Page 24 of Midnight in the Garden of Okay and Meh
“Dude,” Jim said out of the side of its mouth to Aisling. “The Sovereign swears as bad as you.”
“Your father is Desislav the Destroyer?” Sasha, who must have been sitting, shook her head and stood up. “I’m sorry, furry demon, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“Desislav the Destroyer?” Aisling asked, her voice going up an entire octave. “Your dad is known as the Destroyer and you didn’t tell us? For the love of Pete, Jim!”
I had to admit, the demon looked as surprised as everyone else.
“I didn’t know, but man, that’s a pretty cool title,” it answered, its expression shifting to speculation. “I wonder if I inherit that as his official son? Effrijim the Destroyer has kind of a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“No, I do not,” Aisling almost snapped. “Sasha, the person in question is Jim’s father, and has a history with the Court. Couldn’t you see your way clear to helping us despite the destroyer business?”
“Not possible, I’m afraid.” Sasha wiggled her shoulders. “The Court is more or less in charge of maintaining the security of the Thirteenth Hour. It would cause endless trouble if I were to interfere. I’m sorry, but I can’t do what you want.”
“But ... a demigod—or someone of your abilities—should be able to help give our reaper, Mabel, the oomph she needs to get him out of there,” Ysolde protested.
Sasha shook her head. Her hair was coiled into two braided blobs on the top of her head, and they wobbled as she gestured at the camera. “I get it, but honestly, no demigod in this world is going to help.”
“Well ... merde!” Aisling said with obvious dismay. “Now what do we do?”
“Would you mind repeating your last sentence, Sasha?” Christian the vampire asked, leaning forward slightly.
She gave a half smile. “No demigod here will help you. I can just about guarantee that.”
“No demigod here? Here as in Europe?” Aisling asked.
“Here in the mortal plane, I believe,” Christian said slowly.
“Ooooh,” Allie said, now watching her vampire. “You mean there is someone?”
Sasha leaned so close to her camera that all we could see was one startlingly bright blue eye and a bit of the bridge of her nose. “You need someone who doesn’t care about living in the mortal world. Someone who is beyond our laws. Someone who has a connection to Desislav.”
“Who—” Allie started to add, but Aisling whooped just then.
“Jim’s mom! She was also a Sovereign.” Aisling turned to her demon. “Jim, didn’t you say she was in the Beyond because she was dying after giving birth to you?”
Sasha’s eye closed slowly in what I realized was a wink; then her image disappeared off the call, and with that gesture, I knew my goose was not just plucked, but boiled, eaten, and the leftovers made into mounds of goose hash.
“Aw, crap,” I said under my breath, and slumped forward over my outstretched legs. “Now I’m done for.”
I managed to get off the call five minutes later by swearing I’d fly out to London, where I’d meet up with Aisling and her demon.
“This is beyond a nightmare,” I said as I arrived at the Royal Ballet of Beck building, hurrying my way through changing and making it into the mandatory daily class that served as both a refinement tool and a warm-up for the day’s activities.
Two hours after, I explained to the ballet master that my ankle injury—which had left me off the performance list the last two months while I recovered—was acting up. “I’ll go to PT,” I told my boss, Jean-Philippe, a wiry black man of about sixty. “It’s been two months since I’ve danced, so it can just buck up and get with the program.”
He looked suitably horrified at my cavalier attitude. “No, no! Gracious me, no, we can’t have you trying to rehearse if your injury is not yet healed properly.”
“Well ... ” I said in an exaggerated hesitation. “Dr. Low originally said I should take three months of recovery time, and I’ve only taken two. Perhaps I should take that last month?”
“Another month ... you looked fine this morning, in company class,” he said, making me swear mentally because I hadn’t held back at the morning’s exercise. “Naturally, however, if you feel discomfort with your ankle beyond the norm, you should have more time without rehearsal.”
“That sounds very wise,” I said, relieved that I had bought myself time. With luck, I could take care of this reaper business for the dragons and vampires, would escape Papi’s demands to do whatever heinous thing he was plotting, and could relax for the first time in nine months. “I will let Dr. Low know that I’m off for another month.”
“That wouldn’t do, no, it wouldn’t,” he answered, giving a swift shake of his head. “We can’t have you off the schedule for that long. You are scheduled to understudy Beatrix’s Odette, yes? You can have an additional week for rest and recovery, but assuming you’re cleared for rehearsal, we’ll need you back on the schedule.”
My spirits slumped at the mention of the principal dancer for whom I was understudying the main role in Swan Lake. “I understand, naturally, but if I studied performance recordings—”
“Nothing beats good practice,” Jean-Philippe said with obvious dismissal. “Do whatever level of activity you and Dr. Low feel is appropriate in class for the next week, and continue your PT regimen.”
