What the hell am I doing? she thought.
Stella stared at herself in the mirror. She owned one dining gown, and she was wearing it tonight. The dress had an asymmetric strap, and it was made of a soft, synthetic material that emulated silk. She pursed her lips, unsure if she pulled the look off.
"Stop fussing," Natalie said. She was munching on a bowl of yogurt and granola; her mouth sounded slightly full as she talked. "You look hot."
"Thanks, Nat." Natalie didn't exactly, well, approve of Stella's decision to meet with Logan Black for dinner, but she was a good friend and tried to be supportive—which is more than what Stella could say about her mother. And sure: at first, Stella had been grateful for the silence, but now she felt...cut off, somehow. Disowned. It didn't feel good.
"Iron Mask, right?" Stella nodded, swallowed hard. She was anxious to see him, and that anxiety churned with Stella's nagging uncertainty about her mother.
"Fancy place," Nat finished. "Call me if you need anything. I'm gonna drink my cider and watch horror movies on Netflix. Use that pocket knife I gave you if he tries anything funny."
Stella flipped off her friend with a casual laugh as she walked out the door. She didn't bring a jacket; it had been unseasonably warm this October. Instead she wrapped her mother's maroon shawl around herself, and hoped that she looked sophisticated, like a rich patron of the Iron Mask restaurant, and not the anonymous daughter of Empire City's hard-charging DA.
The Uber driver pulled up; Stella sat in the back. The driver whistled. "Hot date tonight?" she asked. She had a thick Bostonian accent. Stella's cheeks burned.
"We'll see," Stella said, looking out the window. It was a nice evening. Cafes and restaurants still had their patios set up, and Empire City denizens were taking advantage of the warm weather, sitting outside.
The drive took about twenty minutes, and when she arrived, he was outside waiting for her. He smiled when he saw her, soft and warm. She felt like she was melting. Man, did he look good. Perfect, even: and he was framed by immaculate, expensive-looking cars—well, with the exception of one silver Kia that looked mildly out of place—and dressed in a sharp, three piece suit, as tall and handsome as he'd ever been.
Before she could stop herself, she ran up to him, grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled him down for a kiss. He gasped in surprise, but she could feel his soft lips smiling against her mouth.
"You sure know how to say hello," he said into her ear, holding her tightly; a lover's embrace. He moved back from her to look her in the eyes, his right hand cupping her face. "Thought you were still sore with me."
"I am."
"Hmm." His thumb brushed her cheek and she leaned into his touch; the skin on his palm was calloused but smooth, a working man's hands. His deep blue eyes held her gaze, captivating her like the flickering tongues of a fresh fire. The expression on his face was a potent mixture of affection and reverence. Soft, loving; she was losing her will to stay away from him, if she ever had any will at all. "Well, you look beautiful. Sore or not."
Once again, her cheeks felt hot. "You're looking pretty dapper yourself."
"The food looks even better, I promise." He winked at her, and all she wanted to do was kiss him again. "Wanna go in?"
"Yes please—I'm starving." He made sound, a distinctly masculine rumble of approval, and placed his arm over her shoulder. This woman is with me, the gesture said. Or, more darkly: This woman is mine. She allowed it: against her better judgement, against all her instincts of self-preservation, she wanted to be his for the evening. He was a man, and she was a woman, and it really was just that simple.
As they stepped into the restaurant, Stella gasped. Natalie had called Iron Mask fancy, and that was the understatement of the century. The place radiated sophistication and wealth; it felt like the favorite dining spot of old money. Plates of delicious food and glasses of wine covered nearly every surface. She spotted dishes she couldn't identify: luscious meats and pastas she'd never seen before. Every table had a fresh loaf of bread and a tin of olive oil and vinegar for dipping. She felt like she was in a movie; like she would see a famous actor walk through the door at any moment.
The more Stella looked, the more she noticed the high-society and country club types seated at each table. Rich older women with pearl necklaces out on the town with their stock broker husbands. Well-established doctors; city officials; probably a couple of Logan's captains, too. Stella thought she might have even seen her congressman eating with the president of ECU. She looked down at her gown, which she had purchased secondhand, and suddenly felt very overwhelmed and unwelcome. And, God, were people staring at her?
There was clear judgement in their eyes. Was it her tattoos? Her youth? The color of her skin? An older wealthy couple actually turned in their seats to stare at her, and the woman sneered. Stella trembled; she wanted to cry.
"Hey, you okay?" His voice steadied her. She didn't understand him, or his...proclivity for being gentle with her. It didn't make sense; it almost felt like a trick. He had to be tricking her—he was a gangster, after all. She'd see his violence soon enough. As it was right now, though, she pressed herself closer to him, like his big body could shield her from their prying eyes. "I feel like I'm being gawked at."
"It's 'coz you're so pretty, and they're old and crusty," he whispered into her ear. She stifled a nervous giggle. "Ignore 'em."
"Miss Porter, Mr. Black, your table is ready. Follow me."
Their seats had a view of the waterfront. Sparkling Christmas lights adorned the guardrail, even though it was only the middle of October. Still, the sight was pretty: the lights reflected off the river, and boats leisurely meandered their way past. The band was close enough that she could hear their music, but not so loud as to drown out conversation. Romantic, she thought. This was a real, adult date, and once again anxiety needled her.
"Comfortable?" he asked her, his eyes catching hers as he perused the menu.
"Yes. I think I'm...just a little overwhelmed, is all."
"It's a lot to take in." He smiled at her, warm and kind. "I like comin' here, though. It's a good spot for people watchin'. I like lookin' out at the waterfront, seein' all the couples dancin' in the plaza."
"Do you like dancing?"
"Aw, hell, I wish. Got two left feet, unfortunately." He winked at her, leaned forward in his seat. "Why, darlin'—you like dancin'?"
He kept looking at her like she was the only person in the world. Oh no, she thought, swallowing hard. I think I might be falling for you. "I'm in the ballroom dance club at ECU. I could probably teach you—" her cheeks burned red hot. "Y'know, if you'd like."
"I reckon you could. Teach an old dog like me all sorts of new tricks."
She cleared her throat, choosing to look away from him for a moment. Damn him; he was always making her feel like she was losing control. "I dunno, can old dogs learn new tricks?" She batted her eyelashes in the way she knew sent his blood boiling. She needed to gain some ground against him; needed to steady herself against the rush of emotions just sitting with him caused inside her heart.
"This ol' dog is willin' to try." His grin grew wider. "You're too damn cute for your own good, you know that?"
"I've been told," she said. The waiter brought her wine; she took a sip and ordered her meal: caprese salad and shrimp scampi pasta. He ordered a simple rigatoni, drank some of his water. "No wine for you?"
"I'm tryin' to watch my figure," he teased. His figure was fine, and he knew she knew it. He reached for her hand, and she let him take it, even though her mind screamed at her to say no. "I'm really glad you agreed to meet with me, Stella."
"I'm still not sure why I did," she admitted. She looked down at the heavy hand holding hers. She really liked his hands: they were large, just like the rest of him, but not overly so. They boasted strong knuckles and prominent veins, and a couple of old scars that she would always be hesitant to ask about. She turned his hand over, looked at the lines in his palm and traced them. "For whatever reason, I can't stay away from you. Even though I know I should."
"Stella…"
She continued to trace his palm. Life line, heart line, fate line, over and over again. If she looked into his eyes, she wouldn't be able to speak. "And it feels weird to admit it—maybe you'll think I'm crazy or something, and we can finally go our separate ways—but I dream about you. Like, a lot."
"...You...you dream about me?"
"Yeah. And it's you, but it's also...not you. I don't know what to do about that, Logan." Gathering her courage, she looked up at him, and he was scared. She never thought she would see an emotion like fear twist across Logan Black's face, but it was there, raw and unmistakable. "I don't know what to do about you," she finished.
He opened his mouth, closed it. His brow furrowed. He tried again. "Stella—"
He got cut off by the waiter bringing their food, and whatever he was about to say, he smothered it. Even in the low light, she could see the tips of his ears burning red. She took a bite out of her caprese salad to distract herself. Not surprisingly—and thankfully—it was delicious. She made a mental note to buy fresh mozzarella the next time she was down in Little Italy. She glanced up at him quickly; he was eating too, but didn't seem to be enjoying his food nearly as much as her. Oh, Logan...They ate in silence for a few minutes, until finally he cleared his throat to get her attention.
"I made my decision," he said, with deadly seriousness.
"Er," she said, half-mumbling into her food. "Decision?"
"I want to be with you."
If her eyebrows sprang up any farther, they would've been off her head. "Come again?"
He grabbed her hand once more, this time with urgency, like if he didn't, he'd never have the chance to ever again. "I mean it, Stella."
"Like—like a relationship?" There was a lump in her throat. He couldn't be serious! There was no way it could work. She was in college, just figuring her life out, and—and for Pete's sake, he was a gangster! "Logan, I don't—"
"Any way you want," he said, breathless. His face was so open, so soft and vulnerable, and she wanted him. She wanted him, she did; like she had never wanted anything or anyone before. It can never be, she told herself.
"How is this going to work?" She could feel tears threatening to fall. "Our worlds are too different. You don't even know me."
"I do know you." She could hear him struggling with trying to keep his voice steady. "You said you were havin' dreams about me? Well, I think about you all the time. Every moment I open my eyes, I see you: how the sun catches in your hair, the way you bite your lip when you're thinkin' real hard. Fuck, Stella, the perfume you wear sticks to my skin and my clothes. You're everywhere, all around me, all the time. And I've tried to keep my distance, for your sake as much as mine...But I think about you, and I can't. Not being around you...it's torture for me, Stella. You're under my skin."
She wiped the tears from the edges of her eyes, doing her best not to ruin her makeup. "Sounds like you're obsessed with me." She was only half-joking.
"I am," he said, with no hint of humor or irony at all. "From the moment you walked into my bar. You haunt me. And I...I have a feelin' I haunt you, too."
"Logan," she whispered. "My mother…"
"Your mother." He looked away from her and clenched his jaw tightly, like he was struggling to pry the words from his own mouth. "Look. I know I'm not a good man," he said. There was a long pause; she could hear his heart beating. He squeezed her palm gently, then continued: "There's no gettin' around that. I've clipped guys with just my hands, and I've ordered guys to be clipped. It's a dirty, violent business, and I hate that...that I'm part of it. But I—I can be good for you, Stella. Provide for you. I can—" He stopped talking suddenly, and then started up again. "No, I can't tell her that. She won't believe me, you idiot! Just—just get out of my head already!"
She stared at him. He was talking to himself. No, he was arguing with himself. "Logan?"
His eyes caught hers; he ran his other trembling hand through his hair. "I'm sorry for that, darlin'. I must seem crazy to you."
"You worry me," she said. "Maybe you should—" she stopped; she wasn't about to tell a goddamn gangster to see a therapist. "I care about you," she said instead.
"But we can't be together."
"I just...I don't see how it can work." She felt like she was tearing herself apart. She did want to be with him. She did. The desire burned in every part of her, and it was overwhelming. But...
"It can. I can be a good man for you, Stella, I prom—"
"Greetings." The unfamiliar voice startled the both of them; she had to stifle a gasp. The openness she saw in Logan's face immediately turned to stone, and he became unknowable to her; cold. This was the man other people saw. The sudden change sent a chill down her spine.
"This is a private conversation, kid. Get lost."
She turned her head to look at the man who had interrupted them and consciously had to keep her mouth from dropping open. The green eyes; the ringed fingers; the impeccable black suit. "... Hunter?"
"You know this guy?" Logan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. He looked from her to Hunter, and back to her again.
"My apologies," Hunter said, in that lightly accented English whose origins she couldn't quite place. He was just a kid, fifteen at most, tall and lanky like a beanpole. What the hell was he doing here? "Thanatos told me you were both here and I had to make the trip."
"Thanatos?" Logan asked, alarmed. Thanatos, Thanatos—that name sounded vaguely familiar. Pale gray eyes, wiry arms, ghostly white skin. The assistant.
"Than?" she offered, feeling increasingly on edge.
Logan stared at her, his stony facade shattered. He looked like a deer caught in headlights. "Wait, you've talked to Than?"
"Er…" She wasn't sure whether or not to admit that fact; Logan had started rubbing his temples, looking more agitated than she had ever seen him. Still, she decided telling the truth was better than trying to think up some elaborate lie on the spot. "Yeah...at the club. He said he was your... consigliere? I think."
"Oh my God." He sat back in his seat, loosened his tie, shot a glance up at Hunter. "You're seeing this guy too, right?" Logan asked, not taking his blazing eyes off Hunter, who stifled a bad cough and started to look green and uncomfortable. "I mean, yeah...Logan, are you okay?"
"So who are you supposed to be, hmm, Hunter?"
"I'm so sorry—" Hunter coughed again. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to intrude so rudely, and I thought Thanatos had made it clear that—" another cough— "I'm your son."
Son? Stella stared at the two of them, completely gobsmacked.
Logan stood abruptly, knocking down the chair behind him. "The fuck did you just say?" Some guests turned their heads to the sound of the commotion. She peered at Hunter closely, feeling her heartbeat start to accelerate the longer she looked at him. He did have a lot of the same features as Logan, she realized. Square jaw, sharp cheekbones, the shape of his lips. To be honest, Hunter was a damn teenaged carbon copy of the man—with the exception of his eyes, which were, strangely, the same color green as her own.
"Father, forgive me," Hunter said, putting his hands up. Logan was slowly stalking towards him, and there was a raging fury in his eyes, cold as ice. That coldness gripped her heart, and for the first time since she met him, she felt genuinely afraid.
Logan gripped the lapels of Hunter's blazer, seething with barely-controlled anger. "I'm not your fucking father."
Hunter coughed again, and Stella felt paralyzed. More guests were staring at them now; she could hear the clucking of gossip and gasps of shock over the band's music. "I didn't mean to upset you—I was under the impression you understood all this—"
"I'm gonna give you ten seconds to tell me who put you up to this shit, before I start breakin' your fuckin' fingers, you understand? One, two—"
"Logan, please, let him go—"
"Father, it's me," Hunter said. He was shaking. Just a frightened teenager. "It's me: Zagreus. Please."
"...Zagreus?" Logan blinked, looking confused. Hearing the name Zagreus made her feel strange, too, like she was floating. It was an odd name, like Thanatos, and anxiety prickled at her skin the more she thought about how strange it was.
"Yes," Hunter said again. "There's no trick—" another cough, this time with blood. Just as quickly as Logan had grabbed Hunter, he released him. He looked down at his hands with wide eyes, and then back up to Hunter, like he was in shock. The seconds passed. For all the commotion, Hunter was smiling. "Father, I—"
"You're sick," Logan said finally. He sounded tired, and not...not quite like himself. "Go home."
"But, Father—" another cough.
"Now." Logan glanced back at her, and she very much wanted to run. He sounded different; looked different. Like, unfathomably older. It scared her. "I have to talk with your mother." She shook her head, not liking what he had just implied at all.
He's out of his mind, she thought.
The Iron Mask's owner was finally coming over to their table to see what was wrong. "Logan, is everything all right?"
"Yeah, Artie, everything is fine. My son was just leaving." Stella looked around for the kid, but Hunter was nowhere to be seen. Gone, as if he had just disappeared into the night...like he was made from shadow. Alarm was coursed through her. She stuck her hand in her purse and gripped the pocket knife Nat gave her. She'd had enough.
"I think I'll be going too," she said, slowly standing up from the table. She kept thinking about Hunter's eyes, how they were such a distinct green. They were the same color as her eyes, and that made her feel strangely nauseous. She needed to leave—she couldn't be around Logan Black anymore, no matter how much she wanted him, no matter how much her heart screamed at her to stay. He was instability and danger, and Zagreus—who names their kid Zagreus?—he had her eyes.
You are Persephone: the Dread Queen of the Underworld, and my wife.
No. No.
Logan was delusional, and she refused to be pulled down with him. She refused. He was a man—not a god, not a god—and she was a woman, and it was just that simple. She ran. Past scandalized restaurant-goers and waiters; she ran. She could hear him calling out after her, but she was nimble and quick, and he had to squeeze past people slowly or risk bulldozing over them.
She ran for blocks and blocks, only stopping when the heel of her shoe broke, and she fell forward onto the pavement, hard. "Fuck me," she groaned, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Strange...there was a light coating of snow on the ground.
"Stella!"
Run, run, run. She tried to get up, but her ankle protested. She looked down at her foot and almost fainted: shards of bone were sticking through her skin. Her eyes darted around feverishly as the chill of the night seeped deep into her flesh. The street was dark, but she could make out the name: Grant. Miracle Mile was the cross street. She swallowed. Not a good area to be caught in at night.
A car drove past, the silver one that she had seen earlier outside the restaurant. It had blended in then, but it was all she could see now: her knight in shining armor. She called out for help, but the driver kept going.
"This can't be happening," she wheezed. The cold air pierced through her lungs like daggers. Tears poured from her eyes and she coughed, feeling his warm presence coming to rest beside her long before she heard him. He knelt next to her, touched her forehead softly. "Jesus, darlin', you're bleeding."
"Get away from me," she said, dragging herself forward. She could hear him dialing a number, even as her head swam. Dogs barked loudly; a cat hissed in the alleyway next to them. Her breath formed a cloud in front of her face. It was fucking freezing. She pushed forward anyway.
"Fates, Persephone, stop it, you're hurting yourself!"
"I'm not Persephone!" she shouted at him. His hand went to his chest like she had stabbed him. Good, she thought. "I'm not your long-lost wife or whatever the hell else you think I am! I'm me, Stella Porter!"
"Don't lie to yourself," he whispered, and his voice was gentle, even though she hurt him. "You've spoken to Than. You've dreamed about me, seated on a throne. I know you have."
"No—no, it's not real—it's not —"
"I'm not going to hurt you, Stella Porter. I never could."
"You're a monster," she spat. There was a platinum crown on his head now, in the shape of olive leaves. No. "And you're fucking crazy!"
"I know." He smiled sadly at her. "I know I am. Just stay awake for me until EMS gets here."
From the corner of her eye, she spotted the same car driving back towards them. He turned towards the car, reaching into his suit jacket, and pulled out a pistol. "Fucking pest," he growled, irate. "Do me a favor, sweetheart: cover your ears and close your eyes."
She didn't, though; couldn't, really—it all happened too fast. He took aim at the car from where he knelt next her and fired, causing the vehicle to swerve. The gunshot was deafening, louder than any firework she had ever heard in her life. She screamed, and screamed even louder when whoever was in the vehicle returned fire. The bullet whizzed past her and grazed Logan's ear, causing him to flinch and miss his next shot. Another bullet came from the darkened window of the car, this time hitting Logan square in the chest, and he cursed, looking down at the rapidly expanding stain of red. "Damn good shot," he gasped.
"Logan!" she screamed. She saw his platinum crown shatter, and he looked at her, terrified. Another bullet, as loud and murderous as the first, lodged itself in the same spot. The pistol fell from his hands, clattering to the pavement. His head lolled forward; she could see his breath, sporadic clouds of exhalation in the cold. Stella grabbed the fallen weapon without a second thought.
A masked man stepped out of the car, aiming his gun at Logan's head. "Son of a bitch, fucking die already!"
"You stay away from him!" She felt so useless. Just a sad, scared little girl, broken and stupid, while a man she cared for was bleeding out on the pavement like a stuck pig. She aimed the gun at the masked hitman with trembling hands, and he only regarded her for a half second before shaking his head and firing at his target. The shots, two in rapid succession, ran straight through Logan's skull. He fell back onto the snowy ground, heavy, drained of color, and lifeless. He wasn't a god; he was just a man. A dead one. No. No. She screamed, dropping the gun. Not like this.
She crawled over to him, through the snow and his pooling blood, cradling his head to her breast like she could will him back to the land of the living with her touch. She said his name, over, and over, and over again. Her tears were hot; they steamed when they fell onto his face. Her throat felt raw. She couldn't hear anything as the man got back into his car and sped away; couldn't hear anything as the sirens of an ambulance pulled up.
Paramedics surrounded her. Stella vomited on one of them; she mumbled an apology she couldn't hear. "Leave me alone," she said...or at least, thought she said. "Treat him. Save him. Please."
They looked at her, confused. She tried reading their lips: "concussion," she thought she saw one say.
"...other patient?"
"No, she's...one here."
"Who...the call?"
"...covered...blood—"
"...no one...her—"
She felt dizzy. It was snowing harder now. The air was frigid and the wind whipped at her skin. Her thoughts moved slowly, stuck in the quicksand of her mind. Logan, she thought. "I'm so sorry." She cried. One of the paramedics covered her with a shock blanket. His hands on her shoulders were reassuring, and when she looked up at him, she saw pale, gray eyes.
"Than?" Her body was burning. "Than, he's—he's dead —oh, God —"
"Rest, my lady," he said, touching her forehead. She was asleep instantly.
