Nectar and Ambrosia

Callie ignored him. She waited while the Aesir argued about whose turn it was to buy the round and pulled more sweaty money out of their pockets. The bills shoved in her apron, she gathered empty bottles and lime rinds from the table. These guys were huge, loud, and gregarious. Bruises were forming on her shoulders from their friendly pats, but they didn't aim their huge paws directly at her ass, like some of the other jerks back there.

Speaking of which...the hand that slipped between her legs could only belong to the freak.

Edges of the tray gripped in white-knuckled fury, Callie took a deep breath and whirled. She brought the plastic down with a resounding crack and bludgeoned the satyr with three vicious swipes. The broken tray she left impaled at a jaunty angle on one of his horns like a beer-scented, cork-lined fascinator as he blinked in shock. The Norse roared in laughter and created more bruises on her back with approving slaps as she walked away.

After that, nobody touched her.

On the strange side, Callie's early warning system wasn't bothered by any of them, even the groper. Those special senses were unusually silent save for her earlier reaction to Puck, who haunted a dark booth in the back room.

The clientele showered cash on drinks and tips like worthless paper. Not sure how or where they got it, the currency was real enough in Callie's bulging apron pockets. The Amaranthine drank amazing amounts of alcohol that would have been fatal at any frat party. Some ordered food, which Florian unfailingly delivered in a diverse array that went far beyond usual bar fare.

She grabbed a few plump strawberries from the sideboard when her stomach roared a reminder that the muffins were hours ago. They were so delicious she reached for the bin a second time, but restrained herself from eating more than four of the fragrant berries. To her surprise, the fruit energized her the way a full meal did, and she didn't want any more.

Things tapered to quiet after three AM. A whiskey-mellowed Hephaestus collected the wayward Aphrodite from the bar stool where Callie had seen her attached most of the night, taking numerous duck-faced selfies and flirting with Florian in an unrequited way. Others winked out in groups as they'd arrived, without fanfare. Puck, the only one to at least pretend to use the door, blew Callie a kiss on his way out. At last, no one but Florian, Hermes, and Callie remained in the empty front room with the inebriated Zeus, who roused enough to order another Guinness.

While Florian tended to Big Z, Callie interrogated Hermes in search of validation for her burgeoning acceptance. They sat together in one of the booths out front and the former messenger, who claimed to now be a lawyer for the gods, indulgently fielded her rapid-fire questions as he ate the remainder of the olives from Florian's garnish tray. His funnel-shaped glass overflowed with green spheres and a token amount of alcohol.

"You might try a drink with your olives, sometime. That's a pretty serious habit you have there," Callie noted.

"Silence, mortal scholar. I'm allowed my vices. I don't have many others." He popped more into his mouth. "So what other burning questions do you have?"

"So, why would gods bother taking on a human form at all, or an animal one? I always wondered about that."

He shrugged. "In our native form you'd be unable to perceive us as anything but bright lights or energy. We take on whatever appearance will get us where we need to go, or in Zeus's case, incognito to avoid pissing off Hera."

The last part of the sentence emerged sotto voce, and Hermes looked over his shoulder as if expecting Hera to appear. She giggled, glancing with cautious guilt at Zeus's back.

"Interacting with humans is more practical in a corporeal body. We can be male or female—or both, depending on the situation. It makes it easier for you to relate to us, and there are distinct advantages in the field of biology." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Callie snorted, amused.

"Yes. Rather prolific advantages, as I remember."

"Not so much, anymore." He shifted, and became serious. When he spoke again, his voice held gravity. "There are rules in place now that make it less practical to procreate with humans. We can't intervene in our children's lives in any way that would alter their destiny so the decision should be given more consideration than it gets. Conception happens without fail unless we take some pretty drastic precautions. In most cases, it's a temporary decision and a temporary body, but we become governed by emotions that aren't the norm for our kind when we take on a permanent human form. We're not big on humility or love or being good parents unless we're constrained by the human condition."

Hermes went silent for a moment, an odd, wistful expression on his face as he regarded her. "Every now and then, we decide to live out a human lifespan just for kicks. But biology can't be cheated. When we truly become human in this world, eventually that persona is going to die of old age or as a result of abuse to which the body is subjected. Like that one did." He jerked his chin at the drunken Zeus, still disguised as a now-dead rock star. "Losing this identity has been exceptionally hard. Nobody's ever seen him like this. He didn't even mourn losing Henry the Eighth this badly."

"So, the cult of celebrity has become the new worship?"

Hermes looked impressed. "Score one for the lady. You worked it out in no time at all."

"Not that hard to see. Some of those celebrities are too perfect, or too weird to be human. Tom Cruise?"

"Trust me, not one of ours. The celebrity or rock star status works for some of us. Me? I prefer to be the normal everyday Joe with power, money, and good taste that everyone else wants to be." He saluted her with his martini. "Envy and imitation work almost as well as fame, without the paparazzi. They suck."

"So how many are professional athletes?"

"Not as many as you might think. There are a lot more porn stars."

"Eww." Callie wrinkled her nose.

"We take attention where we can get it."

"Don't take this the wrong way then, but Hermes was always one of my favorites." Her face heated up and she covered her eyes, confused at her own reaction. "Oh my God, I sound like I’m fangirling."

Hermes laughed. "Thanks, but I have a boyfriend. I'm flattered. Don’t worry, your admiration is appreciated for what it is."

"When I was little I loved the story about stealing Apollo's cows. Dad read it every time I asked, even though he must have been sick of it. I know it's probably allegorical."

"Oh, no, that one's relatively accurate. It didn't take much to impress people back then, but making cows walk backward isn't as easy as it sounds."

"Apollo was my favorite." Callie sat back. She traced a pale glass-ring in the tabletop with one fingertip and struggled to maintain an academic distance. There was too much to assimilate and pretending it was some kind of immersive game remained easier than admitting it might be real. "Does he come here too?"

"Err, no." Hermes ran a hand over his chin and avoided her gaze. "He's not as charming as he used to be, and out of favor at the moment. He and Zeus had a major difference of opinion about, a lot of things, but primarily Mrs. Zeus. Speaking of whom—" He upended his glass, consuming the last olives at the bottom with an expression of pure pleasure. "I should make sure he gets home before Hera comes looking. You don't want to meet her that way."

He left a pile of bills on the table as he bid Callie good night. Walking around the side of the bar to exchange a brotherly handshake with Florian, Hermes put his arm over Zeus’s shoulder and they disappeared in a rush of wind. A paper coaster fluttered to the floor, tracing a cyclonic pattern in the empty air.

The sound of techno music from the digital jukebox thumped against sudden stillness left in the wake of their departure. Florian hit a switch on the back wall behind the counter, and quiet descended, a welcome change after the last noisy, incredible, unreal eight and a half hours. Callie continued her busy work, feeling a little guilty as Florian made his way down the bar top with a cloth and soapy water, scouring away the last of the sticky spilled drinks. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him glance her way several times as she loaded the last of the glassware into the industrial washer. Finally, she shut the stainless steel door and rounded on him at the same moment he turned to her.

"Florian—"

"Callie," he said in tandem, and they both stopped. "You first," he invited meekly. He straightened in preparation for an onslaught.

"I'm sorry for being such a bitch earlier." Callie twisted her hands together in a plea for clemency.

"I'm the one who should be sorry," he countered, his tall frame relieved of its expectant stiffness by her words. "It was unfair not to warn you right up front, and I deserved it."

"No, you were right, I wouldn't have believed you. I would have walked right out the front door, and I think it would have been the biggest mistake of my life. Did I really serve a talking crocodile?"

"Yes." Florian’s mouth tugged upward in a half-smile.

"So, if that’s true, I might have to believe the rest of it. That I actually met gods tonight."

"Ex-gods. But yes."

She put her head down on the bar and giggled, hilarity tinged with hysteria. The giggles changed abruptly, and through mortified tears she realized she was sobbing instead of laughing.

The past few weeks at last demanded their emotional toll. She had severed all ties to her loving parents, who would never understand why she abandoned them. A creature with wings and talons dogged her heels halfway across the country. The visions were more numerous and full of nightmare images the longer she was off her meds, and mere luck ensured none hit her tonight during work hours. Now, to learn the myths and legends she loved might be real...

Dimly, she became aware of Florian beside her, close enough to touch, but all he did was lean on the bar next to her. When she straightened up, he offered her a clean towel with an understanding half-smile.

"Thank you." She wiped her eyes with the towel, and took a deep, shaky breath. "That had to be unattractive, and slightly psychotic. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize. They've had the same effect on me once or twice." A hint of bitterness lent sharp edges to his voice. He continued with better cheer, "However, there are some perks to this as I may have mentioned. This is yours." He scooted a rubber-band bound stack of bills across the wooden expanse. "Your share of the tips tonight."

Blinking, Callie picked up the pile of money. Her jaw dropped in disbelief as she flipped through the bills. "This is almost five hundred dollars!"

"A little high for a Tuesday night. We're not usually this busy, but the Norse were having a party. I think they were glad to see a new face."

"Other parts of my anatomy too, I guess."

Florian cleared his throat. "About that. Is this is a habit of yours, breaking trays over the skulls of anyone who gets out of line?"

"I told you I wouldn't let anyone get away with it. I'll pay for it." She peeled off a twenty from the clump of cash.

"No, don't worry about it. I just want to say that I’ll order more trays." A slow smile spread across his face. "That was the most satisfying crack I've ever heard."

The genuine grin was a breathtaking sunrise, blue eyes bright with laughter. Her insides fluttered a bit. He was unreasonably attractive, something to which she considered herself immune, but she couldn't help smiling in return. It changed her awareness of how close they stood together, leaning against the bar. As if coming to the realization at the same time, they both moved in opposite directions, Callie to straighten and stuff the bills into her jeans pocket and Florian to punch the start button on the dishwasher. She changed the subject.

"They sure drink a lot of Coronas. Only one case is left in the cooler."

"I'll have to call my supplier later. Wednesday is Sidhe night. With one or two exceptions, they prefer hard liquor so we won't be short even if Pete can't deliver until Thursday." He counted whiskey, bourbon, tequila and vodka bottles on the shelf. "We should be all right for this evening. Pete delivers our grocery orders as well. If you want some things to keep upstairs in your apartment, leave a list by the register and I'll add it to the order."

"I am starving again," Callie admitted. "I ate a few of the strawberries from the garnish bin."

Florian's face stiffened into a mask of dismay. "Callie, you don't want to eat those very often." He ran a hand through his hair. "There's so much more I need to explain, but it might have to wait until later."

"What's wrong with now?" Racking up questions on her own, she wanted a few answers. At that moment a woman's voice called Florian's name from the stairway.

"Yes, they're gone, Gran!" he called back, and returned his attention to Callie. "Gran comes down and we make breakfast every morning after closing time. She's looking forward to meeting you. She’s...a little eccentric."

A tiny, elderly woman wrapped in a thick shawl emerged from the stairway. "I thought the old sot would never leave," she grumbled, and hefted a basket onto the bar beside the drop leaf. Her voice quaked with age and carried more of the lilt of Ireland than her grandson's, but her bright blue eyes were very much like Florian's as she smiled at Callie. Unlike her grandson though, she possessed fair, papery skin dotted with faded freckles, white hair caught up in a thick braid encircling the back of her head.

"Good morning, dear," she greeted Callie. "We knew you were coming, so I got the bed all made up yesterday. It’s so very nice to see you again."

"Gran, this is Callie, my new waitress," Florian corrected gently. "You haven't met her yet."

"Oh, yes, of course. I'm Bridget Callahan Pereira." The lady nodded in absent agreement. Her gaze moved between Callie and Florian, then back again. "Lovely to meet you. I brought the breakfast, Florian, but I seem to have forgotten how to cook."

"That's all right, Gran, we'll do it down here just like we always do." Florian soothed her and picked up the basket. It contained eggs, bread, butter, and a rasher of bacon. "Callie, will you join us for breakfast? We have more than enough here."

A renewed howl in her neglected stomach made the decision easy. She accepted the invitation with thanks. From a cabinet, Florian produced a hot plate and a battered iron skillet, which he proceeded to set up on the bar. She wondered why he didn't just cook in back, but figured the as yet unseen kitchen was already clean.

The fantastic smell of frying bacon permeated the air as Callie did a quick run with the push broom around the pool tables and dartboards. The worst behavior had been confined to the back room, which she found inexplicably clean of lime rinds or spilled food. Only faint white streaks remained, random smears against the tiled floor that seemed to evaporate before the broom reached them.

"How do you like your eggs?" Florian called.

"Scrambled, please." The push broom tucked away in its closet, Callie found the light switch to the back room and shrouded the pool tables in shadow. Around front, Bridget perched on one of the high-backed barstools near the stairs. At first, Callie thought she was engrossed in watching Florian cook, but the elderly woman's expression proved vacant and dreamy as she mumbled to herself. Easing in beside her, she picked out a few words.

"So much fire. We must stop them, must stop them, but how do you stop angels from fighting?"

Bridget swiveled toward her in a sudden movement. The blue gaze sharpened, fixed and unblinking on Callie's face with unnerving clarity.

"You." The single word dropped between them. "You're the key."

There was no aura, no warning other than the stretching, telescoping sensation that accompanied her worst seizures and the most terrifying visions.

"No, not now!" Panicky, she fought to stay in the moment but her sight dimmed and the images crushed her with merciless detail:

Fire rains from the heavens. Soot and ash coats everything in sight. People run, screaming. Some lay dead in the streets. Buildings burn. A winged being with gleaming armor soars through the smoke and sparks and grapples with a red-caped figure on the ground. Someone laughs: high, maniacal, and full of absolute glee.

It was the worst one yet. An anguished sound born of horror and helplessness rose in her throat and spilled over into reality.