Unfinished Muse Read online

  I followed the big hallway to the center and peered up at the directory on the wall. Arrows pointed in different directions to the Medical Clinic, Library, Chapel, and Midlevel Cafeteria.

  Midlevel cafeteria? That sounded intriguing. No one had told me about any of these places, and I wasn’t certain if I was allowed to use them. But if I had a better cafeteria option than the one with the snake lady serving slop, I’d take it.

  I followed the arrow in the same direction my nose told me there was coffee. I stopped outside the doors, hesitant to go in without knowing first if I’d be humiliated and tossed out. The view through the windows showed me a much more comfortable eating area than the one downstairs. People sipped coffee and typed on laptops or phone displays while a young girl helped people from behind the counter.

  It looked perfectly normal. There had to be a catch.

  The back of my neck itched, as if a bug had landed there. I swatted at it and felt warm air brush my fingers.

  “This isn’t a Dickens novel, you know.” The voice behind me was deep and rumbled with amusement. “You don’t have to stand outside and watch people eat.”

  I whirled and faced the guy breathing on my neck. He stood several inches taller than me, had broad shoulders, blue eyes, and soft blond hair. Perfect. Or nearly so. For some strange reason, he was wearing a cowboy costume, complete with chaps and gun holster. He clutched the brim of a black cowboy hat with one hand.

  Swap all that out for a nice suit, and he’d have been perfection. Though the chaps weren’t at all off-putting.

  I cleared my throat in an effort not to stutter with a sudden bout of nerves. “Howdy, partner. Did I miss the rodeo?”

  He grinned and reached around me to open the door. “Work clothes. I don’t look like this all the time. Honest.” He held the door and waited for me to walk through.

  I frowned “Thanks. But am I supposed to be in there? Nobody told me. I’m new.”

  He rested his hand on the small of my back and ushered me in. “Anybody who’s out of orientation can be in here. You hungry?”

  I shook my head. “I was just hoping for some coffee before heading out to my assignment.”

  He winked. “Allow me, New Girl.” He strode to the counter. “Hey, Gretchen. Could I get two large cinnamon lattes?” He turned his head toward me. “You like cinnamon, New Girl?”

  I nodded, surprised. “I love it.” On my own, I probably would have ordered something simple, since it was my first time in there. But he’d managed to pick out something I would really enjoy, instead. Who was this beautiful man?

  He paid for the drinks and carried them both to a table in the corner with the hat clenched in his teeth. I followed like a little lamb, feeling awkward and a little like I’d swallowed a nest of baby hummingbirds.

  “So,” he said, handing me my drink. “I’m Rick. Welcome to Mount Olympus.”

  I grabbed my cup with both hands to have something to hold on to. “Thanks. I’m Wynter.”

  “Pretty.” He patted the sheriff’s badge pinned to his tasseled, suede vest. “I’m with the Dreams and Nightmares department. Last night I had to be a cowboy for some kid.”

  “Ah.” I nodded, as if I knew what he was talking about. “I’m a Muse.” I bit my tongue and felt my face flush. “I didn’t mean I’m ‘amused.’ I mean I work as a Muse.”

  He took a sip of his coffee, eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter. “I knew what you meant. The belt is kind of a giveaway.”

  “Oh.” I glanced at the clock on the wall over the counter. Freedom or not, if someone from my office saw me sitting there when I was supposed to be out working, it wouldn’t look very good. “It’s late. It’s my first solo mission today. I should probably get going.” I scooted out of my seat and thrust my hand out at him. “So, it was nice meeting you. Thanks again for the coffee.”

  He shook my hand slowly and nodded toward the cup in my hand. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

  I took a gulp, burning my mouth. Probably would have been smarter to take a smaller sip. Still, it was heavenly. I sighed. “Oh, that’s good. Really good.”

  “I wouldn’t steer you wrong.” He let go of my hand and raised his paper cup in a toast. “Good luck on your first solo, Wynter. See you around.”

  I gave an awkward wave and darted out the door. He may have watched me go, or he may have forgotten me the minute I walked away. Either way, it felt like his gaze was a laser between my shoulder blades the whole way out.

  He was way too pretty for my current lack of self-confidence. I’d have to work on that if I ever ran into him again.

  ~*~

  I sat in my car holding my assignment and staring at the garish house I was supposed to enter. Dozens of moving, spinning, reflective ornaments decorated the sparse lawn. The front door was painted a pristine white, but the house itself was an eye-bleeding yellow trimmed in lime green.

  I checked my tool belt to be sure I had my can of Beastie Discombobulator Dust. A house this showy no doubt housed an array of pink and blue poodles wearing hats and tutus.

  Once I had the car parked the required block and a half away, I returned on foot. At the mailbox, I touched the button on my belt when I was sure no one was looking, then made my way to the front door.

  The invisibility thing seemed flawed to me. What if it didn’t work? I’d have no way of knowing unless someone started talking to me. Or, you know, screaming, if I were in their house. I supposed if I could walk through doors, I should assume I was also invisible.

  I took a deep breath and pushed my hand against the front door, then stepped through into the house.

  The inside was every bit as disturbing as I’d expected. Rows and rows of porcelain dolls sat on shelves around the pink and white living room. Doilies decorated the arms of two chairs and a rose-silk sofa, and the painted coffee table was covered in carefully posed panda figurines.

  Everything smelled like lemons.

  I shuddered and stepped onto the clear plastic floor runner to search for my target. A display of photos led me down the hallway, telling the story of a happy family of four—Mom, Dad, Sister, and Brother. Judging by the pointed collars, Dad’s groovy sideburns, and the blue VW bus, I placed them in the late 1960s. As I moved down the hall, the kids grew taller, clothing styles changed, Mom’s hair got shorter, and Dad stopped appearing.

  I ran a fingertip over a department-store-posed shot of the three remaining family members. Both kids were in their teens by then, and Mom’s smile looked a little forced.

  It was the last photo on the wall.

  At the end of the hall, I found a bathroom and three closed doors. I tried to grab a doorknob and turn, but my hand went through it.

  “Woops.” The sound of my voice startled me in the silent house.

  Holding my breath, I stuck my head through the first door. The room contained a white and gold dresser, a neatly made bed with a pink chenille bedspread, and an army of Precious Moments figures.

  The next room had posters of ‘70s heartthrobs on the walls. The tape holding them up was aged and brittle looking. A twin bed was shoved into the corner with several boxes piled on top of it, and a sewing machine held court in the center of the room.

  The third room smelled like muscle cream and dirty socks. The bed was unmade, muddy shoes lay forgotten in the corner next to a discarded pair of pants, and the dresser was covered in loose change and receipts.

  I had to assume my client lived in that room. I wrinkled my nose at the odor and withdrew my head.

  So, Alex wasn’t at that end of the house. Back the way I came, the picture wall became the weird story of a family of three who took anti-aging drugs and found a badly dressed hippy to join their band.

  I passed the living room and entered the kitchen. Everything in there was covered in daisies. Even the toaster hid beneath a quilted daisy cover. Pot holders, salt and pepper shakers, dishtowels, soap dispenser, fridge magnets, table cloth, placemats—everything everywhere was done
up in daisies. A giant daisy clock hung on the wall with a trailing stem swinging back and forth like the tail on those old-fashioned, kitschy cat clocks.

  I cringed and headed for a door across the room I hoped led to the basement.

  A peek on the other side confirmed my suspicion. And the light was on. I stepped through the door and headed down the stairs.

  A stout man—I assumed he was Alex—with greying hair, three days’ worth of stubble, and the droopy expression of the defeated sat at a long table fashioned out of a sheet of particleboard and two plastic trash bins. A desk lamp sat on the edge of the table, lighting what it could of the area. Multiple types of glue, pieces of wax paper, scissors, razor blades, chunks of wood in various sizes, and boxes and boxes of toothpicks were stacked around the table.

  Alex huddled over a pad of graph paper, drawing and erasing lines, muttering to himself, then ripping off the top page and tossing it away in a crumpled ball. The concrete floor was strewn with similar discarded failures.

  Dude really needed a Muse pronto.

  I ran my hands over my belt to find my Thought Bubbles. Something near my foot yipped, startling me.

  I’d been wrong about the poodles in hats and tutus. It was a wiener dog in a sweater—a pink sweater with a daisy on it, of course—and she was looking straight at me.

  That was definitely not supposed to happen.

  “Oscar, what are you doing over there? Come lay down.” Alex peered into the gloom and patted his leg.

  Okay. So, first of all, yay, I really was invisible. And second, the dog in the girly sweater was a boy. Very progressive. Good for him.

  “Hey, Oscar. That’s a great look on you. Dapper as hell.” I unhooked my can of Beastie Discombobulator Dust and twisted the top to open the shaker holes. No one had trained me with the stuff, so I hoped I could figure it out. “How about you forget you saw me, little guy? How would that be?” I flung the contents at him, clutching the bottle in a vice grip so it wouldn’t go flying.

  Oscar blinked and sneezed. Dust coated his fur like baby powder. He shook himself, ears flinging in the air, then turned away, bumped into Alex’s leg, and flopped into a padded basket to sleep.

  Alex glanced at the snoring pooch. “Damn, that was fast.” He jotted something down, tried to erase, then moaned. “I can’t do this.”

  I reattached the powder to my belt, then freed my Thought Bubbles. “Dude, you need to chill. Try this.” I dipped my wand into the solution, pursed my lips like Audrey had shown me, and blew.

  The solution splattered on my face.

  I tried again. Dip. Purse. Blow.

  One big bubble wobbled out and moved in the direction of Alex’s head. It was close enough to brush his cheek, then he bent over and scratched Oscar’s head.

  The bubble drifted away without making contact.

  “Oh, for Hades’ sake, dude. Hold still.” I blew again, this time a stream of smaller bubbles. Several went wild and popped on the table, the ceiling, or the floor. But several more hit the target in quick succession. Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Alex froze for a moment, leaving me to worry he’d felt the bubbles and would turn around any second to look at me.

  “Yes!” He punched the air, then bent and resumed sketching, mumbling as he drew. “Everybody always does a manmade structure. The judges won’t expect something from nature.”

  Judges? I scanned the table and found an application for entry into the Mid-American Toothpick Championship in Akron, Ohio. I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Seriously? This was for a competition? I peeked over Alex’s shoulder to see what he was drawing.

  A series of intersecting lines formed a big, shapeless blob on the page. From this close, I could see the sweat beads forming on Alex’s upper lip.

  “Here and here,” he said, adding lines. “And when I get the cliff face done, I can add trees over here and a river running down the center.” As he spoke, his pencil flew back and forth adding lines until I realized what it was he was trying to do.

  “Oh, hells, no. Is that supposed to be the Grand Canyon?”

  It was terrible.

  He paused and tilted his head, almost as if he could hear me. “I’m going to need more toothpicks.”

  I ran my fingers through my short hair in frustration. This was not going work. “Dude. Nature doesn’t have straight lines. That’s why they recreate architectural works of art. Don’t you want to win?”

  He chuckled to himself. “I’m totally going to win this year.”

  I groaned. “No. You’re my first project. This is not going down like this.” I dipped my wand in the bottle and blew bubbles at him, dipped, blew, dipped, blew. The room was filled with bubbles bouncing and popping everywhere.

  Including Alex’s head.

  “Tiny donkeys carrying tourists down the path,” he said, pounding his fist on the table. “This is going to be fantastic.”

  “No!” I paced behind him, shouting in his ear, hoping something would get through to him. “Choose another idea, you idiot. I just bombarded you with a dozen other choices. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  He continued to draw and mutter, pausing occasionally to erase a line, then add another. After about ten minutes, his momentum slowed until he stalled completely.

  Alex stared at his graph paper drawing. “This is the stupidest idea I’ve ever had.” He dropped his pencil, then rubbed his face with both hands. “I suck.”

  I leaned closer to him. “You don’t suck. It was one bad idea. Come on. Work with me.”

  He rose from his stool, stretched, then bent to pick up the limp, unconscious dachshund. “Let’s go upstairs, Oscar. I’m not getting anywhere down here.”

  “No. Don’t go.” I tried to stand in his way, but he walked right through me.

  Alex trudged up the stairs carrying the little dog while I stood below, watching him go. At the top of the stairs, he flipped a switch and closed the door, leaving me alone in darkness.

  My first day on my own, and I was an absolute failure as a Muse.

  Chapter 10

  One of the problems with working in a field-agent type of department is the lack of people in the actual office. By the time I got back, nobody was there. Polly wasn’t in her office, and Audrey’s belt wasn’t on the wall. Neither was Trina’s. I didn’t know enough people in the department to tell how many of the belts on the wall were from people who’d already come back for the day, but several of the belts were still out.

  On the bright side, I didn’t see Dave or Jeremy’s belts, either.

  I unlatched my supplies, refilled the bubbles and the dust, and put them away in the closet. My belt hung neatly beneath my name. Everything was in its place. Back at my desk, I dropped my paperwork in the inbox, then changed my mind and stuffed it in my bag. I wanted to do a little research on Alex. And maybe tomorrow I would come in early to talk to Polly about what to do when the client didn’t cooperate.

  In the meantime, I was going home to open a bottle of wine, eat an entire pizza, watch television in my pajamas, and maybe bitch at my houseplant for getting me into all this.

  On my way out the door, Trina burst in, nearly knocking me into the wall.

  “Oh! Hey, Wynter. How was your first solo?” She grinned at me and bounced from foot to foot almost as if she had to pee.

  I gave her a pained expression. “It could have been better.”

  Her smile wavered and she nodded. “Yeah. That happens.” She sighed. “A lot.”

  “What do I do?”

  She patted my shoulder. “Go back tomorrow and keep trying until you get through.”

  I frowned. “Then what?”

  “You go every day until they get it.” She bounced past me down the hall. “You’ll break through eventually. Don’t worry.” She disappeared into the prop room.

  I shrugged. “Okay, then. I guess I’ll stop worrying.”

  A little less stressed, I went home to discuss it with Phyllis.

  Phyllis was not amused. “So,
what? You’re just going to be all casual about it? It’ll take as long as it takes?”

  “I guess. Trina said—”

  Phyllis sputtered at me, and three leaves drifted to the floor. “Trina said? That girl has been through two transfers already. Her status as a Legacy is the only thing that’s kept her from being reassigned to the Underworld. Do not follow her lead.”

  I scowled. “Well, at least she’s giving me advice. I can’t get anybody to teach me anything in there. I might as well take my time if I’ve got to figure it all out myself.”

  All of Phyllis’s branches stood up straight. “Take your time?” She waved a few leaves at me, as if waggling a finger. “Take your time? Did you even check the deadline on your assignment?”

  I blinked. “Deadline?” I rummaged in my bag and took out the paperwork.

  Phyllis let out a heavy, dramatic sigh. “What? Did you think you could just go there every day for a few years, watching him, hoping eventually he’d figure it out himself?”

  I scanned the categories on the page. Name. Address. Art. Terms. And there it was at the very bottom. Deadline. Each of the fields had been filled in the old-fashioned way—by hand in black pen.

  I really needed to pay attention to the paperwork these people gave me. The print was small, but it was there. I had twenty-eight days. Worse—according to the terms I’d also failed to do more than skim—my mission wasn’t fulfilled until Alex was entirely finished with his project. It wasn’t enough for me to help him figure out the perfect idea. He had to bring that idea into concrete form. And he had to get his ass to Akron, Ohio with his finished project to compete in the Mid-America Toothpick Contest.

  I slapped the paper on my kitchen table. “Why didn’t anybody tell me about this?”

  Phyllis was gracious enough not to yell. “Wynter, it was on the assignment. They did tell you.”

  “If I fail, I go to the Underworld, don’t I?” I dropped into a kitchen chair and held my head in my hands.

  “It takes more than one failure, sweetheart. And you’ve got—what—twenty-seven days left on this one? You’ll be fine.”