Crazy in the Blood (Latter-Day Olympians) by Lucienne Diver Page A

the god of the dead and his mutant hell hound. I doubted they came over the counter.
    “Chica, you’re starting to scare me with all this concern for my wellbeing.”
    “You should be scared. Look, maybe it would be best to close up the office for a few days…”
    “No ultra-butch white boy is going to turn me out of a job, don’t you worry.”
    I’d never been very good at taking orders, but Jesus was even worse. If I pushed the issue, I knew, he’d just dig in. The boy could out-stubborn me, and the last thing I wanted to do was go back to the office to find that my keyboard had been remapped and all my high octane coffee replaced with decaf.
    “Fine, just watch yourself.”
    “Coming and going,” he promised. It was probably true. I’d never seen anyone else so in love with his own image.
    I hurried back in to Christie after hanging up, hoping I hadn’t been away as long as it’d seemed and that our food wouldn’t be both there and cold. I could see immediately that I was beyond hope on the first part.
    Christie looked up from playing with the condensation on her glass of unsweetened ice tea as I approached. She forced a smile onto her face, but I could tell that leaving her alone with her thoughts, probably of Jack-ass, had been a bad idea. There was a suspicious moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes, which along with her nose, looked just a bit pink.
    “Another minute and I’d have started without you,” she said. “Doesn’t this look great?”
    The food did look amazing. The colors were all so bright, the smells…a sudden wave of want and need nearly swept my legs out from under me. I knew I was hungry, but I shouldn’t have been anywhere near that desperate. Something was wrong.
    “You okay?” Christie asked.
    I hated that question.
    “Fine,” I said, dropping into my chair a little too hard. “Just famished. You’re right. This does look good.”
    My hand shook slightly as I picked up the fork, headed straight for a potato wedge, since it was already pre-cut for speed and ease of consumption.
    Christie watched me worriedly as I put it into my mouth before reaching for her own knife and fork.
    The flavor burst over my tongue—butter and salt, and something else. Something wonderful. Rosemary? Strength and health, satisfaction and warmth flooded through me. I could taste the earth where the potato had grown. Good, mineral-rich soil. The feeling of well-being grew in me like Jack’s beanstalk—huge and overpowering. It was like ambrosia…
    I smacked Christie’s fork out of her hand as it would have reached her mouth, and it went pinwheeling, the piece of Portobello mushroom she’d speared flying off the end and landing in her tea. The fork itself clattered to the floor.
    Christie gasped and stared at me like I’d just grown a second head. “What the hell?”
    “Don’t eat that,” I hissed.
    Her eyes widened, and she leaned in close to whisper. “Why, do you think it’s poisoned?”
    Martin came bustling up with a fresh glass of iced tea and a replacement fork in hand. I certainly couldn’t fault the service, even if I was horrified by their special ingredients. No wonder The Rustic Potato was such a hot spot. They weren’t just drawing loyal customers, they were creating addicts.  
    “Is everything okay?” Martin asked, blocking onlookers’ views of our table. Because, oh yes, we had apparently drawn an audience.  
    Christie and her improvisational skills came to the rescue. She crooked a finger, encouraging Martin to lean in for a secret. “My friend has a sort of impulse control problem. Usually the meds take care of it,” she breathed in his ear, “but sometimes… Maybe we’d just better get all of this to go. And—” she shot a worried glance at me “—quickly?”
    “Why don’t I meet you at your car?” he asked, clearly anxious to get rid of us before we could put anyone off their feed.
    “That would be wonderful.” She reached into her wallet and