Sin City Goddess Page 6

  I narrowed my eyes. “Did you unclothe me?”

  Archer held up a hand. “Absolutely not.”

  “Then where are my pants?”

  Archer glanced around the room. He scratched his head. The scent of his cologne, which I had found pleasant the day before, sparked a wave of nausea through me. I sat back down. Archer fumbled under the covers of my bed.

  “Ta-da,” he said.

  My leather pants were balled into a knot in his strong hand.

  A knock at the door made my head hurt.

  “That’s room service. Why don’t you wash up and come get some breakfast?”

  I watched as he let the door slip shut behind him.

  I stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the light, and nearly choked on my own scream. My skin was puffy, my hair was sticking out on all sides like a rabid clown’s, and my eyes looked like I was wearing some sort of hideous mask.

  There was an array of beauty products and toiletries in the bathroom, displayed on a dainty, mirrored tray. Which was one too many mirrors for my liking. The white-marble room was huge, with two sinks, a steam shower, and a two-person soaker tub with jets. I opted for a bar of orange-blossom soap, lavender shampoo and conditioner, and mint toothpaste.

  As I washed, something kept nagging at me. Something from last night? Something Archer had said? It was a memory that lay just out of my grasp. I thought of the perfectly sculpted bartender and that Clyde person. There was something about the man I didn’t like, but I couldn’t put my finger on that either.

  This was exactly why I wasn’t a drinker—especially in this realm. Liquor clouded the mind, confused one’s thoughts, and relaxed one’s morals. Too many times, I had seen the aftermath of a human on drink. The laws they broke, the people they hurt, their own lives and families destroyed.

  I sat under the scalding water for a long time, washing, lathering, scrubbing, and brushing. When I was finally finished, I stepped out, dried my skin, wrapped a towel around my long curls, and donned a fluffy robe. I wasn’t one for perfumes or lotions, although there were dozens of them in every scent on the planet. I did run a clear gloss across my chapped lips and dab a bit of sunscreen on my already-pink cheeks. I was combing the knots from my hair with a silver comb that I was certain Aphrodite must have provided at some point in time, when the words hit me like an iron fist.

  I secured the robe at the waist and rushed out of the bathroom. I found myself standing near a banister, next to a set of stairs that dipped into a wide, carpeted room. “What do you mean I promised to dance at the Shadow Bar?”

  Archer smirked. “I was wondering when you were going to process that.”

  He was seated at a round black table, unrolling silverware from a napkin. The aroma of black coffee, salty bacon, and sweet pineapple filled the room, instantly reminding me that I was absolutely famished. When had I last eaten a meal?

  “This is a joke, right? You’re toying with me?” I said.

  Archer pulled out a chair for me, unveiled a plate of scrambled eggs, poured two cups of coffee, and said, “Sit. Eat. We can discuss this after breakfast. I need you at full throttle.”

  He had a point, but I didn’t like to be ordered around. Especially by a mortal. “I’ll sit when I decide, thank you very much.” I poured myself a glass of some orange juice that didn’t quite look like juice made from oranges. I sniffed it. It smelled tangy and medicine-y.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a drink that athletes and alcoholics use to replenish electrolytes. Try it. You’ll feel better. There’s no booze in it, I swear.”

  He busied himself buttering a piece of toast, and I sipped the drink. It wasn’t instant, but I did feel better after a few swallows.

  “What do you know about alcoholics?” I asked, setting my drink down on the table.

  A faraway look fell over his face. “After my wife left me, I went on a six-month bender. I had my fair share of waking up in strange places, not knowing how I’d gotten there.”

  “You’re married?” I reached for a helping of eggs and a piece of toast, just as Archer reached for a packet of strawberry jam. My hand grazed his, and I felt a tingle surge up my arm. I pulled away immediately and sat down.

  “Was. A long time ago.” He said it matter-of-factly, and I couldn’t help but wonder why humans gave up on love so easily. “She couldn’t handle the job.” He opened the jam, then looked at me cautiously.

  At that moment, I wondered how many years he had spent on Earth. He had a few crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His hair was mostly dark, with a hint of gray along the edges. Forty, perhaps?

  “What?” he asked when he saw me staring at him.

  “Nothing. I was just wondering how old you were when you passed over.” I felt awkward asking that the minute the words left my mouth. What did I care? We were business partners, essentially. No need to muddy the waters by asking personal questions. “Forget I said anything,” I hurried to add.

  Archer sipped his coffee and stabbed a piece of sausage with his fork. “No, it’s fine. I was thirty-eight.” He bit into his toast.

  So young. Of course, I had seen much younger souls pass through Hades’s realm.

  Archer poured me more of the orange drink, which I was growing rather fond of. I took a huge swig. It truly was replenishing.

  “So, what about you?” he asked.

  I raised an eyebrow at him. Was he asking about my love life? I couldn’t recall the last time I had met a god worthy of more than a onetime physical encounter. I didn’t date much. Didn’t even get out much these days.

  “I mean, you look twenty-five, but I’m guessing that’s not right.”

  The question took me by surprise. I hadn’t thought of my age in a long time. The truth was, I couldn’t even recall what it was. “I’m as old as the Fates allow, I suppose.”

  Archer considered this. Then he said, “So, how does all this work?”

  I stabbed a pineapple chunk with my fork. It smelled like sunshine. “How does what work?” I popped the pineapple into my mouth. It was sweet and tart at the same time.

  “I mean your boss. Hades. Is he the devil?”

  Oh boy, here we go, I thought. The talk. I’d had “the talk” more times than I cared to count. With shades, mostly, but sometimes with resting souls and very rarely with living ones. It never came without a hundred questions, a thousand arguments, and buckets of tears. It didn’t matter which part of the world a mortal had lived in. All of them were so dangerously devoted to their religion, they wouldn’t accept the truth of it even if was wrapped around their neck like a noose. Believe me, I’d tried it once.

  Which was why they were constantly killing each other. In the name of this god or that god, or because this man worshipped the same god as his neighbor, but his neighbor had slightly different beliefs—or, worse, man-made rules—they fought to the death. Humans were constantly killing each other over the stupidest philosophies, all of them wrong. I found it maddeningly frustrating.

  Zeus, on the other hand, thought it was hilarious. He had a twisted sense of humor, that one.

  I studied Archer closely. His eyes were bright, curious—dare I say open to the answers? Would he be the one human who just might listen? Because most of them never had the story right, and no matter how many times you explained it to them, they couldn’t grasp the truth. They wanted to blame demons for the atrocities that plagued their society. It was easier to accept than the truth. But sin didn’t come from outside the soul. There was no evil entity that whispered in the ears of men and women to make them commit their crimes. There was help, certainly, for any who sought it. The monsters that plagued all realms, even mine, gleefully aided those who called to them, gnawing on the twisted impulses of a rotten soul, feeding on the pain and torture of that soul’s innocent victims.

  And once you called to the monsters, they were bound to you. Forever.

  I said, “There is no devil. Evil exists only in the hearts of men. And demons.”r />
  “Demons?”

  I nodded. “Monsters. Atrocities of nature born from the cruel things that mortals and immortals do to each other.”

  Archer leaned back in his chair, thinking for a moment. “So you’re saying that monsters exist, but only because people and, er, gods created them?”

  “Precisely.”

  He looked perplexed. “So everything I learned in Sunday school was wrong. There is no God? No devil?”

  “There are many gods, but no devil. Hades is a ruler of the Underworld. He watches over the human souls until they are rested, cleansed, and prepared to return to the mortal world.”

  He tapped his foot, grabbed a piece of bacon, then put it back. “So there was no Jesus?”

  “Yes, there was a Jesus. A passive preacher man, as I recall. Lived in a desert city like this one.” I helped myself to another piece of toast. “But you killed him.” The bread was crisp and hot; the butter melted instantly.

  The FBI man stared at me, slack-jawed. I realized my mistake. “Well, not you specifically. You know. People.”

  Archer was silent for several moments. Perhaps it was all a bit too much for him. I took a few bites of the toast.

  “History lesson is over,” I said after a few moments. “Tell me more about the Shadow Bar, because there is no way I will be dancing there.”

  “You have to. Besides you giving Clyde your word, and me trying to convince him that yes, you are an FBI agent who can’t handle her liquor, you auditioned for the gig. He loved it.”

  There was a bit more juice left, and I drank it, feeling the last remnants of the prior evening’s debauchery fleeing my skin.

  “I can’t dance, Archer.”

  “You did great last night.”

  Oh, Lords.

  “Listen, if you do this, it’ll be a great in with the staff, not to mention you can monitor the patrons without them even seeing you watching them. It’s the best way to find out what happened to your sister.”

  It might also draw out the person responsible, since I seemed to fit his preferences.

  Archer stood and asked if I was finished eating. When I nodded, he covered up the trays, put them on a cart, and wheeled the cart out of the room.

  “You ready to get started?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Great. After you get changed, we’ll head out. Then, later, I want to go over the files with you. They’ve all been transferred to the laptop.” He pointed to an electronic machine with a video screen and type board.

  “Where are we going?” Please don’t let it be a casino, I thought.

  “To the tunnels.”

  Chapter 12

  He was feeding his newest playmate when the bitch bit him. Nearly bit his goddamn finger right off.

  “You bitch!” He sucked his finger to stop the blood flow. Then he slapped her as hard as he could across the face. He couldn’t believe it didn’t leave a mark. He wanted it to leave a mark, to leave his mark.

  She just laughed. Then she spit on him, and that enraged him even more. He flipped over the soup tray, and it splattered across the wall, leaving splotchy chunks of noodles stuck to the torn wallpaper. They looked like dead worms in the dim light. He dragged her off the mattress by her hair and flung her against the cement wall, hoping she would smack her head.

  His partner wouldn’t like that, but he didn’t care.

  “You think it’s funny? I’ll show you funny, you fucking bitch!”

  He grabbed a knife, the one he was going to use to carve his initials into her stomach when the game was over, and held it to her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, but he could smell a trace of fear. It wasn’t strong like the others’. It didn’t last long, and this one’s scent was herbaceous, floral, even, though he couldn’t identify the plant.

  “Look at me!” he hissed.

  She opened one eye. It sparkled for a moment. Almost… illuminated. Then she shut it.

  This one was harder to break, but he had every confidence he would be able to break her, given enough time. He had broken many. She wasn’t anything special.

  Then again, he could always kill her and find another. But no, it was too late for that. His partner had promised the plan would be enacted soon.

  He pressed the tip of the knife to her swan-like throat, his other hand gripping the back of her head. Her breathing was steady, calmer, and her eyes were still closed.

  Then one of the other playmates said, “No, please, don’t.”

  That’s when he felt the tension shift beneath his hold on the newbie’s head. That’s when he learned what her currency was. She actually gave a shit about the others. She didn’t just fear for her life. She feared for theirs.

  He swung his head back, dropped her like a water hose, and made his way over to the one who had interrupted his game.

  He dragged that one—the one with the mouth—kicking and screaming, tears running down her face, over to the handcuffs that dangled from the ceiling. He gripped one skinny wrist and then another, binding her to the ceiling. Then he duct-taped her feet as she whispered, “Please, please, not again.”

  Ignoring her, he watched as she swayed gently, like a side of beef in the Chicago stockyards. Fresh meat, he thought. She was firm, well toned. A dancer, maybe.

  Then he turned back to the one who had bitten him. She tried to appear defiant, but he saw the emotion when she opened her eyes again. That sparkling was there still, but he saw what she was feeling just the same.

  Empathy, remorse, and anger. Oh, yes, there was a lot of anger there. If she had been a man, he might have befriended her. Could have coaxed her to join his team. He could use that kind of piss and vinegar. Too bad.

  He said to her, “This is your fault. I want you to remember that. Every plea, every scream, every scar—it’s all on you. It should be you.”

  Then the fun began.

  Chapter 13

  “You’re kidding, right?” Archer asked me when I met him back in the common area of our suite after I had changed.

  “Look, I don’t want to hear it. In fact, I don’t even want to think about it. Let’s just say I need to go shopping as soon as possible.”

  I was wearing—not by choice, but rather out of necessity—a much-too-tight orange sequined tube top, jeans that looked to have been painted onto my thighs, and leopard platform heels. I couldn’t believe my sisters even owned this kind of garb, let alone wore it out in public. Honestly, what did this city do to all who entered? I had never known Meg or Alex to be caught dead in such attire. It had to be theirs, too, because of the fit. Not many goddesses came close to my height.

  “Well, there’s plenty of dough in the safe for that,” Archer said.

  “Why is there dough in the safe?” I asked. “Shouldn’t it be in the refrigerator?”

  “Money, Tisi, I’m talking about money. Coin. You’re going to have to start picking up some colloquialisms if you’re going undercover. Which reminds me.” He crossed over to the sofa, picked up a fancy shopping bag tied in ribbons, and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Your uniform.”

  I peeked into the bag. It was rather small to hold much of anything, let alone a uniform.

  “Do I get a badge too?”

  Archer paused, seeming confused. After a moment, he appeared to understand my question. “No, Tisi, this is the uniform for the Shadow Bar, not the FBI.”

  I untied the shiny purple strings and pulled out what looked like something one might use to sheath a sword.

  “This? How am I supposed to wear this? It’s like a pair of gloves.”

  Archer shrugged. “It’s supposed to be tight. Don’t worry. You’ll be behind the screen.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on, let’s roll.”

  Judging by his gesture to open the door, I guessed that meant we were leaving.

  I pretended to ignore the men gawking at me as I walked through the casino. This was no easy feat, because I had to walk with measured care
so I wouldn’t break my neck. How did women wear these things? They felt like ancient torture devices designed by an angry god who hated females.

  Archer was pretty far ahead of me when he noticed I wasn’t keeping pace. He rushed back to tell me he was going to run an errand, then grab a cab. He disappeared through the crowd.

  Halfway through the Pussycat Dolls portion of the casino, I spotted a woman with fiery red hair, wearing jeans and an athletic T-shirt with a cartoon cub in a baseball cap on the front of it. She was sitting in the bar with the sea horse sculptures, trying her best to ignore a pudgy man who was sweating on her and smoking a cigar. He seemed excited about something. She didn’t seem too thrilled to be in his presence, however. Something about her made me keep my gaze aimed at her. Her body language, the frown on her face, the way she scrunched into the seat, leaning away from the man and never making eye contact, led me to believe that this woman was in the midst of unwanted company.

  Just as I reached them, he grabbed her arm forcefully and she shuddered. Then she said something, barely moving her lips. Her face grew fierce, but she still refused to look at him.

  She seemed a woman in trouble. Could this be the kidnapper of the Shadow Bar victims? Was he targeting redheads now?

  I rushed over to them, looked her square in the eye, and said, “Excuse me. Do you need help?”

  The man puffed on his cigar, ogling the woman lasciviously, but he didn’t say anything more.

  The redhead, who I saw had grassy-colored eyes, looked at me and plastered on a false smile. “Excuse me?” she said.

  “Is this man bothering you?” I asked, glaring at the brute.

  The man looked confused, as did the redhead, who narrowed her eyes and said, “What man?”

  I pointed. “The one standing in your space, smoking a cigar.”

  The young woman stiffened. She glanced at the man, then at me. She leaned toward me and said softly, “You can see him?”

  The man said, “Who are you talking to? Is there another medium in the house?”