InsaneJournal

A low whistle caught Hecate’s attention, but she did not at first lift her head from her work.

She stood on steady rocks at the edge of The Lake in Central Park, looking down at the surface of the water. The trees around her were touched with an edge of golden light as the last rays of the setting sun broke long and bright over the city. “I don’t like the sound of that whistle, Apollon,” Hecate said, stiffly turning her head toward him. “And I’m not in the mood for company.”

Apollo handed Hecate a takeaway cup. “Are you in the mood for hot chocolate?” The whistle had meant now there’s a tense looking goddess who looks like she could use some loosening up! which, upon further thought, was wisest not to put into words.

Hecate thinned her lips. Annoyingly, she was. The air held a little chill to it that even frustration couldn’t ward off. She took the offering, beckoning Apollo to join her at the water’s edge.

The smooth, dark water of the edge of the lake held a handful of leaves and pine needles fallen like runes. “Can you read the pattern?”

With a leap forward, Apollo crouched on the rock at the edge of the lake. “In my opinion? Your quarry is close.”

“Yes,” said Hecate. “That is how I am reading it too.” She took an annoyed sip of the hot chocolate – it was remarkably good, although currently it was a goodness Hecate was not prepared to remark upon. “Hm,” she said, rolling the flavour around on her tongue. “And here I was half expecting some vengeful poison.”

“I thought about it,” Apollo said. “You stole my voice, Hecate. I thought about sending you a nasty case of laryngitis, too. But,” he shrugged a lean shoulder in his tight blue t-shirt. “We’ve always vibed. I want to keep vibing. Thus!” he said grandly, with his best animosity-begone smile. “Please accept this hot chocolate and my apology. I won’t mess with anyone under your roof again.”

Hecate's gaze was low and steady. “Why tonight?”

“Why not tonight? It’s a beautiful night.”

“Why tonight?”

“The moon’s in its first third quarter since the equinox, a good night to ask for forgiveness.”

“Hm. Why tonight, Apollo?”

Apollo tipped his head back toward the sky. “Fine. It’s Aphrodite’s hen party tonight and yours truly is providing the entertainment,” Apollo’s shimmy provided adequate illustration of the manner of entertainment he was planning on providing. “There is, of course a chance that I’ll sleep with the bride and there is of course a chance the groom will find out about it. I can handle my beef with Ares just as I can handle my beef with Hermes, so I’m not worried about it, but I thought I’d rather not make it a trifecta with you. Forgive me?” He smiled winningly, flirtatiously, raking his hand through his hair in a way that was designed to remind Hecate they’d once had a child together, once had some very good times together.

“I bare you no ill will,” Hecate said, less for his sake and more because she had little ill will to spare, it was all used up on this damn unfindable souleater. “Thanks for the hot chocolate. Keep your hands off anyone in my protection. Try not to sleep with Aphrodite and start a war.”

Apollo leaped from one low flat rock to another, sending a slight ripple out across the water. “Appreciate the advice,” said Apollo, who could see the wisdom in not sleeping with Aphrodite on her hen night (especially when Erato would be right there) but preferred not to let wisdom spoil his sexual fantasies. He looked back down at the water, at the pattern of leaves from this new angle.

“Here’s some in return. Your quarry, it’s not close to you. You’re too close to it. You won’t find signs on the water, when the answer is right in front of your face.”

Hecate’s eyes honed in on him, and he shrugged again. “I just read the signs as they’re written,” he said with another smile. “But I better get on. Got some ladies to please.”

Hecate’s gaze fell back down to the water once he’d gone, to interpret the signs as he had.

Too close. Did that mean too involved, too entangled, or physically too close. Was he right? (Was the Olympian best known for his translations of oracles right? What a foolish question.)

She, like Apollo himself, worked well from afar. It was in their names, woven into their makeup. Tonight none of her scrying had made any sense. Every sign screamed close, close as if the souleater was about to step onto the lake shore beside her. The signs spun like a compass at the pole, pulled in all directions at once as it desperately tried to point here, here!

And yet – where? Hecate cast her eyes around the shore, searching for something she had missed before. The trees rose, even the tallest no longer touched by the last rays of the run, all them them reaching with black fingers up into the slate gray of the evening sky. The water stretched, black with shadow. The shore around the rocks was muddy from many feet coming down to launch sticks for dogs into the lake. The air smelled of mud and water and every layer of smell New York had to offer. Evening birds sang and insects buzzed, and in the distance Hecate’s keen ears could pick up the sound of a bat in flight.

A souleater, though?

She finished her hot chocolate, and turned toward the rubbish bin at the edge of the shore. The bin itself was almost overflowing, and crammed in next to a McDonalds bag was a white flier. It was crumbled enough that all she could see was