The Immortals (24 page)

“Stop here!”

Theo tossed some bills at the cabbie and dashed out of the car. “Did you see a super-tall woman in a baseball cap come by?” he demanded of the hotel doorman.

But before he could get an answer, Selene burst around the corner, nearly running into him.

“I thought I told you not to come!” she said furiously. She was even paler than usual.

“This is dangerous, Selene. I’m not letting you do this alone.”

“I can take care of myself!” As she pushed her hair out of her eyes, she left a greasy red smear across her forehead.

“Then what’s this?” He grabbed her hands, turning the bloody palms upward.

“It’s not mine.” Her hands trembled, and he instinctively grasped them a little tighter.

“Another woman dead?”

She shook her head. “Just animal sacrifices.” As she described the scene, her voice quavered. Finally, she pulled her hands away from Theo. He merely moved to grasp her shoulders instead.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said, fighting the urge to pull her into his embrace.

She stiffened in his grip. “Do you think I need to be
comforted
?” she snarled. He dropped his hands. “I’m
angry
, Schultz. And I’m not going to be ‘all right’ until we find them. They can’t have gotten far.
Think.
Where would they have gone?” Theo had never seen her so filled with rage and urgency—emotions he’d mistaken for fear. Her silver eyes glowed in the light pouring from the heat lamps beneath the Waldorf’s awning, and her gaze banished his tenderness. He felt honed, sharp and bright and ready for battle.

“
Pompe
means procession. So they’re moving. From the cemetery, they would have traveled to Demeter’s temple.”

“Okay, a temple. A church maybe?”

“Maybe.” The pieces didn’t fit right—not yet. “Why would a pagan cult associate itself with Christianity? Besides, it’s got to be somewhere public, and churches aren’t open this late.”

“You said they tell lewd jokes, remember, to ease Demeter’s sorrow? A comedy club then?” she pressed. “A theater? Maybe somewhere televised, so they can reach the biggest audience?”

“Televised?” Theo looked down at his watch. He felt the blood drain from his cheeks as the puzzle piece finally slipped into place. “It’s midnight. It’s Saturday.”

“So?” she demanded.

“
Saturday Night Live.
It broadcasts from Rockefeller Center. That’s only three blocks away.”

As swift as arrow flight, Selene took off down the street. Theo took a deep breath, then, like an acolyte with his priestess, followed in her wake.

“I need to get into the
Saturday Night Live
taping,” Selene said again, fighting the urge to seize the Rockefeller Center security guard by the collar and shake him.

“
SNL
’s already started airing. No tickets, no entry,” the guard recited, his stern tone undermined somewhat by his chipmunk cheeks and obvious youth.

Selene glanced across the lobby at the security stanchions blocking the elevators. She’d hoped to get up to the eighth floor without making a scene. That way, in case her suspicions were wrong, she’d be able to continue the night’s hunt without the cops stopping her. But if she had to knock the guard out of the way and bust through the stanchions, she would.

Just then, Theo tumbled through the lobby’s revolving doors. “Did you find—” he started to ask, but his question quickly devolved into a gasped curse. Selene followed his stunned gaze to the televisions on the far wall.

A young black woman in a sequined gown and a Michelle Obama wig stood on the set of
Saturday Night Live
, her face contorted with terror. Sooty tears streamed down her cheeks as her mascara washed away.

“That’s Jenny Thomason,” stammered the security guard. “Newest member of the cast… She’s just a kid.”

A short man in a hooded yellow cloak stood with a knife held to her throat. A wooden mask covered his face—the grotesquely carven rictus of Comedy. The camera zoomed out, revealing three other men in identical masks and cloaks. One leveled a short knife at a group of cowering actors in the corner of the set. Another played a small hand drum. A third pointed his weapon offscreen, as if warding off interruption of their ritual.

And in the center of the set, holding aloft a green glass flask filled with dark liquid, stood a taller man in a purple cloak. He wore the mask of a warrior hero—an exaggerated visage with a curling wooden beard and fiercely drawn eyebrows.

“The hierophant,” Theo whispered. Selene nodded dumbly.

Rage boiled within her. Ancient. Untamed.

In the lobby, alarm bells screamed to life, then a voice boomed over a loudspeaker,
“This is an emergency. Please follow lockdown procedures and shelter in place. Await further instructions from police officers or Rockefeller Center Security.”
As the message repeated, the young guard’s walkie-talkie squawked urgently, calling for all available security personnel to proceed immediately to the eighth floor. In a single fluid leap, Selene jumped over the entrance stanchion and sprinted to the nearest elevator bank. She slipped inside, jabbing repeatedly at the Door Close button even as the guard, three of his fellow security officers, and Theo wedged themselves in beside her.

“You can’t be in here,” the young guard insisted as the doors shut. “And you—” He pointed at Theo. “Aren’t you the guy—” The doors opened on the eighth floor, and animalistic screams drowned the guard’s protests as a mass of terrified audience members swarmed the elevator.

Head lowered, Selene slammed her way through the crowd, heedless of the frustrated cries of the guards as they tried to keep
order. She didn’t know if Theo’d be able to follow her, and she didn’t care.

She reached the main entrance to the studio just as the large double doors slammed shut in her face. She heard a chain clatter through the handles on the other side. She pounded on the doors, but they held tight.

“A hillbilly takes his twelve-year-old daughter to the gynecologist for her first exam.”
Selene’s head shot up, looking for the source of the rasping voice.
Speakers on the wall,
she realized,
broadcasting the show from inside the studio.
The
Pompe
’s lewd jokes had finally begun.

“The gynecologist asks, ‘Is your daughter sexually active?’ The man thinks for a moment and replies, ‘Naw, she mostly just lays there like her mother.’”
A drum punctuated each word. Not the snare drum accompaniment to a comedian’s punch line, but a slow, steady beat, like the tolling of a funeral bell.

With a cry of outrage, Selene flung her shoulder against the doors. They swung open a crack before slamming back, held in place by the chain. But in the instant they opened, she saw that Jenny Thomason was still alive, clutched in the initiate’s grasp.

The hierophant’s voice went on, calm and confident.
“What’s the definition of the perfect virgin?”
He waited a beat, as if for comedic effect.
“She’s three feet tall, toothless, and there’s a flat spot on the top of her head where you can set your beer.”
Selene kicked at the door, revealing a glimpse of the
mystes
pressing the knife closer to Jenny’s throat as the hierophant screamed, “Don’t turn off the cameras or we’ll kill her!” Then, his composure restored, he continued with his jokes.

“What’s the worst part about having sex with a six-year-old?”

Selene gave up on the door and rushed down the hallway, looking for a back entrance to the stage. The voice followed her as she ran.

“Getting the blood out of the clown suit.”

She found her way backstage, where costumers and production assistants huddled beneath dressing tables. The rasping voice droned on and on, the drumbeats keeping time.

“How do I get onstage?” Selene demanded of a scrawny makeup artist.

“Be careful! They said if we moved, they’d kill Jenny!”

“Let them try,” she growled. “Just show me the way in.”

He pointed to a nearby door. “They locked it from the other side.”

Suddenly, the hierophant’s voice ceased, replaced by those of multiple men, chanting with surprisingly intricate harmonies to the steady pounding of the drum.

“Pheromen touto to partheneion thuma…”

“What the fuck is that?” whimpered the makeup artist.

Horrified, Selene didn’t think twice about translating aloud: “We bring this virgin sacrifice, so that our god might flourish with her blood.”

She took a running start and hurled herself against the door. She could hear a faint splintering on the other side.

“Here!” The makeup artist had come out of hiding to offer her a fire extinguisher. But Selene had already kicked the door open on her own.

She burst onto the set just in time to see the yellow-cloaked man’s knife slip into Jenny’s neck. The hierophant held the flask to her throat, collecting her blood. The other actors screamed. Then blackness as the lights in the building snapped off.

The shuffling of booted feet told her the hierophant and his followers were on the move, dragging Jenny with them. Through the actors’ panicked shouting, she heard the clatter of a falling chain as the security guards finally broke through the main entrance. They poured through the doors, their flashlight beams zigzagging wildly across the set. But the cult had disappeared.

Dodging the guards’ lights, Selene stepped onto the stage,
sniffing the air for Jenny’s fear. Finally, she caught a whiff of the pheromone, sharp and pungent. She followed her nose, moving quickly into a back service corridor, then opened the door to a pitch-black stairwell.

She could hear footsteps, a few stories down. Swiftly, she reached into her backpack and assembled her bow. She didn’t need any light to know how the pieces fit together. She took a step forward, nearly tripping on Jenny’s fallen wig. Then, with one hand on the wall to guide her way, she moved down the stairs in complete silence, taking them three at a time.

Before long, she saw wavering lights up ahead; the initiates had brought flashlights to ease their way. She grabbed four arrows from her pack, slipping them between the knuckles of her right hand. Two flights later, the cult members came into view. Two of them carried Jenny’s limp body between them. Then, for a heartbeat, the hierophant crossed into a beam of light—Selene loosed her first arrow. He dodged out of the way, faster than any mortal ever could. Then he laughed. A cold, cruel sound. A second later, Selene rolled the second arrow from one finger to the next and shot again—but he plucked it from the air as if it were a paper airplane.

He gestured for his acolytes to stop their flight.

“Let the woman go,” Selene said, willing her voice to be calm.

The hierophant’s wooden mask, made horrific in the glancing light and shadow, betrayed no emotion. “Why?”

“Because you may be able to pluck arrows from the air, but I doubt your companions can.” Hoping she was right, she swung around and sent the third arrow sailing into the thigh of an initiate. He grunted and fell to his knees, nearly tumbling forward. “You need them, don’t you?” she went on. “A Mystery Cult with only a hierophant isn’t much of a Mystery Cult. Let the girl go, or I shoot again.” He tilted his head, as if considering. “Too slow,” she snapped, firing the last arrow into the initiate’s stomach.

Before she could grab another arrow, the hierophant lunged forward to rip the bow from her hands.
He’s strong. Stronger than I,
she realized with a shock. Then, a screeching of metal, the twang of a string, and her golden bow lay broken upon the ground. She cried out, as if her soul itself had snapped in two. But the hierophant gave her no time to grieve. He still had her arrow in his fist. He pressed its point up against her throat. She could barely breathe. Her voice squeezed past, thin and weak.

“Are you trying to make me stronger? Or trying to kill me? Make up your mind.” The arrowhead nicked her skin. A trail of wetness ran down her neck to pool between her collarbones.

“I’m not going to kill you. I couldn’t. Not with this.” He tossed the wooden arrow on the ground and reached over his shoulder. Only then did she notice the quiver hidden beneath his purple cloak. “Now
this
—this could kill you.” In the slanting illumination from the flashlights, the arrow in his hand glinted silver—just like her twin brother’s divine shafts.

“Apollo,” she hissed. “Is that you?”

He brushed the arrowhead against her cheek, as gentle as a lover’s touch. But his voice still rasped like sandpaper on skin. “Very smart, Artemis.”

Of course.
Paul would do anything to stop the fading he feared so much. The drummer, the harmonic chanting—the four
mystai
must be his three band members and his manager. The worship they showed for their frontman already bordered on idolatry; someone as charismatic as her brother could easily manipulate those feelings into the blind obedience
mystai
owed a hierophant.

“I should’ve known you’d let Mother die while making yourself stronger,” said Selene. “Now speak to me in your true voice. Show me your true face. Let there be no lies between us. Not anymore.”

But he just laughed, a dizzy cackle.

He’s gone mad,
she realized.
Like our father. Like Hestia. It won’t be long before I lose my mind, too, if I haven’t already. Maybe we were crazy to begin with, thinking we were gods in a world of men.
She closed her eyes.
He wants to save me and kill me at the same time,
she thought with a sudden icy calm.
So we have always been, loving and hating all at once, for millennia. It was always fated to come to this.

She opened her eyes, searching the carved face for some sign of the man she’d known so well. “I’m not scared. Death comes for us all. We are Athanatoi no longer.”

A sudden pounding of footsteps on the stairs above. The
mystai
swung their flashlights wildly toward the disturbance, but Selene didn’t dare look. An instant later, the hierophant groaned sharply, and she managed to twist her head an inch to the side.

Theo stood, teeth bared, one end of her broken bow in his hands, the other embedded in her attacker’s side. The hierophant lurched away, the silver arrow in his fist slicing across Selene’s abdomen. Before she could fall, Theo grabbed her arms and pressed her body close. “I gotcha,” he murmured, turning their bodies so he stood between her and the hooded men.

“Help me,” the hierophant demanded of his acolytes, still using the low rasp that disguised his melodious voice. The three
mystai
who could still walk dropped the actress’s body on the ground and moved to their leader’s side.

“I’m fine,” Selene hissed to Theo, pushing him away. She blinked in the swerving flashlight beams—the sharp alternation between light and dark played havoc with her night vision. But there—she spotted the other half of her broken bow on the ground. The end that had once slid so effortlessly into the handgrip lay twisted and torn. A small voice in her head—her mother’s voice, she realized—begged her to be merciful. But Leto had also understood that the Protector had a job to do. Selene’s code was clear: murder for murder. Apollo might be a god, but that didn’t make him exempt from the Punisher’s justice. Selene snatched up the piece of her bow and swung it toward him.

The
mystes
who’d sliced Jenny Thomason’s throat, shorter
than the others, but broad and solid beneath his cloak, stepped in front of her blow. The ragged metal sliced into the murderer’s shoulder. He grunted but did not cry out. Another initiate, this one with a hand drum slung over one shoulder, grabbed her from behind. She broke his grip easily.

Hair whipping across her cheeks, she spun and lashed out with her leg, the blunt heel of her boot catching her assailant in the chest. Now a third man rushed toward her, a knife extended. She batted it away with the broken end of the bow, then brought the sharp point up to strike him in the neck. He choked and stumbled to a halt just as Theo jumped onto his back and the two men collapsed in a pile of flailing limbs.

Now the drummer and the stocky murderer were on Selene at once, swinging with their flashlights and knives. She struck out with one end of the bow and then the other, knocking aside their weapons. Even when her bow landed on their flesh, they merely moaned and winced, then came on like zombies. She wondered if they were drugged—maybe with the
kykeon
potion so central to the Mystery. Theo’s sudden grunt of pain distracted her attention for an instant, allowing the drummer to grab her. Before she could break free, the stocky one kicked her injured side. She fell to the ground with a cry. From the corner of her eye, she watched a booted foot swing toward her face.