Hank and Ray

The smile dropped immediately from Hank's face as he walked into Ray Perry's property and looked around. He spied the side door that probably served as the entrance to Deanna's on again off again fuck toy to the left. The house was dilapidated, grimy shingles and flaked paint. It had once been sky blue with large sash windows. An ornate set of trees and shrubbery decorated the outside. Overall, it had the makings to be cozy. Now, half of the visible windows had been boarded up giving the appearance of scars. The landscaping had long been abandoned. Overgrown weeds and grass were unkempt. Hank lifted his boots, stepped over a pile of dog feces, glided past an old bicycle, its front tire missing, handlebars a crooked smile.
What am I doing here? He thought.
He approached the side door, gave it three knocks. His grated nerves chafed and aching, he stretched his back, willed his teeth to unclench.
"Yeah!" He heard from the inside.
"Hi, I'm looking for Ray!" He called out hoarsely.
"What about?" The voice snapped.
"It's about Stephanie Montgomery. I'm working a case."
"You a cop?"
"No."
"Then get the fuck off my property."
"Look Ray, Deanna sent me." Hank lied.
A full minute passed before Hank heard the click and clang of a dead bolt being unlocked. When the door opened, Hank put on a plastic smile, held out his hand.
"Hi. I'm Hank Dolan. I'm a private investigator hired by Deanna Montgomery. Can we talk?"
Ray Perry was exactly what Hank expected. He had a lanky, sloven appearance, suspicious eyes, sloppy except for carefully maintained facial hair. Hank spread out his hands as the door opened and stepped inside. He was led to the kitchen, sat down at the head of the table.
"You want some water?" Ray asked, not turning from the sink.
"I'm fine, thanks."
Hank smelled something burnt, turned his attention away from the rat traps set up behind the front door and near the fridge. He forced his lids onto Ray who stared clumsily, a smile that said nothing on his face.
"I don't know where she is."
Hank took out his notebook. "I'm trying to piece together Stephanie's last moves before she went missing. When was the last time you saw her?"
"The last time? Oh, I wager it was a few days before. Me and her mom had a row I remember. Always accusing me of this or that."
Hank felt a cold breeze coming from a vent above the refrigerator. Did he just turn on the air in November? "You guys argue a lot?"
"Me and Deanna? Oh, no more than most I suppose."
"What were you arguing about?"
"I thought you wanted to talk about Stephie. You interested in me or her?"
"Yes, of course." Hank said drily. "Do you have any idea where Stephanie may have gone? Are there friends, a boyfriend maybe, that Deanna doesn't know about?"
"I know most of her friends. Including that one who claims to be Descended. But Stephanie don't date, so's far as I can tell."
A tight smile crossed Hank's face. "Yes, I know of Hecate. So Stephanie doesn't date at all? She's pretty. I'm surprised by that."
Ray shrugged. "She's a piece of work though, just like her mother. Got an ass on her."
"What? How do you mean?"
"Oh, you know. Got that tight little pretty ass and attitude to match. Ain't surprised no man wants nothin but a quick tap then move on."
Hank wiped at his eyes, noticed a definite chill in the room. He looked back at the vent near the ceiling. Ray had turned on the air conditioner. It was clear that he didn't want guests and would freeze them out if he could.
"So you've never seen a guy over there?"
"Nah, not really. She shows the interest I guess. I don't know a boy who's seeing her."
Hank felt uneasy. He was unsure how far he could continue this line of questioning. "Well, she is what seventeen?"
"She turns eighteen next month." Ray finished.
Hank accepted this with a nod. "So you two close at all?"
"Me and Stephie?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, I don't know. I party with her sometimes. Me and Deanna both."
"How do you mean?"
"The girls can't buy liquor yet so every once in a while we'll spring for a case of beer, let the girls join in."
"Uh-huh."
Hank turned away, feeling something cold in the pit of his stomach. He had interrogated many sexual deviants on his time with the force. Most often they showed lack of empathy, emotional maladaption, and hostility. Ray Perry certainly was giving off the creeper vibe.
"You know what though?" Ray leaned in close. "I wouldn't be surprised if pretty Stephie just up and gone."
Hank weighed his words. "Pretty Stephie?"
"That's what I used to call her."
Past tense? Hank mind cataloged everything Ray was saying for later.
"-You know, cause it rhymes. She thought it was cute."
But it doesn't rhyme idiot. Hank thought.
"Right,-"
As he said this, Ray's left arm shot to the kitchen counter and grabbed a half full coffee pot. In one long arc he brought it down smashing into Hank's skull. Hank crumpled onto the floor, blood pouring from a shard of glass on the base of his head.
Ray was running now. He fled the kitchen, stumbling over a bag of trash near the door. On the floor, Hank picked himself up, checked the damp spot and blood that was flowing from his head. Everything was fuzzy, a hazy gray. He stood in foggy shock. When the screen door banged shut, he felt the apartment rock and tumbled outside. He smeared his forehead, coughed hard just as Ray turned left at the base of the house and disappeared.
Goddammit. Hank climbed to his knees then feet and burst into a sprint. He made a left, whipped past crippled siding, an old dog house. He sped past the side of the house and spotted Ray leaping over a back fence. He shot through the back yard, noticed the gate had been left open. He followed Ray onto another property, noticed the cold burn on the top of his head. I'm gonna need stitches.
Hank stopped at a shed, its rusty metal thudded then banged. Catching his breath, he moved to the side. Again, something clanked inside. Oh Ray, you complete dipshit. He picked up a tire iron that off to the side and tapped the shed twice.
"Come out asshole."
Nothing.
Hank stood back and waited. The throbbing in his head was like blue fire and he wondered vaguely if he had a concussion.
"Get the fuck out here now!"
The shed door squeaked open. Ray slowly stepped outside, his eyes wide and glassy.
"That's not how I take my coffee Ray."
Hank turned toward him, smearing more blood across his cheek and forehead. He brought his hand down and gripped the tire iron like a baseball bat.
"You're gonna answer me." He said.
"I don't know shit!" Ray screamed shrilly.
"Who would want to disappear that girl Ray? Was it you?"
Ray stepped back, fear visible on his face. Hank looked squarely at him, took  a deep breath.
"Shit, it was probably her Mom!"
Hank noted the bitterness in Ray's tone. He sounded like a jaded lover, somebody thrown to the side. A discarded piece of garbage.
"What are you talking about?"
"I mean they fight all the time!" Ray gasped. "Deanna probably did her herself."
Hank side stepped past the shed, holding the iron up and in Ray's field of vision. He swung it cautiously, observing Ray's wild eyes and stilted pose. "Let me get this straight. You think Deanna caused Stephanie to disappear? That's you on the record."
"I'm just saying they bicker constantly. And Deanna has a drug issue. On the wrong day..."
He let the words trail off. Even without a coffee pot to the head, Hank would have thought Ray the equivalent of human sewage. He emitted a short, sarcastic scoff.
"I think you're full of shit." He muttered.
"Whatever. But you don't know those bitches like I do."
"What does that mean?"
"I lived with her! Seen them in all their bullshit!"
Hank forced a smile. He dropped the tire iron, letting it clang at his feet. As he walked off, he heard Ray cursing. It sounded panicked. Had Ray and Stephanie been fucking? He asked himself. He could sense that something was wrong in that household. Had Deanna found out and made her daughter disappear? Or Ray?
Hank walked back to his car in fading daylight. He noticed the buzzing of a streetlamp overhead. As he started up the Sedan, he took another long look at Ray Perry's shack and wondered if Stephanie was somewhere between the walls. He could almost hear screaming. 

Hecate's Triumph

A faint smell of incense and herbs penetrated the smell of animal fur at the outdoor spice market on 32nd avenue. It was a pleasing smell, one that conjured nostalgia into Hecate. Still, the feeling wasn't the same as before the Descending. A rooftop market, the open air and warm breezes made her think of Thrace but it wasn't the same. How could it be? It was not yet time for the ceremony. She knew they wouldn't start without her but she hated to make the Africans wait, even if her witchcraft was ineffectual now. She would still try.
A drumming could be heard over the conversation of patrons going about their shopping. Every kind of herb and spice available. Some sellers carried candles, snakeskin of every species were displayed in a number of areas. The bodies of chickens and monkeys hanged in a few. Everything the Sangomas might need was available here. Hecate knew that her white painted face and braided hair was a shock. She saw it in their eyes as she made her way to the far corner of the rooftop where her rite would take place.
Hecate sighed. Before Descending, she had been the goddess of all witchcraft. It was no surprise that she'd partake in South African magic. Now, she stuck out and felt almost ridiculous. They were welcoming, yes, even if they had no conception of who she was. But there was a weariness in their eyes, a holding back.
She wondered what others would say if they were to witness the ritual she was about to perform. Many would say it was horrifying and cruel. A savage throwback to a forgotten time. Hecate knew better. The calling of the ancestors was a powerful ceremony that could just work. Who was to say?
She heard murmurings as she walked past and kept her gaze low. She heard a few whispering, the words 'pale trumpet' audible a few times. She knew why. The trumpet was the screams of a dying goat as its throat was cut during the ceremony. The trumpet to awaken the ancestors. Other animals could be used but the Africans preferred a goat. For whatever reason, its scream was the correct intonation.
She thought again of the pale trumpet and swallowed hard. Was this nickname something more sinister? Was she herself the trumpet? She knew that humans, especially tiny children had been used in these sacrifices before. She had personally presided over many, of many peoples, before Descending. It had been what it was and it had been in sacrifice to her. She loved the bleating, the cries and drumming and rattles. For months I've been here now. She thought. And the closest I can find to my beloved magic is a rooftop in New Los Angeles. Not surrounded by Thracians or Greeks but Africans who haven't forgotten the old ways.   
"Pale trumpet."
A voice said from behind her. It was a man she had seen before. Dark and sinewy, he looked out of place in his dress clothes as if he were attending Sunday school.
"Hello."
His large hand motioned for her to follow and she did. As they walked, he put on a bulbous hat that covered his unusually large ears. A large tent opened and Hecate entered. Incense filled her nose. She was directed to a chair in the middle of the area and surrounded by three attendants who would be indispensable when the ritual began. She unbuttoned her blouse and took it off, handing it to one of the attendants. The nakedness was also essential, to excite the male ancestors as they awoke. Her red hair was pulled and smoothed back with warm water til it shined like the head of a puff adder native to these peoples home. She flicked her tongue and let her eyes bore into them. Did they know who she was? Unlikely.
She sat and felt the air pressure drop. Her ears popped and she smiled. One by one the attendants began to chant, some stomped their feet, others whooped and screamed.
Hecate closed her eyes, let her essence billow out like the incense. Dogs that had been brought to the rooftop began to howl. She felt weightless as if she'd been picked up and placed on a cushion. Her equilibrium strayed and she began to lean to the left. An attendee righted her with hands on her head and shoulders. Hecate felt herself succumb and her mouth parted.  She leaned her head back, rolled it to the side. A bursting green glow filled the tent as if accent lights had been placed on the floor. Through the clouds of smoke she saw shadows standing here and there. The bodiless. She thought. The ancestors of these people. She didn't even need the trumpet, they had come, were probably evident as soon as she arrived at the rooftop. Hecate tasted ash on her tongue and spied the small fire that had been built in the tent. More coal colored incense was being added as the bodiless moved back and forth. Each time she blinked they appeared somewhere else. One was off to her side in one instant then inches from her face the next. She gritted her teeth, felt sweat form on her forehead. It was carefully wiped away. The green glow persisted, deepened, took on a pungent hue. It was now almost blue, thick like syrup. The bodiless stretched across the tent until they were all one shadow. A dark mass, a shape. Outisde, she knew the moon had just been uncovered by cloud. But it was a new moon. She felt it. It was delicious and cool. Hecate let her awareness fan out, let it grope all who bore witness. And it was there. And she rose into the bodiless.
The rooftop was now chaos as the howling had gotten crazed, uncontrollable. Gusts of wind blew incense and oils onto the ground. Sellers tried to stake down the tents only to see them picked up and blown like newspaper. The greenish hue spread across the rooftop causing some to scream in terror.
Hecate felt hands on her head and shoulders, chanting in her ear. The tent flaps blew outward a a gust from inside threatened to topple the enclosure. She stared up at the bodiless who were above them all. They spun and spun, tighter as Hecate's magic drove harder and harder.
"The ancestors have come!" She screamed.
Her attendees screamed and she heard the goat pulled within arm's reach. It bleated, it's fur soft on her hand. She was given a knife. The bodiless were now moving through the tent in quick, jagged, bursts. They whipped across her face as she drew the knife across the goat's throat and heard the trumpet sound. A silver bowl was brought to catch the blood as it poured onto the ground and onto Hecate's bare feet. She felt its warmth running between her toes.
"Sangoma!" The man from before said beside her. "Have the ancestors come? Whom do you see? What masks do they wear?"
The moon is the key. She thought. The gate of resurrection. She smiled up at the man with the bulbous hat.
"There is a budding morrow in midnight!" She responded.
"I don't understand witch! Have the ancestors answered?"
The magos persists. She thought.
She sensed it, not nearly as powerful as before Descending. But there was a residual clarity, an awareness of the bodiless and gestating undulation of the magos itself. Hecate slumped off the chair and onto the rooftop floor. She felt blood on her calves and thighs. An attendee stood over her and leaned her head back. Her mouth opened, her tongue extended. Bile from the goat was poured into her mouth and she gagged. Her eyes watered as she swallowed. To her right, she blurrily saw others quickly shearing the goat that had bled out. They worked furiously, four or five hunched over it. They brought a bangle to her. A necklace fashioned of the sheared goat fur, it went around her neck. Smaller ones were placed as bracelets onto her wrist.
"Sangoma!" The man said from beside her.
Hecate was given a large plastic cup of beer. She guzzled it, tasted the bitterness as her senses blurred.
"Sangoma!"
She was given another cup, then another.  Her shoulders softened. She looked up and saw the moon slowly realizing that the tent had been blown apart. She looked down at the ground and saw small streams of blood. The bodiless were still present, great darknesses here and there. Hecate's face darkened, she drank more beer. The man pulled at her arm. Somebody stepped in front of him.
Hecate saw what he was doing, felt his hands on her waist, trying to take her from here.
Her attendees stood in front of him, waved the knife in his face, threatened to cut him. He backed away.
"Sangoma!" He screamed. "Sangoma!" 

Magnus the Lesser. An intro. Of Hecate's Pale Offering

Magnus the Lesser, or what the acolytes referred to as the beneficiary, stepped into the Tower of Man. A doorman, probably in his twenties, put on a plastic smile and greeted him. 'Hello sir'. The lobby smelled of cleaning products and carpet cleaner. The sound of chatter was quickly hushed as he appeared and resumed as he passed.
"Good morning, Eric." He grunted as he passed the reception desk. When he didn't receive a reply, he looked up from his phone to find both his employee and security engaged in a quiet conversation off near the corner of the room. A man from the outside was there. Faint, insistent arguing was well concealed but still apparent. Magnus walked to the reception desk and put down his briefcase, catching a second of the conversation that was being held a few yards away. It was a trespassing issue, but one not likely to be resolved amicably.
"You must be invited to enter the Tower, sir." A security guard said firmly. "We no longer allow visitors to the Tower without expressed permission."
The man said something Magnus couldn't make out and flashed what appeared to be an old invitation, one which would have allowed him entry back when Pious had been the Church of Man. Those times were over. Pious had been soft. He thought. 
His birth brother, Pious McNally had built the Church of Man into a worldwide conglomerate with far reaching influence. Making billions in the real estate business, Pious had shoveled his fortune into the creation of this temple then just before its completion, found himself murdered inside its walls.
Poor fool.
His brother had been the face of the Church. He had been open to the public, an inviting and some say extroverted charismatic who loved his radio sermons and social activities. Magnus was none of those things. As stolid as his brother had been open, Magnus was cut from a different tailor. Even his suits reflected this. Whereas Pious had loved his personal belongings and well thought out wardrobe, Magnus preferred all black all the time. Pious had been showy some heard him remark at his sibling's wake the year prior.
Still, the Church had survived. Flourished in fact since Magnus had taken control. Of course the acolytes knew nothing of the fact he had been a silent partner from the Church's inception. The shock and worry were evident in their faces when he had materialized like a specter a few days after his brother's demise to assume power. But perhaps they did see a ghost. Magnus and Pious had similar features. A high sloping forehead and prominent jowels. Deep, recessed eyes and salt and pepper checkered hair, the two had always looked alike.
As he drew closer, he put on a wooden smile.
"What is the problem?"
Security nodded to him and cleared his throat. "Sir, this gentleman has an old invite pass that was issued when-"
Magnus cut him off. "It's invalid." He said. "We don't allow public entrance into the Tower anymore."
The man scofffed. "But when I got it, it was perfectly valid. Why can't you honor it now?"
Magnus sighed. He had been dealing with these Pious problems for months now- business licenses and real estate contracts, developers still looking to cash in on the Church's sizable fortune.
He thought of having the man simply thrown out of the building. But as much as he despised working in the public domain, a public incident would be worse.
"Sir, this invitation was issued when Pious McNally was the head of operations. Since Pious is now dead, what would you use the invitation for?"
"To see my painting!" The man all but screamed.
Magnus reached out and plucked the invitation from the small, wiry fingers and read it aloud/
"Giovanni Cortan." 
Oh my! He knew this name. Giovanni Cortan was the artist Pious had commissioned to create a giant ceiling mosaic on the West side of the Tower. Cortan was a famous name in art circles. His pieces commanded top dollar. Magnus himself had been impressed with the mural. A dark, cosmic scene, the gods of yesteryear were depicted as torn to pieces by demons while a vibrant human male ascended to the sky. It was controversial no doubt but a lovely mosaic. Magnus had marveled up at it when he first entered the Tower.
"Mr. Cortan. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you."
"Yes, hello." Cortan replied. "May I pass?"
"Of course. Of course."
Cortan threw a look of disdain at security and shuffled past the reception area and onto the escalator that would take him to the painting's showroom.
Magnus glanced at security who slowly followed him up to the second floor. Magnus waited a full minute before heading up the escalator himself. Goosebumps had appeared on his arms and something in the back of his mind told him that Cortan couldn't be trusted.
As he got to the top of the escalator, he stood struck dumb staring as smoke spilled out from the showroom front entrance. The painting! The damned artist had come to burn it! 
Magnus ran swiftly into the room, ducking his head as he entered. Cortan and security were wrestling over a lit zippo that had been used to light the fabric streamers that hanged from the ceiling on either side of the mosaic. Magnus turned, looked up as the lit fabric burned up the seam. An orange line crawled steadily closer to the painting that was perhaps four feet above.
Magnus motioned with his left hand. Security let go of Cortan and ran for a fire extinguisher encased in glass on the side wall next to the exit.
"It's too late!" Magnus screamed.
He knew that it wasn't just the painting that was endanger of being engulfed. The entire Tower was at risk if the blaze got out of control.
"Call the fire department!"
Magnus leaped forward, catching Cortan across his face with his left fist. The little artist tumbled then was thrown onto his back.
"What have you done?" Magnus screamed.
"It's a desecration!" Cortan shrieked shrilly. "It's blasphemous and I won't have it!"
"It's not yours to have," Magnus replied and kicked hard into the man's stomach.
From outside he heard sirens and hoped there was little traffic in front of the Tower. He looked up to see the top corner of the Ascendance of Man peeling away like dead skin. He could smell the paint as it shriveled under the heat. Somewhere, Cortan was laughing manically. "The gods have come to us! You're all wrong. They are here!"
"They're husks." Magnus sneered.
Suddenly, the Tower's fire sprinkler system activated and water sprayed down from sprinklers installed around the painting. Cortan fell onto his behind as he realized the masterwork would be saved. He brushed his hand across his forehead, stared up with blood shot eyes as the painting smoked, singed from the fire. Perhaps a four to five feet area had been burned clear away. The area close to the burn was bubbling and raised from the ceiling. Blue and yellow drizzled down the painting in little streams.
"The Church of Man is a farce!" Cortan said. His eyes red from the tears that streamed down, he raised a tiny fist to Magnus. "You're a devil McNally. Just like your brother was."
To Magnus's surprise, the man began to cry. A low, choking sob, Cortan put his hands over his face and his body spasmed in his grief.
"You're a fool, Giovanni." Magnus said quietly. "You see? Look what the gods have done to you? Look at the anguish you're knowing right now, at this second. They don't deserve you Giovanni."
Cortan wiped his face, glanced back up at the ceiling. His mouth quivered. "Well, they don't deserve that." He rasped. From his vantage point, Magnus had to look straight above his head to see the violence that the mosiac depicted. He covered his face to the sprinkler spray and squinted.
"The gods aren't dead McNally." Cortan said.
"No, but they hate us Giovanni. They hate the humanity they've descended into. How could they not?"
"Bah! You don't know McNally. You don't know that."
"But I do. I do know that. It's the reason they stay in hiding."
"They stay in hiding from people like you!"
Magnus turned away as police and fire department spilled into the room. As they hauled Cortan onto his feet, Magnus looked the old artist in the eye. Putting his head down, he mumbled. "No charges will be filed. The old man has been deceived."
"I think it's you who deceive McNally. You're a deceiver."
Magnus heard a rustle from above and thought the painting had become unhinged and was ready to topple from above. Then he remembered that the entire ceiling would have to come down for that to happen. Still, he didn't feel relieved and couldn't say why he felt no real comfort in the painting being saved.

Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Set meets Hecate. #NeonGodsII

Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Set meets Hecate. #NeonGodsII: "What is it you want?" Hecate asked. She raised the pitch of her voice just slightly. Set kept his eyes lowered to the water. H...

Set meets Hecate. #NeonGodsII

"What is it you want?" Hecate asked.
She raised the pitch of her voice just slightly.
Set kept his eyes lowered to the water. He continued to stare at the fish that swam just underneath the surface. He stretched his fingers, felt sweat run down his back. The goddess was still, unnaturally so. As if she herself were in rigor mortis. Set glanced to his right. Her red hair the color of figs draped down her back. Her lids were half closed, hiding her coal eyes. She waited.
"Draw down the moon for me." He said.
Hecate breathed deeply, her face on the pond below.
"Do you know what they are?" She asked.
Set's face twitched. "The fish?"
Hecate stepped forward, put a hand to her mouth as if she were sharing a secret. "They're red mullet."
Set caught what seemed like pretense in her words. Was she telling the truth?
"You see those ones right there?" She continued. "You see what they're doing?"
Set followed her gaze. There was a group of fish thrashing about, swimming atop one another chaotically.
"The red mullet are eating one of their own. They eat their dead."
She broke off as a passerby stepped past.
"They're known to eat a human corpse as well. It's just what they do."
Set felt more and more at a loss as to what the goddess was getting at. Does she mock me? He squinted at the pond. Was it about the corpse? The pigment perhaps. The red, his beloved Kemet. Does she insult his home? Her thin-lipped smile still expressionless, she turned to him. "They come from the family Mullidae."
"Dead eating fish." He said.
"Yes." She replied. "Did your people eat their dead Egyptian?"
Set's mind traveled back. He heard the pyramid text as if it were spoken aloud once again.
the king orders sacrifices, he alone controls them,
the king eats humans, feeds on gods;
he has them presented on an altar to himself,
the king eats their magic, he gulps down their souls, 
the adults he has for breakfast,
the young are lunch,
the babies he has for supper, the old ones are too tough to eat, he just burns them on the altar as an offering to himself. 
She was mocking him. She was an accuser. Set cleared his throat. "Our Heka required no actual ingestion. Our ways disposed of the dead...differently. But that's why I'm here, is it not? The magic of my people was ineffective for reascending. Perhaps you will fare better Greek."
Hecate ignored him. She stepped back from the pond and brushed her hair back behind her left shoulder.
"I will call you Mullus." She said.
Mullus. The insult hanged in the air between them. Hecate sneered and faced the Egyptian god fully. "Yes, it will be Mullus I think. Like the red mullet."
Set managed a weak smile. "As it were." He stepped beside her and paused, studying the goddess of witchcraft. Somewhere he thought he heard a dog howling.
"Will you imbue me with your lunar spirit? Draw down your moon Greek. Perhaps I can reascend us all to our grace. It is worth a try?"
"Why you?"
"Nobody else will try."
He knew he was right. If the goddess herself had attempted it, she would have denied him outright.
"Well?"
Hecate looked at his face. Her gaze unfocused, as if in thought. But there was something else. She appeared almost eager. He saw now the Descendant behind those dark eyes. He shuddered deeply. 
"What do you offer?" She asked.
"I can give you information."
"Did you know of the killings last year?"
Set glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. He knew the goddess was testing him. curious to see if he would tell her a lie.
"You mean the Christian at the Basement?" He said furtively.
"Yes."
"I know of it."
Revelation seized Set's mind. There was no way for her to know the whole truth of that matter. She had no idea of Sadie Fuller at all. Truth would be wise unless she got into specifics.
"Was it Descended? They never caught whoever it was."
"Yes, it was."
Hecate gasped, covered her mouth. "Which?"
"I don't know."
Hecate gasped again, made a kissing sound with her lips. "This Descendant...lives still?"
Set thought about this as he stared back at the pond. The Androktasiai had been slaughtered outright by the girl. He would have likely joined them had Dionysus not intervened. If ever given the chance, Set would be sure to enact recompense. But the girl was Descended. She had to be. There was no other explanation.
"The Descendant has been missing for some time." He said.
"Do you know the Christian messiah has come back?"
"What? The Christ rose again?"
Hecate spoke quickly. "Not long after. He still performs, although now he has body guards or something."
A look of elation on her face, Hecate took out her phone and nodded to Set. He was a moment comprehending what she meant.
"A number to reach you." She prompted.
"Ah yes, of course."
As Set gave her the number of his disposable phone, he couldn't help but feel unnerved. Thinking back on Sadie Fuller had shaken him. Whatever she was, she was still out there somewhere in the city. Oh, how he'd love to carve into the girl with knives.
Set recovered quickly. He put on a smile and looked back at Hecate who was staring.
"Until next time then." He mustered.
Hecate grinned eerily. "Be ready Mullus. The lunar spirit is...formidable."
Set's eyes traveled up and down the goddess as she walked away. His thoughts elsewhere, he bowed his head, content to see how this played out.

Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Ariadne's Folly

Hey, here's an intro. of Ariadne in the Neon Gods sequel. I had to edit her out of Neon but we got her in Book II and she's really talking. 



Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Ariadne's Folly: Ariadne fell silent, staring at the grocer. A turnip of a man, his unusually large jowls and high forehead gave him the appearance of ...

Ariadne's Folly

Ariadne fell silent, staring at the grocer. A turnip of a man, his unusually large jowls and high forehead gave him the appearance of a cartoon.
"Miss, as I said before, the prices really aren't negotiable."
The food market had opened a couple of hours prior. An outdoor Saturday morning event, Ariadne had been coming since she descended a year before. It caused her to think of home, which really was a burden given there was no feasible way she could get back. And she had tried. Visiting every charlatan, witchdoctor, and paranormal psychologist in the city. They had all referred her to a shrink, even the medicine man, which was depressing unto itself.
She wandered the shabby, little makeshift kiosks trying a lime here or a pear there, ignoring the downtrodden glances of the fruit owners. What good was being a salesman if sampling the product was unacceptable?
Ariadne huffed and kicked her feet. Her marble blue eyes scouring the kiosk stand for a mango that was ripe enough to eat. "Well, I'll tell ya." She began slowly, not entirely confident the man was apt to have this conversation. "Eating a mango that isn't ripe could crack my teeth. Are you prepared for that outcome? Have you taken the necessary precautions just in case? Wouldn't want you to have to live off your...product?"
It really was a question. This vendor looked to have picked these fruits and vegetable out of a restaurant trash bin.
"What did you say?" The man spat arrogantly. "You will not find more delectable fruits anywhere in the city. Look at this mango."
Ariadne glanced sheepishly at him.
"It is of the utmost quality." He said.
"Well, I might be a heathen but I'm not seeing it." She retorted.
"How dare you!" He cried miserably. "You've stood here nearly thirty minutes, not happy with anything! Go bother somebody else."
"You see," She began again. Her voice took on a motherly quality. "You have to wait until the fruit is ripe."
She plucked the mango out of his hand. The man tensed as Ariadne put it to her nose, smelled it briefly. He cocked his head as she slowly squeezed it, rolling it around in her hand."
"And?" The vendor demanded.
"I don't even know if it's worth it." Ariadne spoke slowly, cautiously. "There's only one way to know for sure."
"Don't you dare!"
She took a large bite, feeling the perfectly ripe fruit burst into her mouth, sugary juices on her tongue, running down her chin. She slurped the pulpy texture, let it linger until she could smell it.
She brushed her dark hair away from her face and tucked it behind her right ear. "This one will do, but just barely."
 The man looked stricken, as if she'd given him terrible news about his health. "You did not! You're gonna pay for that!"
"Well, of course I'm going to pay for it." She took another bite. "I'm prepared to purchase all the mangoes. Given they're suitable."
"Suitable?"
"Yes."
"You just ate one! You know they're suitable."
"We're gonna have to discuss that."
The man stiffened. He trembled a little. Ariadne wasn't sure he'd make it through this. She looked at him, seeing the beet face and sweat. The little shakes he had when he mopped his forehead.
Ariadne took a deep breath. "Now then."
He took a step back.
"The pressure is on mister. How much for the pears?"

Forty seven minutes later, Ariadne found herself at a large fountain a half block up from the food market. It was a robust gray, bespeckled with little dots of white and brown. Clearly areas where the city pigeons had an urge. In the middle of the fountain, a statue of her husband had been erected. Oh, not him exactly. It was a statue of Pan, all cloven-hoofed and horned with shit on his face and pipes. It wasn't Dionysus. Some say her husband was the faun's father but she wasn't one to gossip. And Dionysus was mum on the matter. So that was peculiar.
But there she stood, glaring up at Pan's contorted, muscly, shit covered face when she heard a loud "Hmph!" behind her.
That unhinged vendor. She thought pitifully. "Hey, we agreed on ten for the bushel. I can't help if growing fruit isn't easy on a city sidewalk!"
"Look what we have here."
Ariadne turned and grimaced at the face in front of her. He was a bear of a man. Unshaven, unkempt, frightfully fat. He wore a t shirt that looked about to split. But he had a warm smile. Even if he did waddle around. He held a leash in his large hand that was attached to a waist high donkey that, at this very second, was digging into her bag and munching on carrots she had worked twenty minutes to procure.
"Oh, hi Silenus." She said. "Hey Rat!" She bent and patted the animal stiffly on the head.
"His name isn't Rat."
"So what is it?"
"Donkey."
"God, your dense. Well, I'll tell ya. One animal name is as good as the next. Don't be prejudiced."
"Huh?"
"Where's my husband Silenus?"
"Dionysus has been searching everywhere for you." Silenus said. He straightened, arching his back in some show of dignity. Ariadne squinted at him. "He has scoured the city."
She nodded. "From a barstool?"
Silenus's eyes widened. He shivered at her apparent prescience.
"Oh god, where else would he be? I could have found him in days had I not wanted to explore awhile."
"He has been terribly worried. Especially after the happenings last year."
She rubbed at her lips. The killings had been all over the news. One after another until finally they just stopped. Ariadne bent and picked a mango out of her bag. She placed a hand on Rat as she took a bite.
"How did you descend?" Silenus asked,
She forced a smile. "Come again?"
"Descend, child. You're not a goddess."
"Oh, let's not get into that again."
"Ariadne!"
"I don't know! I'm a princess. I make things happen. What about you, Silenus? You're not exactly a god." She sized him up frowning. "How did you make your way here?"
The old tutor hadn't considered the question before, Ariadne surmised. She scowled, slowly shaking her head. "You don't know either. We're as stuck as they are."
Ariadne wiped her mouth, tossed the mango core into the fountain. "Take me to my husband, Rat."
She ordered.
"Silenus, they really captured your likeness with it. The white spots are especially fitting."
"What are you getting on about?"
"Oh sorry, nothing." She smiled sweetly. Taking the leash out of his hand and leading Rat away. Silenus frowned, staring at the ground. As he followed, he glanced up at the fountain statue and his brow furled. He couldn't say why but he felt that he should be offended.