I had to say I shared the sentiment.
Pisto jerked off her sodden sweatshirt and tossed it on the ground. Underneath, her skin and jog bra were damp. She ran her hands over her arms, flicking off moisture as she did. “It is about her.” She turned to look at me. As she did, I realized she wasn’t wearing the high-necked sports tops warriors wore when working out. In this thing, her givnomai was clearly visible-the rough outline of a horse caught midstride as it dashed across her breast.
I was shocked she trusted me enough to bare her givnomai in front of me, but then again, she hadn’t planned to. She’d been wearing the sweatshirt. When she pulled it off, she was caught up in anger. Still, it was a slip. It made me wonder if all the Amazons were this lax. If so, my idea that the killer was using givnomais to prey on the Amazons fit. I filed the thought for later and went back to studying her tattoo.
A horse. It made sense. I could guess why she chose it: strength and the ability to get many things done at once. I might not like Pisto, but she took her role as Zery’s right hand seriously.
“It’s about you and your little hearth-keeper buddies idolizing her, thinking you can throw off thousands of years of tradition because it doesn’t suit you. Well, you can’t.” She picked up an armful of duffels and started moving toward the back-I assumed with the intention of cutting around behind the shop to the parking lot and Dana’s car.
“I’m putting these back in your car. You need to follow.”
As Pisto stormed off, loaded down with Dana’s possessions, Dana turned in the opposite direction-moving toward the front.
I stepped in front of her. “What’s happening?”
In my experience warriors were bossy but never proprietorial. That is, unless…“Who is Pisto to you?”
Dana sighed. “My sister-half, of course. But our mother died when I was still young. Pisto raised me. I’ve been a disappointment to her.”
A pregnant hearth-keeping sister who chose to live with the tribe’s only exile-a disappointment to the queen’s second-in-command? Surely not.
I wasn’t sure if it was to show my support for feeling like you’re a disappointment or for the pain of having to put up with Pisto as a sister, but in an uncharacteristic showing of physical emotion, I pulled Dana into a hug.
She collapsed against me. “I’m not going back. Even if you won’t let me stay here, I’ll go somewhere else. You blended. I can do it too.”
I didn’t say anything, just stroked her hair and wished I could make everything simple for her-remove the old biases, have the world accept her, whatever would make the next sure-to-be-hard months of her life easier. But I couldn’t. I could, however, continue doing what I’d been doing for ten years-pissing off the Amazons.
“You don’t have to go somewhere else. You and your baby can stay here, as long as you want.”
There I’d said it, sealed my fate a little more. I just hoped Dana’s appearance didn’t signal an influx of whoever her “hearth-keeper buddies” were-the ones who, according to Pisto, idolized me. I’d never been idolized before. Even my own daughter had skipped that phase. I knew mothers whose four-year-olds worshipped them, mine just asked me to get out of her light while she scribbled out her Crayola masterpieces.
But while being appreciated was certainly appealing, becoming housemother to a group of pregnant hearth-keepers wasn’t.
As I ushered her into the school, I had to ask, “None of your friends are pregnant, are they?”
My confrontation with Pisto used up all of my energy for dealing with Amazons. Which was just as well, as I had a full day and night scheduled at the shop. We stayed open till ten. I usually didn’t work that late, but my Amazon side activities had cost me. I had clients to work in and with Janet still sick, not enough staff to pick up the load.
By the time I got the shop closed and myself up to our living area, Harmony was in bed and Mother and Bubbe were in their own rooms doing Artemis knew what. I grabbed some cold chicken from the refrigerator and went to bed.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning over a breakfast of apple pie, I got to hear about Harmony’s first two art classes-how utterly “crush” (I assumed that meant great) the project they were working on was going to be, how “down” (nice?) her teacher was, and most important, how “hot” (that one I understood way better than I wanted to) one particular boy was. The last part wasn’t directed at me. Actually, none of it was. Dana and Harmony had been giggling over the details for the past twenty minutes.
At the moment my daughter was acting a little too “average American teen” even for my liking. I picked up her backpack and shoved it onto her lap. “Time for school. Dana will be here when you get back.”
With an eye roll, she took my implied advice and trotted down the stairs.
I left for my office, where I barricaded myself in until lunch. Paperwork was stacked to my shoulders, and if I didn’t sign some checks, the Amazons wouldn’t be the only ones coming after me with sticks.
I’d signed my last John Hancock of the morning when there was a knock on my door. Expecting Mandy, I shouted for the person to enter.
Peter, again with the premium coffee, wandered through the door. The coffee and the cautious look on his face both warned me I wasn’t going to like the reason for his visit.
He shut the door behind him, but graciously waited for me to take my first sip to jerk the rug out from under me-not that I’d been feeling that secure on it anyway.
“How well do you know this Dana?”
I took another sip.
“It’s just…she’s been spending a lot of time with Harmony, and the other day I found something I thought you might want to see.”
I waited for him to hand me something, but instead he pointed to my computer. “It’s on there.”
Feeling more confused by the second, I rolled my chair backward to allow him space beside me. With a few clicks, he’d navigated his way to one of those social-networking sites where pseudomodels and dreaming-big bands posted pictures and music.
“Here.” He stepped back.
“You have got to be-What is this?” What I saw on the screen shocked me-pictures of obviously drunk girls hanging on boys and revealing more skin than an elephant in a bikini.
“Not here.” He clicked some more. “Here.” This page was a little less shocking, but only marginally. It seemed to be focused on body art-female body art. Again, it was obvious that wherever the photos had been taken, alcohol aplenty had been flowing.
The first row was butt shots-just generic run-of-the-mill angels and flowers, typical stuff for girls, if in a slightly tantalizing position. His finger pointed to the next row, three pictures over.
Dana hanging on a boy whose face wasn’t visible, but while little of the boy had made it into the shot, plenty of Dana had. Both of her breasts spilled from her bra. And clearly visible on top of the right one-her givnomai, a bee.
Answered my question about the Amazons getting lax.
“Damn it.” Stupid, stupid girl, didn’t she know…My eyes wandered to the row below and my brain froze.
The next row, not a single face was visible, but I didn’t need faces. From the growling bear and snarling leopard tattoos, I could identify the first two girls as easily as if they’d walked up and introduced themselves. The dead girls-their telioses immortalized for all to see.
“Whose page is this?” I asked.
Peter propped his butt onto my desk beside me. “Screen name is ‘tatluvr.’ That’s all I know.”
I blinked in frustration, then switched my concentration back to the screen. If the dead girls’ telioses were on here, were their givnomais too? Sure enough, a few pictures down from Dana’s, I spotted them. I couldn’t know for sure which image went with which girl-these pictures were much more focused on their breasts than Dana’s had been, but I knew without a doubt the tiger and even the octopus I was looking at were Amazon givnomais.