Goddess of Forgetfulness

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “I’ve never gotten far enough in a relationship for it to happen.” Her powers got in the way, not to mention gods had been very limited on dating choices since they weren’t usually attracted to other immortal species and they couldn’t get down and dirty with mortals until recently. In her “teen” years, ten to twenty thousand years old, she’d had a few dates with a demon or two, but that was no fun. They were all “Me, me, me. Kill, kill, kill. Hold me?”

  Ooph! No, gracias.

  Things finally changed with the Mayans, when a group of power-hungry, bloodthirsty priests discovered black jade. It was a very potent material only found deep underground in the jungles of Southern Mexico. With its many supernatural properties, the Maaskab priests pioneered the manipulation of dark energy, sifting through air, time travel, and mind control. Worse, this stuff could completely immobilize a god if enough was used.

  Ah, but use just a dash? It blunted a god’s energy, which opened the door to physical contact.

  Just in the nick of time. Another minute longer and the most powerful of her brethren would have lost their shit. They needed love. It was beautiful when she really thought about it. Humans needed gods to keep them out of hot water. Gods needed humans to show them the path to selfless love. Still, she’d resisted, along with many others, and now the Universe was forcing her hand. The gods would either step up and find a mate or there would be total annihilation.

  Every divine cell in her goddess body recoiled with fear. She liked her single life. It was simple and free of the romantic heartache she often witnessed in the dating world.

  Come on. What heartache will there be? I’m a goddess. Hot, smart, devoted, and powerful in my own way. Plenty of men would want her, and she was bound to find one she could connect with.

  I am a sexy goddess. I am a strong woman. I am a sexy goddess. I am a strong…

  Yes. She could do this.

  Forgetty headed downstairs to the meet-up with the tour bus to France.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The drive to Monte Carlo went as expected, meaning horrible. Halfway through the trip, Forgetty dozed off and later discovered they were heading in the wrong direction. Because, yes, you guessed it; the driver forgot where they were going, as did the rest of the passengers—a side effect of being in her presence for an extended period of time.

  Twelve hours later, with her copiloting, the tour bus pulled up to a fancy-looking, multistory hotel with a stone façade and classic Europe elegance—pillars, circular driveway, and an impressive fountain.

  Gorgeous, she thought as she walked through the revolving front door. A room here couldn’t cost any less than a few thousand per night. And the lobby, with its soaring domed glass ceiling that sparkled with the last rays of sunlight, only confirmed that Mr. Liath had spared no expense for the headlining talent.

  I have to meet the man. Because he had incredible taste. Or not. His team actually took care of all the event itineraries and travel arrangements, which was why she’d never met the man, not even when they’d been working through the contract for this tour. He was like a ghost, though rumor had it he was really just an old, crotchety money-grubber with a knack for investing in music, entertainment, and the arts. It was even said that he didn’t like dance music.

  I bet he’s never heard me spin. She could read a crowd, feel their collective energy, and play the perfect song to edge them up the emotional ladder. By song four, everyone was laughing, smiling, and feeling their entire bodies swell with love. That, in turn, gave her a high like no other. Regardless, this Mr. Liath likely only knew enough about her and her fellow DJs to book the best of the best.

  At least he’s got good sense going for him. And hopefully she could find him at the venue because after tonight, she would be too busy to make the final stop on the tour in Rio. Once I get on that stage and offer myself up to love, I’ll be sorting through thousands of males until I find one suitable enough to be my mate. Unfortunately, finding Mr. Liath wouldn’t be so easy. There were four stages, almost a thousand employees—security, concession workers, janitorial staff, roadies, managers, lighting and sound technicians. She would have to get there early.

  Not a problem! Now that she’d figured out her plan, she couldn’t wait to meet her mate. I’ve been waiting seventy thousand years, and tonight is the night! I can feel it!

  Later that evening, Forgetty prepared for her big event by pinning up her golden hair into an elaborately braided twist, something she rarely did because she preferred stylish comfort over appearance, which usually meant braided pigtails. Occasionally, she would weave white ribbons in her blonde hair and paint her face neon so that the black lights made her look like a crazy creature from another planet. The young humans loved it. Tonight, though, instead of her usual tank dress that left her arms free to move about the turntables, she put on a skimpy, one-shouldered, red dress she’d found in the gift shop downstairs.

  Forgetty put on her matching red strappy heels and bright red lipstick and then looked in the full-length mirror in the bathroom—a fancy white marble palace too bright for her taste. Her eyes washed up and down her tall, curvy body. “Yep, my outfit definitely screams I’m open to love.” She just wished she wasn’t sooo tall.

  I’ll just have to find a man who likes giraffes. She leaned forward, puckered her flaming red lips and fixed a smudge of black eyeliner. With the pound of mascara and smoky makeup caked around her turquoise eyes, they nearly glowed, which was exactly what she wanted. Not that she was opposed to mating with a mortal, but if any eligible immortal males were in the audience tonight, they’d surely notice her eyes—a sign of her divinity.

  With her outfit all set, she went downstairs and boarded the awaiting shuttle just outside the grand lobby’s front door. It was already filled with staff. Who are all staring and looking confused. Excellent way to start my night. It was the same story every time she met people she already knew. They’d go quasi-catatonic for several seconds while their brains hiccupped, knowing she looked familiar but unable to place her in their memories.

  “What? Haven’t you ever seen a goddess? Who DJs? And is dressed like a hooker from the ’80s?”

  Everyone shook their heads no.

  “Ha-ha. You’re all a bunch of comedians.” She took the last open seat near the front. She probably shouldn’t have said that thing about being a goddess, but they’d all forget in a few moments anyway.

  The shuttle departed, and within twenty minutes the vehicle was pulling through the back gate of the Louis II Stadium, an enormous outdoor sports arena and home to the beloved Monaco soccer team. Off in the distance she could see the parking lot overflowing.

  Perfect. A full house. The more people, the better her chances of finding Mr. Right. I can’t wait! Plus, the French were wild when it came to these events that looked like a Super Bowl halftime party times four—multiple stages, lights, and dance performances. The rave would go until one a.m., with her being the last DJ. Fireworks would mark the end of the event.

  Speaking of fireworks, please let me find some of my very own tonight.

  The shuttle pulled up to the curb in front of the employee entrance. With an eager bounce in her step, she exited the shuttle and headed straight to the security checkpoint tent, where she would show her pass and—

  Oomph! Someone rammed her from the right, knocking her off her spiked red heels. She flew several feet, landing on her left hip. The sound of tearing fabric preceded the burn of her skin scraping across the cement.

  “Motherfucker!” She groaned, rolling onto her back and cupping the shredded skin on her arm, only to realize the pain on her hip was way worse.

  “Jesus, woman,” snarled a deep, baritone voice, “do you have spatial awareness issues?”

  Forgetty’s eyes darted to the large man hovering over her, two shockingly blue eyes glaring down.

  Hey, it’s that…“Asshole! What is your deal?” He was the same barbarian roadie from last night.

  Okay, yes. He was tall a
nd all ripped biceps, and also wearing really sexy leather pants, but so the hell what? The same could be said for lots of stagehands on this tour. There was Mike, the head of security with his amazing tats, and Waylon, the sound guy who looked like a Calvin Klein underwear model, especially when he went around shirtless while setting up. Such. Nice. Abs. Point was, a perfect male body didn’t mean dick if the guy was, well, a giant dick.

  Oh. I bet he has one of those, too.

  “Ohmygod. Are you okay?” A fellow performer, a young redhead who went by the name We-J, knelt down.

  Forgetty snapped out of her very odd mental detour and focused on the man sneering down at her, his eyes narrowed to tight little slits to punctuate his abhorrence.

  “Asshole?” he huffed. “Isn’t that precious coming from someone like you.”

  Without bothering to help her up or assist with her injuries, he turned his broad back, donning a snug-fitting DJ Whatsherface T-shirt, and headed into the event, sailing through the security checkpoint.

  “This is war.” She scowled, propping herself up on her one good elbow. And by war, she meant his death. Normally, she would simply ignore males such as him, delighting in the knowledge that he would soon perish and meet Cimil, who would do bad, bad things to him before dragging him off to the place where evil souls went. But this guy? Oh, no, no, no, señor. This guy with his perfect-fitting leather pants, worn and soft and hugging his solid ass in just the right way. Oh, this guy was going down.

  We-J helped Forgetty to her feet. “I think you need to go to the medic tent. That scrape looks pretty nasty.”

  Forgetty inspected the road rash on her exposed hip. Physically, she would be fine and heal up within the hour, but the impact of the fall had torn right through the delicate red fabric of her dress.

  “I’m good. Which way are the vendors?” Forgetty asked.

  “Take a right after the security checkpoint.” We-J pointed the way.

  Forgetty dipped her head, realizing her elaborate hairdo had come loose. Another casualty of Mr. McButthead.

  “Thanks.” Forgetty hobbled away, chin held high. As soon as she found new clothes and then Mr. Liath, she would hunt down the bulldozer and make him wish he’d never reached puberty. “Because I’m going to grab him by the short hairs and drag him off to the nearest ditch for a good old-fashioned eye plucking.”

  Three hours later, Forgetty stood at the edge of the main stage, her search for Mr. Liath having resulted in a suspicious amount of shrugs and “I haven’t seen hims.” It wasn’t possible for the owner of this worldwide dance event, attended by one million people when all was said and done, to be so anonymous. Something was going on, but it could wait. Being over seventy thousand years old had taught her that there were few situations that truly qualified as a mystery, urgent, or worthy of divine intervention. Mr. Liath was likely some scabby old mobster who operated in the shadows.

  Whereas I’m a goddess trying to save the world from terminal amnesia. No, it wasn’t fatal to forget how to wipe one’s ass, but not knowing where to find water or what qualified as a food was catastrophic. The way she saw it, unless she did this and did it well, humans were doomed.

  Forgetty stepped forward on the stage, staring out at the ocean of curious faces illumined by the lights behind her. She’d asked for the intro music to be shut off, the mic turned on, and the camera crew to film her so that everyone within the arena could see her on the big screens positioned above.

  Hands shaking, she wiggled the mic from the stand. Please, Universe, let him be here. She cleared her throat and looked down at her lame outfit—some black leggings with green pot leaves and a sweatshirt with “DJ Who. Me?” on the front. Hopefully, her mate would see past the exterior. Yes, your only real worry should be how to handle the herd of men about to trample the stage.

  “He-hello.” She spoke into the microphone, her voice reverbing with an earsplitting shriek for the first few seconds. “I’m-I’m DJ Forgetty, which I’m sure you’ll all forget in five point five seconds, but…” She looked down at her now bare feet. She’d had no reason to wear the heels after her dress had been ruined.

  Be strong, Getty. You can do this.

  She gulped hard. “So, this is really awkward, but I’ve never had a relationship or fallen in love. It pains me to admit it. Truly. But I’m afraid to love someone and then look into his eyes and know he doesn’t remember me.” She shrugged toward the ground. “So, you see, it’s pointless to think I could have anything beyond one night with any male. But if there’s any man out there who feels something genuine for me, something deep in his heart—love at first sight—well, I think I could be happy with that. It’s more than I’ve ever expected.”

  Relief washed over her. She’d put herself out there and said her piece.

  Slowly, she lifted her gaze back toward the crowd, preparing for what would come next.

  What the fuck? Like a deer in headlights, the people stared, completely motionless. Not one man, or woman, moved toward the stage.

  She tapped the microphone. Yes, it was on. What’s happening? There didn’t seem to be even one measly taker.

  “Are you paying attention? Doesn’t anyone feel anything?”

  Crickets.

  Horror washed over her. “Really? Not one of you has anything to say?” For the first time in her existence, she felt tears of self-pity well in her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and pushed out a breath. “Unbelievable.” She was a goddess, for crying out loud. Most men prayed for a female like her at one time or another.

  Fucking figures.

  Just then she felt a pair of eyes on her. She turned her head to see Mr. Asshole Roadie staring from the side of the stage, muscled arms crossed over his chest, and a flicker of something strange in his eyes.

  She stared, wondering what the hell he was looking at.

  Suddenly, he flashed a cocky smile, like her humiliation pleased him, and then dipped his head of thick dark blond hair before turning and walking away.

  Her humiliation turned to anger. “Laugh all you like, buddy,” she called out. “Your days are numbered!”

  Forgetty swiveled toward the salvation of her turntables. “Let’s get this party started,” she grumbled and flipped the power switch on her control board. The lights flickered and the masses roared as her techno mash-up of “YMCA” (by The Village People) and “Millennium” (by Robbie Williams) pounded through the speakers.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “No. Please stop!” screamed the naked little man tied to his kitchen table. “I promise I wasn’t going to do anything bad—I’m a caterer!”

  Cimil replaced the duct tape over his mouth and tugged the knot around his wrist. Yesterday evening, she’d followed the man home from the club store and spied through his window. She hadn’t caught him doing anything shady; however, no one bought that much whipped cream unless they were insane—like her—or planning a wrestling match.

  Oh. I wonder if he’ll invite me!

  “No more lies!” Cimil yelled. “Today is not Wednesday, and I am a busy goddess. Where do you have the wrestlers hidden? And why was I not invited to the obligatory whipped-cream-licking session that will follow?”

  The man’s brown eyes widened in terror. “Mumble, mumble, mumble.”

  “What? Can’t hear you.” Cimil ripped the tape from his face.

  “Ow!”

  “You ain’t seen ‘ow’ yet, buddy.”

  “Please, lady. I don’t know who you are or which hospital you’ve escaped from, but I’m telling the truth. Check the freezer in my garage. I’m catering a fundraiser for the fire department—”

  Cimil’s cell vibrated in her shiny pink fanny sack.

  “Hold that thought,” she said, digging out her phone, thinking it might be her vampire king hubby, Roberto, who was at the zoo with their four tiny antichrists of mayhem—my prides and joys.

  The caller ID showed a big question mark. Not Roberto. “Whatsyourface? That you?”

 
“Cimil, I need your help,” Forgetty blubbered on the other end of the phone. “You have to throw that immortal singles mixer for me. Fast. My plan failed.”

  “Sorry. I’m a little tied up at the moment—or shall I say, tying up at the moment. Which is really a sad attempt to distract myself because I’ve yet to hear back from our mer-licious warriors regarding the outcome of their attempt to capture our brother Zac.”

  “Cimil, this is serious. I just got rejected by ten thousand men. And probably a few hundred women, too.”

  “Have you considered covering yourself in whipped cream and asking them to lick it off you? I’ve just come into a large supply of the stuff, so I could help you out.”

  “What? No. Why would you say that?”

  “Say what?” She honestly couldn’t remember. In fact, why was she in this house? Why is that man tied to a table? Cimil looked at the phone in her hand. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “Dammit, Cimil! Focus. It’s me, Getty!”

  “Hmmm…sounds vaguely familiar.”

  “Just stop. Okay? I’m really trying here. I need to find my mate. Can you help me or not?”

  “Not.”

  “So that’s it. You’re just letting the ship sink, and you won’t even lift a finger to help your own sister or the humans in our care.”

  “Oh, it’s Forgetty! Why didn’t you just say so? And nope. It is as I’ve told you. There is no mate for you. You are destined for eternal misery and spinsterhood. Seriously, don’t even hope.” Honestly, though, who the hell knew? Without powers, Cimil’s ability to clearly hear all of the things the dead were saying was impossible, and she only knew of one man in the entire universe who was totally ape shit for Forgetty.

  But that guy is eviiiil. His soul was so dark that shadows feared him. This dude was so scary that the boogie man dressed up like him for Halloween. He’s so bloodthirsty that even vampires feel like complete pussies in his presence. All right, except for my pharaoh, Roberto, who only feels like a pussy on Saturdays when I dress him like a Sasquatch, which really looks like a big hairy vajay-jay. Hey, why the hell am I talking about this? Is anyone listening? Anyone? Testing, testing.