Eris concludes the story with a pleased flourish. She leans against the marble stand, resting her chin on both her fists. "Of course, if they ever make it there in time, she'll see I already took her brother or would have if he was real. That would have been an even more delicious trick."

"Presuming he had enough to capture your attention, Cousin." Hermes pops up alongside her, an impish grin on his face.

"Please." Eris rolls her eyes. But she tweaks Hermes's ear affectionately. "Mortals of all races are so easy to refashion. Sometimes it has nothing to do with any of it. One day you'll understand."

"Hermes," the leader intones. "You are out of order. You must await your turn."

"How are they related?" you whisper. "Just because they're Greek –"

I thrust my finger against your lips. Some of the viewers below begin to look around.

Hermes huffs, blowing his loose dark curls out of his face. "I have a story to give anyway."

"Return to your place," the leader says.

Eris flutters her fingers at Hermes and then returns her focus to the robed leader as he skulks back with an exaggerated pout. "My story is acceptable," she says, not as a question, but a statement. "You accept it."

"It is acceptable." The leader draws at the book, and it slides through the air into the robe with the others. A final burst of dry air and bold blue light explodes and then fades. "Come now, Set. What have you brought to us?"

Set rises. Despite being a trickster, he carries himself with perfect dignity. Not surprisingly, it's something of a ruse. Given the right circumstances, he is as apt to pull a prank or tell a joke as any of them, but he takes the process of story curation quite seriously. He now wears his elaborate wesekh collar on the outside of his robe, creating a strong contrast. This is the special one that he wears only at these gatherings, sapphire, tourmaline, gold, emerald, amber, carnelian, feldspar, turquoise, and lapis all layered in a stunning design.

"I have brought this tale that I found among the minds of the restless and the wanderers," Set says. He reaches into his robe and removes a jade green book. As soon as the pages flutter, an odd scent of decay, copper, and iron wafts out. It is carried through the dry air.

"From whose mind did you pluck this tale?" the leader asks.

"One whose name I will not reveal," Set says in a tone that brooks no challenge. "It's rather a strange story, but I like it. Odd as it is. So listen and reflect."

The Red – Anonymous

Both men liked red. That was one of the few things they shared other than a thirst for her. Araujo wore red lipstick because she liked it as well, not for them, not even for herself. Just because.

She twisted the tube down with a sharp click and then slipped it in her bag, a silk bag woven three hundred years ago at a rickety, child-run loom. Too bad that in three hundred years slavery had only gotten worse, but the world sucked. It always had, it always would. What was to be done was all a matter of perspective.

That was true about pretty much anything. Take her face, for instance. Head on, her face was too flat, her hair clung too close to her skull. But to the side, slightly angled, she was more. So much more. Better. Beautiful. Red.

And that was the one thing she knew. Nothing else really mattered, not since the accident. Let the world burn and all the people in it, she was on fire now, and they'd soon catch her, so why not be damned and just try to stick it?

She tossed the bag over her shoulder and took in a deep breath.

They were coming for her now. She felt it, down in the cockles of her soul where the last vestiges of her sanity sometimes stirred. To walk or stay, run or wait.

She smiled, reapplied her lipstick, and headed for the door.

Both men were the same. Except one was dead, the other alive. To watch the two side by side, no one would ever know. She barely knew.

But both loved her. So they said. Loved her more than either life or death could bring them to confess. One in death and one in life. The same but not. At least in every way that mattered.

Araujo's smile spread, and cold determination steeled her legs. She strode out onto the cracked sidewalk with long, sharp steps. Each one with an accentuated crack of her half circle heels. Right foot, left foot. Toe to heel. Clack the sole, swing the hand, remember nothing matters.

The bright yellow rays of the noonday sun cut and burned her eyes, uncomfortable and piercing. She wouldn't look away. She didn't turn away from anything anymore.

There wasn't any point. The world broke you down, even as it burned, breaking your feelings and your spirit until you couldn't feel anymore. But once you got to the other side, it was...tolerable. It made what you had to do a lot easier.

Someone was talking to her.

Stopping short, Araujo turned at the waist and looked.

A man. A faceless form in a suit. That's what everyone was now. Forms in clothing. His words had no meaning, but he was holding out his hand. He wanted something. Or offered something.

What difference did it make?

It would be fun. No matter what.

So smiling without seeing, boosting her purse back up on her shoulder, she looped her arm through his and turned him down the alley.

*

*

*

It always happened fast. Some tricks worked better than others. The best was to show them how loosely the tendrils of life could be pulled and hey! Presto! Here it was, one who had been living was now with the dead.

She tugged at her gloves as red as his blood and stepped back. His body lay flat, all sprawled out. Pools of blood embraced him, leaking out like the watered down paint.

No one would notice. Not really. Or if they did, they never linked it to her. Sometimes she wondered if that last trick before the accident had been the cause.

It was the last thing she remembered before the two men, before everything changed, before the world beat the feeling out of her till she couldn't feel anymore.

Maybe that was it. Just a little bit of magic with a dab or two of sorcery. Just the red kind. See? Nothing too serious.

Oh what did it matter? She reapplied her lipstick, twisted it down with a good sharp click, and took herself back to the sidewalk where she resumed walking with long brisk strides. Right foot, left foot. Toe to heel. Clack the sole, swing the hand, remember nothing matters.

The faceless people streamed by her on the street. They didn't know and couldn't see. All the better, happier for them.

Ah, but the two were close. One in life, one in death. They would be annoyed and scold her if they found this. If she had one hope it was that they'd be separate. To be with both was nothing but pain. Both wanted attention. Both wanted her to obey.

And she never did. She was always contrary, contrary for the sake of it. Just for the red because nothing mattered. Obstinate obelisk set in the plains, scattered intent like a spider's thoughts in a dew-strung web.

She walked on faster, kept on going. Walked until her heels broke and her fists clenched, and still the two hadn't reached her.

So much for that. They'd come soon enough. The sun was setting, the sky pomegranate red. The city was behind her, cookie cutter skyscrapers breaking against the sky like mounds of blackened toast. And a low dull feeling had settled in her head. She had one last trick that she needed to pull. Just a little more lipstick before she had to replace it.

But what was to be done? It wasn't much fun to walk if no one came. What good was the chase if no one pursued? Here she stood, in broken heels, gloves dried and bloodied, at the edge of a junkyard where the city's intestines were spilled out

Then, like a single note played at the edge of her hearing, she realized he was there.

There. Just at the edge of the smog stained concrete, half hidden by his own will, half revealed by hers, there stood the dead one. He wore great glasses with lens that shone even though the light was all wrong.

Araujo smiled. At last. Her gaze pierced his and his her. The one who lived was not yet there. All the better to play her tricks as she had always done. And dead or not, she held them strong.

She kissed the air and turned, letting him see the marvelous curve of her profile. Then, with one last wink, she leaped into the concrete pipe and lured him to follow.

Araujo, that was her name, not what she was, descriptor of what she had become. Araujo red. Deceptive to all, beautiful to some.