* Written in the person of the Goddess Hecate *
2019 North Las Vegas, NV
I flipped my burner phone shut. Zeus never answered, but I kept leaving messages hoping he’d change his mind. The cash from the kilted chick would help toward the rent on the swap meet booth but to stay afloat I had gotten a night job watching over the boarded animals at a local animal hospital. It worked out. I loved dogs, and they loved me. The pay was decent. After doing a few side jobs for the family, I had enough cash for a cheap apartment. Night was my time, the sun made me sluggish and cranky. But the night job freed up my days to sleep and meditate on what exactly Zeus’ purpose was in relegating us all to mortal status. I could see it as humbling but it wasn’t like Daddy to treat me unfairly. I was a silver child to him and rarely caused him trouble.
Yawning, I slipped down the cheap black-framed sunglasses which I found essential for day work. I had a couple of stops to make at local pawns before crawling to my nice dark apartment.
The first three shops had nothing worthy but in the fourth I’d struck pure silver.
The door buzzed me in. “Hey Cat,” the owner of A-1 Pawn, greeted me.
“Got anything new and interesting, Gerald?” Jerry was what everyone else called him, but he liked Gerald, and since he was making me money I thought that much respect was due.
“Some guy brought crap in. Not sure there’s much here, some silver coins, silverware and low carat gold.”
“I want to see the silver.” He had the tray ready for me, I’d been very specific about my interests,. I had nothing to hide. What I was looking for he couldn’t see.
“That one,” I said, pointing at a poorly polished coin. The tarnish on it looked like someone had dug it up. The impressions were barely there, but they looked old, maybe even Roman. Definitely not from the USA, which unfortunately, made them more valuable here. There wasn’t an aura, but the silver content was high enough I could stick some magic to it.
“How much?”
Mortals had a weird idea of object value and Americans were even quirkier. The cliché said one man’s junk was another man’s treasure, and it was true but the drive was all marketing. So far, I had done really well making amulets out of all kinds of crap.
“Twenty.”
“Forget it. There’s not even a quarter ounce in that.”
“It’s old though.”
“Ten bucks.”
“Fine.” I’d attach a chain, some ribbons, and charge fifty. The coin would sell itself.
“Nice doing business with you, Gerald. Remember to text me if you get in any keys.”
He nodded and took the bill I slid across the counter.
Humans loved the idea of magic and divine intervention. Besides the fact I was a loner, bringing in customers for amulets usually ended up getting me customers for my key jobs. Those were they ones that matter. If I could amass fifty-five thousand five hundred and fifty-five keys I’d have enough human touches to make something happen, or at least that’s what it said on the internet. At the moment, goals were limited until my Father answered. I liked goals. Samhain was months away, but I had plans for that. In the meantime I would build whatever power I could.
Originally published at AllinthePantheon.com
http://www.allinthepantheon.com/the-routine/