Muse Unexpected (4 page)

She shuddered and removed her hands away from her ears. She was drenched in sweat and her lungs demanded more air, but she held her breath as she tried to catch any sound of the thing outside. She heard nothing.

“Nearly twenty years,” she yelled, as tears ran down her face.

“Nearly twenty years of normal. Twenty years of nothing but PTA meetings, garage sales, of complete and utter bliss, of keeping my past in the past, denying those miserable old Fate hags and the destiny they said was mine and now I’m back to square one."

Oh my God. The killings in Cleveland. It was the word, Nothos. Someone is hunting and sending me a message. Sophie! No, wait, she’s safe… in school
. Callie closed her eyes and rested her head on her knees.

She jumped when the doorbell rang. As a joke, Sophie and Angelo had purchased a novelty doorbell that could play hundreds of songs thanks to a memory stick. Today’s selection was “La Cucaracha.” Last week it had been the Greek standard “Never on a Sunday.” She broke out into nervous, hysterical laughter.

She got to her knees and stood up, noticing she had bruised her thigh and with some hesitation reached over and turned the doorknob. The piece of wood that cracked when she forced the door open fell and clattered onto the cement stoop.

Standing in front of her was a deliveryman holding a bouquet of red roses.

“Mrs. Drago?” the man said, reading the delivery form. He didn’t bother to hide his surprise at her appearance. The look in his eyes told her she looked as crazy as she felt.

“I’m sorry,” she began, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I had just closed the door, when you rang. It gave me quite a shock.”

“Oops, my bad. I have a delivery for you,” the man said.

“Thank you,” she said behind the large bouquet. “Let me get you a—”

As the words fell from her mouth, the deliveryman shoved the roses at her and rushed back to his truck. With some hesitation, she glanced at her front yard. It was perfect, not a single leaf out of place, and judging by the way her neighbor waved good morning to her, Callie’s yard lacked any sort of hellish visions. She kicked the piece of broken woodwork into the house. Closing the door behind her, she reached over and slid the deadbolt into its locked position.

She walked into the kitchen, placing the flowers on the counter and then eased herself down into a chair at the kitchen table, rubbing her bruised thigh. All of a sudden she burst into laughter again, realizing the mere sight of her in the morning was enough to ward off even the most aggressive deliverymen.

Her mind couldn’t let go of the newspaper and its horrible picture. She retrieved the paper and carried it into the kitchen.

She shook her head as she smoothed out the wrinkled paper and began reading.

“Those poor people. How horrible.”

Several Cleveland teenagers had thrown a party at a fellow student’s house. No adults were present. No explanation could be given for what happened to them. Police were called to the house when neighbors complained of screaming. They couldn’t get the door open and had to break through one of the windows. The bodies were found throughout the wrecked house. Each teenager had a dog collar around his or her throat. The leather of the collar was embedded into the throat of each victim, demonstrating each had been tortured before his or her necks were crushed. Each had the same brand, written in Greek, on their right wrist.

“Nothos,” Callie said, recalling the definition of the word. “Mutt, mongrel. That which is considered beneath the gods to see. Those deserving the wrath of Olympus by their mere existence. The living scourge.”

I don’t know what to do
.
The Omen.
A black omen. By all that is holy, I will kill who ever...

“But, my past is behind me. I drive carpool. I’m a member of the PTA. I recycle. I collect cans for Cat Welfare. I donate $18 each month to ASPCA. I have a damn gate to paint. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

She paused.
Shoot…shoot…shoot
.
What was it trying to tell me? Those poor children. It all has to be connected. What am I going to do? What the hell. Who….

“Stop it, Callie. You’re babbling like a hysterical little girl. Nobody gives a damn about your carpool. People are being murdered. Maybe it isn’t connected. Maybe it was just a mindless apparition.”

Don’t be stupid, mindless apparitions don’t just appear out of nowhere
.
Something was coming.

Her instinct told her they were all in danger.

She breathed in and out slowly, hoping it would calm her heart. She wondered what Sophie would have thought of the Greek tragedy she had experienced a few seconds ago and a sinking feeling settled in her stomach. She had to figure out what it all meant.

She rested her chin in her left hand and drummed her fingers on the table, tossing around the image of the omen in her mind. She glanced at her cup, filled with the thick Greek coffee and wondered if she should do what she was thinking about doing. Her ‘special abilities’ weren’t easily switched on and off. Powers like hers had an addictive and seductive quality.

But
,
this is different.
Thanks to someone, I have no choice.

Reaching for her cup of coffee, she doubted she even remembered how to do a coffee grounds reading that would allow her to see into the future. She took the last sip and put the saucer on top of the small cup. Placing one hand on the bottom of the cup and one on top of the saucer, she closed her eyes to concentrate. After about a minute, she sighed. Nothing. She closed her eyes again and furrowed her brow, concentrating harder. Still, nothing had happened, and she opened her eyes again, feeling panicked. She wondered if her powers had been ‘a use it or lose it’ type of thing and then smirked at the thought. Could she have turned herself into a mortal?

“Bull. My mother must be laughing her tightly-wound head off. I was born a Muse and I remain a Muse.”

She closed her eyes again, cleared her mind and focused. It started as a tingling sensation, as the familiar pinpricks of warmth started in her core and spread throughout her body. Her entire being was drawing energy from the room and conducting it towards her hands. She couldn’t help but feel thrilled that her abilities were still intact and she opened her eyes and saw the familiar sparks of light shooting from her hands, flooding the entire kitchen.

“Hello, old friend,” she said to the sparks and realized she’d better tone it down a bit or the neighbors would think the kitchen was on fire. With one quick action, she flipped over the cup and saucer and placed it on the table, careful not to break the seal between the two. As she waited for the coffee grounds to slide down the sides of the cup, she retrieved the flower arrangement card. She sat back down and glanced at the card tapping the unopened envelope in a random and mindless rhythm. She placed it in front of her. Angelo’s gestures of love always took her by surprise.

He shouldn’t have. The flowers were far too extravagant of a gift
. She pushed the card away and turned her attention back to the coffee cup.

After three minutes had passed, she couldn't wait any longer and pulled the coffee cup away. As soon as the seal was broken, sparks shot free and bounced around the room before fizzling out. She saw the coffee grounds’ sludge sitting in the center of the saucer and for a second she wished she hadn’t started this reading and was half tempted to wash the cup out without even looking at its contents, but she knew she couldn’t.
This is for Sophie.

She held the cup and stared down into pattern the grounds made. She knew it would be simple. She would glance down and her answer would be there.

As Sophie would say, “easy peasy.”

But it wasn’t easy peasy. The magic sucked her in so quickly; she was freefalling into a sea of coffee sludge, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. She lost control and struggled to breathe, but managed to draw in some air as she coughed and choked, her body wracked with spasms. In the cup were ominous swirls that melted towards the bottom. A small red drop in the center drew her attention.

The drop exploded, engulfing her in the same red, festering liquid the black omen had used. Worse than the liquid were the sounds of screams echoing in her ears. She slammed the coffee cup down, breaking the spell. The liquid disappeared, the screams died away and she began to breathe normally again, her mind racing back to the omen. She had never experienced a reading so powerful and although her mother had never told her what the fortune of death looked like; she knew death was what the fortune was telling her. Frantic, her mind swimming, she tried to remember any small detail that could tell her the omen’s message.

She remembered the grotesque, burnt face, with coins for eyes.

No
,
the coins weren’t the eyes; the coins were over the eyes
.

“Oh, God.” She thought about the ancient Greek tradition of placing coins over the eyes for the dead to pay the ferryman.

“Why didn’t I see it?” She tried to remember what the omen was wearing. “It was a red robe? No, it was covered in blood. I’ve seen it before. The material was striped. No, it was pinstriped, like…” She paused a moment. “Like…like…like… Angelo’s business suit.”

Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes, as images of the omen flooded her mind. She was drowning in them. The ghastly mouth, howling, calling her name—its hand pointing at her. It was wearing a ring. A thick gold band of intertwining vines, with small cabochon stones. They were rubies. It was the mate to the ring she wore, except hers had sapphires.

She pressed her lips together and her mouth began to twist, fighting the sobs swelling inside her. Her mouth burst open and she began to wail. She glanced at the small coffee cup and saucer and with a spark she didn’t know she’d created, shattering the coffee cup, saucer and the vase holding the roses. She glanced down at the now drenched and stained white card and snatched it from the counter. Her hand began to bleed from the small cuts caused by the shards of glass covering the counter. She ripped the card open with such force it tore in two. Placing both pieces in front of her, she read the message.

You and me against the world.

Love, A.

Death was coming and she knew it was coming for Angelo.

A strong breeze blew across the island of Chios, Greece, rustling Georgia’s bedroom curtains. She sat up in bed, immediately knowing something wasn’t right and breathed in, her nose wrinkling at the sour-sweet sent in the air she knew meant no good. The clock on her fireplace mantle made her moan at being awake at the ungodly hour of three a.m.

Damn. Might as well get up and fix myself something to eat.
She hesitated for a second, knowing the moment she stepped into the kitchen, Winnie would appear, insisting she make her a fried egg sandwich and a warm glass of milk.

“It’s Callista.”

An overpowering sinking feeling told her she was right. She rushed out of her bedroom, not stopping to change, nor caring to fix her frazzled appearance. Members of her own Vasilikós, similar to the other eight houses of inspiration, would be asleep, but she didn’t care. She was the Head of this Vasilikós and no one would dare criticize her about her appearance. The folds of her nightgown gently shifted and floated with every movement she made and she found comfort in the touch of it against her skin. She ran from one room to another, and rushed down the Grand Entry Hall’s staircase, almost stumbling on the last step.

Callista… Sophia…
Her mind raced. She was frantic.

“The vines,” she said. She knew she would learn all she needed to know by seeing and touching the vines, maybe even tasting some of the ripening fruit. She knew what she had been waiting for was finally happening, but she needed to be sure before she acted.

Flinging open the massive French doors in front of her, she walked onto the terrace overlooking the countless acres of vineyards. She drifted down the wide staircase leading to the orchard, her feet barely touching the ground.

She reached the entrance within seconds and stood in front of a large gate made of iron and wood. Massive, almost foreboding, the gate had an extensive design on it of grape vines shooting in all directions and in the center of the gate’s peak, a figure of a woman could be seen tending and picking the grapevines around her. The vine’s tendrils ended in razor-sharp spikes at the top of the gate. Above her, a golden Sun god smiled as he watched from Mount Olympus, its’ worn, foreboding smile looking more like a sinister grimace.

Georgia
placed her hand over her heart and grasped a golden key that always hung around her neck on a long chain. She closed her eyes for a moment and raised her hand towards the lock. The lock was ornate and had figures of a group of smiling mischievous nymphs and a somewhat leering Pan playing his flute. Heat began to build in her hand and light shot from her fingers, sending sparks towards the gate. The gate’s lock came to life. The iron nymphs fluttered their wings and the sound from Pan’s flute filled the air. One by one the nymphs flew through the lock, followed by Pan, who got stuck half way through. As the poor faun struggled in the lock, Georgia heard a loud click and pushed the gate open, rushing in.

The hundreds of fireflies that had been lulling about after an evening of mating sensed her presence and buzzed around her, lighting the walkway. She paused and took a sniff of the air. After reaching the farthest vine in the first row, she stopped in her tracks. As if drawn to it, all of the fireflies landed on a single vine where the grapes seemed to be ahead of schedule.

“How strange.” The single bunch of grapes captivated her; they appeared to be bursting out of their skins. She hesitated.

Stop being a fool, old woman.

She stretched her fingers and reached for one of the grapes in the group and pulled it off of the vine. The grape she held wasn’t even part of the genus planted there. The fruit was green rather than the rich purple the vine produced and the fruit appeared iridescent with an unnatural glow that rivaled the light created by the fireflies. She sniffed at it and caught a little of the sour smell from the taut skin of the grape.

“Well,” she said to the vine. “This is why I’m here, so I better get this over with.”

She popped the grape into her mouth and bit down onto it. As her teeth broke the tough, leather-like skin of the grape, she understood this wouldn’t be a pleasant experience. An overpowering sour taste flooded her mouth. She gagged and fought every instinct in her body to spit the vile thing out. She fell forward, her hands breaking her fall on the gravel walk. Pictures filled her mind and she thrashed from side to side. She saw everything that had happened to Callie in several quick, blinding and painful bursts.

“Oh God.” A gasp escaped her lips and tears streamed down her face. She shuddered and her mind went blank. She lay there for a few seconds, frozen, unable to move as saliva pooled and bubbled in her mouth. Deep in the recesses of her mind, she shouted,
Get up, get up, get up, you old fool.

She shook off the paralysis, struggled to her feet and looked at the vine. As she had expected, the grape she had spat out into her hand and the cluster of grapes themselves had returned to their natural size and purple color. She placed the broken grape at the base of the vine and lost herself in thought as she walked back through the vineyard. The fireflies fell behind her, forming a funeral procession and the gate closed behind her with a loud clank.

She was drained and yearned to sit at her kitchen table and rest her head on its well-worn surface. She took several deep breaths until a wave of nausea passed, and addressed the vineyard, with its row after row of vines.

Sacrifice
.
I have sacrificed so much for this moment
.

“Callista hates me and she won’t make this easy,” she said to the vines. “But now, everything is different and my daughter will have to respect and obey what she has forsaken. This time I will do everything in my power to get things the way they should be. Callista will return and Sophia…oh, Sophia, what plans I have for you.”

She sensed members of the Vasilikós were stirring. The first few women sleepily made their way onto the veranda. She leaned against the balustrade, waiting for the rest to arrive and gather around her. Some of the women carried lanterns, while fireflies surrounded others.

“I will have to leave you for a short time. Suffering has fallen on the house of my daughter and I must go to her. I leave this Vasilikós alone, but will not return as such. I will bring them home.”

A woman stepped forward and began singing an ancient song of mourning; the notes of her voice had a physical quality that hung midair and then, along with the fireflies, weaved themselves around the large group. The fog gathering around the vines drifted toward the veranda, floating around the gathered women. The singing woman glowed with a warm light as each note mingled with the mist, transforming the fog into hundreds of fluttering iridescent butterflies. She sang of a longing for loves lost, of want, need and regret.

The sound of her song, along with the butterflies, travelled across the vineyard, crossing the darkness for many miles. They seemed attracted to a small cottage sitting on a hill where nothing grew. The dusty hill was covered in a mass of withered vines intertwining onto themselves, choking whatever trees, grass and flowers that had once made the hill one of the most beautiful places on the island. Only a single olive tree seemed immune to the vines, seeming to thrive yet producing no fruit. The tree stood in defiance of the vines—stoic, waiting and wanting. It almost seemed to be looking up towards the heavens, beseeching anyone or no one, as the curtains in the cottage’s upper bedroom window moved slightly.

***

The woman in the house saw the butterflies, which stopped at the tree and rested on its leaves, seeming to try and soothe it. She couldn’t help but stare at the tree, which now glowed with hundreds of the butterflies, twinkling with their rustling.

“Hope always seems to spring eternal. Well, not if I have anything to do with it. Let the games begin,” the woman said, as she let the curtain drop back into place. She paced her bedroom, exhausted, the weight of her burden heavy on her shoulders, but stopped. Depression, grief and rage surged through her and unable to keep her emotions in control, she rushed back to the window, ripping the curtains down and slamming the window open.

Gathering all of her strength, she screamed, “Nothos!” and slammed her fist down on the windowsill, the impact creating an echo of shattering pottery that rushed back towards the tree.

In the instance the sound touched the butterflies, the glowing creatures exploded into drips of light, lighting the twisted vines at the foot of the tree. And when the last fluttering bit of light died, she sat in the darkness, sobbing, her rage uncontrollable.