Sirenz Back in Fashion (2 page)

“But they're designer!”

She squinched up her face. “At least it's a leap up from all your previous choices. With such decadence, how can you live with yourself?”

“They're old,” I started, putting on the other shoe, “but even if they were new, they're not made in the third world, so I know the person stitching them together is being paid a living wage. And—”

“That's enough!” Shar raised her hands. “They're Westwood, they're awesome. No one needs to know their life story.”

“And they're black,” I concluded. “So it suits me, being a
vampire
and all.”

The dig wasn't lost on her.

“Meg,” she said, coming over to my bed and sitting down next to me. “I'm sorry about Alana. Things are different. But I couldn't … ”

I pictured Shar trying to tell the abandoned trio about the subtle change in their and our relationships:
Meg may be a little on the strange side, but she's really cool when you get to know her …
No. Not happening.

I nodded. “I know. Come on, finish up and let's get out of here.”

An hour later, we were browsing the top floor of Century 21.

“Tell me again why we're here?” I asked. Shar was digging through a rack stuffed with jeans, not listening to me. I touched her arm. “Haven't you bought enough clothes?”

She looked up from her search. “I really thought there was some hope for you, rocking those shoes,” she sighed, shooting a glance at my feet. “But you still don't get the whole shopping experience. You're still in mourning colors. And”—she leaned in closer to me—“don't you want to get something that doesn't remind you of …
him
?”

I shrugged. I hadn't bought as much as she had; she'd been practically delirious when we had the no-limit credit card and a walk-in closet large enough to house a taxi. I just didn't attach the same sentiment to clothes—Shar acted as if every pair of jeans had a personality.

I looked at my watch again. We didn't want to set out too early; it would be better if Jeremy and Ian were waiting for us, rather than the other way around. I followed Shar over to a rack of dresses, and then I heard her gasp and click her tongue.

“What's the matter?” I asked. She looked really angry.

“I can't believe this!” She clutched a hanger furiously. An iridescent, turquoise-colored halter sheath hung crookedly off its plastic arms. One of them was broken. Shar shook the dress violently, the silk rippling like water. “I bought this at that boutique when we were shopping for the show at the Met,” she growled. “The sales person said it was a limited edition and that I'd gotten the last one. Now it's here for $99.97? Do you realize that someone who buys fake Gucci off the street for ten dollars can walk around in my $5,000 Alexander McQueen dress for a hundred dollars?!”

My forehead wrinkled in pity for her, but not that much. “Shar?”

“What?!”

“What does a yellow dot on the tag mean?”

“That's an extra twenty percent off.”

“Well, then your dress will only cost around $80, or something like that, with tax of course.”

Her hand started to shake, and she stared at me in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of Persephone. She jammed the dress back onto the rack and stormed off. Resigned, I followed in her wake.

About an hour later, after a visit to the shoe department and some serious toe curling language from Shar about more bargains that had migrated here, we left and started making our way across town.

“When did you say we were meeting them?” she asked, looking at the sky, which had clouded over.

“In less than an hour.”

She grinned hugely at me, then wrinkled her nose as a fat raindrop hit her.

“Hail a cab!” she cried, shielding her face with her hand.

“Don't want to smear your mascara?” I teased. “I think I have an umbrella.” I started to dig in my bag.

“I'm always prepared,” she said, reaching a hand into her purse. I got to my umbrella first; it was one of the accessories hurled at me by the Siren-dazed guys during that first shopping trip to Henri Bendel. Black and lacy, it was one of those Goth-loli confections from Japan, daintily Victorian and intensely feminine. I popped it open and held it over both of us while Shar continued to search in her bag.

Suddenly her face registered confusion.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

She stopped moving forward and shuffled close to the building. I followed, holding the umbrella. From the depths of her purse, she pulled out a light blue box.

She opened it and sucked in a breath. It was the mega-sized, crystal-clear blue diamond ring from Tiffany's, the one Hades had gifted to her but she'd never worn.

Shar

Not You Again!

“What do I do with it?” I mused. The diamond sparkled on its snowy cushion; a few people pushing by stared and gaped. “I didn't know it was still there.” In fact, the last time I'd seen it was months ago, after Hades slipped it in.

“What do you mean, ‘what do I do with it?'” Meg replied. “Wear it. Enjoy it.”

“I can't keep it. It's the one from
him
.”
I gave Meg a
duh
look. Didn't she get it?

She put a hand on her hip, annoyed. “So? Isn't most of your wardrobe?”

“I don't want it.”

“What's the big deal?”

Was she really serious?
I wondered if I had completely corrupted Ms. Save-The-World-from-Capitalist-Exploitation-and-Sing-We-Are-The-World.

“I don't want it anymore,” I said.

“You? Not want a five carat, flawless, emerald-cut diamond? From Tiffany's?” Meg's mouth hung open.

“Guess I'm not the selfish, greedy, materialistic girl I used to be. You take it.” I thrust the box at her.

“I don't want it.” Meg clutched her umbrella with both hands so she couldn't touch it. “Besides being pretentious, unnecessary, and not my style, it's dangerous—baubles that big attract muggers.”

“I'll donate it to charity,” I said.

“Good idea. But before you do, try it on. Just once, to get it out of your system.”

I gazed at the ring. “I don't know.” Anything connected with Greek gods, I'd learned too late, meant trouble I wasn't prepared for. Besides, Persephone had the
exact
same ring, although that kind of thing was only a problem when you showed up at a soirée in a one-of-a-kind couture dress and found out three other people had the same one on.

“If you don't, I'll never hear the end of it,” Meg muttered. “ ‘Oh, I should've at least tried it!' ” She raised her voice to a squeak, no doubt in imitation of me—though poorly done—and tilted her head from side to side.

Like I really did that!
It was too stereotypical dumb blonde, which I am NOT.

“One quick twirl on the finger, then pop it back in the box and we can drop it off, or send it to whatever charity you want,” she pressed. “You get to have your pink frosted cake and eat it too. You can say you owned a massive Tiffany ring and, knowing there are people out there who could use the money, you donated it to charity. Miss Benevolence with style. And I'll never have to hear, ‘I should have!'”

That time, she did sound like me. I grinned. “Okay. But I'm really not keeping it.” I opened the box, pulled the ring out, and slid the cool platinum circle onto my finger. Holding my hand out, I waved it back and forth, eyeing the sparkle.

I felt nothing. No smugness, no joy, nothing. The ring was beautiful, but it came from
him
.
I didn't want anything from
him
or any other god.

“I'm done.” I pulled the ring to take it off.

It wouldn't budge.

Okay, you're just a little emotional remembering the whole Sirens ordeal
, I told myself.
Greek gods coming to life, contracts signed in blood, an ancient man sent to the Underworld, you and Meg almost turning into birds.

I tugged and tugged. Panic started to choke me.
Get it off! Get it off!

“Having a hard time?” Meg teased.

“It won't come off!” She had to see the fear on my face or hear it in my voice.

An arm—warm, muscular, and not Meg's—slid around my shoulders. The breath of temptation slid into my ears.

“I believe I can assist you with that.”

Hades, Lord of the Underworld, personal nemesis, and all-around studly hunk.
His hands, sleek and bronzed and gentle, twirled the huge diamond ring around my trembling finger. Holding my hand up to the light so that the ring sparkled like a star, he asked, “Stunning, isn't it? Even though it pales in comparison to you. Are you sure you want to take it off?”

Goose bumps raced down my skin.
Please, please, please, let me be hallucinating.

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” Meg could barely get the words past her clenched jaw. I remained too dumbfounded to speak. On the busy city street, people passed by, oblivious to the scene of desperation occurring in their midst. Horns blared, cyclists zipped past, a nippy breeze fluttered scarves and coats; it was surreal.

He's blocking the sight of our little drama from human eyes.
It was our own little piece of the Twilight Zone.

“I'm delighted you've decided to renew our agreement! After our last meeting, I thought you were actually tiring of me. I'm so glad I was mistaken.” Hades leaned forward so his head was between us. First he smiled at Meg, then turned a suggestive leer on me. “So many delights I have planned for you two.”

I shuddered and leaned away.

Meg threw off his arm. I followed her example. At least someone's brain was working today.

“Renew our agreement?” she croaked.

I cringed at the thought of our previous encounter with Hades. In his sultry, sexy, too-good-to-be-true-and-we-should-have-known-better manner, he'd promised to get us out of a dilemma that
he'd
set up, the snake. In exchange we agreed to become his one-time Sirens and send an old guy—a creepy, nasty sort—down to Tartarus. I still cringed at the fact that Hades had managed to fool us into the deal, but he was smooth. And here he was again, with his brooding looks of dark forbidden promises, his wavy auburn hair, and his chiseled abs.

“What do you mean?” Meg continued. “We finished our deal. Hera said so.”

“And she's the queen of all of you,” I added.
Tough talk!
But it was all I could think of at the moment, with his Calvin Klein
Eternity
cologne teasing my nose.

Then I whirled around and slapped a hand against his classically cut silver-sheen suit, so perfectly accessorized with a purple tie and lighter-shade shirt. With thick silver cuff links, of course. He knew how to dress to muddle a girl's brain. I shook my head to clear it of the enticing god in front of me. Meg and I weren't going to go without a fight.

“Save the charm, it won't work!” I yelled. “We don't care how nice you act, or how many perks you throw in—nothing's changed! We are NOT getting sucked in again!”

“Never.” Meg gave him a steely blast of her icy blues. If anyone could resist Hades, it was her. For all her 5'3” stature, she was a dynamo. Very few people got past her if she didn't wish it. At half a foot taller and minus the dangerous curves, I, Sharisse Johnson, was a wuss. Well, unless it involved a pair of sexy red stilettos with little gold embellishments. That's what started this whole mess—not knowing when to walk away from the perfect shoe.

“Go away, Hades. Shar, let's get a little soap to slide that ring off, then we can return it to Tiffany's. Or drop it in the collection basket at the Salvation Army.” Meg grabbed my arm and hauled me down the street, never looking back.

Neither of us had to. Suddenly, lounging carelessly against the shiny glass of the Victoria's Secret in front of us and buffing his blood-red ruby ring was Hades. Mannequins in pink polka-dot bikinis smiled down at him from the window display. Meg swung us both around—and we promptly slammed into his hard, sculpted, only-in-my-wildest-dreams body. The breath whooshed right out of me.

“It's not so simple, ladies. I truly had no intention of interfering with your insignificant mortal lives again, but you summoned me back.”

I gasped. Meg growled.

“We did no such thing!” she argued.

“Not on your life!” I added.

His smile was slow, seductive, and really scaring the life out of me. Ooh, this was so not going to be good; I just knew it all the way down to my You-Can-Never-Be-Too-Pink toenail polish.

“You put the diamond ring on,” he said to me, showing his supermodel teeth, then turned to Meg. “And
you
persuaded her to do it.”

“Our contract never specified that we couldn't use the things we bought,” Meg said. “Or that we had to give them up once we finished our task.”

She was right. After we'd been duped by Hades and his divine cronies for the umpteenth time, she'd reviewed the details of the contract and committed them to memory.
It paid to be paranoid.

“But Sharisse didn't buy the diamond,” Hades replied smoothly. “It was a gift. From me.”

Meg opened her mouth to speak, but Hades held up a slim index finger and waggled it.

“Some gifts, like
rings
,
come with conditions. If you accept the ring, you accept the conditions.”

This was one of those moments of clarity that pop into your head so suddenly it almost hurts. His gifts were tainted.

“Like an engagement ring?” I squeaked.

He nodded slowly, a saturnine smile making its leisurely way across his face. I couldn't breathe.

“And because I convinced her—” started Meg.

“You are just as liable,” he concluded with a smirk.

And we were indentured. Again.

“We give everything back!” Not caring about the skin I would forfeit, I yanked off the ring and threw it, all five horrifying, evil carats, right at him. Bye bye, Tiffany's best. I tried to reach for Meg's hand and make a run for it, but as if in slow motion, Hades stepped back and caught the ring in midair. How
Matrix
.

He shook his head sadly. “It doesn't work that way, my darling
.
You accepted a gift, and so you are beholden to me once more.”

“Hera!” Meg shouted.

Yes! Call the queen! She'll hand Hades his posterior.

Nothing happened.

Or not.

“She won't come,” he chuckled. “You are the ones who initiated a continuation of the contract. She can't, and won't, interfere. Nice try, though.” His gaze turned ominous. “This time, however, things are going to be a little different.”

It suddenly got dark. But only where I was standing. I could see Meg and Hades clearly, like the sun shone only on them. In an instant, I felt like I'd dropped over the biggest hill on that vomit-inducing roller coaster at Six Flags I was dumb enough to ride on last summer. I felt weightless, yet was hurtling through space.

The sensation of falling stopped almost as soon as it started. Meg and Hades were still in front of me, but there seemed to be a glass barrier between us.

I banged on the pane with my fist; it was thick and unmoving. I swung around. There was nothing but gloom behind me. I stretched out a hand into it, touching a cold nothingness. Quickly, all the air around me chilled. A whorl of steamy breath curled from my lips before dissipating. When I wrapped my arms around my waist to stop the shivering, my hands touched bare skin; he'd dressed me in a pink polka-dot bikini, just like the mannequins! And in those infernal red stilettos!

My Life Ruined By Shoes, as told by Sharisse Johnson.
Oh, I was going to give him the shoes—right in the privates!

Whipping back around, I threw myself against the glass barrier. My hands were pressed against it, and my breath, drawn in panic, created a fog on the glass in front of me, making it hard to see Meg's face clearly. I swiped it clean. Her eyes grew huge when she saw me. She banged on her side of the glass. I pounded back, but it made no sound or vibration. All I could do was cry. She put one hand over her mouth and paled. Was there no getting out? Frantic, I screamed for her. As the pane darkened, my last vision was of Meg kicking the glass, tears streaming down her face.

I don't know how long I stood there.

Alone.

In the dark.

Shaking with dread and cold, I wobbled a few steps away from the glass to see how far back my crystal prison extended. The gloom of a cavelike space yawned behind me. Searching around slowly, I saw pinpoints of light, which allowed me brief glances into the dimness beyond. Shadows moved, but I couldn't make out what they were. I got goose bumps on my goose bumps.

I want my cashmere sweater!

“Hello?” I called. A faint echo bounced back. This place was huge. I'd been in Howe Caverns in upstate New York, but not for long. The winding and twisting passageways were too claustrophobic. This place was too big, too dark. I trembled.
Where was I?

Whenever Hades whisked me off someplace, like a privately owned tropical island or Ferragamo's in Milan, it was to tempt me. But there was absolutely nothing in this scenario that was the least bit beguiling. I couldn't figure out where he dumped me. I sniffed. It was dark. And moldy. And icky. I could be anywhere—a sewer, a subway tunnel, a mine.

First lesson about mortal females, Hades, is NOT to send them to a skanky dark place. And dressed in the wrong outfit!