gauging the mood, the threat level, and just letting myself become accustomed to the environment. What I knew of the Circe conflicted with the energetic, happy mood of the place. But then there were few who knew of the lies and heinous practice going on around them.
Eventually, I felt Sandra’s presence. “Now we wait.” And then she breezed past me.
There were mostly sirens, but some nymphs, a few imps and fae, and one or two humans in the market. Vines and flowers bloomed from railings and over pergolas, creating shaded spots under which tables and chairs had been placed. Streets fanned out from the market, lined with whitewashed buildings no higher than three stories. Brightly painted pottery decorated corners of buildings and doorways, filled with flowers, plants, and seashells.
It was all strangely . . . idyllic, completely at odds with the darkness I’d attributed to this place.
I lost Sandra, but found her again as she neared the building on the corner. It had a bright blue door, whitewashed stone walls, and flowering vines attached to one corner. Her head turned; the flash of her eyes in the shadow of her veil found me and waved me over. I caught the door before it closed, stepping inside behind her.
I’d heard for the normal traveler, it could take a day or more to get approval, but government officials and celebrities like the oracle—it might only take an hour or two.
After Sandra spoke to the innkeeper, we were led to a private room with a window that overlooked the market. As soon as we entered the bright room, Sandra shrugged off her veil and sank into one of the couches. The window was open, one side framed in blooms that crawled up the outside of the building.
I let my bags slide off my shoulders and stared out at the market scene, itching to do something, itching for a fight, honestly. To do what I knew best. I was out of my element, in another dimension that looked like some Mediterranean paradise while all I wanted to do was bust some heads, exact some revenge, and get my partner the hell out of there.
I let out a loud exhale.
“Nothing like Charbydon, is it?” Sandra asked.
I glanced over my shoulder. “No. Nothing like.” I turned back to the scene outside. “It’s beautiful here.” Which pissed me off; it shouldn’t
When she didn’t answer, I moved away from the window. She was watching me, her expression blank. I stopped by the arm of the empty couch across from hers. “Have you?”
I waited, wondering if I’d be able to detect a lie if she told one. Alessandra was a lot of things. Greedy. Haughty. Prideful. Sarcastic. But for some reason, she didn’t strike me as dishonest. Oh, she milked her clients for every penny she could, but as far as I knew she never told things she did not see. She was more the type to deliver the brutal truth or simply not answer at all. This time, she chose the latter, which meant she
“Sit down, Charlie. Relax. If you start pacing, I might throw something at you.” Her eyes drifted closed and her head fell back against the cushion. “I’m already getting a headache.”
I sat down. “I’ve been thinking about what you said . . . If you can’t see Hank’s future because it’s intertwined with ours, that means he’s alive, right? He’s part of all this. Otherwise you’d be able to see.”
Her chest rose and fell. Her eyes opened and she looked at me with a mixture of exasperation and pity. “Well if he’s dead, I wouldn’t be able to see him, either.”
I winced, her words slicing between my ribs as effortlessly as a surgical knife and straight into my heart. Sandra had a way of hitting me where it hurt, and this time was no exception. I gazed out the window, knowing that pressing her wasn’t going to get me anywhere, but I’d needed to do it anyway, needed some hope or reassurance . . . something.
“I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me, Charlie. I’m just . . .” She searched for the right words, but none seemed to come.
“Pissed off that you can’t see the future?”
Her eyes glowed and her tiny form seemed to vibrate with energy. “You could say that. It’s not enjoyable to . . .
The soft knock at the door came in just under an hour.
“Oracle!” A tall siren dropped to his knees, grabbed the hem of her robe, and brought it to his lips. “Fiallan is honored by your presence, simply honored.”
“Please, stand.”
I didn’t miss the note of discomfort in her voice, which was surprising. Guess after a while, groveling grew old even for the oracle. Who knew?
The siren straightened. He was handsome, a bit on the thin side with a straight nose, long chin, and thick dark-blond eyebrows. Like all sirens, he was blond and blue-eyed.
“Your name, siren,” Sandra prompted him with patience.
He colored. “Pelos, Emissary to the Royal House of Akleion. I offer greetings from King Aersis himself and bid you welcome to Fiallan. You would bestow a great honor upon us to accept the king’s invitation to stay at the palace during your visit to our fair city by the sea.”
“Well spoke, Pelos.” Sandra turned to me, an eyebrow arched.
“Your servant—” His gaze swept over my insignificant self until it landed on my weapons, visible since I’d removed the robe. “Pardon, your guard is most welcome, too, of course.”
“She is both, as it happens. It is always wise, dear Pelos, to employ those with multiple talents. Will her weapons be permitted inside of the palace?”
Pelos stumbled. It was clear by the red creeping in his cheeks that they were not.
“Of course,” Sandra continued on, “there is no need for protection within the royal house, but my . . . popularity, you see . . . Once word reaches the masses, well, as you can imagine my presence requires protections from those more . . . ardent seekers of the future, and I am so attached to my guard and rely on her greatly.”
His eyes grew wide and he was nodding before he probably even realized he was. “Oh, of course. I had not considered that. You must need protecting at all costs. I’m sure the king will permit this protection on your behalf.”
Sandra bestowed a glorious smile on poor Pelos. “That is wonderful news! We shall accept his invitation with the highest gratitude.”
Pelos turned and motioned to someone behind him. A siren guard, dressed like those at the gate, stepped inside of the room and picked up Sandra’s bag. I waited for him to pick up mine, but no. They were already walking out the door, leaving me to shrug back into the robe, toss my backpack over one shoulder and my duffel over the other.
The emissary fawned over the oracle as we were escorted past the wall and into the inner city or old city as it was also called. As my subservient role required, I followed directly behind them.
The old city of Fiallan sloped gently down toward the sea. Houses had been built snugly into the rocky landscape, packed tightly together or with narrow alleys between them. It was no wonder the sirens took an interest in the Greeks—their land was familiar, from the rocky landscape to the blue sea and the pebble beaches.
The city was made of marble and whitewashed stone that seemed to glow in the sunlight. The main streets were wide and paved with smooth flagstones, and the houses all faced the sea with balconies and fluttering curtains waving in the breeze.
We walked through the meandering streets, Sandra chatting idly with Pelos while I took in my surroundings. Seabirds cried. The sound of the waves mixed with the sounds of everyday life. It was all so familiar and yet . . . not.
I couldn’t help but think of Hank as a child, growing up here. His roots were here, his family, his people. I spied the other two towers rising in the distance—needles jutting up from where the wall turned into sheer cliffs rising straight up from the sea. Goose bumps sprouted along my arms at the contrast of beauty and the evil I knew to lurk there. Sometimes that was the worst kind of danger, the kind veiled in beauty, the unsuspecting kind.
Pelos pointed out areas of interest as we went—the way to a sacred spring, the baths, the market, and the