(Also found in an old folder… there might be a run of these)
“Welcome to Medusa’s, heroes, please show your id, and give your name” A woman in a rented toga recited, obviously bored. Gary pushed forward, flashing his license and puffing out his chest “Perseus!” She rolled her eyes, and made a check mark. Clearly, there were a dozen or more Perseuses running around at this party. Dan didn’t do much better; his declaration of “Orion!” got a shrug. Kyle stepped up and handed the lady his card. “Name, hero?” she drawled. “Narcissus.” Kyle told her. She looked up from her clipboard and gave him a smile. “Gotcha, Narcissus. Have a good time down there.”
Gary and Dan dived right into the scene, dipping wine from an amphora, and hitting on the nearest chiton-clad girls. The lighting was sporadic, leaving everything mostly dark and hazy, and music moved like a living thing through the crowd. Kyle could pick out the aulos and cithara woven in with the guitar and synth. Leaning one shoulder against a pillar, he closed his eyes and let the music sink into his skin.
“Narcissusss…”
His nom de guerre was whispered from behind him, drawn out into a sibilant whisper that blended in with the music. Kyle’s eyes snapped open and he turned his head. No one there.
“Narcissusss…”
He turned back around, to find her standing right there. Her chiton was sheer, but not transparent, giving elusive glimpses of what lay beneath, all curves and shadow. Her dark hair curled around her head and seemed to move of its own accord, cascading in ringlets beside the veil she wore on her face. He couldn’t help but stare.
“Will you have eyes for anyone but yourself tonight, Narcissus? Or will I be a mere echo?” Without waiting for an answer, she led him to the dance floor.
People watching would later describe it as being like two snakes curling and writing around each other. Their bodies moved and flowed to the music, unaware of anything around them. His hands on her hips, her hands in his hair, they danced until Kyle felt feverish with needing her. Even the thin fabric she wore was too much. He reached up to touch her face.
“No, sweet Narcissus, not that.”
“Please. Please. Sweet Gods, let me touch you, kiss you.”
Her laugh was bitter, sharp. “If you kiss me, even the Gods won’t help”
Kyle snarled, and grabbed at the veil. She screamed and threw her arm up over her face, but not before he saw a glimpse of her eyes. Deep, grey and so, so cold, like looking at eyes carved of marble.
“Damn.” She whispered, fading into the shadows around the dance floor. “Damn.”
Then the screaming started.
Since the witness accounts of a young man turning suddenly to stone were discounted by the police as hallucinations brought on by drugs in the wine, and the “statue” had seemingly vanished, Kyle McDonald remains listed as a missing person.