“Nice,” Randy quipped. He handed the phone to Billy. “Do me and Alex.”
He stood behind his boyfriend, hands on his shoulders. Randy’s long, fiery red hair belonged on some Viking warrior. He was well-built, freckle-faced with handsome, delicate features. Randy whispered something in Alex’s ear, then he put his hand down his shirt.
One of the popular kids, Dave, came by. “Yo sweeties, where’s your voodoo bitch friend, the fire starter?” he snidely asked. “We’re wondering—is she some kind of witch?”
Randy, Alex, and the others ignored him; they were used to this. Dave snorted then moved on.
After Billy took several pictures of Randy and Alex, Amy took the phone from Billy, took his picture. “I want that one,” she said, taking Billy’s hand.
Billy sat back down beside her, pleased she wanted his picture, unsure why she seemed to like him so much.
“What was Sara doing, anyway?” Alex asked, after a moment. Blond, blue-eyed Alex was from stern, Scandinavian stock, and he was often teased for being so serious. His sea-blue eyes took in everything, and he thought about what to say before he said it. When he spoke, he spoke softly, and his friends listened carefully.
“She told me she’s afraid that her friends are in danger.” Randy shrugged, raised his hands. His expression, however, was serious. “She was worried about The Horseman and Peirithous, whoever they are. Sara said she’s trying to raise Theseus. She says that’s why she’s calling up the Oracle or whatever the hell it is she’s doing,” Randy explained, frowning now. He was up again, moving around, snapping more pictures of other people in the café.
When he took a picture at a table with popular seniors, Dave raised his middle finger. Randy blew Dave a kiss.
***
Minos waited, preoccupied. He was thinking about the Snapper, about how he thought he was so cool, so good-looking. About how he made fun of the Master. Minos was picturing him now, waking up—strapped to the gurney, his mouth taped shut. In his mind, he could see the fear in Snapper’s eyes.
It came to him then—clear as a bell—his plan for the Snapper. It just popped. And now, Minos could see it—crystal clear—in his head. A death mask to send the Snapper to the underworld. The Cretan Bull, a likeness. He pictured the Cretan Bull then, trapped in the underworld. Tormented by the furies in Tartarus, a prison of eternal suffering. He felt a chill, a frisson. Yes, it was just right. Perfect. Even poetic.
Yes, the Master would be pleased and proud.
***
Randy went from table to table, snapping pictures. It never occurred to Randy that he might be intrusive; he simply marched to the beat of his own devil-may-care drum. At times, Randy was reckless, or had an attitude; and often, he was not quite as prepared, or as smart, as he needed to be. They all remembered when Randy had hitchhiked to LA on a whim and run out of money. No problem. He sold uppers to an undercover cop to pay his way back. “Sara thinks she’s protecting us,” Randy added, an afterthought.
“Weird. From what? What kind of danger?” Billy asked. Something about this made him uneasy.
“She says there’s this beast—yeah, that’s what she calls it—anyway this beast kills people. He’s rising—I think that’s like waking up. She thinks he’s going to kill again.”
“How could she know that?” Amy wondered.
Randy shrugged. “She says she just knows.”
“That’s pretty crazy,” Alex weighed in softly.
“This is getting too serious,” Randy interrupted. “Sara’s just Sara. Since she was little she had her own made-up ideas about things. There’s nothing we can do about the way she is. She’s pretty much in her own zone.” He shrugged again, scratching his head through long red curls. “When Peter gets back, it’ll be better. He’s the only one who understands what she’s talking about.” And, they all knew, the one who’d most often kept Randy out of trouble. When Randy would casually tempt fate, as if that was no big thing, Peter was usually there to bail him out. Since he left, Alex had stepped up, but so far, he didn’t have Peter’s flair for great escapes.
“When’s Peter coming back anyway?” Billy asked. He’d met Peter and heard stories about him, but he didn’t really know him.
“He doesn’t really have a plan. You know what he’s like. Sara says she got a postcard from Amsterdam. That he’ll be back this summer.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Ten months, more or less. He left last summer. He’s got the whole year before college. When he’s ready, he’ll be back. Anyway, he’s the only one who can make sense of her stuff.”
That didn’t seem quite right to Billy, but he let it go. “It’s Thursday. I’ve got a ton of homework,” was all he said.
“Me too,” Amy added. “Come to my place and we can work.”
Billy put his arm around her slender waist as they rose to leave. She was as tall as he was.
Randy reached in his backpack, took out a book and handed it to Amy. “For the architecture project,” he said.
Billy noticed that Dave was watching Amy.
“Thanks,” she stuffed it in her pack. When she saw Dave staring at her, she rested her hand on Billy’s backside.
Outside, Billy saw a man hunched over in a doorway across the street. The man was dressed entirely in black, and he seemed to be shuffling back and forth, staring at the sidewalk. He was on something, or just weirded out, Billy thought. Something about the way he was moving back and forth—you couldn’t really tell how old he was. Billy kept his eye on him, liking his long leather coat. He watched the man light a cigarette—inhaling deeply, deliberately, like it was a special treat, then blowing the smoke into the air. That’s when the man glanced up, for just an instant, and Billy saw the purple birthmark on his face. The man’s left eye twisted shut when he smiled.
Billy thought he was smiling at him.
***
At the corner of 19th and Galer, on Capitol Hill, five streets came together in what Sara thought of as the “Italian intersection.” The southern tip of Interlaken Park, just a finger, reached up to close the northern edge of the circle. It was below Volunteer Park, a straight shot down Galer from the cemetary where Bruce Lee was buried. Sara sort of smiled, remembering that, as she carried her things down Interlaken, the street that wound into the park. Before long she was passing the Hebrew Academy, a lonely little outpost on the hillside, then turning down again into the wooded area. Her spot was more than a hundred yards from the road, hidden in a small stand of firs. She scrambled down the hill, out of sight. She knew just where she was going. This time of year, there was never anyone down there during the day. At night, there were some drug dealers, or so she’d heard, but she’d never seen them. Surrounded by her trees, Sara began unpacking her bags. In addition to her canvas shoulder bag, Sara had a black duffle bag filled with the heavier things she needed to reach the Oracle.
After chanting over the salt and the water, then sprinkling the mixture around her magic circle, making it safe, Sara set the little iron cauldron on her tripod. She double-checked, making sure it sat right in the center of the large circle.
Today, she said an extra blessing as she made the sign of the cross on her forehead. She was careful to keep her first and second fingers extended, and the third and fourth bent toward her palm with the thumb on their nails. She’d recently read in a book on psychic defense that that was the way to do it. Satisfied, she continued unpacking her bags. From her canvas shoulder bag she took olive oil, wine, and milk, pouring a splash of each into the cauldron. Beneath the cauldron she lit a propane fire, then she added herbs,