Page 21 of Muzzled

She rolled her eyes at him, accepting his hand and leading him quickly to her door. “I think you’re getting a kick out of how much my makeup is smearing,” she grumbled, wrestling with the lock on her door before she popped it open and stepped inside. She ran a finger along her cheek and grimaced at the black smear. “I don’t think I want to know how I look right now.” Without glancing back, she jogged down the stairs, her balance in the stiletto shoes she had on impressive. “Come in for a bit and wait out the storm.”

The door opened as she approached, Logan bursting into a howling laughter. “Holy shit, Mike,” he gasped, stepping aside for them. “You look like an escaped horror movie clown.”

Ignoring Logan, she undid her shoes and kicked them against the wall, calling out as she disappeared into the bathroom. “Give me a minute to fix this disaster!”

Ryan stayed by the door, his eyes drawn instantly to the painting he’d “inspired.”

“Kind of depressing, isn’t it?” Logan asked, holding a beer out to him. “Want one?”

“No thanks,” he replied, listening to the faint cursing coming from the bathroom. “So, that piece really is an abnormality for her, isn’t it?”

Logan nodded, swallowing. “If her next work includes decapitated puppies, I’m cutting bait and getting the hell outta here.”

“No, you aren’t,” Micah yelled out. “I’ve been cursed to carry the burden of you forever.” She walked out of the bathroom and gave her assistant a quick kiss on the top of his head before rumpling his hair. “You know I love your incompetent ass.” She handed Ryan his shirt. “Thank you. It was really a wonderful evening, even if the heavens did turn on us.”

Blinking to snap himself back into the moment as his mind zeroed in on her freshly washed face, he tossed the damp shirt over his shoulder and lifted her hand to his lips. “Have a good night, Micah. Hopefully we can do this again. Soon.”

Chapter Eight

Ryan sat onthe edge of his bed, his wet button-down held tight in his hand and eyes locked on his computer screen.

Micah Wheaton.

The few photos he’d collected of the last Pirithous were open on his desktop, mocking him with the blatant clues he’d missed.

The upturned hazel eyes.

The slight crookedness of her nose.

The angular cheekbones.

Months ago, he’d thought he’d finally found his launch point for his final hunt. The Pirithous he and his brothers took down thirty years ago had a long string of women in his past. It had taken ages for him to assemble a list of potential candidates spread across six states, cross-referencing times and dates and records. There were name changes and marriages to contend with, moves both in country and out, incomplete birth records and misfiled documents. But he chiseled away at the information he’d gathered bit by bit until he had one name: a boy, Micah Wheaton, born thirty-two years ago in the right place at the right time by the right woman.

And then the real work began.

Walking into a hunt thirty years in the making was tough. It was even tougher because the Micah Wheaton he was looking for had no digital footprint. Tracking him down was a drudgery of thousands of online hits he had to investigate, only to discover none of them was the Micah Wheaton he was looking for. There were no school records, no utility bills, no court cases.

But through dumb luck and a deep dive into page eighty-three of Google searches, he found a few fuzzy photos of a young man and his girlfriend at various art festivals, dated twelve years ago. The guy was tagged as Micah Wheaton, the age lining up perfectly.

With nothing stronger to go on than a few poor photos and a hunch, he’d started his search, following festival circuits on the hunt for a name no one knew.

He’d been thrown off so easily by the long crimson hair and expertly applied charcoal eyeliner, the blue-black pixie cut and excessive Gothic makeup in the grainy photos refusing to meld with who he’d be coming to know as Maestro Mike.

He swiped his cell to life, tapping Alex’s number and waiting impatiently as it rang.

“Hey, hey, Ryan,” his younger brother called out, the din of the lounge in the background. “What’s the good word?”

“The Pirithous,” he said, tearing his eyes off of the pictures and gripping the shirt tighter. “Always male, right?”

There was a loud clatter, and Alex muttered for a moment before responding. “Sorry. Yeah, of course. That was part of the curse, right? The bloodline is only male. Why? You run into another dead end?” He yelled something out to his staff and returned, humor in his voice. “If you need to regroup, you’re welcome to come here for a bit. Charlotte and I are working such insane hours right now, the new house is practically unused.”

“Thanks, but I’m good here,” he replied absently, zooming in on the clearest close-up. “I was just double-checking to make sure I wasn’t barking up the wrong tree.”

Alex snorted. “Funny. Look, I gotta go since fucknuts over here can’t seem to mix a Long Island to save his life. I’ll call you next week.”

“If you see Seph anytime soon, let her and Hades know I need to see them,” he said, setting his phone down as Alex grunted an affirmation and hung up.

He took a final glance at the pictures, emailed them to himself, and closed them out.

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