The man who called himself the Tetractys watched from the forest as Theodore Schultz hunted for his clothes. The professor didn’t look much like a Makarites at the moment, not with his glasses askew and the irritated look on his face. Then again, the ancient heroes had usually performed their greatest deeds in the nude, and Schultz looked surprisingly buff for a classicist—likely because he hadn’t been eating much since that whole unfortunate episode with the Huntress. His grief had burned away any softness he’d possessed; he looked lean and strong, ready for anything.
The Tetractys didn’t resemble his title either. He looked nothing like the perfect equilateral triangle for which he’d been named. I’m full of flaws, he admitted to himself with a shrug. Foremost among them that I can’t keep my mind off that blonde.
The woman who’d spread her legs for the professor had run right by the Tetractys’s hiding place, cheeks flushed. He’d marked her route, sure she’d be up for more action later on. If she thinks Schultz can make her come, just wait until she meets me. It took every ounce of his self-control—and he didn’t have much to begin with—not to take off after her right then. He could use some release. Someone to ease the knot of worry in his stomach.
Six months ago, his life had unraveled. The tune he’d danced to for so long had grown too faint to hear, and the man who’d written the music in the first place—the man he called Father and who’d first granted him his secret title—was lost to him. The Tetractys had escaped the brutal battle atop the Statue of Liberty to find himself alone, no brothers to help, searching in vain for the missing Father, trying to remember the notes to a melody he’d never fully understood.
He remembered their last hurried conversation. You are the only one left to me, the Father had told him, although the Tetractys doubted that was true. How could he trust a man who had schemed for so long? Wiles ran in his blood.
So many gods dead, the old man had said, nodding his white head sorrowfully. Yet I had no choice. We sacrifice a few for the good of the many. Though so many of the Father’s family lay dead, he spoke with nothing more than weary resignation. It will all be worth it when the symphony plays. And that, at least, the Tetractys believed.
But sometimes, just before he drifted off to sleep, he’d jerk back into wakefulness, heart racing, skin chilled, stomach clenching with an unfamiliar emotion it had taken him months to name: Guilt.
He caught a buzzing mosquito between his fingers, wondering whether the blood smearing his fingers was his own. One little libation, sacrificed for a higher being, he thought. How much more blood will be spilt before this is over?
He watched as the man who would inevitably become the next sacrifice shoved on a pair of sneakers and headed out of the meadow at a jog, clearly eager to leave the orgy behind. The Tetractys stepped back a little farther into the shadows, unwilling to be seen as the classicist passed his hiding place.
The Tetractys hadn’t heard Schultz’s conversation with Dionysus, but he worried about what might’ve been said. Schultz’s doggedness, he felt sure, would eventually lead him to the Father, but he was taking his own sweet time about it—following paths of his own making, swerving away from the ultimate goal—and the Tetractys’s patience was wearing thin. Whether through force or cunning, he needed to keep Schultz on track.
There’s that guilt again, he noted, watching the professor go. Despite the summer heat, the familiar chill prickled across his skin. He’s a good man. I’ve watched him long enough to know that. But even good men must sometimes die for the sake of the greater good. The knowledge gave him little comfort.
And me? Am I a good man? It was a question he’d never asked before.
Perhaps because he already knew the answer.
The Tetractys caught a glimpse of Schultz’s blonde seductress meandering from the forest into the clearing and back, her pale skin flashing through the trees like a beacon. He stood, brushed the leaves from his pants, and ran a hand through his hair. Schultz would be in his rental car by now, heading back to the city. The Tetractys would have plenty of time to track him before he made any further moves.
At this point, he decided, one more sin won’t make a difference.
He donned his most charming smile and headed toward the glimmer of flesh, determined to enjoy himself while he still could. Soon enough, he’d have to start leading Schultz, rather than following. The Father had made his wishes clear:
You, my Tetractys, may play the harmony that makes my symphony soar—but the Makarites is the note to which we all must tune our instruments.