“Charlie was a cat?”
“Of course. That’s what we were talking about, right? Cats?”
We move up in line.
“Anyway, in the end, I realized I’d dodged a bullet,” I say. “You can never quite tame an alley cat, not after they’ve been on the streets a while. If you want to domesticate them, they need . . .” I make a scissor motion. “Snip.”
“We’re still talking about cats, right?”
The counter clears, and I place my order. Before I can pay, Connolly subtly nudges me aside and orders his. As he does, my phone bings with a text.
Test two coming up! Are you ready?
I show it to Connolly as his payment processes. Once that’s done, we step aside to await our orders.
“May I?” he asks, putting out his hand for my phone.
I pass it over. He types in a reply to the text and shows me.
Is this Mercury?
I nod, and he hits Send only to get a response that his message can’t go through.
“You already tried that, didn’t you?” he says. “With the earlier ones?”
“Yep. I tried replying to texts. Tried calling the number. Tried searching on it. They’re fake, but yes, I’ll keep trying, just in case. I don’t want to find out later they actually sent something I could answer, and I ignored it.”
Our food arrives, and we take it and head out, Ellie at our heels.
My phone buzzes with another text. I sigh as I lift it.
T-10 minutes. Are you ready? Hope you studied!
Me: I know this isn’t Mercury BTW. It’s just some asshole trying to sound like her.
Connolly leans over my shoulder as I hit Send.
“Yep,” I say. “I know it’s going into cyber-space, but it makes me feel better.”
When my phone dings, Connolly says, “Ignore it.”
I shake my head. “Can’t.”
I pull it out and check the screen.
Msg: Please show your work when answering the exam questions. How did you arrive at that conclusion?
I hesitate, reading it twice. It’s from another number, a string of numerals obviously as fake at the others. Is it a response to my text? Or just more nonsense?
Me: Which conclusion? That you’re an asshole?
Msg: No, that is a given. The other please. How do you know I am not Mercury? Are you certain of that response? Please think carefully. Points will be deducted for incorrect answers.
Me: I’m sure enough to risk it. You’re not Mercury.
Msg: So she’s made contact.
The hair on my neck rises. I show Connolly the string of messages.
“Don’t answer,” he says. Then he pauses. “I mean, that would be my advice.”
“Because I just fell face-first into a trap.” I lower the phone. “Damn it.”
“I also responded to the message,” he says. “And I saw no harm with the one you sent. If anyone is to blame, it’s Mercy.”
“Athene thought I was trying to get her attention with the painting,” I say. “Someone is trying to get an immortal’s attention. I’m just the messenger, as you said.”
My phone has now buzzed twice with messages, and I reluctantly pull it from my pocket.
Msg: Silence must be interpreted as assent. You have made contact.
Msg: Continued silence will be taken as consent. Consent to inflict whatever penalty I deem fit.
I send back a two-word response that has Connolly snorting.
Msg: Well, that was rude. You’re upset. You thought this would be all fun and games. It is Mercury, after all. You’re her latest bright and shiny project. What could possibly go wrong? I presume you didn’t read the fine print before agreeing to mentorship.
Me: I didn’t agree to anything.
Msg: Ah, that’s why you’re testy. The favor of the gods is a double-edged sword.
Me: I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not the messenger you want.
Msg: I won’t bore you with a recitation of everything I know about you. Accept that I have studied for this particular test, and I can send a complete dossier upon request. All that is irrelevant . . . unless you force me to make it relevant.
Me: Is that a threat?
Msg: A warning. What matters to me is that you are a mortal conduit to the great Mercury. I have something she wants. Three somethings, in fact.
Me: The remaining paintings.
Msg: Correct.
Me: Not sure she wants them.
Msg: You’re probably right. I doubt they match her decor. But she wants them out of the world, as does Athene. Bad memories and all that.
I glance at Connolly, who’s reading over my shoulder.
“They’re another punishment,” I mutter. “Like the Necklace of Harmonia. Seems some curses are a popular way of torture immortals.”
I unlock my shop door, and we slip inside.
“I suppose that makes sense,” he says. “A curse may only do true harm every few decades, but if you’re an immortal, that’s a constant reminder that others continue to suffer for your actions.”
Another message has blipped in. I ignore it as I flip the sign to Open. I’ve been closed long enough. I’ll need to eat while listening for the bell.
We head into the back room, and I prop open the door. My phone keeps dinging, reminding me I have unread messages.
I open my sandwich wrapper, spread it on the counter and give Ellie a piece of crab before picking up my phone again.
Msg: I need to speak to Mercury. You have ten minutes to send me her contact information.
Me: I don’t have her contact information.
Msg: Tick-tick . . .
Me: I don’t have it. She showed up. Then she left. No one has her information. That’s why you’ve come after me. She’s impossible to get a hold of.
Msg: And yet you did. You have one hour.
I start tapping in a reply, but I’m so furious I keep hitting the wrong keys. When Connolly arches his brows, I shove the phone across the counter and attack my sandwich.
Connolly takes the phone with another brow arch.
“Feel free,” I say.
He sets the phone down sideways so I can see what he’s typing and approve it.
Connolly: You’re asking me to provide something I don’t have. How can I prove a negative?
Msg: Oh, I believe you don’t have it. I’m telling you to get it.
Connolly: But without the ability to contact Mercury, how do I obtain her contact information?
Msg: Think of it as a puzzle.
Connolly: A puzzle has a solution. The only solution here is to hope she makes contact in the next hour.
Msg: Then I guess that’s what you’ll do. Tick-tock.
Connolly: And if I fail?
Msg: You’ll get a surprise. And it won’t be a nice one.
Connolly: I want to be removed from this equation. I’m not associated with Mercury. I have not accepted her help in any way. You’re speaking to the wrong person.
We both watch the phone as we eat, and the screen stays blank. I want to slap it off the counter. I want to rage and stomp my feet and shout this isn’t fair. But whoever is doing it knows it isn’t fair, and they don’t give a damn. They want Mercy’s attention, and they’ll use me to get it and punish me when I don’t.
Chapter Seventeen