“From what we can tell, certain Olympian gods—who may take any generic human form they wish—rarely appear as themselves in public, preferring to remain unnoticed outside of official events. Therefore, should someone looking like a god ever actually approach you in public, it is far more likely to be someone with a good mask pulling your leg. Even so, anyone claiming to be a god who does not look like one is also quite likely pulling your leg because, let’s face it, who the heck are you to warrant a visit from a god?”
—How to Tell the Olympian Gods (and What Not to Tell Them)
THE FOLLOWING DAY found Leif in the same café drinking the same drink in nearly the same seat. The place was blessedly devoid of reality TV stars, though there did seem to be one or two more women hanging about than normal. Maybe they were hoping for a return of the Big Damn Hero, or maybe it was just coincidence. This time he managed to get his drink without having it stolen, so frankly he didn’t care. The extra women made for good eye candy.
Garbage-television producer Tracy Wallace’s wallet was tucked in his laptop bag. He’d belatedly discovered it after he left yesterday, called the number on one of her business cards, and told her he’d be at the café again the next day if she wanted it back. Yes, he was that guy who didn’t like her show. No, he didn’t want a reward. No, he didn’t want to bother leaving it at the front desk of her hotel (even if it was on his way, which he didn’t tell her). She was lucky he was honest, though he didn’t tell her that either; the sixty-second conversation was long enough. He hoped the conversation when she picked it up would be even shorter.
Leif was a quarter of the way through his mocha and considering the foolish risk of drawing on an inside straight when he sensed someone approaching. Instead of Ms. Wallace, the newcomer was a man, tall and comfortably dressed in a formal, Eddie Bauer sort of way. Leif gave him his attention without being sure why. The man put his hand on the back of the empty chair at Leif’s table.
“I beg your pardon. Might I make use of this chair?”
“All yours.”
The matter ended, Leif returned his attention to his poker hand and opted to keep the ace, king and discard the rest. The first card he drew would’ve completed the straight, and so caught up was Leif in cursing his choice that it took him a moment to notice that the man hadn’t taken the chair to another table, but had actually sat down at Leif’s.
“Oh, um . . . sorry. Didn’t realize that’s what you meant.” Numerous nearby tables were conspicuously empty. Leif prepared to rebuff a sales pitch.
“You don’t mind, I trust. It’s just myself and my tea. I abhor standing and drinking, and there are no open tables.”
“Uh, there’s that one.” Leif pointed. “And that one. That one too. Oh, that one has a free newspaper on it—”
“Yes, a poor lie,” the man admitted. He leaned closer. “I wish to speak to you directly, Leif Karlson, and am trying to be discreet about it.”
Leif blinked. “Um . . . flattered but not interested, thanks. I’ve got company coming in a sec anyhow.” Who was this guy?
The stranger scowled. “Perhaps I should introduce myself: I am Apollo. I expect you’ve heard of me.”
Leif laughed. “Apollo?” A few heads turned.
“Lower your voice, mortal.”
“Right. Apollo. Sure. And I’m a Nigerian prince with millions of dollars for you!”
The Olympian wannabe arched an eyebrow. “Have you truly been living in a cave for the past nine months? With your hands over your eyes, perhaps, and carrots jammed in your ears?”
“Hey, just because there’re ‘gods’ now doesn’t mean I’ll take some guy on his word that he’s one of them. Billions of people in the world, and ‘Apollo’ wants to talk to me? Right.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I dislike your tone, mortal. Even a god’s patience has limits.”
“Mm. You know, you don’t look like the guy in the photos. Shouldn’t you be driving a sun chariot or something? And where’s your bow, your lyre? Geez, didn’t you research this at all?”
“Obviously I am in disguise,” the man responded. He caught Leif’s eyes with his own as he did so. Unable to look away, Leif gasped.
Each Olympian has the ability to make his or her divinity manifest, be it a wide burst to cover a crowd or narrowly focused on a single person, such as, say, a blond, skeptical poker player in a café. Power flared in Apollo’s crystal blue gaze. Within it Leif witnessed the shining glory of the sun, brilliantly blazing majesty, and . . . dolphins, for some reason. The god stared into Leif as the young man’s mind gaped, his soul quaked, and his stomach tried to claw its way out of his ear. It was like getting a root canal from an amorous supermodel—painful but awesome—and he couldn’t look away.
And then it stopped. Leif swallowed.
“So. Apollo. Um . . . crap. Heh. Sorry, um, about that.” His stomach plunged back to where it belonged, clearly unhappy about the trip. “So . . . um . . .”
Apollo smirked. “At a loss for words? A little unusual for you, from what I’ve been told.”
“What you’ve been told? That’s . . . Why?”
“It’s all right to be nervous, Mr. Karlson. We Olympians tend to have that effect.”
“Who said I was nervous? I’m just, ya know, surprised.”
He swallowed again, surprised at how nervous he was. Never for one moment since the Return did Leif ever believe the Olympians were actual gods, but the fact remained that they were inarguably powerful, whatever they were. The most powerful person Leif ever spoke with was the chairman of the art department in college, which was hardly adequate preparation for this experience. On the other hand, Leif had once personally forced Alexander the Great to surrender—sure, only in a computer game, but talking to a god was bizarre enough to easily slip the tag of reality. So hey, he told himself, you’ve done this before. No biggie.
And to think his mom thought those games were a waste of time.
The god smiled. “Nervous, surprised. Whichever makes you feel better. But there’s no need for that, you know. Gods are just like mortals, only . . . better. You have heard of Dionysus, yes? I believe Maximum ran an article on him recently titled ‘God of Frat Boys’ or some such.”
Leif considered the best way to ask if Apollo was going with the standard “put someone at ease by telling them a pointless story” trick and finally decided on, “Uh-huh.”
“One of the twelve gods on the Olympian council for a time, yet he was part mortal when he was born.”
“That so.”
“It’s a long story. Born of Zeus and a mortal woman, then later Zeus elevated him to full godhood with a bit of star-stuff and some really good fudge.”
Leif blinked. “Some . . . really good fudge?”
“Oh, there’s more to it than that, of course. I wasn’t there at the time, and Zeus had many more children to whom he granted no such boon.”
Leif cleared his throat. “Came all the way out here just to tell me that, huh?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Apollo answered. “Do you remember your father, Mr. Karlson?”
“What? I talked to him just last week.”
“Are you sure he’s your real father?”
“Well, yeah, we do weekly blood tests just to make sure. Doesn’t everyone?”
Apollo scowled. “My question was a serious one.”
“Oh, come on. A serious question is what do I think of gay marriage or climate change. ‘Golly, Leif, didja ever think your daddy might be Zeus?’ How’d you even ask that with a straight face?”
“Foolishly glib. Do consider it a moment. Do you look like your father? Act like him? Could you possibly have any reason to suspect—?”
Leif mimed typing on the laptop as he cut him off. “Dear Mom: How are you? I am fine. By the way, a god called you a slut today. Ever doink any guys with big thunderbolts? How’s the weather?”
Apollo didn’t laugh. “So you’ve never had any dreams of Zeus? Read about him? Had any interest in him you’d call unusual?”
“I read about lots of people. Doesn’t mean they’re my dad.”
“Mr. Karlson, I have no wish to do you grievous harm, but I have very little time. Answer my question now, please.”
Leif had heard more sinister death threats in his life—he gamed online, after all—though this was the first time he’d experienced it face-to-face. Somehow that made it easier to shrug it off. “Well, yeah, I read about him. I read about all you guys. I haven't for a while, though. And never particularly about any one god.”
“Not for a while? Why is that?”
Leif shrugged. “Just lost interest, I guess. That why you’re here? Wouldn’t it be easier to hire a publicist instead of doing one-on-one interviews?”
“I dislike delegation.”
“You’re really bad at determining whether a question is serious or not, huh?”
“You’re really bad at knowing whom not to criticize.”
“Just sayin’.”
“Enough of this. I shall make my point.”
Without warning, every sound in the café ceased. All else continued: conversing patrons’ lips moved, customers entered, drinks were made—it was as if someone pressed the mute button and no one seemed to notice but Leif. The sheer abruptness of the silence was enough to make him jump, and the jump was enough to make him feel stupid.
“What just happened?” he asked, surprised to be able to hear himself and immediately feeling even more foolish for trying to speak when he’d thought he’d been muted. At least no one knew that part but him.
Apollo motioned to the rest of the café. “We cannot hear them; they cannot hear us. I do not wish to be overheard.”
“Cool. What’s it called?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, it’s a power. It’s got to have a name, right? Sonic Shield? Sound Bubble? Hey, why didn’t you open with this?”
Apollo ignored the questions. “We’ve been observing you, Mr. Karlson. By all accounts you appear an average man: unemployed, sarcastic, judgmental, easily irritated, and skilled at online games of chance. What you are not is heroic, bold, or particularly remarkable.”
“Nice of you to at least insult me in private.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Then you shouldn’t pause like that.”
“A brief while ago, Mr. Karlson, I had a vision of you. Multiple visions, in fact, that strongly suggested you will be involved with the resurrection of Zeus. This would seem at odds with everything we’ve observed in you—”
There was that “we” again. “Wait, we? We who? You mean to say all the gods are watching my unremarkable ass?” Great, now he was insulting himself.
“No, none of the other gods know of this. However, you may have noticed a number of lovely women keeping watch on you. In that time, you’ve done nothing that we can discern as being related to Zeus’s return.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Apology accepted. I have decided it’s time for you to pursue the visions more actively.”
“Well,” Leif declared, “good for you, then.”
“That sounded like a refusal.”
“How do you know these visions are right? Those things are deceptive, you know.”
Apollo raised an eyebrow. “You know of such things?”
“I watch movies, read books, play games. There’s always some twist in any prophecy about a ‘Chosen One,’ isn’t there?”
“I did not call you a Chosen One.”
“Close enough, and my question stands: How do you know this isn’t some horrible trick? Didn’t work out so well for Anakin Skywalker, you know.”
“This is not a movie.”
“Not yet.”
“What?”
“Look, if you want Zeus back, why’re you the only god who knows about it?”
Apollo frowned deeper. “Complicated.”
“Uh-huh.” Leif frowned back. “So say I do as you’re asking—”
“Always a wise choice for a mortal to do a god’s bidding.”
“Yeah, but what do you actually want me to do? Anything to do with those ‘lovely women’ following me around? ’Cause that couldn’t hurt.”
Apollo didn’t answer. Leif couldn’t be sure if the god was choosing his words or just pausing for effect.
“The visions,” he spoke finally, “were not that detailed. Yet it stands to reason you would have a better chance of fulfilling them if you actively pursued them, researched Zeus, or made some other modicum of effort. You accomplish nothing by sitting in this café playing games of chance.”
Leif pointed to his laptop. “Pays the bills,” he said. “Fun too. Besides, I get the feeling the other gods don’t know about this because they wouldn’t like it.”
Apollo gave no answer.
Leif leaned back, arms crossed. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
Treating this whole exchange like the diplomacy segment of a computer game was working pretty well, he realized. More fun, too— computer game diplomacy was always so limited.
“They would not oppose it.” Apollo took a sip of tea.
Leif had learned to write his name when he was four and immediately spent the entire afternoon practicing on the walls of his bedroom with a permanent marker. Upon seeing Leif scrawled over every surface below three feet high, his mother asked him if he knew who was responsible. Leif suspected the look on his face when he blamed it on the dog (who was never a good speller) was more convincing than Apollo’s current expression.
“You’re a lousy liar.”
The god’s smile was bitter as he set the cup down. “I am aware of this.”
“So none of them want Zeus back, which basically means either I tick all of them off if I do what you want, or tick you off if I don’t—and as far as I can tell, there’s only one of you. Lousy odds on helping you.”
“Have you read The Iliad, Mr. Karlson?
“Long time ago, yeah. Skipped the part where they list all the boats for a chapter or three.”
“Do you recall the part when the Greeks insult a priest of mine who comes to ransom a kidnapped Trojan? So many plague arrows did I shoot at the Greeks that day. Consider now the important distinction that none of the other Olympians would know you were helping, while declining just now would most certainly be apparent to me. My stake in this is far beyond such minor indignities as an insult to the priesthood.”
Leif bit the inside of his cheek, mulling that point a bit and finding his second in-person threat to have a little more traction than the first. On the other hand, what was he supposed to do, wander around calling out for Zeus? It sounded like an epic waste of time, to say nothing of the problems of being a pawn in some Olympian chess game. Weaseling out of it sounded a whole lot easier. Now that was something he was good at.
“So,” he began, “you’ll punish me for not doing what you need me to do—”
“Correct.”
“—except you don’t know what it is that you need me to do in the first place. Maybe my doing nothing is what you need me to do. You think of that?”
“You cannot resurrect a god by accident.”
“Won’t know until you don’t try.”
Apollo grimaced. “Frankly without the vision, my mind would boggle at the concept of you being capable at all, but the fact is, you have the potential. You must try!”
Leif chuckled. “A little green guy once said, ‘Try not. Do, or do not.’ Until you’ve got some strong idea of what it is I need to do, I’m choosing the latter. And maybe I’ll tell the other gods what you’re pulling if you keep harassing me, eh?”
Apollo fixed him with a glare like the beating desert sun—or what Leif assumed the beating desert sun would be like, anyway, having grown up in the near-perpetual showers of northwestern Washington.
“Mr. Karlson, those who threaten gods rarely have the chance to make further mistakes.” The god held the gaze, and Leif couldn’t look away. Sweat trickled down his back. His mouth parched. His entire body felt as limp as a dishrag. “What makes you think they would take your word against mine?”
Leif swallowed. Apollo’s gaze cooled.
“You wouldn’t really hurt me,” Leif managed. “You need me. Just . . . let me think about it, okay?”
Even as he said it, Leif was fairly sure he wouldn’t do a damn thing. Well, maybe if it were as easy as pushing a button or something, but anything more than that and he wasn’t getting involved. True gods or no, getting caught up in their affairs sounded like a colossally stupid idea, especially for the weaker side. The others would find out eventually, and they’d stop him.
Plus, the latest Complete Warfare game was coming out tomorrow. He had plans to immerse himself in that as much as humanly possible.
Apollo took another sip of his tea, never letting go of Leif’s gaze. Leif broke first and did his best to disguise his slipping nerve as confident detachment. He guessed it worked about as well as his childhood dog could spell. Then motion at the café entrance caught his eye: Tracy Wallace had returned. She scanned the café for the holder of her wallet.
He had only a moment to wonder if she’d be able to enter the god’s sound bubble when it ceased, and the café ambiance flooded back into Leif’s ears as abruptly as it had gone. Leif’s startled-yet-manly flinch caught Tracy’s attention just as he knocked his own mocha out of his hand. The cup struck the edge of the table and would have spilled to the floor had not Apollo darted down to catch it inches from impact. Tracy had the nerve to smirk.
Apollo smirked as well and set the cup back on the table. “These sorts of things were always so much easier three thousand years ago. I shall be patient with you for the moment, Mr. Karlson. We shall see what fruit that bears.” He stood. Tracy began to make her way toward them. “In the meantime, we will continue to watch you. Should you pass up an obvious opportunity, I will hear of it.”
Leif cleared his throat and gathered up the cup again in an attempt to recover. “Fine. My company’s here, so you should probably go if you want to keep this a secret.”
With a final stern look, Apollo turned to leave. His back was to Leif as he passed Tracy. Leif had only a moment to gasp at the suspiciously sharp pain that pieced his chest before it vanished and he found himself smiling excitedly and standing to meet the suddenly lovely television producer.
Outside, Thalia attempted to console an increasingly frustrated Apollo who was walking in disguise down the sidewalk. “It’s just the hero’s journey. This is how it’s supposed to happen! He’s got the call to adventure; now he’s resisting. This is how it always goes.”
“No, it is not how it always goes. They sometimes go right away. The brave ones do.”
“Oh, very well, not always. All I’m saying is it’s not the end of the world. So he’s not answering the call right away—you just have to be patient. I always thought it more interesting when heroes do the resisting thing at first anyway.”
“I’m not looking for interesting, Thalia. A great many things depend upon this.”
The Muse slid her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder. “It’ll turn out all right.” She gave his arm a pat.
What worried Apollo, of course, was that things did not always turn out all right. Even if a hero did finally take up the call, the typical events that persuaded him to do so tended to be decidedly unpleasant things that the hero—or more importantly, those who demanded his aid in a café with patience far beyond what was deserved—might have avoided if he hadn’t been so damned reluctant in the first place. This assumed Apollo could even apply the term "hero" to Leif at all.
Perhaps Apollo would have been even more worried if he or any of the Muses had spotted the mortal watching Leif Karlson. This concern would likely have inflamed further with the knowledge that the mortal’s mother was an immortal conspirator responsible for Zeus’s murder. Had Apollo known that the conspirators had persuaded Aphrodite to pierce Leif’s heart with an invisible arrow of love designed to preoccupy him with lustful distraction, an arrow which she shot from the café’s kitchen door moments after Apollo stood and walked away . . .
Well, why dwell in the hypothetical? Apollo did not know.
Neither, for that matter, did Leif.
Neither did Tracy Wallace.
Neither did the president of the United States, the Society for Archery-free Cafés, nor the director of the Red Herring Fishing Society.
Aren’t lists fun?