Minos. Burt Weissbourd

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      “I propose another alternative,” Abe interrupted her musing. “I suggest that you consider the possibility that I could actually help you.”

      “With what?”

      “What would you like help with?”

      Sara just snorted.

      Abe frowned. “I’m not kidding.”

      “No fucking way.” Her face tightened, sorry she’d let that slip.

      He waited.

      She better say something, get this back on track. What worried her most was that he would get in her way. Slow her down. Try and help with something he’d never, ever get. She hoped he’d give up on talking and just give her some medicine, which she’d never take, and ask to see her once a week. She could manage that. “Help me how?”

      “What kind of help do you want?”

      She decided to get it over with. Wake him up. “Mister, how about you help me fight the Beast? He’s rising. He’ll kill soon. I need a hero. I need more power. I need Theseus. Can you help me find him? Can you reach Poseidon, or Apollo? Huh? You up to that?” Shit. That ought to blow him off.

      “Tell me more,” he said softly.

      Tricky bear shrink. Okay. Let’s see. You want more—chew on this, shrinko. Sara closed her eyes, mumbling softly. She could smell the Beast; she could feel the scary things, coming on. Sara let them come, then speaking louder so he could hear, “Wild, shaggy Centaurs ravage the women at the wedding feast of their Lapith friends. Drunken, rampaging Maenads take Pentheus for a wild beast and rip him limb from limb. His mother, Abave, tears off his head. Seven maids and seven boys, Helene children, are given each great year, a sacrifice to the Minotaur in Crete. Furies walk in darkness, with bat’s wings, writhing snakes for hair and eyes that weep tears of blood. The Beast is rising. He’ll kill soon. No one will listen. Not Apollo, bearer of light, not Poseidon, the horse-father, nor even all-knowing Zeus.”

      “How can I help?”

      Sara ignored him, crying softly. It was back, the thing in her gut, like she was passing small, sharp-edged stones. The bear shrink had tricked her. All she wanted to do was get him off her back. “You can’t help me. You’re making it worse,” she whispered. Her face was pinched. She raised her Athame from her lap.

      Abe stood, puzzled.

      Sara was up, whispering. “Oh great and patient Oracle. I pray to you. Let me kneel on Apollo’s altar, your devoted priestess. I summon you. There is no time. Hear me now. Please—”

      Abe came behind her, holding her arm, taking her Athame, leading her back to her chair.

      No one was listening. Why? Why was he touching her? Sara twisted her arm free and punched him in his big stomach. Then she stood still, silent, feet planted.

      Abe stepped back.

      Sara melted into the big leather chair, her feet underneath her, her head bowed, and her arms wrapped around her knotted stomach. When she finally raised her head to speak, her voice came out softly, “You can’t help me, and you don’t know who can.” Then she lowered her head, hugging herself tightly.

      Abe stood above her. “Let me try, Sara. I’d like to try.” His furrowed brow formed a V as he waited for her to look up. “You may be surprised.”

      ***

      The swing was a favorite spot for Billy Logan-Stein and his mom, Corey Logan. Neither of them could say exactly how it happened, but weather permitting—and their tolerance for foul weather was high—the two of them ended up on that creaky front porch swing maybe twice a week, spring, summer and fall. Today was a cloudy April day, and an on-again-off-again drizzle had left the sidewalks slick and gunmetal grey.

      Corey was sitting beside her son, slowly rocking. She’d asked him a question, and he was thinking it over. They had the same black hair, parted in the middle, though hers was cut short and his was tied back in a little ponytail. She wore a blue sweater and form-fitting jeans, which is what she almost always wore. Today, she wore a pea coat—the same coat she’d worn at sea, running from Nick Season almost two years ago.

      Billy liked long flannel shirts worn unbuttoned over a tee shirt and well-worn jeans. Corey had a patch of freckles on her nose that crept onto her cheeks when she smiled. Billy’s face was darker, and she thought, darkly handsome, even when he was frowning, as he was now.

      Billy’s frown softened as he turned toward his mom. “Sara kind of freaked out,” he explained, in response to her question about the fire at school.

      “Is she okay?”

      “She’s not hurt, if that’s what you mean. But she’s not exactly okay either.”

      “How’s that?”

      “She’s got this idea that we’re all in danger, and she keeps talking about how these Greek Gods are supposed to help her. It’s kind of weird.”

      “Greek Gods—like Poseidon or Zeus?”

      “Yeah. Like in the myths. You know—”

      Corey nodded. When Billy was younger, she’d told him the same myths her Greek mother had told her. “That is weird.”

      “She got suspended.”

      “I’m sorry. I like her and her dad.”

      “She’s sort of a friend. I mean she’s younger, but she’s unpopular. I mean I’m unpopular, but she’s like poster-child unpopular, which is even worse. The popular kids make fun of her. And they can be really mean.” He nodded, ruefully, when his mom frowned. “I like her okay, and she’s friends with Randy. So we kind of all stick together, you know, look out for her.” Billy nodded again; he knew high school life. And then, an afterthought, “She sometimes reminds me of Maisie.”

      Corey remembered Maisie, vividly—how she was before, and after, she was kidnapped by Teaser. “How so?”

      “Really smart, fast…” And after a beat, “How’s Maisie doing? When I see her, she’s still so quiet.”

      “You know your dad can’t really talk about that. It’s no secret, though, that he’s still working with her. What I do know is that she’ll be back next fall. Her mom’s home schooling her. I ran into Amber at this parent food drive deal, and she told me that Maisie will be in your senior class.”

      “That’s good…really good. Aaron and his family will be back from China then, too. I mean I really like hanging with Amy’s friends, but they’re seniors already and they’ll be gone next year. It’ll be good for me to have Maisie and Aaron around, especially if Amy’s gone.”

      “I get that.” And shifting gears, “Who says you’re not popular?”

      “Hey, I’m your son—I know what I know.”

      “I don’t get it.”

      “When you were in prison, I got drugs for the popular kids. I’ve told you about that.”

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