The Sun Revolves Around Apollo (The Gods Are Back In Town Book 2)

by Serena Akeroyd

  I’d known that I wasn’t the Cindy everyone was calling me. I’d been fully aware of the fact that I’d been dead and, for whatever reason, I was alive once more.

  None of those things compared to what I experienced now.

  Not a single, goddamn thing.

  “What’s your name?” Sol asked, dragging my attention to him.

  “Ella.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “Ella,” he repeated, seeming to taste each syllable, and my core seemed to react as though he’d tasted me. Jesus, how I wanted that.

  “What’s going on?” I inquired, and I heard the rumblings of panic in my voice.

  The twin cleared his throat, and from the look he sent Sol, I knew he was feeling this weird link between us. It arced like a rainbow from me to him, and me to Sol even though we hadn’t touched. And Christ, I knew what had stirred in me last night between Owen and Steven was the same.

  Four men?

  Since when had I turned into that kind of woman?

  “Is this what happened with Ziel? The whole tín eaftoú gynaíka thing?” the twin addressed Sol.

  Was that Greek?

  And that name?

  Those words…

  Why did I remember them when I didn’t speak a word of Greek?

  Sol didn’t reply to the twin’s words, though, just whispered, “Hold out your hand, Ella.”

  I didn’t want to. I really didn’t. I tried to tell my hand to stay exactly where it damn well was, and not to move an inch.

  It didn’t listen.

  Where before it refused to move upon my command, now it did whatever it damn well wanted, and boy, it wanted. It wanted to touch this stranger, this Sol, craved the connection.

  Although it was shaking, it still complied, and when it hovered above the dining table that held remnants of their breakfast—eggs, toast, and bacon by the looks of it—he raised his and connected our palms.

  I’d died, and I kind of remembered it. I didn’t remember any white lights, though, or my life flashing before my eyes. To be fair, that would have been a useful memory to have because at least I’d have been able to remember who and what I was before I’d been reborn in Cinderella DiStefano’s body.

  I remembered now though.

  As his skin touched mine, unlike the flare of response that happened when I touched Owen, Steven, and the twin sitting here—gaping at us like he was watching a Final at the US Open—this link soared to life in a way I’d never anticipated.

  It had me staggering back, but as I moved, he did too, maintaining the connection so I couldn’t escape.

  My knees buckled, and though he tried to stop it, he couldn’t. It happened too fast.

  One second, I was standing there, the next I was halfway to the floor and, just my luck, my chin caught the edge of the table. I bit my tongue, my mouth flooded with blood, but that was seconds before the back of my head connected with the ground.

  The last thing I heard was the chairs scraping as the guys hurried to help me, but then, there was just darkness.

  Did I mention the Cindy part of this scenario was a klutz with a capital K?

  Well, now you knew I wasn’t bullshitting you.

  ❖

  Apollo

  My heart, my lungs, my brain, my very soul felt like they were being thrown around in a twister.

  Even as my body called out to this magnificent woman, everything that made me a God shrank back in fear. She pulled at that side of me, demanded I lay myself bare to her.

  I knew she wasn’t in control, knew she hadn’t meant to seek that information, but she had, and I’d had no choice but to answer that call.

  Until she’d pulled away.

  Until she’d dropped to her damn knees and had knocked herself unconscious.

  Even as I cradled her head in my lap, my eyes on the bloody drips trailing from her mouth that Castor was mopping up with one of the napkins, I questioned this.

  Questioned it all.

  “Who is she?” Castor whispered, his eyes almost reverent as he beheld her, and I couldn’t blame him.

  Not only was she a true beauty, but this link? It was more than anything I’d ever experienced, and I’d mourned the loss of Daphne for several millennia. The way my soul opened to her was beyond terrifying, and I wasn’t sure whether to be in awe of the young woman I cradled or to fear her.

  “I don’t know,” I replied, and I didn’t. Truly.

  Castor wanted to know who she was to us, not to the rest of the world, but I had no real answer.

  He managed to tear his gaze from her flushed, sleeping features, and then he switched to Greek. “I know her face, she is your fiancée, Apollo, Cindy, not Ella, but she is more. You must know what she is to us. You must.”

  Cinderella had changed her name while at the center. Even as I wondered why, I shoved that aside. There were more important issues at stake.

  Had I known of the connection between us, I’d never have stayed away, and I told him as much, “If I knew, I’d say. I wouldn’t have kept myself from her if I’d known we would react to one another so strongly. Perhaps she is tín eaftoú gynaíka, like with Hades and his woman, but I can’t tell you that for certain.”

  “Call Hades. He’ll tell you.”

  My scowl should have scorched him but it didn’t. “I’m not calling him.”

  “You must.” When I shook my head, he narrowed his eyes at me. “What did he say to you before? When he came to the city, what did he want?”

  “He only said he had urgent business.” I dipped my chin when he glared at me, silently seeking more information. “He mentioned the female was his tín eaftoú gynaíka, as I informed you before, but little else.”

  “He married a human female? Or is she like Cinderella?” And that, did Castor but know it, was the crux of the matter.

  Though I didn’t like to make the admission for I was hardly a lesser God, Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon were officially the big three. For Hades to shackle himself to a human had come as a big surprise. I’d done it myself a time or two as Castor had chided me for the night before, but Hades? I’d never imagined him deigning to marry one. It was hard enough thinking of him fucking someone he believed was lesser than himself—the man had an ego bigger than this large continent I called home—but marriage?

  And yet, the way he’d looked at her. The way he’d not only devoured the small female with his eyes but had worshipped her too? That resonated with me.

  Even as I stroked her hair with one hand, I reached for my cell and connected it to my father.

  There was no point in asking Hades. He’d delight in withholding information from me since we weren’t exactly friends, and though we shared America, we didn’t play nice together.

  Castor looked relieved that I was outsourcing our doubts to someone else, but I knew he wouldn’t think I’d contact my father. Zeus was an irascible bastard. Dealing with him was a chore, but in this, he’d be the only one with answers to the questions we had.

  “About time you called.”

  I tensed my jaw. “I had no idea you were missing me.”

  Zeus snorted. “Hardly. Thought you’d want some information on the girl I sent your way.”

  “Girl?” I asked, and I switched to Greek just in case Ella was faking it and could listen in. Not like that was likely, but it was best to speak in a language I felt certain she wouldn’t understand. The only people who spoke this kind of Greek were college professors dedicated to the ancient texts.

  “Yes. Girl.” He huffed. “I sent her months ago.”

  “Sorry to be slow on the uptake.”

  “You always did lag behind,” Zeus retorted, and my shoulders stiffened as they usually did where he was concerned.

  To say that my father wished for overachievers for children was a gross understatement. I was known as the leader of the muses, the giver and interpreter of laws and divine custom, the protector of crops and destroyer of pests, the averter of evil, but not even that was enough to pleas
e dear, old Papa.

  “The girl… who is she?”

  “She is your wife. Your true wife,” he explained.

  “Why?”

  “You dare to question my generosity?”

  There was a silken thread to the words that had me tensing. It promised violence, and I knew my father well enough to know he’d follow through on the threat.

  “I wish only to know if this gift comes at a cost.”

  “As the God of Prophecy, I thought you’d be the one to know,” Zeus taunted.

  My patience was drawing to a close. I wasn’t exactly in possession of a never-ending vat of it, but where my father was concerned, it was even more difficult to remain calm in the face of his taunts.

  “I’d prefer not to deal with conjecture,” I told him. “Prophecies and truth can morph with free will. You know that as well as I.”

  A hum sounded down the line, and I realized he agreed with me, and that was the only reason he explained, “It is time to beget new Gods, son.”

  New Gods?

  I frowned and put the call on speaker, so Castor could listen in with ease.

  “Why now?”

  “Because the world is changing, and our control, while still powerful, is not evolving with the way society is moving.

  “We are ancient beings. We are ill-equipped to handle the needs of a population that relies mostly on technology. Even as we grow with the times, move with them, we cannot fully envelop them, but our children, children who are born to this time, in this day and age, who are raised with that in mind, will understand and can address the deficits in our governing of this realm.”

  Even as I was staggered by the very idea that Zeus was willing to admit we were not as all-knowing and all-seeing as he’d like us to believe we were, I was amazed by the repercussions of his words.

  “You gave us mates?” I inquired huskily.

  He grunted. “Don’t be sentimental.”

  “I’m not. You haven’t met yours yet, have you?” I demanded, knowing the answer just by his tone—he hadn’t. If he had? He’d understand the way fear and delight were weaving together in my soul.

  “No. Not yet. Damn Fates always were slippery bitches. They gave Hades his first, then you. I sensed it the minute I met her.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “I met her. She was dead. She came along with Hades when he visited me earlier this year. You know how he collects ghosts like magpies do silver. Anyway, I saw her, sensed who she was, and brought her back for you. I’ve been waiting on a thank you from you.”

  His sulky tone had me immediately stating, “And thank you I do.”

  “So, you should. She’s yours in a way that not even Daphne was.”

  I couldn’t even stiffen at his veiled amusement. He’d always mocked me for my love of the water nymph. Had claimed a stronger God would never have allowed Eros to snare him in his trick.

  “What of the guardians?”

  “She’s theirs too. You’ll have to share your toy, son. The guardians’ spirits are tied to you, and you’re tied to her. To beget heirs with more control than we have, the guardians must aid in their procreation.”

  Aid in their procreation?

  I shot Castor a bemused look.

  “IVF?” I inquired, and Zeus snorted.

  “No, you fool. She must join with them. The Fates will see to the rest.”

  Tugging at my shirt collar, I asked, “Is there anything else I should know?” Aside from the fact that my wife had been brought back from the dead in the form of the woman I’d promised to marry… Also, that said woman was to be the mother of my children.

  Children I hadn’t managed to beget for over two and a half thousand years or more.

  And children that weren’t to be demi-Gods or the like, but full-blooded deities, a concept I couldn’t even begin to understand…

  “No. Just trust in the Fates, son, and don’t let me down.”

  He disconnected the call before I could reply, and though I didn’t have many more questions in need of answering, there was one large question mark over the entire situation.

  “I don’t even know where to start with how fucked up this is,” Castor confessed.

  I watched as his eyes settled once more on Ella’s resting face. His hand was gentle as he mopped up the blood that still trickled from her mouth—she must have bitten her tongue.

  “We should return her to her room. I can heal her there.”

  For a second, he was startled by my words. I rarely healed nowadays, after all, but then he nodded. “Agreed.”

  ❖

  Castor

  “Do you think she cut her hair herself?”

  Apollo snorted at my question, and my lips curved in response because I could read between the lines.

  Yes, he said with that one sound. Who else do we know who’d do that? Was another of his silent remarks.

  We lived in a particular sphere of New York society, where socialites and debutantes were as prevalent now as they’d been back in the thirties. They dripped with gems, had nails like bejeweled talons with strange things that dangled from them, and spent a small fortune at salons and spas.

  At some point, most of the creme de la creme had come-on to us—we were eligible bachelors. Rich and powerful. Why wouldn’t they? But our wife, the one destined for us by the Fates, had dyed her hair an odd shade of yellow, and chopped most of it off with what looked like a butcher’s knife from the blunt cut.

  I had to hide a smile.

  I didn’t care that her stylist by choice were kitchen implements, but it amused me nonetheless.

  Carrying her to her bedroom was easier than anticipated. Mostly because as we headed out of the dining hall, Pollux and Achilles were heading in.

  When they saw Ella, the haste in which they acted—silently guiding us to her quarters in the west wing—spoke of the fact that they felt the connection too.

  In these instances, staff were trained to take any injured guests to the nurses on site. Not to herd them to their bedrooms. And if something so strange were to happen? There’d be another female present.

  But this? Now? Nothing about it was usual. Ordinary. And, by our very nature, we weren’t exactly used to ‘regular.’

  Her scent was the first thing to hit me as I carried her into her personal space and laid her out on the sofa. Even though I recognized the layout of the room, had helped design it with Achilles a few years back, she’d done something to it to make it her own.

  The layout wasn’t clinical. We’d tried to design each guest room with some individuality in mind, with none of the anonymity of regular hotel suites.

  The bed, with its carved posts, overlooked the three large picture windows that peered out onto the rolling yard and the lake in the near distance. Behind the bed, there was a seating area that was sectioned off thanks to two steps, which set the four-poster on a dais of its own.

  Here, there were two armchairs, a sofa, and a coffee table. All generic stuff until you looked deeper. The table was an antique—battered, but ancient nonetheless with lines of age and use that brought an individuality of its own. The sofa was leather, but it too was scored with age. Not so that it looked ratty, but that it appeared vintage. There was a thick throw on it, real fur that came from a wolf who had tried to attack Achilles back in Stalingrad. He’d killed the beast for the attempt, but had honored him by using his fur, instead of just discarding the creature like trash.

  We came from a different age. We weren’t pro-fur but anti-waste.

  The rich silver offset the deep brown leather, and the armchairs, both maroon Chesterfields, had colorful pillows tossed on them. They matched the bed linens and the curtains.

  “Huh,” my brother said, ever effusive with his words.

  “What?” I asked him as I laid Ella down on the bed.

  “I’d never have taken her for a crystal person. Or a—” He wafted a hand, then trailed his fingers over a scarf she’d laid over one of the larger lamps that was
adjacent to one of the armchairs. “She’s a hippy.”

  Achilles snorted. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I’m not! This is what hippies do, isn’t it? We had enough here to remember,” he groused, elbowing Achilles in the side.

  “I liked pot! They did too!” was the hardened soldier’s only defense.

  I peered around the room and understood what Pollux meant. There were silk scarves draped here and there that added a lot of color to the neutral tones. She’d definitely brought the crystals because we didn’t offer crystal therapy, but they were dotted on any available surface. Large and small, in a variety of colors that brought the room to life.

  My eyes shied away from the unmade bed.

  I could easily imagine her awakening amid those tousled sheets, and now wasn’t the time for arousal when our wife—at least according to the king of the Gods—was infirm.

  “The neighbors still think this is a commune because of you,” I told him dryly, my attention switching from the room Ella had made her own, to days I remembered with anything but fondness.

  Achilles would never admit to it, but of us all, and though we’d each fought in many battles over the years, he alone had PTSD.

  Most guardians stayed close to their Gods, as did Pollux and I. Achilles wasn’t like that. He tested the limits of the bond and had enlisted several dozen times in the human army.

  He’d been on the field at Agincourt, had rallied the troops at Hastings, had endured the Somme, and been a key figure in the siege of Stalingrad.

  This place?

  Pollux and I had come up with it to try to slow him down, but also to try to get him to accept help. We considered it his baby, but we’d put him on this track. Sometimes, helping others allowed someone to accept help themselves, and I knew the rehab center that provided a refuge and a respite from the modern world truly was Achilles’ sanctuary.