Read Online Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians by Lucienne Diver - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lucienne Diver
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in the dirt and turning up grubs. She must get that from your side of the family.”
—Gus Karacis, second third of the Karacrobats
It was hard to think of Hiero Cholas, a.k.a. Hephaestus, a.k.a. Vulcan, as otherly abled or physically challenged or whichever moniker was currently in vogue. He had swoon-worthy shoulders that glistened with sweat where they were exposed by his Atlas Gym T-shirt, as if he really had just come from the forge rather than an airy loft, his pied a terre in L.A. He did walk a bit stiffly, though not for very long before he seated himself behind a drafting table covered end to end with disassembled electronics, some still twitching like remote-control cars when someone in the vicinity was playing on their frequency.
It was his face more than anything that made you think of the lameness that had gotten him cast out of Olympus by his own mother, Hera, simply for being imperfect. Not that there was anything wrong with the face, especially if you liked the brooding Heathcliff-type—it had fine, pale, tequila-colored eyes, strong squared-off lines, a powerful mouth. The problem was that Hiero looked like he was just waiting, daring you even, to mention his legs, at which point he would pounce like a wounded tiger. I felt that I could easily forget there was any vulnerability at all if only he’d let me. There was so much else to notice. But I didn’t get the impression he gave anyone that chance. Being cast out at birth probably had that effect on a person.
The apartment was nearly as fascinating as the man, crawling as it was with movie monsters and disembodied parts. Hanging over the drafting table was a vampire bat with bloodied jaws, wings fully extended as if to launch another attack. Leering down from a bookshelf was a huge toxic-waste-green insect with sinister red eyes I recognized from the direct-to-video cover of Mantis II . A creature from Death Strike , which looked like someone had turned a manta ray inside out, was mounted on the adjoining wall.
“You like it?” Hiero asked, following my gaze. “The exoskeleton glows in the dark. Not the cheesy black-light effect, but luminous like a deep-water fish.”
“Neat,” I answered dutifully. “Your work?”
“Early stuff,” he admitted. “That’s why it’s tucked away here. Sentimental value, but not my best work.” The more relaxed look of memory lane vanished in an instant as he turned from his creations to me. And wow was that focus intense, even hostile. “You’re not here to talk about my design work. Apollo says you want to discuss the old ones. For him you have five minutes.”
I met his glare, thinking of how I’d like to deliver Hera a good smack-down for setting her son against the world right from the get-go. Of course, he’d had centuries to get over it already .
“Yes, I’d like to ask you about Circe and the filming of Making Waves .”
“What do you want to know?” Something leapt forward on the table and Hiero reached for it.
“What do you think is most relevant for me to know?”
He shook his head, not even sparing me a glance now from the gadgetry he’d begun to tinker with.
“I don’t have time for a fishing expedition. Ask what you want and be done with it.”
“Funny you should mention fishing. It seems that Circe was killed by one of the water divinities. Her attacker was green-scaled and webbed but walked like a man. Any idea who he might have been, who had a reason to kill Circe?”
“Yeah, Apollo gave me the description. I can’t figure it. Thing is, most of the water spirits aren’t amphibious. Aside from Poseidon, they’re either built for the water or no different than you and me—or at least you—with an affinity for the water. And Poseidon wouldn’t need to get his hands dirty to get rid of a little nothing like Circe. He doesn’t even much concern himself with the land-dwellers anymore.”
“Any particular reason?”
Hiero spared a second to glower at me.
—Gus Karacis, second third of the Karacrobats
It was hard to think of Hiero Cholas, a.k.a. Hephaestus, a.k.a. Vulcan, as otherly abled or physically challenged or whichever moniker was currently in vogue. He had swoon-worthy shoulders that glistened with sweat where they were exposed by his Atlas Gym T-shirt, as if he really had just come from the forge rather than an airy loft, his pied a terre in L.A. He did walk a bit stiffly, though not for very long before he seated himself behind a drafting table covered end to end with disassembled electronics, some still twitching like remote-control cars when someone in the vicinity was playing on their frequency.
It was his face more than anything that made you think of the lameness that had gotten him cast out of Olympus by his own mother, Hera, simply for being imperfect. Not that there was anything wrong with the face, especially if you liked the brooding Heathcliff-type—it had fine, pale, tequila-colored eyes, strong squared-off lines, a powerful mouth. The problem was that Hiero looked like he was just waiting, daring you even, to mention his legs, at which point he would pounce like a wounded tiger. I felt that I could easily forget there was any vulnerability at all if only he’d let me. There was so much else to notice. But I didn’t get the impression he gave anyone that chance. Being cast out at birth probably had that effect on a person.
The apartment was nearly as fascinating as the man, crawling as it was with movie monsters and disembodied parts. Hanging over the drafting table was a vampire bat with bloodied jaws, wings fully extended as if to launch another attack. Leering down from a bookshelf was a huge toxic-waste-green insect with sinister red eyes I recognized from the direct-to-video cover of Mantis II . A creature from Death Strike , which looked like someone had turned a manta ray inside out, was mounted on the adjoining wall.
“You like it?” Hiero asked, following my gaze. “The exoskeleton glows in the dark. Not the cheesy black-light effect, but luminous like a deep-water fish.”
“Neat,” I answered dutifully. “Your work?”
“Early stuff,” he admitted. “That’s why it’s tucked away here. Sentimental value, but not my best work.” The more relaxed look of memory lane vanished in an instant as he turned from his creations to me. And wow was that focus intense, even hostile. “You’re not here to talk about my design work. Apollo says you want to discuss the old ones. For him you have five minutes.”
I met his glare, thinking of how I’d like to deliver Hera a good smack-down for setting her son against the world right from the get-go. Of course, he’d had centuries to get over it already .
“Yes, I’d like to ask you about Circe and the filming of Making Waves .”
“What do you want to know?” Something leapt forward on the table and Hiero reached for it.
“What do you think is most relevant for me to know?”
He shook his head, not even sparing me a glance now from the gadgetry he’d begun to tinker with.
“I don’t have time for a fishing expedition. Ask what you want and be done with it.”
“Funny you should mention fishing. It seems that Circe was killed by one of the water divinities. Her attacker was green-scaled and webbed but walked like a man. Any idea who he might have been, who had a reason to kill Circe?”
“Yeah, Apollo gave me the description. I can’t figure it. Thing is, most of the water spirits aren’t amphibious. Aside from Poseidon, they’re either built for the water or no different than you and me—or at least you—with an affinity for the water. And Poseidon wouldn’t need to get his hands dirty to get rid of a little nothing like Circe. He doesn’t even much concern himself with the land-dwellers anymore.”
“Any particular reason?”
Hiero spared a second to glower at me.
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