Chapter Fifteen
At this point, I've learned that Callie will eat literally anything, but a big breakfast spread is her absolute favorite meal. She did previously lead me to believe that it was tacos, but that was before I made her breakfast for the first time. Since today is the big day, I figured I'd go all out.
By the time she peeks her head around the door, the eggs and hashbrowns are almost done and the French toast, bacon, and sausage are warming in the oven.
Her eyes light up at the sight and she practically bounces her way into her seat at the table.
I pour a fresh cup of coffee and set it in front of her, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head from behind her chair.
"Good morning," I say, sliding a hand over her collarbone and squeezing gently.
"Good morning," she mumbles back over the mug that she's already holding to her lips. She takes a big gulp before tilting her head back and gracing me with a beaming smile. I lean down again, swallowing it up with another kiss.
We eat in easy silence, low music drifting from the speaker on the counter. When she's had her fill, she leans back in her seat and props her feet up on my lap. Her eyes drift closed, and she laces her fingers together, laying them across her stomach.
Of course, because I'm nothing but a ball of anxiety shaped like a person, I have to ruin the peace. I tap her foot, and she cracks one eye open in my direction.
"So, are we ready for this?" I repeat the question that I’ve asked her a thousand times over the last week. Her open eye narrows to a glare before she closes it again.
"Yes, Devon. We are ready for this," she says, her frustration clear in the enunciation of each word. “As ready as we can be.”
I know I'm trying her patience at this point, but my need to be prepared for every situation is compulsory and this feels like a particularly important situation to be prepared for.
She's assured me ad nauseum that we're as prepared as we can be to deal with Apollo because his erratic nature makes it impossible to predict what he'll do, but I can't help myself.
I decide to stop digging myself into a hole and wrap both hands around her feet, running my thumbs up the soles.
Her head falls back, a faint smile making a reappearance, and I can see the annoyance on her face disappear.
I'm lucky she's easy to please because I can be an incredibly taxing motherfucker sometimes.
"It'll be okay," she says quietly after a few minutes.
"Worst case scenario, he takes me back." I start to object but she cuts me off.
"If that happens, we'll find another way.
I won't lose you forever." Her voice is resolute, like this is a foretold prophecy and not just her best guess, but I nod in agreement anyway. What else can I say?
"Is there anything you want to do before we leave?" Just in case you don't come back? I keep that part to myself.
She hums quietly, tapping a finger to her lips. "I don't think so. But do you think the gazebo will be crowded today? Maybe we could summon him there?"
"It's pretty cold today so I doubt anyone will be there.
It's more of a spring and fall thing anyway.
" I hesitate for a moment, remembering who exactly we're meeting with.
"He's not going to like... destroy the place, is he?
" She barks out a laugh, but I'm not kidding.
If he destroys one of the Seven Wonders before I get to take her there for a date, I'll be so pissed.
"No, probably not," she says, a bit too nonchalantly for my taste.
"Probably?" She shrugs, and my eye twitches. Today is going to fucking suck. I can feel it in my bones.
We procrastinate for another hour or so, cleaning up from breakfast and deciding what to wear.
I'm standing shirtless in front of my closet, a button-down dress shirt in one hand and a hoodie in the other.
Since I have no idea what this whole ordeal is going to entail, I have no idea how to dress or what to bring with me.
Is he going to be offended if I don't dress nice enough?
Or should I be dressed to run? Or fight?
Before I can completely spiral, Callie wraps her arms around me from behind, her cheek pressed to my back.
I drop the shirt I'm holding and fold my hands over hers, my head falling back with a heavy sigh.
"It'll be okay in the end," she whispers against my back. "And if it's not okay, then it's not over yet." I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and peel her hands away. I turn to face her and cup one hand around her cheek. Her eyes drift closed, and she sighs as she leans into my touch.
"I won't let him take you," I vow. "Not without a fight.
" She nods, and I hope she understands how deeply I mean it.
I'll win her freedom for her, or I'll die trying.
I can't go back to how things were before.
Simply existing as I float through life, nothing more than a ghost who hasn't died yet. That’s no longer an option.
I'll spend the rest of my life with her, or I'll fucking haunt her. Either way, she's mine.
"He'll appreciate business casual, by the way," she tells me, plucking the black button down from the floor and holding it out to me.
I pull the shirt on and start on the buttons, but they transform in my fingers.
My plain cotton shirt shifts into some kind of silk blend, soft and shiny.
It feels more expensive than anything I've ever worn.
"This is a little more business than casual, don't you think?" I raise an eyebrow at her, and she smirks at me before turning to rummage through my closet.
"Go big or go home," she says with a laugh, tossing an old blazer at me.
I sigh as I slip it on over the shirt. She eyes me for a minute, her face scrunched up in concentration, and then the solid black polyester becomes a deep burgundy, silky like the shirt but with the thickness of wool.
I hold a sleeve close enough to inspect the immaculate stitching and let out a low whistle.
I look down and realize my jeans have received the same treatment. "Hey," I shout in mock indignation. "These were my best jeans!"
She laughs and pats my chest, raising up on her toes to plant a quick kiss on my cheek.
"Yes, they were, and that's a criminal offense.
We'll get you better jeans tomorrow." She steps back and takes one last look at me before morphing her shorts and sweater into a formal dress.
It's the same color as my blazer, sleeveless with a deep neckline that plunges down to her waist and held together by transparent mesh.
The hemline lays just above her knees in the front and flows out a little longer in the back.
She steps over to the mirror on the back of the bedroom door and does a little twirl, her gaze analyzing.
She looks around the room, snatching up one of her shirts and changing it into a black tweed coat.
She turns back to the mirror and pulls the coat on, twisting around to see all the angles before nodding in approval.
"Okay," she says, huffing out a deep sigh. "I think we're ready." I nod, hoping I don't look as nervous as I am. Well, at least one of us is ready.
I follow her out the door and we head to the park. On the way, I realize that she mentioned "summoning" Apollo, but I think I'd remember if she did some kind of summoning ritual in my apartment, right?
"So, do we just do this summoning thing when we get there?" She looks at me like I've grown an extra head. Like I'm the weird one here.
"I texted him this morning," she tells me, laughing like I asked her if we were sacrificing a goat in the park. My jaw falls open. Apollo, Olympian God of the sun, light, art, and general shitheadery, has a fucking cell phone?
"Devon,” she starts, trying to hide the smile in her voice and failing miserably. “What did you think I was doing to summon him?"
My cheeks flush, because the goat idea really wasn't far off from my original assumption. "I don't know," I mumble, shrugging. She sits back in her seat with a smug grin, because she's a dick. I think I might be rubbing off on her.
We pull into the main parking lot at the park and, as expected, there's no one else here.
We walk up the cobbled path to the gazebo and Callie marvels at the winter landscaping.
She runs her fingers carefully over the azalea bushes, stopping to admire the dormant blooms up close.
The rose bushes are all pruned back for the season, but there's a wall of evergreens surrounding the area with a few sitting areas just inside the perimeter.
She strays from the path to admire an early bloom on a magnolia tree hanging over a bench, careful not to get close enough to anything that might dirty her dress.
Luckily the ground is completely frozen.
She waves me over to look at it and I can't help but laugh.
I know she's actually enjoying herself, but I think she's stalling a little bit, too. Fine by me.
When we finally make our way to the previously empty gazebo, one of the benches is no longer empty.
It's been in our view the entire walk up the path, but somewhere in between blinks, a man appeared out of thin air.
Even sitting, I can tell he's huge. He has to be well over six feet tall.
He's wearing a tailored black suit with golden cuff links and stitching, and I'm suddenly glad for Callie's makeover.
He sits with one arm over the back of the bench, the other scrolling through the phone he holds on his lap. He doesn't even look up when he speaks.
"You're late," he drones, sounding incredibly bored, and I'm hit with a wave of irritation.
As if he can feel it, he looks directly at me, eyes locking on mine in a sneer.
His eyes are a shining, metallic gold, and his gaze is piercing.
He's annoyed to even be here, and he wants me to know it. Awesome.
"We're not late," Callie argues quietly, hands clasped in front of her.
She's wringing her fingers together nervously, but her voice is steady.
"You're early." He stuffs his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket and turns his attention to her, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward on his knees.
His gaze rakes over her from head to toe before he speaks, and I know I caught a flash of hunger in it.
"Early is on time, and on time is late. You know I hate to be kept waiting. Why did you call me here?" He glances at me again in silent question. And why is he here?
His voice is deep and smooth, with an accent I can't quite place.
Logically, it should be Greek, but it doesn't sound like any Greek accent I've ever heard.
Maybe the accent morphed over the centuries, and this is ancient Greek.
Either way, he sounds like an asshole. Callie clears her throat quietly before answering him.
"I want to bargain for my contract," she tells him, locking her violet eyes with his golden ones. He scoffs, arching one eyebrow in amusement. She narrows her gaze at him. "I want to know the cost to buy it out," she continues, trying to appear unfazed.
He leans back in his seat and drapes his arms over the back, and I'm overcome with a visceral need to kick him in the teeth just to wipe that look off of his face.
"And why, exactly," he drawls, dragging out the words.
"Would you want to do a silly thing like that?
" He turns his attention back to me, and we both know that he already knows the answer to his own question. He’s just daring her to say it out loud.
I stay silent, letting her take the lead and share only what she wants to, but I know he knows.
And I know he's not happy about it. Callie steps closer to me, drawing his gaze back to her.
"Do my reasons matter? I no longer want to be bound to the muses, and he wants to buy my contract." She nods her head to me, but Apollo doesn't budge. "So, what's the price?"
Apollo is silent for a moment, glancing back and forth between us.
It's the sly smirk of a plotting man, and it's making my skin crawl.
After what feels like an eternity, he stands gracefully, making no noise at all.
He's even taller than I thought, and his suit strains across his broad shoulders.
A few steps close the gap between him and Callie, and he leans down so they're almost face to face.
He hooks one finger under her chin and pushes until she can't help but look him in the eyes.
Instinct tells me to rip his hand off of her face, but logic tells me she'll ask for help when she needs it.
I shove my hands in my pockets before I do something stupid and fuck everything up, but keep my eyes trained on hers for the smallest hint that things are not going as she had planned.
She meets his cloying look with indignation, waiting for her answer.
"The price, sweet girl," he declares, his words dripping with the poison of a man who feeds on the suffering of others. "Is your immortal life."