Unfinished Muse (32 page)

He took a step back—they usually did that
when they were afraid I’d take off my shades and turn them into
stone with my stare. I loved that part.

“No, no. That’s fine.” He stuffed his hands
in his pockets and pointed his gaze somewhere over my left
shoulder. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”

I grunted at him again, then slammed a stamp
on the top page of his paperwork and dropped it in the outbox.
“Follow the copper line to Thebes for orientation and further
instruction. Next.”

My favorite part was always the way the
finality of my words fed the confusion and panic on their
faces.

After a moment of hesitation, he spotted the
colored lines on the floor, chose the thick, copper one, and
followed it out of the atrium down a hallway. Three more new hire
humans stood in line behind him. I sighed and gave the next one an
impatient signal to step forward.

The morning dragged in what felt like an
endless stream of newbies to be sent to orientation. By ten,
though, even the stragglers were checked in and on their way.
Mondays always went that way—an influx of brand new humans bound
for training for the first few hours, then everything went back to
business as usual.

I dropped a
Be Right Back
sign on my
desk and took my ten-minute break without saying a word to the four
people standing in line. I heard a centaur clomp one foot in
agitation, but I ignored him. I couldn’t intimidate a Mythic with
the threat of turning them to stone, since they knew I didn’t have
that ability. But I still had all the power. I was the
receptionist. If they wanted me to straighten out whatever their
problem was, they’d have to suck it up.

I might have liked the job more than I let
on.

After a quick trip to the ladies room, I
refilled my coffee cup and took a few minutes to watch the other
folks meandering in the Mythics cafeteria. Two satyrs sat hunched
over a game of checkers, laughing at some joke or other. A minotaur
in a jogging suit blew on a cup of ramen noodles, then tipped it
back and drank it all in one gulp. The snuffling noises he made
were…unlovely. I wrinkled my nose, a little grossed out. A stray
noodle had squirmed from the side of his mouth and lay flat against
his hairy cheek. I took a sip of coffee and looked away.

A naiad and a dryad sat in a corner
together, the naiad drinking water through her graceful blue
fingertips, and the dryad with both green hands buried in buckets
of soil. The naiad’s cerulean hair shimmered as if wet, and the
dryad’s hair sprouted flowers as she ate.

I tried to take another sip of my coffee,
but it was gone. While I’d been otherwise occupied, my snakes had
dipped their tiny faces into my cup and drained it.

Fantastic. Now my hair’s all caffeinated and
won’t stay in place.

I poured a second cup of coffee and returned
to my desk. It turned out, spazzy snake hair was far more
disconcerting to the clients than when I gave them the stony stare.
I’d have to consider saving up for an espresso machine.

First in line when I came back was a cyclops
with corrective lenses—lens. Really, it was a monocle. It was held
in place around her head by a string of pink and yellow beads. She
had her hair pulled into three pigtails, one on each side and one
on top.

I made no attempt to hide my smirk.
“Next.”

She slapped an employee ID card on the
counter. “I need this changed.”

The card had a picture of a similar cyclops,
but with a little goatee and a black plastic frame around the
monocle.

I pushed the card toward her with two
fingers. “You can’t make changes to another employee’s card. This
person…” I bent closer to look at the name and my hairsnakes gave a
warning hiss at everyone near enough to scare. “Charles Leech.
Charles will have to come in himself if he wants a new ID
card.”

The cyclops’s single eye grew wide, and the
single eyebrow rose. She slammed her fist on the counter, her voice
rising with each word. “I
was
Charles Leech. You’re not
listening. I’m Charlize Leech now, and I need the name changed and
a new photo taken. I’ve been getting the runaround for weeks.” With
each word, the pigtail on the top waggled and bobbed.

The entire atrium had fallen silent. If I
didn’t take back control of the conversation, every person who
witnessed the situation would take advantage of me from then on. I
blinked. “Ma’am, in order to process your request, I’ll need to see
some photo identification.”

Charlize groaned in frustration. “The only
photo ID I have has the wrong information on it. That’s why I’m
here.”

“I see.” I reached under the counter and
thumbed through a file. “Fill out these forms and follow the red
line to Crete. Please make sure you answer all questions completely
or they won’t be able to help you.” I slid the forms into a
clipboard with a pen dangling from a string. On top, I added a
yellow sticky note on which I wrote “Ask for Peg.” Peg would make
the transition go smoothly, and the cyclops wouldn’t get the
runaround.

What? I did nice things for people all the
time. I just didn’t make a habit of letting everyone know about it.
I had a reputation to uphold.

“Did you say the red line?” Charlize
asked.

“Yes, I said red.” I handed her the
clipboard and dismissed her. “Next.”

She hesitated—they all did when I wanted
them to leave—and I ignored her. She glanced at the clipboard, then
found the red line and stomped off.

She’d be fine. But seriously, how often do
you get such a perfect opportunity to roll out the red tape? She
was lucky I didn’t draw out the situation.

I should have drawn it out. The rest of the
day droned on forever with nothing quite so interesting as a
transgender cyclops in a beaded monocle. Plumbing complaints,
transfer requests, lost time cards—it all had to go through me
before I funneled it through to the correct department.

I glanced at the giant clock embedded in one
of the enormous pillars across from my desk. Ten more minutes and I
could bug out of there. All the clients had been taken care of, and
with a little luck, no one else would come in. Five minutes later I
bent over to grab my purse from a built-in shelf. Maybe I could cut
out early. Who would care?

My headsnakes hissed, alerting me to the
presence of another person at the desk. I sighed, bracing myself,
and sat up. “Yes?”

A small woman with nervous eyes clutched her
bag against her chest. “I need an exterminator.”

I frowned. “Pardon me?”

“An exterminator. You’re new.” She glanced
past me, standing on her toes. “Is there someone else here? Where’s
the man who was here last month?”

“Samuel?” I gave her a polite smile. “He was
reassigned. What sort of exterminator do you need?”

She gulped. “I have a basilisk living under
my porch. The exterminator came out to take care of it, but there
must’ve been more than one. All the grass around the house is dead,
and I’m afraid to let my cat out.”

“Uh huh.” I reached for a form in a
cubbyhole under the desk, only half listening. I stopped and
blinked. “Wait, basilisk?”

“Yes. Apparently, there were two.”

My heart pounded in excitement. “What
happened to the other one?”

“The exterminator took care of it”

I frowned. “Took care of it?”

She nodded. “Chopped its head off right in
my yard. I doubt anything will grow there now. Might as well pour
cement and make a patio in that spot.”

My pulse pounded in my ears. Basilisks were
small, peaceful creatures. I’d read about them—roosters with
poisonous spurs on their heels and the long tails of snakes.
Snakes
. I couldn’t let another one be harmed. I had to do
something.

I pushed the paperwork into a clipboard with
an attached pen. “Fill this out for me, please. I’ll see to it the
basilisk is removed and does no further harm to your property.”

“Thank you.” She sighed with relief and went
to sit in a chair while she wrote down her information.

Five o’clock came and went, and I watched
people from other departments brush through the atrium and out one
of the two doors, off to wherever they lived in either the human
world or in Mount Olympus.

As the last of the stragglers exited the
building, my client returned to the desk with her completed
paperwork. “You’re sure they’ll take care of it this time?” The
skin under her left eye twitched. “I’m so afraid it’s going to come
out and bite me or turn me to stone.”

I glanced at the paper she’d given me. She
lived in New Mexico. It figured. Basilisks liked warm, dry places.
“I’ll see to it myself,” I said. “Everything’s going to be
fine.”

~*~

A lot of logistical problems stood between
me and saving my first real, live basilisk. The first being
location.

Mount Olympus was in a separate dimension
from the human world. The front door led to wherever a person came
from. I’d originally arrived from downtown Philadelphia. The
building I’d entered looked, on the outside, like an abandoned
department store. Once I walked through the door, I was in the
atrium where I worked. All major cities had an access building that
looked abandoned but led to Mount Olympus. If I walked out that
door, I’d be in Philly, not New Mexico.

Now, of course, I didn’t leave through that
door. I didn’t live in the human world. I left through the other
door on the other side of the atrium. It led to other parts of
Mount Olympus, like the residential and shopping districts.

The only ways to go to a different human
location were to apply for a transfer, go with someone as a guest,
or work in the courier department.

Since transfers took weeks and I couldn’t
let anyone see me, that only left one option. I’d have to become an
unofficial member of the messenger branch.

After hours, the building was dark and
echoed with every footstep I took. The ding of the elevator and the
sound of its doors opening bounced around the atrium and made me
cringe. My hand shook as I pressed the button inside, and I held my
breath when the doors opened for me on the seventh floor. Nobody
stood waiting to catch me.

I stuck my head out and peered both ways,
then stepped into the tiled hallway. A directory on the wall across
from the elevator advised me to turn left, and I followed the arrow
until I reached the correct door. Gold letters on frosted glass
read
Courier and Travel
. Beneath that was a picture of a
pair of gold, winged sandals.

The problem with breaking into a god’s
office is you can’t whisper a prayer before trying the doorknob to
see if it’s unlocked.

To my surprise, the knob turned and the door
swung open. I ducked inside and closed the door behind me. A bead
of nervous sweat trickled from my temple, and my headsnakes shifted
and coiled tightly against my head.

The room’s overhead lights had been turned
off, but all along the far wall pockets of ambient light kept the
room from total darkness. I crept over to inspect the light’s
source and found a row of glowing sneakers hung on pegs by their
laces.

Perfect.

Every department had specific tools its
employees used to do their jobs. Cupids had their wings and arrows
to encourage love, muses had their bottles of thought-bubbles to
offer inspiration, and messengers had their sneakers for
travel.

I found a pair in my size, tucked them into
my purse, and got the hades out of there.

On the way back downstairs, I nearly ran
into a harpy pushing a mop bucket and humming to herself off key. I
ducked behind a potted plant as she passed by, then made a run for
the elevator. By the time I made it back to my desk, I was out of
breath and panicky.

I’d only been a part of this world for less
than two months, and I’d already stolen something from a god. I’d
never done anything wrong in my life. I’d never so much as stolen a
stick of gum. This was insane.

I berated myself for my terrible behavior
the entire time I was changing into my ill-gotten sneakers. I
lectured myself thoroughly all the way across the atrium, out the
door, and out into New Mexico.

I glanced at the address on the paperwork
the woman had given me and rebuked myself for risking so much
without a thought to consequences as I flew over Albuquerque and
landed at Mrs. Swanburg’s house.

And then I forgave myself. No use ruining a
perfectly good adventure.

The minute my magic-covered feet touched the
dry earth, my headsnakes became alert. Something under the porch
had their undivided attention.

One of the advantages of using one of the
departmental tools—like the traveling shoes—was they disguised the
user. What I’d lost when my stealth insurance had lapsed was
returned when I put on the shoes. I looked human. The only
difference was, I wasn’t human. My headsnakes were still present
and, to my eyes, my skin was green. But to anyone else, I was the
mousy, unremarkable girl I’d always thought I’d been. At least,
that’s what I’d read would happen. Fingers crossed the material I’d
read in training hadn’t been outdated or incorrect, because I was
in a New Mexico suburb pretending to be someone—something—I wasn’t.
Eileen Swanburg was obviously a part of the Mythos world, but I was
betting none of her neighbors were. If a gorgon showed up and
crawled under her porch, that would be bad for everyone.

I glanced around. A blue, four-door sedan
pulled in across the street, and a man got out. He gave me a smile
and a wave, then turned and went inside.

Obviously, he hadn’t seen a green-skinned
woman with a head full of hyperactive snakes. I was in the clear,
so I turned my attention to the Swanburg house.

Four painted steps led up to the wraparound
porch. A pair of whitewashed wooden chairs with pink cushions sat
beneath a picture window, and hanging plants and wind chimes swayed
from the overhang. Pretty in a kitschy, overdone sort of way.