“Callisto,” Psyche hisses. “Be nice.”
“Are you going to tellherto be nice?”
I raise my brows. “I can hear you.”
“I know.” Hera flicks her hair over her shoulder. “But you’re a rare woman who appreciates honesty, so I’m sure you won’t mind.”
“Callisto.”
She ignores Psyche and stalks to Apollo’s door to rap on it twice before walking in. Psyche gives a deep sigh that I recognize on a cellular level. It brings a reluctant smile to my lips. “Sisters, huh?”
“The best and the worst, both at the same time.” She crosses to me. “This is all very hush-hush, but I’m to understand that you need a wardrobe.”
I have to concentrate to keep my skin from heating. It works much better in Psyche’s presence than in Apollo’s. I thought I was prepared to be judged, but this is happening so quickly. “It’s for work.”
“No need to be defensive,” she says mildly. “You know who I am. In my opinion, no one needs an excuse for new clothing.” She casts a long look at my body. Unlike most people in this city, it’s not judgmental in the least. More like she’s assessing my size. “There is a designer who’s recently branched out into more plus-sized fashion who I trust implicitly. She has a decent number of items in stock that will match the criteria Apollo relayed. Zeus is picking up the bill, so I suggest you take advantage of this because she’s incredibly expensive.”
Psyche Dimitriou is one of Demeter’s daughters. She might have been raised outside the city proper, but even before her mother was Demeter, the family was richer than most people in Olympus. Forherto say this designer is expensive?
I have to fight down a shudder at the idea of spending that much money on clothing. “Like you said, Zeus is footing the bill. Might as well charge up his credit card or whatever.” Clever of Apollo to anticipate that I might dig in my heels if he was the one paying for things. He’ll have known that I don’t give a fuck if I max out Zeus’s credit cards—if such a thing is even possible.
“Perfect.”
Hera walks back into the room, looking smug. “Let’s go.”
Which is how I end up in the back seat of a town car with the two sisters, cruising onto one of the three bridges that connect the upper city with the lower. I’ve never been over the river before. There’s some kind of barrier similar to the one that surrounds the greater city, albeit much weaker. It buzzes lightly across my skin about halfway across the bridge. Supposedly one needs Hades’s permission to cross, but I think it must be more complicated than that. Both women must have standing invitations, seeing as how their sister is married to the man. That must have been enough to get me one as well.
At least this time.
I fight down a shiver as we turn south in the lower city and follow the street until the buildings grow into warehouses. The car parks in front of one with a stylized sign readingJuliette’s. Recognition sparks. I’ve heard of this woman. She was run out of the upper city by the last Zeus because she got a bit too vocal about her suspicions that he killed his second wife, a suspicion most of Olympus shares, not that any case was ever opened. Since then, I’ve seen Juliette’s pieces on everyone from Psyche to Helen—now Ares—to Hades’s wife, Persephone.
Moving to the lower city hasn’t hurt Juliette’s career any. If anything, it’s added to her notoriety and increased her perceived value. There’s little the petty assholes in the upper city love more than novelty, and she’s selective in her clientele, which only has them frothing at the mouth all the more. If I show up at events wearing her clothing, it will certainly send a message.
It doesn’t matter. This is all temporary. I don’t care what those assholes think of me, so I’m not going to let their perceptions change my mind about this.
Psyche leads the way through the front door. Inside, the warehouse has been converted, the ceiling lowered and a shining curtain blocking off the space toward the back. There are quite a few racks of clothing arranged by some system I can’t quite identify at first glance. It’s not color and it’s not style. Maybe size? Though Juliette does custom pieces, and most designers who offer similar don’t go into expansive sizing. Certainly nothing that would fit me.
Then again, Psyche is a client, so maybe I’m wrong there. I must be if they brought me here to shop. The Dimitriou sisters don’t have a reputation for being needlessly cruel. More, Apollo signed off on this. He wouldn’t allow them to set me up.
Really, Cassandra? Putting your faith in him? He might be kind, but he’s still a member of the Thirteen. You, of all people, know what he’s capable of.
Maybe to others. Not tome.
Or maybe I’m a fool and about to have pie on my face.
I straighten my spine and follow Psyche and Hera to a remarkably charming sitting area arranged around a platform with a half circle of mirrors. A door off to the side must be the changing room.
Psyche looks around. “Juliette?”
“Here.” The rattling of a rack against the stained concrete floor precedes the tall Black woman who appears from between the racks. She used to be a model, and it shows in the way she carries herself, her simple but elegant black clothing, and the short, dark curls that leave her features on appealing display. I can’t begin to guess at her age, but she must at least be in her forties if she was around when the second Hera was. Possibly even fifties, since most designers don’t make names for themselves in their early twenties, especially when they were models first. Some models flicker and fade in the face of age, but time seems only to have polished this woman with something more than beauty. Strength.
She arranges the rack next to the changing room and motions long fingers at me. “Well, let me look at you.”
I hold my chin high as I approach and do a slow spin. When I face her again, approval lights her features. “I like your style. I can work with this.” She tilts her head to the side. “But first, what kind of vision do you have for this event?”
I hadn’t really thought about it, but the words come unbidden. “They’re going to talk about me regardless of what I do. I want to give them something to talk about.”
Juliette’s smile is knife-sharp. “Then you’ve come to the right place. Let’s get started.”