Page 27

CIRCE

T he sprawling, massive heights of New York City reach up around me in every direction, midmorning sun dancing off the towering windows. Reminds me of so many other locales across the globe we’ve hit over the past almost year.

I don’t mind big cities. Especially New York City. Something magical about it.

Even the shitty gritty aspects.

Nightlife in Europe is more my speed, though. Call me old fashioned, or romantic. I like the Old World.

The ruthless assassin with the heart of gold?

Please.

A grin spreads across my lips as I walk toward my destination. Knowing Artemis is alive makes the commentary less morose. More like missing a fond friend who is just far away.

Checking my notebook again, I scan the page for a list I jotted down several months ago in a moment of lucidity. Anything I’ve remembered I’ve committed to these pages, carefully hiding the precious pages whenever we returned to Ananke.

New York Lyra messenger drop spot. Newsstand in Queens.

The first symbol gives me a starting point. There’s always a map for Lyra’s traveling abroad. Secret meeting places. Stashed gear bags.

Following the sigils takes me on a roundabout route.

Wish Ero was with me. But it’s probably best if I do this by myself. Mostly because he’s still sleeping and hungover as fuck. Secondly because he discovered the burned out remains of his family home last night when we drove out to Brooklyn.

We dug around a little. Nothing to find.

I know it bothered him. So I let him rest while I track down a lead of my own.

Of course, hoping to find an assassin informant five years after the whole organization got burned is a long shot. The sigil is still hidden above the electric sign. Only now, it’s some gaudy-as-fuck bridal and prom dress shop.

Great.

My phone buzzes.

Where you at?

I respond quickly: Queens. You up?

Wanted to check something out. I’m nearby.

I tap in the address, swinging open the door. May as well kill time while I wait for Ero.

Running a hand along some of the silk and tooled lace. Wonder what it would be like to have a normal life? Prom. Coming of age party, dancing.

What little I remember about my upbringing guarantees I didn’t have any of it. A wedding on the other hand…

Photos in a box under a bed in an abandoned house told me I had one. With him. I can almost remember the ceremony if I try really hard.

“Hi! Can I help you?” A puff of ponytail pops out from behind a mannequin.

I’m reaching for a knife, stopping short as I remind myself that this is the normal world. Normal people. Don’t want to scare the shit out of her and get the cops called. Or murder her.

“Um, no. I was just killing time?—”

“Sandy! Is that a client?!”

“Not one for you Peggy! Go on your lunch break!”

“You’re a goddamn tyrant Sandra Antonia!”

“And you’re a leech, Margaret Marie!” Sanda barks toward the back room. “Sorry about that. Family employees. The. Worst.”

“It’s fine?—”

“Holy shit! Your. Hair. Is. Divine.” The woman exclaims as she slams down several rolls of fabric on a table almost invisible in the chaos. She dusts her hands off, cracking her neck to one side. She’s prissy, but clearly doesn’t mind hard work.

“Thanks.” Not used to getting compliments.

“No, seriously! You look like a fucking Olympian goddess!” She’s around the room faster than I can blink, looking me up and down.

“Not bad looking yourself. What product do you use to get it to do that?”

“It’s called Italian blood. Phenomenal for wavy curls. Terrible for thunder thighs.”

“I feel like I work out constantly just so I can eat bread.” Who am I? Talking about girly shit.

“Chocolate. Pasta. Why does food have to be so damned…consequential?”

I’m laughing despite myself, disarmed by her candor. Something about the tilt of her hips, her sassy attitude. “I could survive on a steady diet of buttered toast.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’m Sandra, by the way.” She offers her hand.

“Circe.”

“I love it. Is there anything about you that isn’t gorgeous?” Sandra takes a step to my left, circles me, pulling my hair back a bit. “Ugh. You’ve got amazing collarbones. Halter top for sure, corseted, full trail. No veil, but we could cinch your hair here, leave a few curls out like this…”

I’m frozen in place, watching her work in the mirror across from me. What the hell is happening right now?

“Such classic beauty. You’re Greek, right? That skin is absolutely Mediterranean.”

“I-I am, actually,” I stutter.

“Aw fuck. I got all caught up in my bullshit again. Forgive me.”

“No, it’s fine. I appreciate your enthusiasm. I was honestly just looking for an old family friend. I think they used to have a business here a long time ago.”

“You knew Hugo and his wife? They sold this place to me years ago. I haven’t seen him in a long time. Seems like they just vanished, honestly. I assumed they moved back to Greece.”

Vanished. Yeah.

“Are you okay?” She rests her hand on mine, genuinely concerned.

“Fine. Just out of sorts.”

“The concrete jungle will do that to you. Breathe. Get some headphones to block out the noise.”

Is it really that obvious that I’m not from here?

The bell on the door rings and I’m saved from my foundering awkwardness. I catch his eye in the mirror. One eyebrow shoots up, glancing around the store with a confused expression.

Before we can speak, Sandra drops a vase of flowers, shattering loudly. She’s staring right at Ero. “Do…I know you?” Ero squints.

“Um. No, no. I’m sorry. You’re so much like…” Her throat bobs; she shakes herself. “I thought you were someone else I haven’t seen in a long time.”

“Who?” I press.

“A friend of mine. I mean, her fiancé. They…”

Ero approaches her slowly. “You planned their wedding.”

“It wasn’t the event we hoped it would be.”

“What happened to them?” Ero’s voice lowers. Deadly calm.

“They had to leave. Abruptly.” Her expression suddenly closes, her eyes flicking between us. “I don’t know where they went.”

Fear.

Dammit Ero. I forget that normal people find him incredibly intimidating and downright terrifying. Hooking a hand around his bicep, I tug at him, making a face.

“I upset you. We’ll go.”

Sandra nods, folding her hands. Something in her posture stays firm. She’s protecting her friends.

“Can you tell us one thing, Sandra?” I smile reassuringly. She shrugs. “Were they happy? Safe?”

Ero’s eyes soften, meeting mine.

“They are.”

The words hang over us as we step outside. Are.

“I take it you didn’t find anything?” Ero is back to his calm, calculating self.

“No. You?”

“Went back to the compound. Found a bunker. Not much left. They must have cleared it out. I did find this, though.” He holds up a small, blue leather-bound notepad. The letters A.D. stamped on the front.

“Alessandro? Adriano?” Name’s he’s muttered in his sleep.

“Adriano. Most of it is useless. Old marching orders, to-do lists. Except for the last page. I texted the number. He wants to meet.”

“Who?”

“Someone named Jim Weller.”