The Deer and the Dragon

Chapter Thirty-Four

“We can’t go in there with you,” Az said, voice low. “The moment Astarte sees us—sorry, Doctor Ayona.” Then to himself, he muttered, “Little on the nose with that one—our cover will be blown.”

“I propose we set the building on fire,” Caliban said.

I wasn’t sure if he was kidding.

Once again, I’d parked facing the entrance so that we could watch people come and go. The BMW’s display screen told me I had roughly ten minutes to pull myself together and walk into the clinic. I now looked the part, and with my name firmly at the number one spot on the New York Times bestseller list and after having made the Thirty Under Thirty list of self-made women, I knew that, not I but Merit Finnegan could do this.

When no one took him up on his proposal for arson, Caliban explained Astarte’s chosen moniker. “The name has a few meanings, and all of them are egotistical. ‘Eternity,’ ‘princess,’ ‘fertility’…she’s really challenging anyone to come find her. But the cage works both ways. It keeps her in, yes, but no one who knows this is a terraformed seal would ever enter.”

My heart felt heavy as I asked, “Then why did you come?”

He offered a half-smile as he said, “I had no choice. Silas called in his favor, and it certainly seems like he sent me into a box for safekeeping. It could have been worse, by a lot. But Love, I really don’t want you going in there. I’m much more comfortable setting the clinic ablaze.”

“Stop with the fire thing.”

“No…” Azrames looked contemplative. “He has a point.”

“You’re both being insane. We’re going for intelligence. Besides, fire wouldn’t kill a goddess, right?”

“No, no. Very few objects and beings alike can end a god.”

“So it’s settled,” I said with finality.

He wasn’t telling me not to go, nor was he offering an alternate solution. He was the same man who’d issued a tier-five contract to ensure someone arrived to save me, no matter the cost. “I know. I’m not afraid.”

Caliban’s eyes tightened. “I am. Let me gamble with something else.”

“Sure, sure, put your kingdom on the table again. Risk the lives of…what’s the population of Hell? Plus planet Earth? And every other pantheon?” Then more seriously, I said, “Let me do this. I’m just getting a feel for her. I’ll be right back.”

His fingers slipped over my knee, squeezing my thigh. I hadn’t realized how hard I’d been gripping the steering wheel until his touch distracted me. I relinquished my hold on the wheel and exhaled slowly.

“What’s your plan?” Azrames asked.

I closed my eyes and said, “She loves sex work, money, and praise. I have the first two and can manufacture the last. I’ll explain that I’m ready to have a baby and don’t want to stick around and wait for a man to do it.” I looked between them and asked, “Do you think she’ll meet with me herself? What if I go in there and it’s just an intake sheet and a nurse and a demand to come back later?”

Caliban’s lips curled up at the edge as he said, “Then do what you showed the world today.”

“Fake,” I said dryly.

His terse laugh didn’t make sense to me until he said, “No, that you understand the world around you so innately that you can put on whatever mask you need for whoever you meet. It takes incredible empathy, awareness, and psychology to do what you do, Love. You observe, adapt, and respond in the time it takes most to breathe. There are layers to your skill that can’t be taught, not to humans, not to demons or fae or anyone.”

I squeezed the hand on my leg and said, “When you meet Fauna, can you please repeat all of that?”

Azrames’s lips twitched supportively in the rearview mirror.

My eyes went to the clock. Four minutes. “Any parting advice before I go?”

“Yes,” Caliban said, voice serious. “You’re just going in to meet her. Observe what you can. See if you can get a sense for who else in her company might be a citizen of another realm. She could have surrounded herself with humans or be sitting in a castle of demigods. It might be good to casually mention your Nordic blood, as it might verify anything off she senses about you, should your clairsentience be discernable, without setting off alarm bells. Never give her your true name. Even if she somehow knows what’s on your birth certificate, her seeing it online or hearing it secondhand is different from you giving it to her. Sign nothing. Don’t make any agreements. Don’t even say thank you. Don’t—”

“Right, right, fae rules,” I said dismissively.

Caliban stopped mid-sentence.

From the back seat, Azrames said, “I gave her a similar speech before she met…well, your father.”

He laughed, but the sound wasn’t quite happy. “Wise man” was all he said.

“Here.” Az leaned forward and handed me the dagger he’d stolen from Fauna in their final moments. “I’m pretty sure it won’t do you any good even if you do need it, since you’re probably as good at wielding a knife as I am at writing popular fiction, but I can’t let you go in there without anything pointy. Stick it in your purse and pray you don’t need a dagger.”

Etiam di mori.

I knew the word death when I saw it, regardless of the language. I thanked Azrames for the murder stick, and he responded with a sad smile. I slipped it into my black bag, glad that I’d selected the larger cross-body purse.

Caliban gave Az a look of gratitude before returning his full attention to me. He tucked his fingers behind my ear, weaving them into my hair before cradling my jaw in his palm. He touched his forehead to mine. “Would you believe me if I told you that saying goodbye to you gets harder each time? Every life, it kills me more and more to not be beside you.”

“Well,” I said, trying to keep my voice light as my lids fluttered closed, “let’s make it through this so this can be my last life. I don’t want to say goodbye again.”

I’m sure he meant to kiss me tenderly. His lips were soft, his hand clutching my face closer to his, but there was nothing gentle about the way he embraced me. His hand slipped through my hair to the back of my head. His tongue swept over mine, the hand on my knee slid up my leg, his body leaned as close to mine as the vehicle allowed. Something about the kiss cracked my heart. A knot formed in my throat, tears lining my eyes as I severed the passionate moment, breaking the kiss.

He kissed me like I was about to die.

“I love you,” I said quietly.

He pushed his lips to the place where my hair met my forehead as he said, “I’ve always loved you.”

I unbuckled my belt and escaped the car before Caliban could see me cry.

I left the men to discuss war plans and gods and city-size seals while I walked confidently toward the glassy, modern fertility tomb.

I wondered if the Soul Eater had another name and whether or not that name was Jessabelle.

While the receptionist who greeted me had been exceptionally lovely—the sort of beauty that belonged immortalized in marble and preserved behind glass—I hated her from the instant our eyes met. I had a few moments to decide upon a strategy as my heels clicked into the luxurious lobby decorated in whites, pastels, and creams, a gargantuan chandelier overhead making me feel like I was steps away from the Champs-Elysées rather than in a tiny, pagan midwestern town. While reflective vases overflowing with interesting, pale-apricot roses flooded the lobby, I couldn’t take my eyes off the receptionist awaiting me.

I knew she was aware of me the moment I entered, but her gaze remained politely averted until I was close enough to address her. Behind her sleek, modern desk was an antique that belonged in the Louvre, not in a private clinic. To the side, a grand staircase rose and slowly spiraled as it doubled back onto the second floor.

“Merit.” She smiled at me as she stood from her desk. Her skin sparkled with warm Mediterranean shades of bronze and copper, though her eyes were a shocking shade of olive green. I didn’t miss the subtle points on her perfectly white teeth. While I’d spent a few years in the company of the wealthy, even I struggled to calculate the worth of the clothes on her back. I recognized her jewelry from an actress who’d worn something similar at a red-carpet event. If I was right about her snakelike bracelets, each diamond and platinum ouroboros one cost upwards of thirty thousand dollars, and she wore five. “I’m Jessabelle,” she said smoothly. “Doctor Ayona is expecting you. Please, take a seat and fill out the form.”

I accepted the pen, paper, and sleek clipboard. Before I turned away, my gaze went between Jessabelle and the cluster of pale rose-like flowers on her desk. Their scent was closer to aromatic tea and apricots than anything floral. I kept my expression neutral as I said, “I might be mistaken, but these smell like…”

“Juliet roses?” she completed appreciatively. “You have a good eye, Merit Finnegan. Please just let me know when you’re finished. Can I get you anything? Herbal tea? Sparkling water?”

“Water would be great,” I said quietly. My mouth was so dry I’d need a gallon of the life-saving liquid just to continue functioning. I was sure not to thank her as she passed me the carbonated glass with its delicate mint and cucumber flourishes but dipped my head with appreciation.

I perched on an expensive-looking cream couch but couldn’t examine the loose-leaf forms just yet. I scanned the room again and did my best to conceal my shock. Juliet roses were one of the most expensive flowers in the world. I knew because a particularly boastful client had offered me one at the start of our date and then launched into a seven minute monologue on their rarity and how lucky I was. The clinic was filled with their delicate peach scent, the entire lobby overflowing with the living art. There had to be ten thousand dollars of flowers alone, and given how quickly fresh-cut bundles wilted and needed to be replaced…

It was exorbitant, wasteful, and most notably…no one else was here. Who would witness her ostentatious display of wealth? And of her clients, who would identify the blossoms for what they were? Fear crawled slowly from my toes up my legs, chilling me into a shudder as it reached my spine. I knew in theory that I shouldn’t be shocked at an immortal being’s wealth, but even the King of Hell hadn’t bothered with shocking displays of his excess.

I looked down at the form and frowned.

Name.

In any other office, I’d have filled it out without a second thought. Now, the personal details, the signatures, the dates, the agreements all took on a sinister edge.

The airy trill of a phone call broke the otherwise-gentle music that piped through the lobby. Jessabelle accepted the call, and after a few polite agreements, she returned the phone to its resting place and stood. “Merit? The doctor will see you now. You can finish your form after your appointment.”

I gulped down my water before following Jessabelle up the stairs. The second floor did look less like an art gallery, but only slightly. There was no nurse’s station, starchy curtain, or fluorescent overhead lighting. There wasn’t a stitch of carpeting to be found or a single pastel nineties painting I’d come to expect in hospitals. Everything oozed of lavishness. Jessabelle paused at a door and offered me one final smile before gesturing me into the office.

I caught her olive-green eyes in the moments we passed and felt a sickening emptiness consume me. I broke the contact quickly enough to blink away my terror as I thought once more of the Soul Eater. Perhaps it was less of a name and more of a title—apparently the sort that every high-ranking monarch and deity needed to play guard dog for outside of their sanctuaries. Hopefully, it was a category of fae I’d never have to meet again.

Until I entered.

It took me three seconds to decide I preferred Jessabelle over the being before me.

“Merit.” The woman behind the desk smiled.

The room flooded with natural light, bathed from top to bottom with the gray exterior world as windows lined the office. Unlike in Hell’s palatial rooms, I continued to feel like I was wandering through an annex of a Parisian museum with elements of Mediterranean flare. Modernity wove itself like a common thread through every piece, uniting the antiques with angles, glass, steel, and corners. For every historical painting or sculpture was the latest and greatest piece of furniture or technology.

Inarguably, the woman—fae, deity, whatever—had impeccable taste. Despite the room’s intricate grandeur and the intimidating, femme bodyguard in a cross-armed power stance in the corner, I had eyes only for her.

Goddess, my brain corrected, repeating the word over and over again as if it had been tapped into my brain’s wiring and was looped through my internal sound system. Don’t underestimate her. You’re fucking with a goddess.

While Jessabelle had been beautifully tan, Doctor Ayona was made of true gold. She wore a thick statement necklace and a fitted dress under her white lab coat. Like Jessabelle’s serpent bracelet, the doctor wore the golden ouroboros around her neck. I blinked against the visual in an attempt to see human shades of tawny skin instead of the glistening topaz and sparkling sands of ancient Mesopotamia before me. Her ink-black hair had been slicked into a high ponytail, then twisted into two coils that wrapped in a unique and captivating braid disappearing behind her shoulders. Her eyes—rimmed with coffee brown and dissolving into gold around her too-large pupils—her berry-dark mouth, her hands, her shape…I struggled to articulate my words. I had a feeling that one look at the doctor would cure even the straightest woman of her heterosexuality. I lost focus entirely and partially blamed Caliban for my inability to clear my thoughts by helping me get laid earlier, as all I could think about was her hands…her mouth…her body…

Fuck. Goddess of sex was right.

I needed to say something. I needed to say hello, to greet her, to rub my remaining two brain cells together and spark a thought.

My gaze flitted to the corner of the room where a similarly stunning woman in a well-tailored suit stood with her arms folded across her chest. Unlike Doctor Ayona’s, the stranger’s night-dark hair was unbound, cascading to her hips in luscious, onyx curls. Between her dark eyes, her evaluating stare, her pointed stilettos, and her unmoved expression, it felt like she’d stepped off a set after playing the role of assassin.

My eyes returned to the doctor, and I crossed the room to accept her outstretched hand.

A tiny spark shot through me when she touched me, and I recoiled as if a snake had bitten me. Attempting to recover, I laughed awkwardly. “Static,” I mumbled while sliding into the chair on the opposite side of her desk. Over one shoulder, I glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows to see the parking lot. I swallowed at my discomfort at realizing she’d positioned herself to monitor the comings and goings of clients. I would have assumed anyone of importance would want to observe the gardens, fountains, or trees. I didn’t let my eyes linger, though I caught the darkened reflection of the BMW’s windshield and said a silent prayer into the void that neither Caliban nor Azrames had been spotted.

“Mmm,” she responded calmly, smile still playing on the corners of her mouth. The bright smell of peaches and apricots wafted from the lobby into her office as Juliet roses filled the space. She eased back into her chair and said, “Why don’t you tell me what brings you in today, Merit Finnegan? Big fan, by the way.”

“Thank you.” I did my best to return the smile, whether or not she was just being polite. “I’m glad you’ve liked the books. The next one will focus on South American pantheons and deities. Its primary anchor will be Brazilian lore.”

“Oh, I know.” She continued to give the sort of smile that looked like it bloomed from a secret. She flitted a hand to her bookshelf. Sharing her wall of framed Ivy League diplomas was a set of well-decorated shelves. Beside numerous medical texts were the spines of my novels.

It would have been disingenuous to hide my surprise, so I allowed the shock to shine through. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a fan,” I said.

“Who doesn’t love ancient worlds?” she asked with warmth. She folded one arm over the other as she leaned on her desk with feline regalness. With the conversational tilt of her head, she asked, “Any plans for book four?”

I nodded, dipping my toes in the water. “I’m heading east; I’m just not sure how far east I want to go. The Shinto gods, maybe? Or perhaps something in the Middle East…closer to Mesopotamia. Of course, I’m nowhere near ready,” I said. “I’d need to spend hours in libraries before I would feel confident to tackle the lore. I’m tragically ill-informed on many of the world’s religions.”

“Religion,” she replied, the word almost a purr. “Not mythology. How curious.”

I wasn’t sure whether she was pleased or suspicious. I dared a glance at the stoic woman posturing in the corner, but she did not react. I kept my tone light, forcing myself to stay relaxed as I monitored her for a response. She offered me nothing.

“Truly,” I went on, “I had it easy with my first book. My maternal family is from Norway, so I grew up with most of the mythology and lore. My mother’s side has always been deeply interested in Norse mythology, though perhaps we’ll never know why. Interweaving my lived experience was half of the success. I should have dedicated the book to her.”

I thought of Caliban’s warning as I saw Ayona relax with an almost imperceptible ease. I hadn’t realized her smile was stiff until the microscopic shift in her eyes, in the corners of her mouth, in the way she held her shoulders. Yes, bringing up Nordic blood had worked in my favor. I wonder what it was about me, if she could smell the same sea and pine that I smelled on Fauna or if was something else entirely.

“Your maternal line, you say?” she said. “That explains the deeply Irish surname, I suppose.”

I laughed as if I were on a morning talk show, slapping on a forged ease and gabbing inauthentically with the host. “I don’t think my father has a drop of Irish blood, though who’s to say? He’s a sixth-generation American, and no one on that side of the family can verify a country of origin.”

It was a fictional backstory, of course. My father’s family was from Oslo. But she didn’t need to know that.

“Well,” she said with the cooing voice of a mourning dove as she changed the subject, “parents are an excellent segue as to what led you to a fertility clinic. Why don’t you tell me what’s brought you in today, Merit?”

I wished I had the ability to freeze time. Fear was going to get the best of me if I couldn’t calm down and look for answers. Anxiety clenched my muscles, hitched my breathing, and tightened my eyes. My palms grew clammy as I wanted a moment to gather my thoughts, to ask about the wildly intimidating, shockingly gorgeous bodyguard in the corner of the room, to examine my surroundings without looking suspicious. It didn’t seem fair that I was expected to answer her questions, to think rationally, to have my wits about me while flanked by a tiny army of gorgeous women. It was with a chill of horror that I realized the doctor’s personal Soul Eater might remain outside the door, triangulating me between immortals.

A solution came to me all at once.

She was a client, and I was her very expensive date.

I decided to look at her like she was Josh, her office was the overpriced omakase restaurant, and her degrees were the Rolex watch. She was used to having people fall at her feet, to succumbing to her every whim, to her worship. I may not know the right or wrong moves with ancient Phoenician goddesses, but I’d learned how to put myself on equal playing fields with powerful people.

I removed Doctor Ayona entirely and replaced her with the open-mouthed chewing of my last terrible date. I allowed her desk to become the table, the comforting sounds of the luxurious office to transform into the too-loud mastication of the man who’d mixed wasabi directly into his soy sauce. Her designer dress, her supple curves, her hypnotizing face became little more than another rich, mediocre John. I pictured Josh snapping at the waitress for the bill. I added a few flourishing details, like leaving one of his buttons undone, a piece of sesame in his teeth, and the annoyance I’d felt at wasting my night on a date when I could have been home watching Fire and Swords.

I wasn’t sure what it was that the goddess Astarte had loved about escorts, but perhaps it was this—our ability to slip into skins, to find an advantage, to become peerless. After all, Dagon had said I was exactly her type.

Fear evaporated as I eased into my chair and spoke to Josh.

“I love what I do,” I said casually. “I work from home. I could support a family of ten if I wanted. And I’ve always loved children.”

Two out of three was a pretty good truth-to-lie ratio, I told myself.

“Besides,” I added, “why should I need a man to accomplish the things I want in life?”

There, now we had three out of four truths…mostly. Caliban wasn’t a man, after all. Not really.

She smiled again at that. My gaze flitted to the corner of the room at the unsmiling, statue-still figure, then back to the doctor. The doctor’s smile faltered and she half-turned toward the bodyguard, then stopped herself, returning to me. She cleared her throat and bent to fish something from a drawer within her desk. She procured a thin, glossy binder and slid it to me.

“This is for our elite clients,” she said. “You may not be old money, but you certainly are special.”

I fought my eyebrows’ desire to pull together in confusion as I flipped open to the first page only to realize she’d slid me a book of suitors—of semen. The men in the book were the finest humankind had to offer, fashioned after Adonis himself. Their perfect, disarming smiles, their flawless skin, their postures, their pedigrees.

I paged through the first three.

Liam, 25

University: Brown, M.S. Engineering

IQ score: 157

Family heritage: Polish, French

Sperm count and motility: 50,000,000 / 60%

Family medical issues: None

Special mention: Proposal for hydroelectric power plant has been accepted on the borders of Argentina and Uruguay

Theodore, 28

University: Princeton, Ph.D. Economics

IQ score: 162

Family Heritage: Dominican, Kenyan

Sperm count and motility: 45,000,000 / 55%

Family medical issues: None

Special mention: Pioneered developmental model for precise evaluation of political expenses and their effects on the public

Ji-Hoon, 23

University: Columbia, M.A. Architecture

IQ score: 165

Family Heritage: Korean

Sperm count and motility: 60,000,000 / 70%

Family medical issues: None

Special mention: Youngest architect to design a national art gallery

She had given me a shopping menu. I leafed through the meat market of men, pretending to imagine what my offspring would look like if I bred with any of them. They were all gorgeous, educated, healthy, and accomplished. I wondered what most others had to do to qualify for access to the elite binder of men. I continued to page through the book as I considered what the mid-tier and lower-tier book of men looked like.

Even without the money and the reputation, I knew that if Doctor Ayona had stayed after five o’clock for me, it was because she was booked out too far to discuss an appointment. I hadn’t looked at the costs of her services or inquired as to the price of anything from consultation to in vitro fertilization. I left the book open to the laughing face of a bright-eyed actor from Spain as I looked at her. Caliban had told me to come in and gather intelligence, nothing more.

Despite what Fauna loved to shout from the mountaintops, I wasn’t a simpleton. I understood that he knew more about the immortal realms than I did and wasn’t about to take my chances with her Soul Eater just because I wanted to prove a point on independence.

“What are our next steps?” I asked.

“That depends entirely on your budget, comfort level, and desire to start a family.” She smiled easily. “Here at the Venus Clinic, we’re not focused solely on traditional methods of hormonal injection and artificial insemination, but instead, we pioneer research in human fertility. If you’d like, we can begin with the methods that have been preached and carried out throughout North America and most of the Global West at a twenty to thirty percent success rate. Or, you can partake in the unique and often unorthodox combinations of scientific breakthroughs, holistic medicine, elements of Western convention, and the natural procreation process, and I can guarantee nine in ten odds of impregnation.”

Nine in ten.

I worked hard to control my face.

She was Josh. Josh was telling me about his job, thinking too highly of himself, obsessed with his own importance. Picturing the man at the omakase restaurant helped once more as I said, “Well, numbers like that don’t lie. It’s hard to argue for conventional medicine when they fail more often than not.”

Her smiled widened. For the first time, she reminded me of the Cheshire cat.

“How badly do you want to be a mother, Merit Finnegan?”

I swallowed. “More than anything.”

“And that’s exactly what I’ll give to you.”

Maybe it was my wish to freeze time, or my prayer that I’d slow the world around me so that I could absorb every detail, but the cogs in her word choice clicked together, churning as they started a new and wholly startling realization within me. Natural procreation process. In the absence of priestesses, this was how Astarte satiated her need for prostitution, for escorts, for the sexual exploitation of bodies worshipping in her name.

I decided to keep my voice as light as possible as I joked, “Depending on how unconventional your methods, I have to say, these men are easy on the eyes.”

“They’re easy on more than the eyes,” she purred.

A chill wrapped itself around my spinal cord, slithering into a space within my vertebra and puncturing my column, filling every hollow space within me with ice.

When I’d stepped into sex work, it had been for agency, for freedom, for choice. Every date had broken my chains from poverty, bringing me comfort, security, wealth, and the ability to build the future I wanted.

What Astarte wanted…

Discomfort took root. The apricot smell became stifling. I wanted to leave.

My eyes flitted to the bodyguard once more before I asked, “I’m sorry, is she present for all appointments?”

Doctor Ayona opened her mouth as if to answer, but only a thin wisp of air escaped.

“Is who…” She looked over her shoulder long enough for her and the woman to lock stares. She looked back at me with wide-eyed confusion for a moment before her face tightened. The warmth, professionalism, and medical mask dropped from her in an instant. I was struck again with the terror of her ancient power as I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that, without knowing how or why, I had made the worst mistake of my life. The doctor’s teeth set in a grit. As she snapped her fingers, the door opened, and I didn’t have to turn to know Jessabelle had entered from behind. The bodyguard took another step closer.

“Jessabelle, Anath,” she said coolly as her eyes narrowed on me.

I didn’t have to know more of Phoenician etymology to know I’d fucked up. I gripped the arms of my chair, knuckles turning white as I turned to look over my shoulder. The world collapsed around me as the Soul Eater approached me on one side while the bodyguard came at me from another. Whatever I’d done, I was no longer safe. I stood and backed up against the window. I pressed myself into the glass, knowing it was mirrored and that Caliban wouldn’t be able to see me.

I’d failed them. I’d been in here for thirty minutes, and I’d failed them.

“I’m sorry, I—”

The women flanked me on either side, each taking an arm. The Soul Eater gripped an elbow while the bodyguard grabbed the other.

“How?” demanded the woman in the black suit.

“How what?” I gasped.

“Search her, Anath,” said the doctor with a wave. I expected them to go through my purse, but instead, the one called Anath grabbed the collar of my shirt and yanked.

“No pendant,” she muttered. She shoved my sleeves up to the middle of my forearms, stopping just short of my tattoo, before saying, “No pendant, no bracelet, no rings. I don’t know how she’s doing it.”

I realized with horrifying clarity that they were looking for the true-sight sigil. That was it, then. I hadn’t been meant to see the woman called Anath while she kept vigil in the corner. I’d tilted my cards, and they knew I was no mere author. My mind raced as I looked for a solution. I felt like my finger hovered above the channel button, pressing it at lightning speed as I flipped through station after station, desperate for a reason, an excuse, a—

“Do you know a Norde called Geir?” My question came out in a rush.

Anath’s hands remained on me, but her eyes lifted to meet mine. I looked back to the desk where the doctor now leaned, perched on the edge of her station. I wasn’t sure where I was going with my tactic, but I’d gained their attention. The Soul Eater leaned in as if to use her glinting teeth to puncture the tender flesh of my jugular. I wasn’t sure if vampires existed but had no idea what she was doing until she inhaled deeply.

“She does smell of it,” said Jessabelle, “but it’s so faint…”

“Wait, let me show you.” I tried to yank my elbow free. The women resisted for a moment, then released me. It was working—what, I didn’t know, but it was working. I wasn’t willing to show my demonic sigil, but I had one more card to play. I took a few cautious steps to where my purse remained on the chair, angling my body so no one could peer over my shoulder. I opened it up, looking at the five precious things inside. A credit card, an ID, a golden poppet, a knife, and a silver s?lje. I plucked the broach from the purse and held it up.

“See?”

Doctor Ayona closed the space between us, and no longer could I smell the lovely apricots of the Juliet rose. The woody scents of burnt sugar, smoked sage, and sandalwood were deeper and more powerful than a perfume. It was an ancient and ominous smell, wonderful and terrifying all at once.

“May I?” she asked.

My heart stuttered again as I remembered Azrames yanking me on the shores of the lake.

Be reverent.

I had no idea if my choice was clever or foolish, but I had no cards left to play. I swallowed as I handed it over. She raised a speculative brow as she eyed the bauble.

“What is this Norde to you? Geir, you said?”

I swallowed again. Great-grandfather would make my blood too thin for the clairsentience I’d need to satiate her anger, but father wasn’t believable for my delicate scent. “He was my grandfather,” I said, hoping that the extra quarter might make my gift for seeing through the veil believable. My mother and her quarter blood certainly appeared to have no trouble communing with angels.

“Truthfully,” I said, looking at Anath, “I have no idea who you are. Please don’t take that as disrespect. I came to the clinic because it has the best reputation in the country for fertility and because…” My throat bobbed once more as I looked for ways to word what I was saying so they wouldn’t detect dishonesty. It was true. I hadn’t known who Anath was, and they could see the earnestness on my face. I did my best to play into her suspicions, heeding Caliban’s advice by acknowledging my fae connections. “I’m an unconventional person who was raised knowing of my grandfather’s people. I’m seeking…unconventional solutions. I think we might be a good fit for one another.”

The doctor turned the broach over in her hand gently, allowing the tiny, spoon-like dangles to clink together delicately. She eyed the ornate tree in the center.

I was surprised when she returned the broach to me. Some part of me thought she’d close her fingers around it and melt it down. Instead, after a terrifyingly long pause, she gestured for me to take a seat once more. The panic subsided as quickly as it had flared.

“My apologies, Merit Finnegan. Clairsentience is a rare gift, and my clients have been almost exclusively human. I hope you’ll be gracious enough to understand why it might make us…cautious. Please, Anath, offer your apologies.”

Anath released me slowly. “Are you harmed?”

I shook my head numbly, sinking back into the chair. Fear was appropriate, so I didn’t try to hide it. She stepped away.

“Your apologies, Anath,” the doctor repeated. “Miss Finnegan is a VIP client in more ways than one.”

The woman’s jaw remained set, her expression dispassionate as she said, “I extend my regrets.”

And because I was still reeling, the best I came up with was “No problem.”

The worst had happened, and I’d overcome it.

This was working out even better than I’d hoped. She’d detected no lies when I’d told Anath that I was ignorant—whether the woman in the tailored suit was a demon, fae, entity, or angel, I had no clue. If I was lucky, Doctor Ayona would assume that the only thing I’d acknowledged was an understanding that, because I was a citizen of a different realm, the fertility clinic might provide answers that I couldn’t get in the mortal world.

“How exactly did you hear of me?” Doctor Ayona asked at last.

Unfortunately, her compatriots stayed uncomfortably close.

Jessabelle remained on my side of the desk while Anath rounded the desk to stand behind the doctor. The intimidation made it difficult to grasp for something believable. The same sensation of flipping through vivid blurs of colors and sounds as I searched my memories blinded me before I pieced together as many half-truths as I could into a Frankenstein of an answer.

“From a demon,” I said hoarsely. “My friend—a Norde—is partnered with a demon.”

She didn’t have to know that those two statements were not connected. It might just be enough.

Doctor Ayona looked over at Anath. “I wasn’t aware the demons knew of our operation, though I suppose if it had to be anyone… How are our relations with Hell?”

Anath furrowed her brow. “Do you mean the realm in its entirety or your kingdom here, Astarte?”

I had assumed from the moment I met her that I was speaking with Astarte, but hearing it on Anath’s lips was something else entirely. Her mighty kingdom of Bellfield, with its elite, private fertility clinic, her captured god, and her terraformed seal.

Astarte narrowed her eyes slightly, which prompted Anath to continue.

“Our relations are nonexistent. We are neither friend nor foe.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” Astarte said. Anath offered a shallow bow in acknowledgement. The doctor turned back to me and repainted her face with professionalism. “There are defectors all the time, Merit. If the Nordes haven’t claimed you, then allow me to welcome you to my little kingdom. I understand, of course, that a bestselling author has a life to live and that life requires motherhood. I think we could strike up a bargain, if you’d be so inclined?”

The word stabbed through me.

I could almost see Caliban’s silver eyes glint like chipped ice as she tempted me to violate one of the few things he’d made me promise. I fought the urge to look over my shoulder and peer out the window at the BMW.

“What do you have in mind?” I asked, wanting to stay both conversational and noncommittal. I assumed it was fine that I no longer sounded relaxed. They had to realize they’d just struck me with the terror of a goddess’s wrath.

“Global recognition,” she said with a smile. “Your fourth book. I want my name known—the one the masses have forgotten. Will you do that for me, Merit Finnegan? Put my name on human lips once more. Make them sip from the cup of my histories. Tell the story of my conquests. Fill my temples. The temple of Astarte.”

My mouth parted at the absurdity of the offer.

“I can’t fill temples…”

“Nonsense,” she said. “You are a goddess in your own right.” She propped her elbow onto the desk and flashed me her pearly teeth. “Every realm has a creation story. You create. You speak things into existence. The first Pantheon novel sold more copies than the Edda. The old gods of your people have cups overflowing for the first time in centuries. Word has spread of Odin’s and Frigg’s prosperity since your short human life began. And it’s being done in a way so that they never have to step from the shadows to harvest what you sow. The Hellenic pantheon didn’t need the boost your second book brought, but the Greeks won’t deny what you did for them. That’s what I want.”

“And what do I get in return?” I asked, regretting it immediately.

Astarte laughed as she leaned back in her chair, interlacing her fingers. “You create life? So do I. You give birth to the written word. I’ll grant it within the womb. I just need you to do one thing for me.”

“What’s that?” My question came out as a rattled breath.

She pulled a pen from a cup that looked like a golden honeycomb and snatched a leaf of loose paper from immaculately stacked documents beside her. Her calligraphy soon filled the page with speed and grace. When she was finished, she wrote her name at the bottom and slid it over to me.

“Just sign this for me. And this time, don’t use your pen name.”