The Fate of the Muse

chapter TEN

PARIS





We were moving, crashing through some bushes. I could hear the sound of twigs snapping underfoot and the heavy breathing of the man who was carrying me. Leaves brushed against my arms, and I struggled to lift my eyelids, but all I could see was a blur of green. I felt a flood of relief, followed by confusion. I fought to regain consciousness, recoiling inwardly at the heat and stench. Where was he taking me?





I woke up, disoriented.

“It’s about time!” Shayla laughed, “You’ve been sleeping almost the whole way!”

I propped myself up on my elbows to find I was sprawled out on the couch with a cashmere throw covering me.

“What time is it?” I croaked.

“California time… or Paris time?” Evie asked, and I sat up to see her reclining majestically in a dressing gown, a cup of tea in her hand, a French Vogue magazine on her lap.

“We’re landing in fifteen minutes!” Shayla squeaked excitedly, “Get up and come see it with me!”

I stood and stretched, strange dream put aside, feeling much better after my long rest. I took the seat next to Shayla, watching as she pressed her face against the window. There was nothing but a blanket of white clouds to see, but the slight angle of the plane and the pressure in my ears told me that we were descending.

“Buckle up, girls,” Evie said, just as we entered into the bright white lightness.

“We’re like, in a cloud,” Shayla said, awestruck.

We cleared the overcast, and the landscape below was unveiled. Waterways rambled across the countryside, contrasting with the geometric shapes of farm fields painted in different shades of brown on a palette of green. As we drew closer, roads, buildings, and finally cars began to reveal themselves.

Shayla turned to me with bright eyes, “It looks like a bunch of dollhouses and toy cars!”

Evie smiled with pleasure as she watched Shayla, and caught my eye, reminding me of the real reason for our trip.

“You must be hungry,” she said.

“I am,” I realized.

“Well,” Evie closed her magazine, sitting up in her chair in anticipation, “We’ve certainly come to the right place.”

After a smooth landing we taxied to a stop at another private section of the airport. It was morning in Paris, and I felt more rested than I had a right to be after such a long flight. Evie went into a dressing room behind the bar and came out looking as fresh as a daisy, chicly turned out in a wrinkle free Dior sheath complimented by a strand of enormous baroque pearls. Boris carried our bags and got into the front of the waiting limousine.

“Why is he with us?” Shayla asked me under her breath, “Is he like a bodyguard or something? Do you expect more reporters?”

“He watches over Evie,” I told her. Shayla nodded solemnly.

“He’s my valet,” Evie explained, noticing Shayla’s curiosity, “I never travel without him.” She reached into her crocodile handbag and pulled out two new passports, “I’ve taken the liberty of acquiring some documents for you girls.” She turned to Shayla, “You’ll need this whenever you travel, so be sure to keep it in a safe place.”

I opened mine, noticing that the picture had been taken from the photo shoot at Evie’s. She never ceased to amaze me with her foresight, and the way she used her money and connections to smooth over all the rough edges of life. If only Ethan had would have allowed me to ask her to stop the land seizure, the congressman might still be alive. Evie would no doubt have found a peaceable way to get the job done.

I remembered the awful moment that my last passport ended up on the bottom of the sea inside a sunken helicopter. That day had been the catalyst, setting into motion the series of events that led me here. Why did that stupid helicopter have to crash? All of Evie’s talk of fate and destiny rolled around in my mind as we drove through the city of Paris and finally reached the Ritz Hotel.

Shayla looked up at the ornate façade of the building in awe.

“I’m famished,” Evie announced dramatically, ushering us through a revolving door into the lobby, leaving Boris to get our luggage to the suite. We planned to eat first and then go to our rooms to change and rest. Later in the afternoon, Monsignor Reynard was scheduled stop by to take Shayla to her first fitting, and introduce her to the girls she’d be sharing an apartment with.

Shayla was nervous, “What if they don’t like me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I soothed her, “Just be yourself and they’ll love you.”

We passed through a palatial lobby filled with giant floral arrangements and were seated right away in the equally luxurious restaurant.

I took in the room’s lavish old world style, from its paneled gilt walls to the high ceilings masterfully painted with tromp l´oeil clouds. Enormous swagged velvet curtains framed a beautiful terrace garden view. The place was dripping with over the top luxury, and looked a lot like Evie’s extravagant apartment. No wonder she felt so at home here.

“Whoa,” Shayla exhaled softly.

“This restaurant is where Lady Diana had her last meal,” Evie pointed out as she unfurled her napkin.

“Really?” said Shayla, looking around with wide eyes, “She was right here?”

“I wonder what she ordered…” I mused, for I couldn’t decipher the French menu.

Evie ordered for us in French, and I regretted not knowing another language. Dad and I had traveled to many different parts of the world, but I only knew little bits and pieces of lots of different languages. I studied Evie, wondering if she’d been married to a Frenchman too. Then I almost laughed out loud, realizing that I did speak mermaid.

Soon the food began to arrive, distracting me from my daydreams. A large plate of sliced fruit and berries served as our centerpiece, and it was almost too beautiful to eat. Individual portions of eggs scrambled with black truffles were served along with buttery croissants and jewel-like jellies and jams. Comically large bowls of hot chocolate crowded the table, along with a silver tea service. Shayla tasted everything carefully, asking Evie what each dish was called in French.

We were completely refreshed when we got to our suite of rooms, and naturally, all of our things were waiting there for us.

Shayla wandered about, getting a good look at the elaborately carved and gilded moldings, floral themed décor and plush furnishings. Evie led us out to the balcony, pointing out the nearby gardens that Marie Antoinette had wandered in, held captive in the final days before her execution. Great, I thought, we have a theme; yet another tragic femme fatale and her sorrowful end. Not exactly what I wanted to dwell on at the moment.

“Where’s Boris?” I asked. Evie explained to me that he would be in an adjoining room until we needed him to escort us anywhere. It was a comforting thought, for I couldn’t imagine anything bad happening to us while we were under his watchful eye.

“Who are these dudes?” Shayla asked, studying a pair of portraits prominently displayed above a grand mantel.

“These dudes,” said Evie, coming up alongside her, “Are the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. This suite of rooms was among their favorites.” She went on to explain how the king of England had given up his throne to marry a woman many considered to be unsuitable.

“What an idiot,” Shayla said, “She’s not even that hot.”

Evie laughed, “People have given up a lot more than a kingdom for love.”

Before too long Shayla’s agent arrived to bring her to the new model’s residence. Her first show was scheduled for tomorrow and she was under strict orders to settle in and get some rest before any sightseeing was to be allowed. I watched her go, happy to see her heading off into her bright future, putting the past and all of its unpleasantness behind her.

I turned to Evie, “What happens now?”

“We wait,” she said, “But that doesn’t mean we can’t shop while we’re doing it.”





The first few rows of the fashion show were reserved for the famous, the beautiful or the filthy rich. Fitting into all three categories, Evie was naturally seated front and center, taking me along for the ride. I recognized pop stars, fashion divas and actors all around us, jockeying for position, competing for the highest profile spot to flaunt their plumage to its best advantage. They scrutinized me, trying to figure out whether or not they should know me.

The relentless drive among the fashionable set to stay relevant reminded me of salmon struggling desperately to swim upstream, unaware of the common fate that awaited them at the end of their journey. They had yet to discover that there was no “there” there.

The battle to remain an A-lister was brutal.

The music started pumping, and the models began to slither down the runway in a perfectly synchronized display. The clothes were colorful and stylish, and the collection consisted mostly of flowing gowns and sporty, intricately constructed swimwear. The suits were lovely, but I couldn’t imagine going surfing in any of them. The models were waiflike, slim and frail looking. Stone-faced, they walked haughtily along, leading with their hips.

And then came Shayla, and my scalp tingled as I felt the entire audience sit up and take notice. She stood out like a wolf among greyhounds, her athletic physique and bold but endearingly awkward walk sweeping through the room like a breath of fresh air. Where the other girls slinked, Shayla strode, her raw, unrefined gait loose and unmistakably free. She stole the show.

Shayla had several outfit changes, and each time she appeared the effect was the same. When all the models came out for the finale the designer selected her to hold hands with, leading her down the runway to take a bow at the end. The crowd stood applauding, and Shayla looked ecstatic, scanning the crowd until she spotted us.

In a terrible breach of protocol, she jumped from the catwalk and threw her arms around me and Evie, “Did you see? I did it!” she exclaimed. There was an audible collective gasp from the crowd.

“Well done, my dear,” said Evie, “But you’d better get back up there to finish the job!”

Shayla leapt onto the narrow runway like she was pouncing onto a surfboard, charming both the crowd and the designer, who planted a kiss on her cheek under a hail of flashbulbs. He took her hand and lifted it in the air like a referee at a prizefighting match. Obviously, the man was a master of self-promotion, and nobody’s fool. He knew that Shayla’s little stunt would get lots of press. A star was born, and he had the right to claim that he had booked her first.

Evie and I made our way backstage after the show, weaving through the highbrow crowd that flitted about, acting out their elaborately choreographed displays of false affection. Evie excused herself to speak to the designer while I looked around for Shayla.

I rounded a corner to find her surrounded by the press, microphones thrust in her face. She had a sassy answer for every question, and the reporters were clearly charmed by her brash attitude. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she broke free of the crowd to join me.

“Oh my God! I was so scared I thought I was gonna puke and fall flat on my face! That was so sick! You should see the apartment! Come and meet my roomies– they were in the show too!”

She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a screened off dressing area where a dozen gazelle-like girls were packing bags, removing their theatrical makeup and smoking cigarettes. Some of them scrutinized Shayla with thinly veiled envy, mimicking her casual stance, trying to suss out exactly what constituted her appeal.

Others glared at her with open hostility, seeing Shayla as an interloper, and her stunning debut as a threat to their own status. She stared boldly back at them, sending a little territorial surfer stink-eye of her own in their direction. I chuckled to myself, thinking that Shayla’s wily street-smarts would probably go a long way in the cut-throat world of fashion.

We approached a couple of girls keeping to themselves who smiled broadly when they saw her. Unlike Shayla, they seemed intimidated by the other girls, and I realized that they were the fellow newbies.

“Marina, this is Greta and Irina,” Shayla gestured to each girl in turn. They smiled sweetly and nodded. “They don’t speak much English, but Greta speaks French real good. We’re going to go clubbing tonight… You should come out with us!”

“Uh, I don’t know,” I said, “Evie might have plans.” I peeked around the screen and scanned the crowd, spotting her across the room. She was speaking to a richly dressed blonde woman that stood facing away from me. There was something in Evie’s stance that caught my eye, a rare tension. I was a little surprised to see Evie thrown off kilter; she actually looked nervous.

The blonde turned to stare directly at me. When our eyes locked I knew.

“Pleeease?” Shayla asked coyly. Nightclubbing was the last thing on my mind at the moment.

Evie was talking to one of them. One of us… a hybrid. All at once the reality of what the council meeting really meant crashed down on me. There was no going back now. I suppose I’d been in denial up until I saw her, because for a minute I forgot to breathe. When I recovered, I sucked in a sharp breath.

Shayla eyes followed mine, “Who’s that with Evie?” she asked suspiciously.

“I don’t know, probably some friend of hers.”

It was funny, really, for the woman could easily pass for your garden variety fashionista. She seemed ageless, but if I had to guess I would have placed her somewhere in her thirties. Like so many of the woman who followed fashion, she was impeccably groomed, but there was something more going on– something intangible. There was an aura about her; she was cloaked in a mantle of success and unquestioned power.

I turned away from them, a little taken aback. I always thought it was just Evie.

“Greta says she knows this really awesome club where they have like, fire-dancers and magicians and stuff!”

“It sounds like fun, but I think Evie might… have dinner reservations,” I wished that was all it was. “Maybe we can do something tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on, at least come check out my shack!” Shayla told me about her new apartment, going into detail about how weird everything was. Just as she began to describe the bidet in detail, Evie and Jacques thankfully interrupted us.

“Bravo!” said Jacques, stretching up to kiss both of Shayla’s cheeks. “C’est magnifique! Come now, I have a client that is dying to meet you!” He spirited Shayla away, leaving us standing with her roommates. They stared at Evie, stunned speechless.

“Greta, Irina, this is my Aunt Evie,” I said.

“B-b-bonjour,” Greta stammered, impressed almost beyond words. She elbowed Irina, “La belle Evelyn Pond!”

Evie smiled kindly at them, used to being recognized in the fashion world. She took my arm and murmured in my ear, “May I have a word with you in private?”

I followed her to an uncrowded corner where she told me that our meeting with the council was scheduled for the next night, immediately following Shayla’s second runway show. My knees felt weak, and the last thing I wanted to do was go out dancing. Evie suggested that we go back to the hotel to have a quiet room-service dinner and go over our story again.

“That sounds good,” I said, relieved to have a chance to rehearse. “But I feel bad, because Shayla wants me to go out with her and her friends tonight. I hate to let her down… She’s probably nervous, you know, being away from home and everything for the first time.”

Just then a loud voice rang out in the room, getting everyone’s attention.

“Hey! BACK OFF BUD!” yelled Shayla.

Irina was squirming to get away from an overly amorous photographer’s assistant, who withdrew his hand from her rear end when everyone stopped to stare. One look at Shayla’s blazing eyes sent him slithering away.

“I think Shayla can take care of herself,” said Evie with amusement.

Shayla came up to us, a little contrite, “Sorry about that… but these French dudes really skeeve me out! I mean, they’re good looking and all, but some of them can’t keep their hands to themselves!”

“Shayla, my dear,” said Evie with an arched eyebrow, “Wait until you meet the Italians.”





Evie and I sat up late that night, sipping herbal tea and talking about how we’d handle the council meeting. When I told her that I’d been out surfing with my mermaid sisters she was predictably alarmed. When I told her what I’d discovered when Lorelei took me out to see Nerissa she nearly choked on her tea.

“A baby mermaid?” she exclaimed in shock, “Peter’s baby?”

“Maybe he had something to do with it,” I scowled, “But she’s nothing at all like him. She’s as wild and innocent as all the rest of them.”

We sat and speculated about what had happened, and what it meant about our own ancestry, always coming to only one conclusion. Mermaids and muses were the same thing, one born at sea, another born on land.

“It must be in our X chromosomes,” I said.

“There are some mysteries that even science cannot explain,” said Evie.

I told her what the mermaids thought about being “blessed”, and what they told me about my mother. Evie agreed that if my mother had indeed spent time underwater during her pregnancy with me, it might account for my ability to transform and communicate with them.

“How do you know that you can’t do it too?” I asked her.

“I certainly couldn’t make heads nor tails of the sounds they made,” she said thoughtfully. “And I know for certain that other muses have tried unsuccessfully to transform. Swimming with mermaids seems to be quite the popular fantasy.”

“It does have its charms,” I agreed.

I didn’t mention my increased capacity for telepathy; something told me that Evie had heard enough for the time being. She seemed edgy to me, and it was so unlike her that it unnerved me.

“Aunt Evie, doesn’t it make you feel like you’re cheating? Helping people the way you do?”

Her crystal blue eyes met mine, “Not at all, sweetheart. I thought I explained that you don’t make people talented… you merely enhance them– free them from self-doubt.”

“I don’t get it. What about the bad things?”

“I’m not sure how to put it,” she sighed, “I suppose you reveal what is truly there. Something about us allows people to express their honest selves.”

Yeah, I thought, and the congressman just “expressed” himself right off a cliff. I thought about Peter’s gun finding its way into my hands. No, she had to be wrong, there was more at play here than just giving someone a little ego boost. I wondered about seeing Stella’s spirit and communicating telepathically with the mermaids, deciding again, that these things were best kept to myself.

“Have you ever tried to help someone who has no particular talent?” I asked.

Evie looked at me tolerantly, “Marina my dear, everyone has a special talent… Most people just aren’t aware of it, or they suppress it out of a fear of failure. It’s a real pity that so few people in this world know what they’re actually capable of.”

I could see the truth in what she said, but there was something else that bothered me.

“Aunt Evie, how can you tell if someone really loves you? I mean, really loves you, and isn’t just attracted to… it?”

She laughed, “What difference does it make?”

“What about Harold?” I kept pressing, asking about her late husband even though I knew it made her uncomfortable, “He was different… right?”

“Yes… yes, I suppose he was.”

“How?” I demanded, “What made him different? How did you know he loved you?”

She pressed her lips together, “Harold was a wise choice for me. He protected me when I truly needed help…” She sighed, “That’s what I want for you– Don’t you see? It’s the safety and protection that wealth can afford you. You can let your guard down, and be free to do all the great things that you were destined to do.”

I was irritated at her mention of money, “What did you need protection from?”

“Nowadays, they call them stalkers,” she shuddered, “I had someone quite obsessed with me who was getting to be a bit of a hazard.”

“What did Harold do?”

“He took care of it,” she said with finality. Evie got up to leave, clearly done talking for the evening. She suggested that I turn in as well and get a good night’s sleep. I wasn’t so sure that I could.

Just before she rounded the corner for her room she paused, facing away from me, “Marina…”

“Yes?”

She hesitated, and then spoke, “They say no to you… that’s how you can tell… they say no.”