Argos hovered by our side, looking strikingly uncertain. “You did… well.”
I didn’t know what to say to him, or if I wanted to say anything at all. For a few moments, we just stared at one another.
That was when the satellite phone on the boat chirped.
The sound was an alien intrusion, a piece of the modern world trespassing in this ancient place. Nikos’s entire body went rigid. He looked at me, then at the boat, then back at me.
“Answer it,” I told him.
He stood and crossed to where the phone sat in its waterproof case. He picked it up, his face illuminated by its cold blue glow. “Yes?” His posture was rigid, his responses clipped. “Yes… I understand… Where?”
Each word he spoke sent a spike of dread through my chest. Something was wrong. I could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, the way his hand tightened around the phone.
He turned to me. There was a look of pure, raw dread on his face, one that made the newfound fire in my veins turn to ice.
“That was Helena Winters,” he murmured. “Andromeda’s been in an accident. Alexander… she’s hurt. Badly.”
8
A Perfect Day
Andie
The Pomeranian was supposed to be Cerberus. It was wearing a ridiculous three-headed harness. Its owner, a woman named Marlene who was the bride’s distant aunt, was cooing at it in a classic ‘baby voice’. “Who’s a good little demon hound? Who’s guarding the gates of the Underworld from naughty spirits? You are! Yes, you are!”
Not for the first time today, I wished I hadn’t taken this client. Or that, at least, I’d managed to guide her in a better direction for her ‘perfect day’.
It was three months ago, in the sterile, controlled environment of my office, a world of clean lines and absolute order. Clara, thebride, had sat opposite me, vibrating with an almost aggressive level of enthusiasm.
“So, for the theme,”she’d said, leaning forward so far she nearly knocked over her glass of water,“I was thinking something with historical resonance.”
“I love that,”I’d replied.“We could do a theme based on the Court of House Athena. Very elegant. Classy.”
“No, no, no,”she’d said, waving a dismissive hand.“Too political. Too stuffy. I want something more… primal. More passionate. I want the wedding of Orpheus and Eurydice.”
I kept my smile pasted on my face, but my brain almost screeched to a halt. I chose my words with care.“That’s a beautiful story, Clara. Truly. But something a little more sedate?”Or a wedding that didn’t end with the death of the bride.
“But the devotion!”she insisted, her eyes wide with romantic fervor.“Orpheus went into the Underworld for his wife, Andromeda. He faced down Hades himself. The gods were so moved they made him the first Alpha and her the first Omega, just so their love could survive. That’s the energy I want. A love so powerful it literally rewrote our biology.”
She saw a fairy tale. I saw the historical record: a story of a love so desperate it broke the laws of nature. Because of it, the gods subjected the entire human race to the tyranny of heats and ruts.The tale of Orpheus and Eurydice was the ultimate love story, yes, but it was also the beginning of the ultimate cage.
Still, every wedding planner stuck to the same motto.The client is always right, even when they’re gloriously, spectacularly wrong.
I’d agreed to organize the wedding, as per Clara’s specifications. I’d made a note in her file:Client has a high tolerance for dramatic irony. Monitor for potential self-sabotage.
Now, as I stood in the sun-drenched meadow she’d chosen, that note felt like a splinter in my mind. The entire event was a perfect lie. The sun was too bright, the sky too blue. I moved through the clusters of guests, a ghost at my own meticulously planned feast. The hum of all the conversations washed over me.
“…and the caterer said they’ve never seen a gluten-free spread this elaborate. My cousin has celiac, you know, and this is the first wedding she’s been to where she can eat more than a sad piece of lettuce.”
“Honestly, I give it six months,” a voice murmured from a group near the champagne fountain. “Did you see the way his mother was looking at her dress? Pure venom. Mark my words.”
The chatter was a meaningless symphony of gossip and pleasantries. But my senses were stretched taut, filtering through the noise for something else. A footstep that was too heavy. A presence that didn’t belong.
My entire career was built on anticipating a coming disaster—a drunk uncle, a catering failure, a sudden storm. But this was different. This was a low, primal hum of dread beneath my skin, a certainty that the fragile artifice of the day was about to be shattered.
And yet… Alexander Stormwright was not here. His absence was a physical presence, a hole in the world that drew all my attention. And that, more than anything, terrified me. It wasn’t his style. His tactics were direct, overwhelming. This silence, this feigned indifference… it was a new kind of psychological warfare. Was he watching? Was this a test?
A cold sweat trickled down my spine, my silk blouse clinging unpleasantly to my skin. My antiperspirant was failing, surrendering to a clammy dread that had nothing to do with the temperature. It was the chill of a subterranean place, the feeling of being hunted by a ghost. I scanned the treeline again, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. Nothing. Just the sun, the flowers, and the lie.