Bast wasn't even sure what day it was when she finally woke from an alcohol induced coma. At least, not until she checked her phone, which already had a text message on it from Ninkasi. Apparently she was going to take Bast's advice and stick her hand down Kratos' pants, once he arrived.

It took a day and a half, several showers, and a lot of water before Bast felt even close to normal. ( Damn tequila. )

This was weird.

Actually the list of weird things was just growing longer. In the plus column, most of her house was remodeled, which was good because it had been in desperate need of it. Thor's help had been enlisted because well, he was helpful like that and an overall good, reliable guy. No matter what anyone else thought of him, he was. Besides, she couldn't put cabinets in by herself and hiring people meant opinions from people who didn't know her. His opinions had been helpful, and logical. And he'd talked her down from some ridiculous renovation ideas, which was good.

But Ninkasi still got rid of her old nasty shower/tub combination thing in her en suite. Now she had an awesome glass pane shower and a separate jacuzzi jet tub that she was convinced she was now in love with. If it was possible to be in love with a bathtub. She needed a hot tub next, but somewhere that it was actually going to be practical. It was too hot in Queensland for that. ( Maybe Chicago? It would require thought. )

Bast enjoyed hunting. There was something exhilarating about tracking something or somebody down, following the trail left to find the big prize. And it wasn't always something animate or tangible that she hunted, occasionally it was a treat she felt she deserved but could not immediately have. That was true in this case, though her target was definitely not inanimate.

( After Halloween, the morning after, the hunt began. )

Freyr was not frustrated. If there was one thing he learned within minutes of getting Bogart, it was that acting out in frustration really just made the dog even less likely too cooperate. It had to be made worth his while to want to do something. Sometimes it was just easier to pick the dog up and move him to where Freyr wanted him to be. That didn't mean he gave up from trying.

Which was why he was out on the pavement in front of his house in the sunshine trying to convince Bogart, who was flopped down lazily on the ground, that he should get up and try to standing on the skateboard. Bogart was clearly not interested in doing anything that didn't involve laying right where he was. His legs were splayed out flat, ( his eyes were closed and he was trying to not listen to Freyr calling to him. )

The place was packed, which was how it was supposed to be. There were costumes everywhere... also exactly how it was supposed to be. Because it was Halloween. It was also Chicago and Americans went all crazy for the holiday. On top of that, it was Thirsty Thursday, something everyone in the American Midwest was familiar with. Professional drinkers, this lot, and Ninkasi loved them for it. Most of the costumed were immortal in some way, not just gods but nymphs and the like as well, but she was clearly allowing an occasional mortal in as well. There were rules outside to her bouncers for screening them properly.

Shortly, the specialty taps would be opened and her private brews would begin to flow. Which is what, she was sure, Kratos was hoping and/or waiting for. ( Wherever he was. )

Muttering under her breath regarding the disarray of the store she was in, Styx started fixing the hangers so that they all went the same way -even if that meant taking the garment off and turning it around. If they all didn't go the same way it was unappealing to look at. “Ma'am,” a store clerk said, “You don't need to face the racks.”

“Well, if you did it properly, I wouldn't have to. It is impossible to properly browse when everything is chaos.” To prove her point, she pulled a blouse down, one whose hanger was flipped backwards and snagged on the neck of the next blouse and pulling it off the hanger. Styx gave the clerk a glare. Alexander McQueen would be appalled by the status of his store. Or maybe not, he did design for Lady Gaga after all and that woman was willing to wear a dress made out of steaks. She shook her head and went back to fixing some hangers.

She was fussing. ( She was also obsessing and she knew it. )

Dawn.

A bright new day, the Sun barely breaking the horizon as its rays reached out to warm the land As Re stumbled to his kitchen, he mused (as he did many mornings) about how grateful he was to be back. Many took it all for granted. The sun rose, the sun set, the sun rose...the cycle was endless to their minds. They never knew what perils he faced each night. While he was confident in his abilities, and those of the gods that joined him in his barque to protect him, he also knew not to underestimate the serpent. Apep was even older than he was, and his old adversary had many tricks.

( But here he was... )

That jukebox had to be playing the worst, poorest excuse for music he had ever heard. The shifting neon colors from the machine's attempt to match the beat were an eyesore, but not completely intolerable. No, it was definitely the music. Manannan was a god of the sea, of sailor shanties and organic, rousing melodies that came from the soul. This was some sort of synthetic pop tune that he had heard more than enough of. It was almost as synthetic as the liquor this bar in Seattle was attempting to ply him with. If he did not have the copious, nigh-inexhaustible patience that he did, Manannan would have left by now.
( However, the bartender did have a bottle of gin that Mac was about two minutes away from wheedling out of the crotchety old man. )

Phobetor loved New Orleans. It was one of those towns that had always had a mystique hovering around it. It was one of those cities that always had a good party going on somewhere every night. He could work his magic there, because there was always someone so superstitious about everything they couldn't sleep right. ( Sadly, he couldn't take all the credit. )

It was rare this time of year that he was able to sit down and put his feet up on the tasseled hassock in his study. Which was why, as he settled into the cushy plumpness of his red velvet chair, Santa began mentally reviewing his to-do list for today. Did he really have time to enjoy his peppermint hot cocoa, or had he forgotten something that would require his attention?

( The List )

(Note: Because Thoth likes everybody, anybody that he'd collected on his way out of the party would be welcome in his London home, along with Bast.)




There was light.

Why was there light?

There should not be light. Of any kind. Anywhere. Ever again.

Bast tried to pull one of her pillows over her head to block out the offending brightness, but her questing fingers found nothing to grasp. Despite her loathing of the light, she cracked one eyelid just enough to look for what was missing. There were no pillows in front of her, like there should be. Actually, the sheets were the wrong color too. And why had her bed been turned sideways so that it was in the path of the sunlight coming through that window?

( Wait. )

If there was one thing guaranteed to make Shiva forget about the boring-ass day and put a smile on his face, it was this.

( It's an ancient Chineese art and everybody knew their part: from a feint into a slip, and kicking from the hip! )

Churchill Downs was all a flutter with activity. Which made sense. It was the most exciting two days of the year at the Louisville, Kentucky track. Zeus had been on site since early yesterday. Mostly for networking purposes, as while he had interest in the Oaks -the filly race held on Friday, from a gambling side of things, he had other things on his mind. He had a horse in the Derby.

( It was a very tricky business, racing horses. )

The place was packed. And by packed, that mean that there were over a dozen people in the place, but less than two. Because even if the sign at the door said Maximum Occupancy: 29, there was no way that many people were going to fit in the place and still allow for room to breath. The Matchbox bar in Chicago, Illinois was 460 square feet of appropriately named real estate. It was tiny. It was crowded with every single one of the twelve bar stools currently occupied. And it was ( The. Best. Dive. Bar. Ever. )

After putting the back on her second earring, Isis stood back and surveyed her reflection with pleasure. The simple red cocktail dress suited her skin tone, and red had always been her color. She'd left her hair down for a more relaxed look, and the gold earrings were the only adornment she chose for the evening. It was an elegant yet less rigid look than normal. She wanted to look her best. This was an important night for her, though many might look on it as something quite ordinary, boring even. Yet there were too few nights like this, and they seemed to grow more and more infrequent through the years.

( Her family was coming to dinner. )