As they reached the front doors, twice as tall as any of them, the towers on either side felt…towering. The stonework was inlaid with different colors of mortar, forming complex geometric patterns that overlapped like mandalas.

  At the checkpoint stood two centaurs, dressed from head to hoof in a gaudy mix of tailored white sleeves and armor plates that seemed more like oversized jewelry. Each bore a long triton with a surprisingly small tip, more like a large dinner fork but swirlier; with this murder-weapon they’d each skewered a loaf of bread, and kept double-dipping it in a pot of fondue after every bite.

  Between them stood a satyr at a tall table. Satyrs had all been born from the line of one of Hermes’ dryad flings, but he and his descendants had an earned reputation of procreating whenever possible. In just a hundred years or so, one goat-person became hundreds.

  This one bore a puff of curly brown hair with white spots, like a halo around his head and across his thick beard. He’d put a shirt on for this time of year, seemingly begrudgingly, as he insisted on keeping it open down the front. From the waist down came the dense bedding of hair as thick as his head’s, to the point he had no need for trousers. He eyed them approaching with the kind of eager grin where only the top teeth showed.

  “Hello, hello, and welcome to the show!” he greeted them, gesturing to the open door. “The name’s Silenus, I’ll be checking you out, I mean checking you in this evening,” he slipped up without really bothering to cover it up. “But seriously folks, what can I do you for?”

  The crew had rehearsed this a bit on the way up here. Sisyphus was, by all their accounts, the one who could pass as normal - he’d ask the door greeter first while the others assessed the situation. Medusa would stay back, and Argos would…crouch and keep his extra eyes closed and discrete as possible.

  “Hey, how’s it hangin’?”

  Sisyphus started out. This was…normal for some people. He was an island guy, where normal was relative.

  “Oof,” Silenus leaned on one elbow to demonstrate. “I’d say loose, but, it’s a bit nippy out here.”

  “I hear that,” Sisyphus agreed quickly so as not to read into that. A glance at Echo’s blinks of astonishment suggested she already had. Sis went on. “Say, we’ve just been hoofin’ it all over the hill country doing some sightseeing, and - all right, the ladies wanted me to ask you - we’re lost. Whaaat is this place?”

  The satyr’s mouth popped into an excited O-shape. He was gonna get to give the spiel. He tossed a striped brown cane up and snatched it out of the air, before pointing it and waving it to and fro as he spoke. “What is this place? Well, you’re looking at the second-closest mountain to being heaven on earth! The hat of the city of Argos, if you look up from the shoreline. The palace that attracts the richest, most powerful people from across Greece, to rub elbows and who knows what else! The decadent! The opulent! Hosted by the host on the coast with the most to boast - Diiii-oh-nye-seeee’s Nicest Dining and Resort!”

  Argos held his fist to his mouth and took all that in. “Dionysus?” he clarified. “That impetuous boy? He couldn’t even manage to clean his own plate; how can he manage all this?”

  Silenus took a full step back, his eyebrows rising and disappearing into his hair. “Well I’ll be - a personal friend, I’ll take it? You two must go way back.”

  “Yeah, I think you can tell ‘im,” Sisyphys hinted to Argos.

  Argos drew in a breath, squared his shoulders, and rose to his full height. The centaurs whinnied a bit at seeing someone who could stand eye-to-eye with them.

  “I am Argos Panoptes, son of Gaia, lifelong guard of the line of Olympus, and… Dionysus’ attempted tutor.”

  “Well I’ll be a donkey’s uncle,” the satyr marveled. “The Argos? Well you’ve come to the right town! This place is your namesake! You’ll find eyeball-themed decor all over this town. These sew-on-eye patches are all the rage.” He lifted his sleeve to show where he’d covered up a rip in his shirt with an embroidered almond-shaped eye. His lopsided grin flipped to the other side as he made a pitch: “tell you what, you could claim copyright on these doodads. Make a drachma on every hundred sold, sue a couple a’ plagiarizers, and you’d never have to work again!”

  Argos’ face wavered somewhere between morbid fascination and concern. “...but, without work, what would I do?”

  “Well, come on in and find out! Just gotta put you all in the guestbook here. Can I get your names, your business, and your business’ names?”

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The five of them exchanged looks, deciding how much to leave a paper trail.

  “Oh, you've got the ol’ Motley Crew situation, eh?” The satyr’s indulgent grin didn't look like it could stretch any taller. He was the opposite of sheepish. “Running from your pasts, livin’ on the lam, stirrin’ up trouble in every town? Oh, lovin’ it! Gen-u-iiine adventurin’ party. I'm gettin' sick of these faux adventuring parties tryin’ to pass as the real thing. Where was I? Yes, of course, everyone gets full immunity in heah! We wouldn't let no coppers spoil the party, no sir-ee!”

  With that much of a hype-man, the crew started coming out of their shells. Sisyphus first, as usual.

  “You're…probably not old enough to remember me. You might've seen me on the cover of - Rolling Stones?”

  The satyr's head tipped 45 degrees and squinted at him for a few seconds. Then it hit him so hard he slapped the table and bounced back up. “Oh my - Sisyphus!” He squeaked in disbelief. “Get outta town, it's–”

  “--already did. Hades town ain't big enough for me.”

  “Well ain’t that the sphinx’s pajamas! What is this, your fourth life? Hey, want me to send the word up the grapevine, let ‘em know you’re here?”

  “Lemme keep it on the down-low, I wanna see people's faces when I tell ‘em,” Sisyphus said all in one suspenseful breath.

  “Anyone here able to top that?” Silenus dared the crew.

  Medusa jumped in. “Euryale,” she said quickly (pronounced yoo-RYE-uh-lee). “One of Cetys’ girls.” She kept her eyes up to one side so she didn't kill anybody, and because she was bluffing.

  It still didn't feel worth the risk for her to be out here as herself yet. She knew she couldn't pass as looking like most people, so she decided to pass as her sister. Euryale didn't get out much, and most who knew what she looked like hadn't lived to tell the tale, so it made for a good alibi. Her own hair-snakes turned to her in confusion.

  “Oh.” Silenus was petrified. Fortunately not literally. His arms shrunk meekly by his sides, glancing to and from her face. “How's that going for ya?”

  “Mmmmm, Mom’s going through some stuff. I’m just trying to stay outta the house til this blows over.”

  “Literally,” the satyr quipped through his teeth. “Lemme know when your island’s forecast calls for not throwing a fit with the weather.”

  Medusa let that one go with a murmur of agreement. She was used to being caught between her family and the world.

  “Oh, hey, consolation prize,” he chirped up for a moment: “palace property’s magic protects people from using magic on each other. People can look atyou just fine here!”

  Medusa did a jump in place, and jumped even more inside. A laugh of surprise caught in her throat. “You mean… that's amazing. Thanks!” She was practically bouncing on her feet waiting to get inside and try acting normal with people again.

  “You can put me down as, ah- Daphne,” Arachne said quickly, trying to get it over with.

  “Should I know you?” Silenus asked, finally underwhelmed by something.

  “I'm a seamstress–”

  “--Shes mine– personal assistant,” Medusa blurted out.

  “Oh hardly,” Arachne verbally pushed her away. “I'm not anybody's hench-woman. Partner, if anything.”

  “You don't say,” the satyr said, with a strange level of interest. “You two sail all the way from Lesbos to be here?”

  “Hah! Naw, she means like business partners,” Medusa intercepted before Arachne could decide what to snap at him.

  “Ah well,” Silenus drooped with disappointment. “Those girls are a real spectator sport, if you know what I mean.”

  “I was just trying to cover for you,” Medusa whispered back to Arachne. Truth be told, it was exciting to talk about having someone under her again. You can take the noblewoman out of the city, but…

  The satyr peered around to Echo, who had come out from halfway behind Argos’ arm. “And what’s this girl to you, Argos? You know you don’t have to bring your own, there’s plenty of girls inside!”

  Argos had his arm around her in a moment, hiding her behind it like the trunk of an oak. “She is under my protection,” he stated, ending the conversation.

  “...fair enough,” Silenus muttered, dropping his writing stick back on the desk. His mood was back to his amped-up upbeat in a second. “By the way, you'll have your chance to dress up, or dress down - we've got dryaaads,” he finished with a singsong voice and jazz hands.

  “Ah, sweet!” Medusa exclaimed. There an island of nymph that had been friends of the family since she was a child; they still the decade or two since she’d grown up feel like yesterday. “Seriously, sweetest beings you’ll ever meet.”

  “Er, sure,” the satyr said quickly, before dancing his cane out to the heavy doors opening behind him. Excited chatter and chortles made their way out, like the foreplay of conversations to come. A harp strummed wave after wave of dulcet tones, as soothing as surf splashing around their feet. Light spattered out of the hall like watercolors along the far wall. The walls seemed to hold everything in, and hold back the outside world, with everything they dreaded about their lives. After all these mad months fighting to survive, this promised to be a getaway.

  “--Well what’re you waiting for? Everyone and everything’s just waitin’ for ya. Come! Onnnnn! Down!”