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“He’s notmy cat,” was the only thing Claire could manage to say.

“No. Of course not.” Hermes looked appalled. “I wasn’t implying ownership, merely that it was a cat I spoke to.”

“Uh, right I just came out to tell you that there aren’t any stairs around back if you want to let your people off in the parking lot instead of out here.”

“Not a bad idea, but I don’t think you could get them to use a back door.” He winced as an imperious voice demanded to know the reason for the delay. “They’re a rather difficult bunch actually.”

The voice had been speaking flawless Classical Greek—although Claire spoke only English and bad grade school French, Keepers were language receptive, it being more important in their job to understand than to be understood. “Retired Olympians,” she muttered, examining the words from a new angle. “Oh, God.”

“Gods, actually,” Hermes corrected, sounding resigned. He hustled back out of the way as an elderly man in a plaid blazer stomped down onto the sidewalk.

“You listen to me, Hermes, I’m not spending another moment sitting in that…Hel-lo.” Smiling broadly, he stepped toward Claire, arms held out. “And who is this fair maiden?” he asked in equally flawless English, capturing her hand. “Surely not Helen back again to destroy us with her beauty.”

“Not fair and not a maiden!” snapped a woman’s voice from inside the van. “Keep your hands to yourself, you old goat. Get back here and help me out of this thing.”

Belatedly Claire realized that her fingers were being thoroughly kissed and an arm had slipped around her waist, one liver-spotted hand damply clutching her hip.

“Zeus! I’m warning you…!”

Silently mouthing,“Later,” Zeus gave her one final squeeze and returned to the van.

Objectively, the Lord of Olympus was shorter than Claire would have expected him to be, had she actually spent any time thinking about it, and someone should have mentioned that the white belt and shoe ensemble wasn’t worn north of the Carolinas after Labor Day. He’d been handsome once, but over two millennia of rich food and carnal exercise had left the square jaw jowly under the short curly beard, the dark eyes deep-set and rimmed with pink over purple pouches, and his Grecian Formula hair artfully combed to hide as much scalp as possible. An expensive camera bounced just above the broad curve of his belly, the strap hidden in the folds of his neck.

And if that was Zeus…

Hera, clawlike hand clutching her husband’s arm, reminded Claire of an ex-First Lady from the American side of the border. Her skin stretched tight over the bones of her face, her makeup applied with more artifice than art, she looked as though a solid blow would shatter her into a million irritated pieces. “The Elysian Fields Guest House? Honestly, Hermes, is this the best you could do?”

“It’s the best for our needs,” Hermes told her soothingly.

Claire found herself being examined by bright, birdlike eyes behind a raised lorgnette.

“Oh, a Keeper,” Hera sniffed. “I see.”

The second man out of the van paused to stretch, both hands in the small of his back. Incredibly thin and still tall in spite of stooped shoulders, he was dressed all in black—jacket, shirt, pants, shoes—with a crimson ascot at his throat. A hawklike hook of a nose made even more prominent by the cadaverous cheeks completely overwhelmed his face although a neatly trimmed silver goatee and full head of silver hair did what they could to balance things out.

A tiny white-haired woman in a lavender pantsuit draped in a multitude of pastel scarves followed him out“Oh, look. Hades!” Wide-eyed, she pointed gracefully toward the eaves of the hotel. “A white pigeon! It’s an omen.”

Hades obligingly looked.

The pigeon plummeted earthward, hitting the ground with a distinct splat.

“Did I do that?” Hades asked. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Senile old fool,” Hera muttered, pushing past him.

“Never mind, dear.” On her toes, Persephone rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “Next time, just don’t look so hard.” Capturing a scarf as it slid out from under a heavy gold brooch, she fluttered ring-covered fingers around her body. “Oh, dear. I’ve forgotten my knitting.”

“Never mind, Sephe. I’ve brought it out for you.”

Claire had no idea who the woman handing Persephone her knitting bag might be. Running over the remaining goddesses in her head offered no clues. Pleasant looking, in the sensible clothes favored by elderly English birdwatchers, she reminded Claire of a retired teacher pulled back into duty and near the end of her rope.

As though aware of Claire’s dilemma, she walked over and held out her hand. “Hello. You must be our host. I’m Amphitrite.”

Her palm was damp and felt slightly scaly.“Pleased to meet you.”

“She’s Poseidon’s wife,” Persephone caroled. “Unless you’re into those boring old classics, you’ve probably never heard of her.”

“Shape-shifter’s daughter,” Hera sniffed in classical Greek.

“Hera.” Persephone danced toward her, diamond earrings catching the light from the street lamp. “The eerperkay nunderstandsay reekgay.”