Sirenz - By Charlotte Bennardo Page 0,14

The guy closest to us stopped short, a disoriented look in his eyes.

“Why am I here?” he asked. “I’m late for a meeting.” He dropped his bundle, turned, and hurried off.

“Whatever it means, it stopped him,” Shar said, excitement building in her voice. “Wait, that’s it! We’ve used the gifts!”

“We have not!” I retorted sharply, stepping out of the way of two grappling Wall Street types. “All we did was—” I stopped, a nasty realization clawing at my brain.

“Talk to people and look at them,” Shar said grimly. Then, reading the iPhone again, she nodded at me. I reread the words.

“One, two, three,” she counted, and then together we shouted, “Ase me isihi ! ”

The store was suddenly quiet except for the steady hum of background music. Slowly, people started moving. Men got up from the floor, dusted themselves off, and headed for the doors.

“It worked!” I whispered, relieved.

“What’s going on here?” one of the security guards barked. He looked suspiciously from person to person. Men shook their heads. When his gaze caught the tiger-print thong clutched in his own left hand, he blushed furiously and hastily dropped it.

“They just went insane!” Shar’s saleswoman sobbed, coming out from her hiding place behind the counter. There were bits of broken glass in her hair.

The guard turned to us. “Tell me what happened.”

“Uh … ” Shar examined her shoes. “I … we … were over there getting ready to pay and they started grabbing and throwing everything in sight.”

While he looked around, I whispered, “Let’s buy something, it’ll look less suspicious. Then we can leave.” I grabbed a stack of black stuff. Shar did the same with a pink pile. I looked hopefully at the still-frazzled saleswoman, then jerked my head in the direction of an unsmashed counter. She nodded and made her way over, glass crunching under her feet as she went.

We followed at a quick pace; I wanted us out of there before someone called the police.

“Will that be cash or charge?” the woman asked.

“Charge.” Without looking at her, Shar slipped Hades’ shiny black Visa card out of her wallet and slid it across the counter. When the woman picked it up, I saw the image on the hologram sticker—Hades in a skimpy toga. Not something I needed or wanted to see. We ended up carrying out three bags each, and I didn’t bother asking Shar what the bill came to. Hades’ nasty ID was disturbing enough.

Once out in the fresh air, reality set in. This was going to be a lot harder than we thought, and I was starving.

“I need food,” I said. It was nearly two o’clock, and so far we’d only had the almost-disastrous coffee.

“Me too,” she said. “Hey, we’re right by Red Velvet!” She all but clapped her hands.

“As in cake? Sorry, but I’m going to need something more substantial after that.”

“They serve everything. Come on.”

“I really don’t want to deal with anyone else,” I whined. “Can’t we just go back to the apartment and get take-out?”

“I think I know how this works,” Shar assured me. “We’ll be smart about it. I’ll talk but not look, you be charming but silent. And if we run into trouble, we’ll say that isihi whatever.”

Ignoring my protests, she ushered me down the street, keeping her eyes lowered. After a block or so, I spied Red Velvet’s scarlet awning jutting out stiffly from the side of the building. When I stepped into the richly dark vestibule of the lobby, I found myself staring into a Victorian armoire. Its back-lit shelves were crammed with chocolate sculpted into Victorian winter-themed shapes; a furry boot with a curvy heel, cherubs surrounded by holly. Let Them Eat Cake snaked over the door in scripty gilt letters and the tantalizing scent of comfort food—roast turkey, mashed potatoes, fresh baked bread, and chocolate—filled the tiny space.

“You do all the talking,” I reminded Shar.

She nodded, and laying a well manicured hand on the richly embossed brass door, swung it open and strolled inside.

A bird-sized woman stood behind a heavily carved and highly polished podium suitable for an archbishop, reading. Her black hair was drawn tightly away from her face and pulled her features into a haughty and unbecoming expression.

“Excuse me,” Shar began. “A table for two, please.”

“Do you have a reservation?” The hostess never looked up from her podium. Her voice matched her Kewpie-doll appearance—soft and squeaky.

“No, but there’s room,” Shar answered confidently, staring at the woman’s face. You’re not supposed to do that! What if she