Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) (15 page)

When the hurt subsides and her fists unclench, she checks the
mirror in the bathroom and nods at her reflection. An ugly woman stares back. A
woman not worth anyone’s time.

Or anyone’s attention.

§

They have names for women like her, or maybe she’s the
reason for the names. Everyone needs a scapegoat.

In the old days, there was a ritual called the pharmakos. In
times of drought or other hardship, a slave or an animal was driven from the
city in the hope that casting out the scapegoat would also cast out the
hardship.

They never formally pushed her out. They didn’t have to. The
words and whispers did it for them. And even though the serpents were hissing
their poison, even though she fought tears the entire way, she held her head up
high as she left.

There was no such shame for Poseidon.

§

The edge of the sky is just beginning to lighten when she finishes
up the last line of translation. She sends it via email and sits back in her
chair with her hands clasped behind her head. The serpents coil around her
fingers. She shakes them free and puts on her scarf and sunglasses. Her
clothing is already shapeless, but she grabs a cane to complete the look.

One walk around the block to clear her head and get her blood
flowing is all she needs before breakfast and bed. She doesn’t normally pull
all-nighters, but this was a rush job. Nothing ancient this time, just a bit of
modern Greek in a legal document for a writer and her literary agent. A fairly
easy, well-paying assignment.

The streets are still awash in shadow. Her cane thumps against
the pavement. She doesn’t hunch over or force her feet into a slow and halting
rhythm; there’s no one around to see. She drops a few dollars into a homeless
man’s cup. He’s snoring loudly, oblivious to her presence, and she hopes he
wakes before someone else steals the money.

As she withdraws her hand, she sees smooth skin and frowns. She
pats her cheek. Her frown turns into a gaping hole of shock. No, it isn’t
possible. It’s only been two days.

At her feet, the man shifts. Mumbles. She turns and runs the rest
of the way home. Inside, she drops the cane, rips the sunglasses and scarf
free, tosses them onto the floor, and races into her bathroom. The bright
lights reveal an absence of wrinkles. In their place, smooth skin, a firm
jawline. A young woman’s face, although she’s anything but. The part in the old
stories about her mortality?

Wrong.

They also like to portray her as a hag or a monster. She’s never
been either one naturally, and if she were, would so many have tried to claim
and conquer her?

She grips the edge of the porcelain. Stares down at the white as
she fights the tears. The serpents twitch awake, then settle back to sleep
without a sound. She’s grateful; she doesn’t need their input right now. Her
breath comes fast, and her fingers tremble.

Maybe the last few drops
spoiled somehow. A logical, legitimate reason. She’ll toss out the remaining
elixir and make a new batch.

§

From the tiny herb garden in her kitchen, she snips two
amaratho leaves, for courage and longevity, tugs a few anithos seeds free, for
protection, and slices off a bit of daphni, for purification. She grinds them
together with a mortar and pestle until her wrist aches, switches hands, and
keeps working until the mixture is fine.

Using a small funnel, she pours the powder into the vial and adds
purified water infused with lygos. A poetic bit of irony; in days of old, it
was used to calm sexual appetites. Finally, she adds three drops of an oil nicknamed
Tears of the Lonely.

She pours the elixir into a vial and shakes it until everything
blends. It took her years to get the mixture just right, but now she could make
it in her sleep.

It needs to sit for twenty-four hours before she can take it.
Luckily, she doesn’t have anywhere to go, and her apartment walls are safe.
Inside, she doesn’t need her disguise.

§

She doesn’t bother with a towel on her head. She doesn’t
pray. Just drops the elixir on her tongue. She welcomes the pain that rushes
in, just as she welcomes the hag in the mirror when it’s done.

She breathes heavily, relieved enough to ignore the serpents and
the words they whisper.

§

But the next morning, the hag is gone. The woman in the
bathroom is young. Beautiful. A face she knows. A face she hates.

She stands in front of the bathroom mirror, one hand on her
cheek, unable to move, unable to think. It’s not possible.

A serpent slips free from the towel. Breathes on her cheek.
Whispers.

Your fault.

The spell breaks, and she backs away from the mirror with her
hands covering her ears.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it.”

Of course it was her fault. She must not have used enough. She
shoves the serpent back beneath the towel and races into her bedroom. Another
drop of elixir. Another welcome bite of pain. Another mask of age spots and
wrinkles.

Beneath the towel, the serpents stir.

§

Once again, the hag is gone come morning.

§

Perseus came to her the week before she left. He reached
for her cheek and said nothing when she pulled away. Then he offered marriage.
She laughed, thinking it a joke.

It wasn’t.

Never mind that he had a half-dozen other women fawning all
over him, including Athena. Any one of them would’ve jumped at the chance to be
his wife. He was good looking—Medi had to give him that—but he knew it and
never let anyone forget it.

The hesitant smile on his face vanished. His jaw clenched. She
tried to explain the why, but he wasn’t interested, and with each word from her
lips, his anger grew. No, it was more than anger. It was rage. And his parting
words?

“As if anyone else would ever want you now.”

§

Medi’s hand shakes as she removes the stopper from the vial,
but after the drop touches her tongue, there is no pain. No change. She bites
back a sob.

In the kitchen, she checks all the plants. No signs of rot or
infestation of any kind. The water infusion smells fine, as does the oil. Tears
slip from her eyes as she makes another batch. She knows she didn’t make any
mistakes before. She knows it as sure as she knows her own name.

Still, she grinds the herbs
until her fingers are numb from the effort.

§

Twenty-four hours later, Medi perches on the edge of her
sofa, the vial on the coffee table. The museum sent an email, requesting that
she come in to look at some recently discovered documents. She asked for
photographs, but they were beyond illegible.

She picks up the vial. If she wants this assignment, she’ll have
to go, and she needs the money. She pulls the stopper free.

“Please work. Please, please work.”

One drop on her tongue.

Nothing happens.

Another drop.

Still nothing.

She drains the contents. Pain rips through her belly, but she
doesn’t feel her skin change, and when she holds out one hand, the flesh is
still smooth.

“No, no, no!”

She hurls the vial across the
room. Shards of glass rain down on the floor when it shatters against the wall.
She shrieks into her palms.

She can’t go to the museum. She can’t go anywhere at all.

She gets up, wipes the tears
from her cheeks with angry swipes of the back of her hand, and stalks into the
kitchen. Pulls out the herbs, the water, the oil. Grinds and pours and mixes
and waits.

§

It doesn’t work.

She buries her face in a pillow so the neighbors won’t hear her
cries.

§

As she crawled away from Poseidon, with tears on her
face, blood on her thighs, and bruises on her arms, she saw Athena standing
near the temple entrance, her arms crossed over her chest. Medi whispered, and
to this day she cannot remember what she said. “Help,” or perhaps she simply
said Athena’s name.

But she will never forget the words that spilled from Athena’s
mouth. Never. The serpents remind her every single day.

§

She ignores the museum’s emails. Their phone calls. She
paces; the serpents slip and slither through her curls. She feels their breath
on her cheeks; knows the whispers aren’t far behind.

(Would that Athena had cursed her with the true face of a hag
instead of this, but that would have been a kindness. And that wasn’t Athena’s
style.)

She takes a deep breath. And another. Everything will be fine. It
will
. She won’t panic. She grabs her sunglasses and stands at the door
for a long time. How long has it been since she went out into the world with
her real face exposed on purpose? Years—many, many years.

I can do this
, she thinks.

She has to. A quick trip to the shop for fresh herbs and oil.
Maybe she can experiment with the mixture a bit. After so many years, perhaps
she’s built up a tolerance and now she needs to add something else.

She puts her hand on the doorknob. Maybe it won’t be so bad.
Takes her hand away. Maybe she shouldn’t go out. Does she really have to go?
But if not, then what?

Maybe she should order what she needs online and pay for
overnight shipping; then she won’t—

Stop it!

“I can do this,” she whispers, tugging her scarf tighter.

Between the scarf, the sunglasses, the shapeless clothes, it has
to be safe. The shop is only a few blocks away. Her heart races as she steps
outside.

At the end of the street, she passes a group of men. They’re
speaking loudly. Laughing. She doesn’t like the edge of their laughter. It’s
hard. Like a fist, like the words bitch and cunt. Her back goes straight, her
mouth dry.

The serpents stir. She takes a deep breath. Walks past with eyes
down.
Don’t look at me
,
don’t look at me
, she thinks, but she
feels their gazes crawling all over her back as if she were wearing nothing
more than stiletto heels and a smile.

But they don’t follow. They don’t say a word. She turns the
corner. Passes a woman in a business suit who gives her a quick nod. Another
woman, younger, this one busy with her cell phone. Then a man emerges from a
doorway, but he passes by without looking as well. She allows herself a small
smile. Not much farther now.

She turns the last corner and runs into someone. A man. Hard
enough to send her sunglasses flying to the ground. She drops her eyes, but
it’s too late. His eyes are wide. Dark. Fixed on hers for only a second, but
it’s a second too long, and he’s smitten. Yes, the first part of the curse
happens that fast. Her heart races madness. He reaches for her arm; she pulls
away.

“Hi,” he says with a smile.

She says nothing. Takes a step back, pulling her arm away, and
bends down, her fingers scrabbling on the pavement for her glasses. He bends
down, too. His hands reach the glasses first.

“Here, let me help,” he says.

She shakes her head. Steps to the side. He does the same.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

She steps again. As does he.
Can’t he see the frumpy dress? The heavy-soled shoes, for the gods’ sake? (But
of course, it’s too late for the camouflage. He saw her face. He looked into
her eyes.)

“Please, let me pass,” she says.

“Why don’t you stay, and we can talk for a while?”

She shakes her head again.

“So what, you won’t talk to me?”

She takes a step back, away from the edge in his voice.

He steps forward. Grabs her arm, his fingers digging in hard.

“Why do you have to act that way?” he says. “I just want to talk
to you.”

She looks up. It doesn’t matter now anyway. She sees the stone set
of his eyes—the second part of the curse. All the breath rushes from her lungs.
The serpents shiver.

“Please leave me alone.”

“Please leave me alone,” he repeats in a sing-song voice.

She turns. Breaks into a run. Hears a name (one of
those
names) carried on the breeze and quickens her steps before it can echo in her
ears.

The serpents wake.
See what happens?
they say.
See what
you
make
happen?

“Stop it,” she whispers. “Please.”

Your fault.

She locks her apartment door behind her and covers her ears, but
still, the serpents whisper sharp-barbed reminders she doesn’t need; she knows
all too well where the blame falls. Where it’s always fallen.

All your fault. You shouldn’t have smiled at Poseidon. You
shouldn’t have been there.

She curls up in a ball on the floor, praying the serpents will
fall to silence, but of course they don’t.

§

Poseidon said he wanted to talk. He lied.

“It’s not my fault you’re so beautiful,” he said.

But what about when she begged him to stop? When he pressed
his hand over her mouth to hold in her screams? When he ripped open her tunic?

After, she went into seclusion. It was for the best. A few
months later, when she braved the world again, her eyes, her face, safely
hidden behind a veil, she heard the first whispers.

Serpentine and human both.

§

The intercom buzzes. A moment later, a gruff voice says,
“Delivery.”

“Leave it at the door,” Medi calls out.

When the footsteps retreat, she brings the box inside and slices
open the tape. The serpents press against her scalp as she crushes and grinds
and blends, holding tight to hope.

§

She sits on the floor in the corner of her kitchen, amid a
scatter of leaves and berries and drops of oil. Nothing has worked. Nothing.
She rests her face in her hands, her shoulders slumped.