Lying Low (Working Title) – Chapter 1

SJ Shoemaker
Word Count: 1,373
1/22/2024

Word of advice: If the gods ever decide to knock on your door, make sure you’re not home.

I dragged myself back into the cramped office after the worst case in recent memory. File folders and books were strewn wherever they had been the night before. No time to tidy after a three-day research session into ancient magic and enchanted artifacts. I was paid to bring a woman home and that’s exactly what I did. As consequence, pain in every movement and no empty chairs to throw myself into.

“You make coffee, Doris?” I managed to croak, stumbling unevenly.

The typing stopped. “Morning to you too.”

I didn’t need to look in her direction to picture that stare over the top of her wireframes. “Is that a no?”

The typing picked up again. Answer enough.

“Swell.” I ambled to the nearest chair and swept the contents to the floor with as minimal motion as I could muster. The chair’s wooden frame pressed against my back in an uncomfortable way and I was grateful for it.

“You find that dame, then?” asked Doris.

“Niobe. Finding her wasn’t the issue. I mean how many crying rocks have you seen?”

“Can’t say any.”

“Neither could I until this case, but I found it. The real trick was undoing a god’s wrath. Took patience and precision cracking that stoney exterior without harming the woman within. Virtues that waned as the night went on.”

“But she’s safe now?”

“Most of her, anyhow. Regardless, this marks the end of an ugly family affair.” A true enough statement from the right perspective. My part may have come to an end, but hers would continue for years, decades even. If her grief was enough to maintain a stream of tears when unconscious and inanimate, how much more—I stopped the thought in its tracks. Now was not the time to grow a conscience. Morals weren’t cheap, even worse than rent. And office space in Hellada City was hard enough without extra expenses. I did my job and was paid for my troubles. Time to close the mental case file and rest.

“No new cases ‘til I wake.” My voice was carried a command I could never enforce. I reached into the pocket of my trenchcoat and pulled out a sharp chisel. “And mail a parcel for me, would ya? Send my regards to Pygmalion.”

“You’re the boss.”

“I’ll be in the back a while,” I said with a sigh. “There’s a cot calling my name.”

---

And sleep I did. The clock read 3:02 PM when Doris poked her head in again. Her short hair flared with the motion. She cut it a few weeks back to align with the current style. It was fine, I supposed, framed her face well enough, but I had come to appreciate her old hair’s understated nature.

“Metty, there’s a proper lady here to see you. Says it’s urgent.”

“Charge her double. Tell her to come back tomorrow.”

She craned her neck and whispered something to the mystery women beyond. I couldn’t catch anything from the conversation before, “no problem.” Somehow I knew whatever followed would be exactly that: a problem. 

“She says you owe her a favor.”

My blood ran cold. That could be only one woman. Proper? She was proper something, alright.

Doris continued, “She says that you promised to help whenever she asked next, and I know you wouldn’t ever go back on a word.”

“Doris, don’t let her in here.” I could feel my heart galloping away. “Tell her I’m not in.”

“You want to lie to the poor woman?”

“No. I want you to lie to her.”

My pleas went unheard or unheeded. “Mr. Graves will see you now.”

Another word of advice: fire your secretary. She causes as much trouble as she saves.

A pure white dress spiraling tightly around a glass figure stepped into my office. It ran from shoulders to feet and just kept going, eventually ending in a plume of peacock feathers. She would stick out wherever she went, clashing with the average Jane’s box shape or flapper. But with the confidence she held in that chin and those piercing eyes, fashion trends became as irrelevant as the people who followed them.

“Hera.”

“You’re a hard man to find.”

“And yet.” I rose to my feet and made a point of not adjusting my disheveled shirt and tie.

“Going by Emmett now, are we?”

“That’s what the name on the other side of the door says. I’d be happy to show it to you again if you’d like.”

“Now, now, Em. Don’t tell me you forgot your little promise.”

“Couldn’t if I tried. So, what’ll it be?”

“A drink for starters. Be a dear, won’t you?” She had gall; I’d give her that.

The last time we spoke, I made it clear I would never pour a drink for her again. And I am a man of my word above all else. As painful as it often was, this was a welcomed exception. “I’m not running a speakeasy, here,” I spat. “State your case and get out of my office.”

“I can’t breathe a word of it, not with…” she pointedly glanced out the cracked door at my secretary. “…humans about.”

“Heed your tone, Hera. I’m as much a part of them as of you.”

“Yes, but this–”

“–Is godly business, I understand. What happened? Someone lose their temper again? Who got banished this time?”

“Quite the…” She swallowed her words but too slowly. Eyes shot arrows in my direction; their onslaught played witness to my mind at work. There was only one way to finish that statement: Quite the opposite.

“Who’s missing?”

For a brief moment, a singular crease formed across one cheek and broke through her marble facade. The uneven disfigurement of contempt. But godly powers and centuries of training corrected in an instant. “No one,” she said and stepped forward. She placed a card in my shirt pocket. Then, leaning forward, in barely a whisper, “Not by the time you’re done.”

I pulled out the business card as she marched away. A familiar image bannered across the front side. A tall mountain silhouette with window cutouts. Hotel Olympus. On the back, a handwritten note read: Penthouse suite, top floor. 3 PM. Don’t keep a god waiting.

Another glance toward the office wall clock confirmed I had no choice.

“Oh, and Em,” Hera stood halfway in the hall beyond. “You still have that old coat I gave you?”

I bit my tongue. Refusing to speak or move in response.

“Great. Promise you’ll wear it?”

No response. Perhaps she would leave of her own accord.

“I’d love to see the old thing again. And besides, you know how it drives my husband mad. Promise me, won’t you?”

 I lost the standoff and waved her away as non-committal as I could. When the door closed, I let out a sigh. Shirt tucked, tie straightened, hat on head and jacket pulled tight, I made to leave for another miserable case. One that likely wouldn’t even pay. Swell. I stood in the threshold, considering the events that just played out. Could that wave have been interpreted as agreement?

“Doris?”

“Yes,” she read my mind with exasperation. “It’s on the hanger. Under that garish Norfolk.”

It was a sturdy trenchcoat, well-constructed and suitably water resistant. I had been tempted on occasion to don it, especially given its hidden utility. I pulled it on and watched the shadows grow around me. They darkened and fell at impossible crossing angles to obscure form and feature. As anonymous as any gumshoe could hope. But even as I admired the functionality, the symbol formed, bold and prominent, along my chest. Hera’s symbol. The open lotus. No matter how I moved or what I wore over top of the coat, it magically moved to avoid being obscured. I was permanently marked as hers so long as I wore it. But what’s one more curse?

I stepped out of my office and closed the door behind. A god was missing, and I hadn’t the first clue where to begin. So I swallowed my pride, hailed a cab, and directed him to the heart of Hellada City.