forgotten memories. “I am an ouroboros, a snake eating my own tail, forced to move always in circles, never forward. Yet something stands ready to break the cycle. A release from pain, a destination as stygian as death itself.”
Selene wondered if his break onstage had caused his overwrought melancholy—or vice versa. Either way, she needed him lucid to help defeat the new cult, not meandering through poetic flights of fancy. “You’ve always been overdramatic. Comes from being the Leader of the Muses. Get over yourself—you’re just having the Christmas blues.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He moved to a sink in the corner and splashed water on his face. He cupped his hands, took another long drink, and smoothed the hair from his forehead. When he turned back to them, his eyes were clear gold once more, as if he’d pushed away his despondency by sheer force of will.
With a tentative knock on the door, Sophie appeared with a first aid kit. She put it on the scarred coffee table and then went to her boyfriend. She ran a hand through his damp hair, her eyes glued on his. “You all right?” she murmured.
He kissed her in answer, hugging her so hard that her feet came off the floor. She wrapped her legs around his hips and he placed both hands on her ass. Selene winced but couldn’t look away. Finally, Paul put the woman down and whispered something in her ear. Sophie cast a glance at Theo and Selene. “Okay, pookums, whatever you need.” Then she kissed his cheek one more time and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Theo, seemingly unfazed by the public display of affection, popped open the first aid kit and removed a few adhesive bandages and some antiseptic. “Okay, Selene, you might heal a little faster than a mortal, but I’m not sure you’re immune to infection.” He reached for the bloody T-shirt strips on her forehead, but she raised a hand to stop him.
“No complaints,” he insisted. “The Rambo look is very 1982. And not in a good way.”
As he worked, Selene peered around his arm to look at her brother. He’d picked up an electric guitar and begun to pluck out a melody. Without amplification, the sound thunked flat and muffled, but she recognized the tune: an old dancing song, once played by the light of a midnight pyre as she and her nymphs spun in joyous circles beneath the stars. I grabbed Apollo by the hand, she remembered suddenly, and he threw down the lyre to join us. We didn’t need the music anymore—it rang in our bones. But right now, she had no time for such memories.
“Would you put that down and listen to me?”
He didn’t look up. “I can play and listen at the same time. I haven’t grown that weak.”
“You said Dash wasn’t involved in the attack. How do you know?”
The melody altered—a simple shepherd’s tune, like the kind Hermes once coaxed from a bundle of reeds.
“How could you think our little brother would want to kill you?” He looked up, his eyes sad. “Do you trust us all so little?”
“He’s the Dissembler,” she insisted.
Paul shrugged an acknowledgment. “He stole my cattle once, do you remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“He was just a kid. I found him lying on a cow’s back, grinning and totally unrepentant. He offered to give me the pipes he’d carved from reeds and a lyre made from a turtle’s shell in return for my golden cattle. A good trade.”
“Your point?”
“Dash might lie or cheat or steal, but he’s always been the Giver of Good Things.”
Selene couldn’t help picturing Hermes as he’d been—hair a wild black halo, bright eyes always filled with laughter. He hadn’t changed that much over the centuries. Whenever she’d needed a new identity, a new job, a new place to live, he leaped to her aid. When they’d confronted Orion, Dash had made sure she had a new bow to replace the one that had broken, and then he’d shown up himself to fight at her side. I don’t actually want him to be guilty, she admitted to herself. But out loud, she scoffed. “He’s also the God of Eloquence. And you’ve fallen for his rhetoric. How about I hold an arrow to his throat, and then we see what tale he tells?”
The door to the dressing room burst open. Dash Mercer himself stood framed in the doorway, a flannel fedora tilted rakishly over one eye. “Did someone say ‘telling tales’?” he asked nonchalantly. “Because I’ve got a good one. Did I ever tell you all—”
Before he finished the sentence, Selene had launched herself at her younger brother, one hand reaching for his throat—the other gripping the shaft of an arrow.