Stirfry Neon

And there she was, Mace, shimmering ahead of me, thread twisted into a ball in her hands, a smile, welcoming arms…That’s where I paused. Mace would certainly be having some other mood than open arms, if I knew her at all. And I did. 

Shapechangers, illusions and witches/wizards playing mind games always mess up the little things. They give you a pretty, perfect fantasy picture, a warm and fuzzy confusion that will pull you into their trap. But I’d never gone to Mace for the warmth and fuzziness; there were sweater gifts every year for that and even they were prickly. No, Mace was a sharp stinging splash. And I’d always liked that. So I slowed my progress until I got a better view of the situation.  Yes, there was a yarn ball in the fake Mace’s hands, but out of it, a thread continued, wending its way to the smallest of holes in the rough, tiled floor. I’d forgotten my jackhammer. I had remembered both how to fall and how to turn myself into a target. Maybe there was a solution there.  

I stopped, just out of reach. The figure ahead of me matched Mace perfectly. Proteus. The old man of the sea. The one who could tell the future; the one who couldn’t lie. That’s what I was betting on.  And yes, I am a betting individual. I just rarely keep anything around I’d be bothered by losing.  These were higher stakes than my usual, but that just sharpened my reflexes. I wanted to win. I don’t know what Proteus wanted but the thing about the Pantheon is, they’ve been around so long, you can usually talk them around to the point where they’re bored enough that you can work around them…or bargain or entertain them enough that they’ll forget about whoever they owe the current favor to.

“so Proteus, what’s in it for you?”

The trident came straight and suddenly at my chest. A string of names and faces who might have called him Dad screamed into my brain as I dove to the floor.

Problem.

It’s always a problem when it gets personal.

That’s why I so rarely mention my name.  But I think people are starting to recognize the style.  Personal. Time to pull something out of my hat — or my trench pocket. Something mighter than a pen. Underwater flame thrower. Sure, I always carry one of those.  

Any other suggestions?

And the trident grazed my ear. And a foot crashed itself into my ribs. And then Mace gave up on getting rescued.  She’s funny that way. And a few others.  

I’ll never be certain if I went through the floor or the floor went through me. I’ll also never be certain if I retained every single internal organ. I’m just certain every one I did retain ached and would continue to do so until I could sleep without feeling like lemon curd or corrugated cardboard.  There’s a combination. 

I’m pretty sure that’s almost what Mace usually says about me, when not (as right then) standing over me muttering invocations in ancient Greek. Yep, invocations, that’s what I’m calling them. Proteus was probably glaring but I’d practiced on Medusa. I wasn’t looking. 

I heard English and looked up, seeing much more of Mace than usual. She traded layers of knitting, sweaters and scarves for a simple chiton. “Do you just hate me”

I didn’t bother to get up. I think my legs were still mostly made of some gelatinous substance. I just laughed. It echoed. “Yep. Hate.”  I sat up, mostly. “That’s why I’m here on the ocean floor. Hate. you figured it out.”

She couldn’t glare. She just half fell next to me and leaned into my shoulder. One of those I don’t care if the ceiling falls in, the ocean pours in and the Minotaur turns the corner moments. Rare…so, a little privacy please. Thank you.

Just that moment though because I really did care if the ceiling fell in, the ocean poured down and the Minotaur turned the corner.

So do you.  Surprises you a little, right?

We sat in silence for too long a time.  I’m really bad at silence. It makes me fidget, which would have ruined the Mace on my shoulder sensation so only my brain could range restless. Mace sighed. She always picks up the vibrations. The easy moment needed to dissolve. Reality was thundering closer on hooves.

“He wants the diner.”

“So give it to him.” I’m simple minded like that.

She turned so she was actually looking at me, both eyes, depths of mood and amethyst emotions.  ”And go back to my sisters?”

“Why does he want the diner?”

“Plans in the city. Tired of life in the undersea palace. Mermaids, Nereids, etc. aren’t really that great for company.”

Legs again. Time to stand. “Can’t he get his own place? I know a guy.”

She shook her head, hair falling out of place as I helped her up, “Only portal around. And I don’t like to share. Neither does he.”

Neither do I. When Mace was with her sisters there was no just stopping by.  And I liked stopping by.

But first, there was the stomping by to deal with.