17
Marcos’–or, rather, Bacchus’–deep brown, still sexy, eyes slowly blinked as if he was bored, even though Chloe was flopping against the car, her oval mouth gasping. The fabric of her pretty yellow sundress seemed to meld with her skin, its delicate fringes looking more and more like fins with each passing moment. I hardly had time to take in what was happening to Chloe, for I had also started to notice that my own skin was becoming an eerie pale white. I leaned against the other side of the car, gasping as I tried to catch my own breath.
“Wait!” I heard Ovid shout. His voice sounded distant even though he was only a few feet away. The god of merriment did not look very merry as he turned his head casually to Ovid and rolled his eyes, obviously perturbed by the centaur’s protest. “Bacc
