Chapter 2?

Polly had been alive a long time -- long enough to have cursed immortality more than a few times. She had met hundreds of thousands of mortals. She'd seen even more on television and in films. Some of them had been near talentless, but she'd never met a mortal with no talent before. "Like, zero," she said aloud.

Her office was small, with a rose color breaking up the white molding. The decorator had gone nuts with the statues in this room. Three of Polly's sisters on three different walls; Thalia, Erato, and Clio had their own alcoves. The room comfortably fit a smaller version of Sam's desk with two velvet chairs that matched the walls facing the desk. The designer had found an office desk chair that looked like a throne, painted gold with white cushions. The window behind the chair was framed by gauzy, white curtains, but as the alleyway that the window looked out on ruined the ambiance, the designer had covered the "view" with a shade. The shade was painted with trompe l'oeil scene of a beach.

Polly walked over to a small bookcase in the corner and hit a hidden switch. It swung open to reveal a closet. The closet held a few changes of clothing and shoes; business and casual and two safes; one that Hayley knew about and one that only Polly did. A full-length mirror hung on the back of the door.

What type of body to present to the public was always a political choice. Throughout the centuries, Polly had generally settled for the classic white male, as she could be certain that even on a short mission, she'd have immediate credibility. This time, she'd wanted to settle in, stick around. She'd considered appearing as a black woman, just to balance out the myth of white male brilliance she'd helped perpetuate for millennia. But then, the Rachel Dolezal scandal had hit.

Polly recognized that inhabiting black skin without being burdened (and blessed) with the history behind it was disrespectful. In the end, she'd gone close to her own natural appearance; olive skin, dark topaz eyes, and jet black hair. She was vain enough to have made sure the hair was silky and the teeth straight but she'd also made herself short and chubby. The fact that she was not glamorous-looking weeded out people that she didn't want to work with.

Anyone who looked past her instead of at her, anyone whose gaze went immediately to her bosom, anyone who called her "senorita" without learning her name (or heritage) was immediately out. She mostly booked and hired women. Polly prided herself on not being vain, and in fairness, compared to her sisters, she was fairly unconcerned with her appearance. But she was still a goddess, and beauty was important to her.

Nobody took incredibly beautiful people seriously as anything other that eye-and-arm candy, so she'd gone with average features. She had chosen a serviceable appearance without any particular thought toward romance.

Now, she sucked in her stomach and arched her back, critically observing the changes her posture made on her body shape in the mirror.

"Oh, my god, you do that too?"

Polly jumped, all of her pent up breath whooshing out of her. Jane Johnson, one of Polly's comedians, stood in Polly's doorway. She was slightly taller than Polly but slim, with dark hair and kewpie doll face that she'd recently started to try to balance with a leather motorcycle jacket thrown on with a t-shirt and jeans. She was only twenty-three but had already been doing comedy for a decade. She was one of Polly's only comedians that Polly hadn't done much for. Jane was one of those who would have made it no matter where she was discovered, or by whom.

Jane walked over and sat down on one of the chairs facing Polly's desk. She slouched down into the chair and flung a leg over the arm. She grinned at Polly as Polly stepped away from the mirror and kicked the bookcase/door shut. "It's good to know you're human," Jane said, tracking Polly with gleaming eyes, as Polly walked over to her desk.

Polly shrugged off her embarrassment and laughed. "Was there ever any doubt?"

"Kind of," Jane answered with a laugh but the corners of her mouth were tense.

Polly leaned forward, catching Jane's gaze. "How can I help you, hon?" she asked gently.

Jane shrugged, flushing a bit. She looked away, her gaze following the ornamental swirls of Polly's desk. "I have an audition today," she said. "It's stupid but I don't want to go alone. Maybe after, I could buy you lunch?"

Polly stood up. "Of course." She felt under her desk with her feet for her heels and then slipped them on. She grabbed her cell, slipping it into the skirt of her sundress.

Jane popped up from the chair. "Really? Okay, great," she said, moving toward the door. "I need to be there in 20 minutes."

"Where, exactly?"

"Burbank," Jane said, flashing an apologetic grin behind her.

Polly sighed and followed. It was noon. Getting to Burbank from Sylmar took 20 minutes with no traffic, let alone at this time of day with all of LA getting ready to do lunch.

Sam was back at her post and on the phone. Sam was 30 but with a face made for Disney and Lauren Hill hair. She brightened up when she saw Polly, which Polly took to mean that Sam's audition had gone well. Bryce Adder, a comedian that Polly didn't like much but who hung out a lot, was sitting on the couch next to the door. He rose when he saw Polly. "Can I talk to you?" he asked.

"I'm on my way out," Polly said, relieved to have an excuse to leave. Bryce was a tall, good-looking white guy who constantly pestered Polly for more stage time despite being only okay at comedy. He wasn't bad enough for Polly to tell him to get lost, although she felt no desire to help develop his talent. She did hope that he would grow up and let some of his more misogynistic jokes go, someday. Seeing him always put a pit of dread in her stomach, a confrontation that she'd like to put off indefinitely, if not forever. "You can make an appointment with Sam," she said. "I'd be happy to sit down with you," she said, losing a little of breath at the lie. She flashed him an apologetic smile and followed Jane, who hadn't even slowed down.

Mid-summer in Los Angeles, the heat had a fist to it. Polly pushed back against the searing breeze, following Jane to her dark blue Hyundai Sonata, which had been part of her payment for doing a commercial for the brand a year ago. Polly barely had the door closed before Jane took off. Polly was immortal but she strapped the seatbelt on with a quick prayer to Zeus anyway.  Jane's philosophy on defensive driving was that a great offense made a great defense. Polly drove like everybody's least favorite grandmother; slowly, methodically, and with the proper respect for a 3000-lb death machine. As subtly as possible, she braced herself against the back of her seat, the door, and the floor of the car.

Once they were safely (relatively) on the freeway, Polly chanced a glance at Jane. She mentally shuffled through a list of pep talks but realized that Jane's gaze was focused on the road, where it belonged. Polly sank back in her seat, letting Jane's road-rage mutterings flow over her. Jane was a great comedian. She presented her knife-edged point-of-view with that sweet face machine-gunning a hundred jokes a minute at the audience. Her brilliance was obvious to everyone but herself. She was especially insecure when it came to acting, which was newer and something that she had less control over.

Polly kicked off her shoes and pulled out her phone. She had at least a hundred messages on various social media platforms that she needed to sort through, at any given time. Anything she didn't answer, Sam or Hayley would but she didn't like the new mortal trend of needing to be on-call at all times. An entire generation of mortals were growing up without the ability to just step away from each other and take a breath. She answered a handful of emails before her phone was jerked from her grasp by gravity.

"Shit!" Jane said, her gaze focused on an exit three lanes away and coming up fast. She jerked the wheel again, barely missing a semi.

"I swear to God, if you don't take the next exit, you'll never step foot on my stage again!" Polly shouted, clinging to the dashboard with one hand, the door handle with the other.

Jane sighed. "I think I have to," she said, ignoring a multitude of middle fingers she was receiving from people in the cars around them. "I'm sorry, I was going over what I wanted to say and wasn't paying attention to driving."

Polly ignored these comforting words and let Jane navigate the switching of lanes at a more reasonable pace. "I'm definitely going to be late now," Jane said.

"Why did you wait so long?" Polly asked.

"Honestly, I was just going to blow it off but then I thought if you went with me it might not be so bad. My roommate was going to come with me, but she got called into work last-minute."

Polly was surprised. Jane was nearly oblivious as to how talented she actually was, which meant that she rarely placed any importance on auditions and such. That she needed moral support was -- interesting. "What is the audition?" Polly asked.

Jane sighed turned onto the exit. "It's for a sitcom?"

"Uh-huh," Polly said. "So it's a big part?"

"Kinda," Jane said. "It's supposed to be about me."

Polly stifled a laugh. Only Jane would call a pitch meeting for her own sitcom an "audition". Jane pulled up outside of a dark-glassed skyscraper. Polly stifled another laugh. Jane's pitch was with NBC. Of course it was.

"Can you park for me?" Jane asked. "I'll wait for you in the lobby but I want to check in. Also, can I tell them you're my manager? I kind of already did."

"Sure," Polly said, answering the parking question automatically. The rest of the request hit a moment later, but Jane had already flashed her a dimpled grin and her door was already open. "Thanks!" she said, before exiting the vehicle.

Polly watched Jane jog toward the entrance and shook her head. Mortals. Always so hesitant to just ask for what they needed. Always so sneaky. She unstrapped her seatbelt and then retrieved her phone from under one of her shoes. She slipped it back into her pocket before scooting over to the driver's seat.

Chapter 1 ?

"Polly!"

Polly's head jerked up from her desk before she was even fully awake. Her assistant, Harley Nugent, popped into Polly's doorframe, bouncing slightly off of the doorjamb. She had long, straight red hair and a small-puppy-in-a-big-dog's-body kind of energy. She tended to bump into things rather than just stop under her own steam.

"Yes?" Polly asked, blinking quickly to de-fog the spell of sleep. It had been a long night. She'd been nodding off at her desk all morning.

"I have to run out to pick up lunch, can you sit at the front desk for 10 minutes and answer the phones?"

"Of course," Polly said. She placed her hands on her desk as though she were about to stand, but slumped back as soon as Harley disappeared. Harley didn't usually answer phones. Sam Hart, the club's daytime receptionist must be out at an audition. Polly had a vague recollection of setting one up and then, as she remembered where her feet were -- yep, right there at the end of her legs -- she vowed to stop hiring actresses to work as her receptionist. She felt around under her desk for her shoes but then decided to leave them.

It wasn't her fault, though.  Everyone had a least a smidge of talent, and those smidges tended to explode into the real thing around her. Actually, in that case, it was kind of her fault. Sure, she could turn off her magic, in order to keep her employees with her longer but that idea repelled her. She had too much pride in her own talent to squash it on purpose.

She stumbled out into the reception area. Her nights had been long, lately, leaving her sleepy and out-of-sorts during the day. Fortunately, the office was blessedly empty, which was unusual. Even though she was normally happy to see whatever comedian who wandered in, she was also, on days like this, very glad to have Sam and Harley to buffer her from immediate human contact.  Aside from both being massively talented, even without Polly's influence, they were both super organized and loyal as hell -- or at least, they seemed to be. So far. One never knew, for sure.

After Ares had helped her get revenge on her sisters for humiliating her, Polly had left Olympus for the mortal world. She hadn't been back in over a thousand years. She wasn't sure if she'd ever go back. If she were honest with herself, shame kept her from going back as much as anger. She'd helped hundreds of mortals in that time, soothing her conscience by helping others.

Five years ago, she'd opened up a small comedy club in the San Fernando Valley. She'd considered Hollywood but there were already a lot of clubs there, and besides, she wanted to be closer to the comedians. Up-and-coming comedians only needed one or two roommates and only one or two jobs in order to afford living in the valley.

It was amazing that a "small club" still took up a decent length of the block. The periwinkle blue stucco had been studded with elaborate, gilt-framed televisions advertising upcoming shows. A large, black-painted wood cut-out of an open-beaked bird combined with an even larger white-painted wood speech bubble proclaimed, "Starlings Comedy Club" in black block letters above the office entrance.

At the end of the building was a small cafe. Starling's Cafe was on the other side of the club's kitchen, so just as the reception area doubled as a box office at night, the kitchen was used for the cafe during the day and the club at night. The cafe was mostly where Polly's regulars hung out, wrote new material (or didn't), and used her free wifi during the day.

Polly hadn't had much interest in decorating the place -- all she needed was a stage and some seats, right? So she'd hired an interior designer. Armed with nothing but Polly's vague comment about being of Greek ancestry, the designer had gilded the office with white molding and wall niches inset with statues of Greek goddesses. In a weird twist of Fate, which Polly often took a silent moment to curse, the designer had been inspired to use the 9 muses as her central theme. They didn't particularly look like Polly and her sisters but she tended to avoid their blank gazes anyway.

Plush, dark periwinkle carpet ran through all of the rooms except for the bathrooms and kitchen which were covered in white, porous tile for easy clean-up and quick drying. Aside from the white columns, the reception area was painted in the same periwinkle blue as the outside of the building. Sleek but comfy couches lined the wall facing Sam's massive, wrought-iron desk, two on each side of the door. Small side tables with books rather than magazines had been Polly's only influence in the design of the reception area.

The reception area broke off into two parts. To the left and down a short hallway, was Harley's office, and then Polly's and then a bathroom that the office shared. To the right, a short hallway led to the public bathrooms and further down the hallway, a large archway opened directly into the showroom. For guests, this was where the hallway ended. On the other side of the wall was another archway for the servers to get in and out of the room and the partitioned off hallway continued on to the staff bathroom and the kitchen.

The phone rang, startling Polly. Without thinking, she picked up the receiver and then dropped it back into the cradle. She didn't feel like talking to anyone. Her head pounded; a combination of guilt, relief, and too much ambrosia fighting for dominance over her nervous system.

The bells on her front door chimed and a man entered. Polly grimaced and then tried to inject some genuine interest into her expression. She relaxed when she recognized the uniform of a postal carrier. Not a fragile, easily crushed comedian, but a solid, strapping, albeit short, black man. He had a mailbag slung over his shoulder and was holding some boxes. An expression of bland friendliness in his dark brown eyes matched a sweet smile.

"I've got some packages for you," he said, walking toward the desk. Polly mentally dismissed the man. He had no talent to develop and she could sense no ambition in him, anyway.

"Thanks," she said, as he set three small boxes down on Sam's desk. She examined him more thoroughly, finding relief in being around someone she couldn't do anything for. He was exactly her height, and she was only 5'4 without heels, which she'd left under her desk. He had a decent jawline and strong arms and legs but a bit of a paunch around the middle even though he was definitely not any older than his late 30s. He had a comfortable feeling about him. His energy was self-sustaining; neither overly needy nor aggressively protective.

He was exactly average. Not good-looking, not ugly. Not weird, not cool. But there was something -- off.

"You have no talent," she blurted out.

He blinked and stepped back. He tilted her head and sent her a quizzical smile. "What?"

She leaned forward and stared him in the eyes, putting all of her focus into scanning him completely. "Like, no talent. Like, none. Not a finger, not a toenail, not a cell in your body has any talent!" She said.

"I mean," he said, taken aback. "I can play the guit--"

"Nope," she interrupted. "Not well. Not well, at all."

"Okay," he said, with a rueful laugh. "I sing in the shower some--"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "It's not good. You shouldn't."

He laughed again and thought for a moment. "Um...my friends say I grill a mean burg--"

"No. No. Nooo..." she said, with increasing vigor. "Your friends are liars. Your burgers are just okay." She frowned, focusing all of her energy on finding any bit of talent in him. She shook her head. "There's nothing. Nothing."

The front door chimed again and the scent of food permeated the room. "I've got lunch!" Harley said, dropping two containers onto Sam's desk. She shoved a cup of coffee into Polly's hand. "You seem like you need it," she said cheerfully. She looked up at the mailman. "Hi, Duke! How are you doing today?"

"I'm good," he said automatically turning his sweet smile onto her. "Actually, I'm talentless, apparently," he added with a laugh.

"Oh, don't say that," Polly said. She picked up the phone and sent Polly a quizzical glance. "Starlings Comedy Club, how can I help you?"

Polly realized that the phone had been ringing for a good minute and she hadn't even heard it. Duke returned his focus to her, his smile warming her body like a tiny, gentle sun. He saluted her, backed up a couple of steps and then turned to leave.

As the door chimed closed behind him, she realized that her mouth was open and that she hadn't moved from her position behind Sam's desk. One hand was still planted on the desk, the other holding the coffee Harley had shoved into her hand. Harley was angled over the phone from the wrong side of the desk, scribbling onto a post-it pad. "Okay, great, can you come in tomorrow at 4 for an interview? Bring a resume. Great! See you then!"

She dropped the phone back into the cradle from high enough that it bounced before settling into place. "Potential new dishwasher!" she said. "By the way," she added, rolling her eyes. "One of the TVs outside melted again. I'll send Sam out to pick up a new one when she gets back from her audition."

Polly stood up straight and stepped away from the desk. "Cool," she said. She wandered back down the hallway and into her office. She leaned against her door, dazed.

Unamused Prologue

The scent of ambrosia wafted through the dusky air, mingling with moans of pleasure. The lake was perfectly round and filled by an underground spring with clear water that deepened into cerulean at the center. An equally perfect circle of soft sand surrounded it, wide enough to accommodate the supple bodies of nearly every god and goddess in Elysium and their lovers. Some were dozing in the violet and orange haze. More were engaged in the act of love, often with multiple partners, in a slow, lazy orgy.

Strong, supple hands brushed against Polyhymnia's calves as she walked past a group of five or six nude, entwined, bronze-skinned gods and goddesses. She refrained from rolling her eyes as Ares tugged at her ankle more aggressively than any of the others. She gathered sand on the tip of her sandal and let it fly. He grunted and let go.

"You're such a prude, Poly," he muttered, brushing the sand out of his eyes.

"You're such a pest," Polyhymnia responded without looking back. His chuckle floated on the air behind her.

Narcissus was already at the pool, staring at his reflection, his back to her. He sensed her presence and called out, "No ripples!" without tearing his gaze from the water. Polyhymnia suppressed the urge to kick him in.

She moved along the sand at the edge of the water. When she was about a hundred yards away from Narcissus, she sank down onto her knees. The hem of her tunic pooled around her. The gasps and sighs receded from her awareness as she focused on her reason for coming to Elysium. She stared down at her grim reflection.

She and her sisters, by their nature, had a tendency to be scattered throughout the mortal world at any given time but they had a standing date once a year in Boeotia for any of them who could make it. Polyhymnia had shown up a week early, as usual, to arrange for food and wine with her father's servants, and hadn't been surprised when none of her sisters had shown up on the appointed day. Polyhymnia had missed a few reunions herself, having gotten lost in certain mortal entanglements. And to be honest, her sisters were all a bit self-absorbed and were, therefore, often late. But when a few days had passed and not even one of them had appeared, Polyhymnia had become concerned.

The pool at Elysium had the property of being able to show one what one wanted to see, so Polyhymnia had caught a ride on the closest pegasus. Now, she looked down into the water and forced herself to breathe deeply, consciously relaxing her shoulders. "Let me see Melpomene," she said, mentally unknotting the fist of worry that was clenched in her stomach. Of all of her sisters, Melpomene seemed to attract the most trouble. She also had the tendency to drag her sisters into her scrapes, which meant that by scrying for her, Polyhymnia was likely to find at least one or two more of her sisters at the same time.

An image of Melpomene appeared in the water. As the scene became clearer, Thalia appeared as well. Around them, urns and pillars appeared. Large cushions were scattered around the floor, upon which lounged the rest of Polyhymnia's sisters. It was as Polyhymnia had suspected -- except that none of her sisters looked upset, which they would have been if they'd been dragged into one of Melpomene's constant sagas. If all of her sisters were together and all was well, why hadn't they met at their father's house, as was tradition? And if they'd changed the location of their reunion, why had none of them told her?

The realization hit her. One of her father's servants must have mislaid a message from Hermes. Her sisters must be waiting for her. Polyhymnia's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Her sisters would tease her mercilessly for showing up late. She quickly scanned the room for hints as to its location. The pillars were painted gold. The large cushions were all turquoise, and smaller round ones were orange. That meant her sisters must be at Calliope's home. Yes, the arrangement of the pillars framing the dusky sky behind them was familiar.

Polyhymnia gathered up the skirt of her tunic as she prepared to rise. The musical sound of her sister's laugh made her smile. It was nice to hear her usually agitated sister sound so happy. The laughter trailed off and Melpomene raised a golden goblet to her sisters. "Thank you all for being here, and thank you all for not inviting Polyhymnia. I couldn't take any of her judgment disguised as concern, this year."

Polyhymnia froze, half-risen into an awkward crouch. What?

Calliope snorted. "No problem," she said, an edge of disdain in her tone. "Calliope," she said, in a deep voice, "How's the writing on your epic coming along?"

Erato chimed in, her voice also unnaturally low, "Erato, how's your songwriting?" She snorted. "As though any of us has time to create our own art, what with constantly inspiring these otherwise pathetic mortals to greatness?"

Polyhymnia frowned. The bitterness in her sisters' voices was new to her. She'd never considered that her real interest in her sisters' lives was taken as criticism rather than encouragement.

"Thank you for not inviting her, Clio, we know you two get along," Euterpe said. Polyhynmnia's sisters turned their focus to Clio, and so did Polyhymnia. Polyhymnia, before this day, would never have admitted to having a favorite, but Clio was always the easiest to talk to, and she tended to be less gay and flighty than the rest of her sisters.

Clio flushed but she raised her chin, her golden eyes flashing a mild challenge. "It was either that or be uninvited myself," she replied, in her usual cool, even tone. "Besides, I imagine everything will work itself out, eventually."

Urania flicked a graceful wrist in a dismissive gesture. "If we wanted this reunion to revolve around Polyhymnia, we would have invited her. We'll see her next year, we just need a break from her. Terpsichore, play us some music. Let's dance."

Terpsichore put down her goblet and raised her everpresent lyre, and plucked a familiar melody. As the melody picked up, the image of Polyhymnia's sisters faded away.

Polyhymnia rose from her half-crouch and walked away from the pool, in a daze. Her head swam in confusion and her heart felt like it had been replaced with eight sharp, heavy pebbles. Stabbing pains radiated out from her chest, piercing her ribs. She collapsed on the sand, trying to catch her breath. She felt like her entire body was on fire.

She had never felt the specific shame that came from being betrayed by those she trusted the most but she was familiar with the concept, as she'd witnessed it happen to mortals many times. She'd always felt like it balanced out for them, being able to turn their pain into inspiration for beautiful art, but as she curled into her pain, she couldn't imagine any art beautiful enough to balance out this level of devastation.

A band of cool strength wrapped itself around her waist. She hadn't realized that she'd gone blind with rage until her vision cleared. The fine, golden sand against the pure white of her skirt. A bronze arm wrapped around her waist. Ares. He pulled her toward him. She fancied that she heard a sizzle as her burning skin met the coolness of his chest. His nearness wiped out the pain from her body. Slowly, her mind cleared and narrowed into focus on one thing.

Ares lay curled around her on the sand, her tears sizzling as they fell onto his muscled bicep. "Don't worry," he murmured into her hair. "I'm very good at revenge."



[Note: A post title with a ? means that the chapter is being worked on and not currently considered done, although, most likely, most of these chapters will be altered as the story goes along and I'm figuring out what's going on.]