Cupid’s Match

A steady flow of people in party clothes stream around Cupid and Cal, who are already standing on the pavement. I get out of the car. The air here is humid and smells like perfume and car exhaust.

“Where are we going, exactly?” I ask as the two brothers walk down the colorfully lit boulevard.

“Cupid knows someone who may be able to help us,” says Cal, but a hint of distrust remains on his face.

A few hundred feet down the road, we stop outside a club bearing the word Elysium in glowing pink letters. A low beat vibrates from its open doorway, and the line to enter extends all the way down the street.

I look at Cal. “We’ll be here all night. Can’t he speak to his friend by, I don’t know, phone or something?”

Cupid looks over his shoulder. “We’re not going to the human part of the club. And Selena doesn’t have a phone—cell reception is terrible at the bottom of the ocean.”

I shake my head. “You know what? I’m not even going to ask.”

Cupid’s face breaks into a wide grin as he walks toward the two tall bouncers guarding the front. When we catch up to him, he’s whispering to the suited female. I see her pass him something that he places in his pocket.

“They’re with me.”

She allows us to pass. As we step inside, she catches my eye with an amused expression. There’s something not quite human about her—her pupils are too big, and her skin seems to shimmer. I breathe in sharply. Unreassuringly, Cal looks equally tense, and his posture is even more rigid than usual.

He’s not happy to be here either.

Cupid leads the way down a dark corridor filled with flashing strobe lights and pounding music. Before we reach the main room, Cupid veers off to the left and stops at a small, unremarkable door. He leans against the wall as he waits for us to join him. As I reach it, I notice that music notes and the image of a three-headed animal have been carved into the rotting wood above it. A dog, maybe?

Cupid grins, the brightness of his smile catching me off guard. I wonder for a moment what it would feel like to run my fingers through his dark-blond hair. And then I blink hard, forcing the feelings away. James might not be enough to make me feel guilty—Especially now that James has a reason to feel guilty himself, I think darkly—but Cupid is clearly trouble. He’s the one who has put me in danger.

He reaches into his pocket and brings out whatever the bouncer handed over to him.

“Stay close to me,” he shouts over the deep thud of the bass, “and put these in.”

He hands Cal and me two small, foamy shapes.

I look down at the palm of my hand. “Earplugs?”

Cupid nods. “You’re going to need them,” he says as he pushes open the door. “Welcome to Elysium.”

Once we’re inside the new room, the loud throbbing music from outside ceases, replaced by a woman singing a cappella. Her voice is strong, soothing, and peaceful, and for a moment, it’s all I can focus on. Then I look around.

A vast space full of happy, reclining people stretches out before us. The green, grassy ground is peppered with checkered picnic blankets, and a paved walkway lit by small solar lights cuts through to a bar serving drinks in the center. Rope netting dotted with white fairy lights hangs over the transparent ceiling—every few seconds the lights twinkle and add to the stars in the night sky. The air smells sweet, like honey and sugared lemons.

I just want to lie down among the people and sleep. I feel like I’m in heaven, and Cupid knows it; he’s watching me with a knowing twinkle.

“Earplugs, Lila,” Cal says tiredly.

I turn to him, confused. He looks hazy and ethereal, his eyes dancing silver below his blond eyebrows. Still, he looks annoyed.

“Earplugs.”

Grinning, Cupid grabs the foam shapes from my hand and gently slips the two buds into my ears. I stare at him a moment, the reflection of the fairy lights dancing in his eyes like fireflies. And then I yelp and take a step back in horror.

The room has changed.

The walls and floors and ceilings are concrete, not grass and stars. The picnic blankets are dirty, worn rugs, and the people atop them look out of their minds—lolling into one another, drool stringing from their gaping mouths. I can smell the stench of stagnant seawater.

The singing still resounds around the room, but it’s less beautiful than before— more American Idol auditions than Met stage.

“This is a siren-owned club,” Cal says disapprovingly.

I’m about to ask what he means when a suited, dark-haired man approaches.

“Not here to indulge?” he asks, noticing our earplugs.

“Not tonight, friend,” says Cupid. “Will she see us?”

The man nods. “She will make an exception for you, Cupid. Come with me.”

“Are these people . . . human?” I ask as we follow the man through the dimly lit room.

“No,” Cal says. “The people who run the club are sirens.”

I frown. “As in women who sing songs and lure sailors into the rocks?”

“Well, that’s the myth that humans tell. It’s true, the sirens’ power is in song, but it’s not just women—men can be sirens too. And while they’re powerful, not all are killers.”

I don’t feel reassured as we pass more groups of people gormlessly swaying to the music.

“What about them?”

“Cupids, mainly.” His face contorts. “Djinn, too, sometimes, and the Oracles come from time to time, though they’re usually smarter. The odd human sometimes slips through the cracks, but they don’t last long under this kind of addiction.”

We pass a tall dark-haired woman in a figure-hugging green dress singing on a podium. Her eyes follow us as we walk toward the far wall, and I can feel the power radiating from her.

“They’re addicted to song?”

He nods solemnly. “The sirens who set up here give doses of their music in exchange for secrets,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “It’s corrupt, and the Matchmaking Service ought to shut it down.”

“Why don’t they?”

Cal’s eyes warn me not to press the subject anymore.

“Because they have your secrets,” I whisper, answering my own question.

Anger mixed with discomfort passes across Cal’s angular features. I’d meant Matchmaking Service secrets, but from his reaction I wonder if they have something on Cal personally. What could Cal’s secrets be?

As we approach a door Cupid turns to us, looking suddenly pained.

“By the way,” he adds, “about the, er, friend we’re about to meet. She may not be too pleased with me at present. Just a heads-up.”

Cal turns to stare at him. “I thought you said it ended amicably.”

Before he can continue, a suited man opens the door and we are confronted with a billow of hot, ocean-scented steam. For a moment I find it hard to breathe. Nevertheless, I push forward to ask Cal, “Wait. Tell me what we’re doing here? Who are we going to see?”

Call looks at me, stone faced.

“Selena. Queen of the L.A. underworld, owner of Elysium, and”—he scowls—“Cupid’s ex.”