by Staci Hart
Apollo and Eros laughed.
“So cruel, Artemis, to leave a man wanting so. A problem which I believe I can rectify,” Eros said as he stepped forward.
His white wings flapped behind him with a lively snap before folding against his naked back, and his muscular arms drew his bow, the dove feathers coming to rest against his cheek. He fired.
The arrow struck true, and Leodes straightened up with a dazed look on his face. He marched after the girl and pulled her off the street. Eyes on fire, he pressed her up against the side of a building and kissed her with all the love he had in him. She wound herself around him, begging his name when he broke away to kiss down her neck.
Eros tipped his head and gave a slight bow.
Apollo clapped. “Impressive, Eros.”
Artemis threw her bow and arrow down, and a tuft of cloud flew up after them. She scowled and sat down, pouting.
“Dear sister,” Apollo said as he drew his bow, “you must forgive me.”
He loosed the arrow, and it struck Leodes in his poor heart again. He murmured as he kissed her skin.
“Thither I must haste to bring / The mysterious early light; / Which must witness every rite / Of the joyous happy night / Let us hasten — let us fly — / Where lovely meadows lie; / Where the living waters flow; / Where the roses bloom and blow.”
“Oh, Leodes,” she whispered, and with that, she could refuse no longer.
Eros clapped and laughed. “Well done, Apollo.”
Artemis appraised Apollo with narrowed eyes. “Traitorous brother. Let us up the stakes, shall we?”
“What do you propose?”
“First, no targets in Greece. Distance is key.”
Apollo tsked. “Artemis, you know that I will win.”
“I have bested you before in distance. Do not be so assured. Another rule — each must have a different target and on a different continent. Prove your power by honoring that which you reign.”
Eros raised a blond eyebrow. “And who shall go first?”
“I will.” Artemis looked toward the dark horizon behind her.
Her eyes narrowed as she nocked an arrow, drew, and loosed. The arrow flew far and fast to a quiet hut on a freezing plain where a small fire burned. A group of women collected around Artemis’s target, who lay on a straw bed, panting and huffing as she labored. She opened her dark, almond eyes and screamed when the arrow struck, and her child left her body with a whoosh.
Eros and Apollo looked away, groaning.
“So vivid,” Eros said with a curled lip.
“Childbirth often is, you cretin,” Artemis shot, having seen enough — part of her domain was that of childbirth.
Eros contemplated the dark sky to the east before his face lit up, and he winked at Artemis. He fired an arrow that flew swiftly to a jungle with golden pyramids that rose from the tops of the trees like shining islands in the morning sun. His arrow struck a man with dark skin and black hair, shaved on the sides. Gold discs hung in his ears, and his eyes went out of focus for a moment as the arrow dissolved into dust.
He crouched, his face drawing up in determination as he made his way around the edge of a building, glancing around to make sure he was unseen before he slipped inside.
A girl waited there alone, crying in a headdress and golden robes. She ran to him when she saw him, and he wiped her tears away.
“They will not take you. I cannot lose you, sacrifice or no,” he said.
She searched his face through her tears. “They will kill us both if they find us.”
He took her hand. “Then let us hope they never do. Come.” And then, he pulled her away, out the door and into the dense jungle that swallowed them up.
Apollo’s heart ached as he watched them run. “My, Eros. That was inspired.”
Eros bowed.
Apollo watched the deep blue horizon that faded into purple. How could he win? Distance was the only way, but for him to win, he would need to circle Earth almost entirely. And then he decided. He would go to the Great Pyramid, but by route of the entire globe, which would surpass where he stood over Greece.
He took aim and loosed, and his silver arrow flew all the way around the world, over oceans and jungles and more oceans, over the desert, to the Great Pyramid, and into the chamber of Strabo, who sat, staring at a blank piece of papyrus with a frustrated scowl. No words would come, not for days, and he wondered if he’d ever write again.
But when the arrow struck, his face lit like a candle, and he dipped his reed into the ink pot. It raced across the page, telling the tale of Rhodopis, a servant granted a pair of rose-gilded slippers from her master. She fell in love with the pharaoh on a meeting of chance, though he knew not who she was — he knew her only by her golden shoes. When the god Horus gave him one slipper, he searched the kingdom to find his love, the holder of the other shoe.
Eros’s mouth hung open.
“I believe that makes me the victor,” Apollo said, smug and unabashed. “You should also know that particular tale will be retold in thousands of ways for thousands of years.”
“Distance is a factor,” Eros answered, “and the kingdom of pyramids is not as far as where my arrow struck.”
“That arrow traveled tens of thousands of kilometers! I clearly won, Eros.”
“It is a farce. Perhaps I could shoot that far, too, had Zeus made my bow and arrow. This contest is unfair, and I should not have agreed to play with the two of you.”
“Please, Eros. My bow is more than you would know what to do with.”
“What is that supposed to mean, you pretentious ass?”
“What it means, you impudent infant, is that this bow deals wrath and pain, disease and famine. It can inspire, or it can decimate. Your little love arrows are no match for mine.”
Eros’s face went red. “Let us see, shall we?” He nocked a lead arrow, intended to turn love to disdain, drawing and loosing in a swift motion. Apollo watched in horror as the arrow sailed down toward a river below.
Daphne lay by the shore with her eyes on the stars, her red hair lying in the grass around her, with a happy smile on her wide lips. The arrow hit her, and the breath left her lungs, her face twisting in pain as her heart broke.
“Daphne,” Apollo whispered.
He turned on Eros, who had a small smile on his lips and a dove arrow pointed at Apollo’s heart. He loosed.
Apollo looked down at his chest as the arrow dissolved into twinkling dust. His mouth slack, he looked up at Eros. “What have you done?” he whispered, paralyzed for a long moment before he turned and flew to Daphne.
Eros turned to Artemis, confused. “What is he on about?”
Artemis scrambled for her things and slung her quiver across her chest. “He loves her, you idiot.”
“Well, of course he does. I just hit him with an arrow.”
“No, you fool. Before you threw your tantrum.” She shook her head and followed Apollo away.
Apollo appeared by Daphne’s side, and she skittered away from him, clutching at her chest, her green eyes wide, her freckles dark against her pale skin.
“Daphne…” he said with a cautious hand extended.
“No. NO! Get away.”
“Please, Daphne. I will not harm you. It is I, Apollo.”
“I know who you are! You must stay away.”
“But I love you, and you love me.”
Her face twisted. “I could never love you. You disgust me.”
His heart shattered at the words. “I … you cannot mean—”
“Stay back!” she screamed as she scrambled to her feet and ran up the bank of the river.
He ran after her, calling her name, and she looked over her shoulder at him, terror written all over her small face, her hair flying around her. She turned and made for the river’s shore, calling her father’s name.
The water bubbled, and the river god appeared, his barrel chest glistening, his serpentine tail twisting in the water under him.
“Save
me, Father,” she shrieked.
He threw out his hand and did just that.
Daphne skidded to a halt as the earth moved beneath her. Roots shot out of the ground, whipping at her arms, twisting around her legs as the tree enveloped her. Her screams pierced Apollo’s ears, and her eyes met his just before they were gone, consumed by bark as it climbed over her skin.
Apollo fell at the base of the tree, and the branches that hung over him shrank away with a rustle.
His fists closed in the grass around her roots. “No,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Please, no.”
Her father sank back into the water with the final words, “You shall not harm her.”
Apollo closed his eyes, and his ribs shuddered as he tried to breathe. When he opened his eyes, he was glowing, the light white and yellow and hot, and when the scream ripped from his throat, the light left him in a pulse, exploding out around him in a ring. He laid a hand on the trunk and tried to stand, touching her face, still clear, as if carved into the tree, frozen in horror.
“I am sorry.” His voice was raw and rough, his tears burning tracks down his cheeks.
She rustled her branches in answer, and he reached up to pull off a strand of leaves, weaving them into his hair before crumpling to her feet, lost and broken.
That moment would never leave Apollo. He saw it every time he closed his eyes.
Aphrodite had bidden Eros to leave the arrows where they had fallen — Apollo’s penance for Adonis’s death. Eros’s powers fell under her domain, and as her son and confidant, he wouldn’t go against her command.
And so, winning was imperative for Apollo and for Daphne because the only way Dita would reverse the curse was if she had no choice at all.
Dean sat silently on the arm of the big couch in the warehouse that afternoon as Roe brought Travis up to speed.
It was Travis’s first day at practice, and Roe had instructed Dean to keep his mouth shut. Dean did what was asked. He had no desire to cause any more trouble, especially now that they’d landed Travis. The band would be better off with his talent, and they’d gotten him quickly enough that they hopefully wouldn’t catch any flak from the label for the delays they faced.
And, past that, Dean liked Travis better than any of the drummers they’d had to date. He seemed like a good guy — at least, as far as Dean could tell.
He watched as Travis nodded at Roe, smiling amiably as Roe went over their schedule and the situation. Roe’s face was drawn, his shoulders tense, and his eyes occasionally darted to Dean as he spoke.
Dean was in trouble; that was all there was to it. He’d run out of chances. Roe had seen him through almost every fuckup of his life and bailed him out, no questions asked. He was always there with a smile and a slap on the back, never judging. Dean owed him everything. Roe was the only family he had.
“Practice is every day at noon, except Saturdays. The first thing we have to do is get you familiarized with the songs we’re scheduled to record, and the sooner, the better. Our rep is breathing down my neck, and he’s not happy that Elliot’s gone.” Roe shot Dean a pointed look. “No offense, Travis.”
“None taken,” Travis said.
Kevin turned to Travis and cocked an eyebrow behind his heavy-framed black glasses. “Speaking of, you don’t have a girlfriend, do you?” He folded his skinny arms across his T-shirt that said, I can’t. I have gymnastics.
“Yeah,” Travis answered, looking around the group, confused.
Roe tensed.
Kevin smirked. “Is she hot?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah, she is. Why do you ask?” Travis asked with a hint of confusion in his voice.
Dean sighed. He wasn’t ashamed, and he wasn’t proud, but he was tired of talking about it.
“Full disclosure.” Kevin pushed his glasses up his hawkish nose. “There have been … let’s call them issues of the carnal nature between our dear Professor Panty Dropper and girlfriends of drummers past.”
“Oh. I’m not really worried about that.” Travis shrugged.
Kevin’s fingers disappeared into his curly hair as he scratched his head, and his eyebrows arched. “Seriously, man? Because that’s why Elliot bailed. Casanova here gave his girl the business, and it was curtains.”
“Ah.” Travis smirked at Dean, and Dean was caught off guard, only able to smirk back. “That’s cold.” He turned back to Roe. “Look, I trust Lex.”
Roe’s lips were a flat line. “It’s not her we’re worried about.”
Travis laughed, and Roe paused for a moment before shaking his head.
“Well, you’ve been warned. Any questions?”
Travis shook his head.
“All right,” Roe said as he turned for the gear. “Let’s get started.”
Kevin walked by on his way to his keyboard and punched Dean in the shoulder. Dean was pretty sure he was playing.
“Don’t be an asshole,” Kevin said with narrow eyes.
“Don’t worry, man.”
“Yeah, right.” Kevin rolled his eyes, and Dean gave him a crooked smile as he reached for his guitar.
He glanced at Roe, whose head was bent down as he tuned his bass, and knew he had to keep his promise.
Dean could say no. He just didn’t say no. But as he looked at Roe, he knew this was it. Things would be different this time. He owed it to all of them, and especially Roe, who was there for him always, even when he had no one else — his first and only friend.
Dean was eight years old when he met Roe on a morning that began like so many others.
His alarm blared in his ear, and he slapped the button and stretched in bed, lying there for a minute, listening for his mom.
The apartment was quiet, so either she was drunk or asleep, or she wasn’t home. He hoped it was the latter as he threw the covers off and slipped out of bed in the near dark. It was so much easier when she was gone.
The living room was quiet, and his mom’s door was open, the room silent.
Dean breathed easier as he flipped on the kitchen light and climbed onto the counter to get out the Froot Loops and a bowl. The box was almost gone, and he wondered anxiously when she would come home, or at least go to the grocery store. It had been over a week since she’d been shopping — three days since she’d been home — and they were almost out of everything.
He hopped down and took his bowl to the fridge, setting it on the shelf while he opened the milk, but as soon as he took the lid off, he knew it was sour.
Dean sighed and emptied the milk out in the sink before sitting down at the table to eat his cereal plain, not able to hear anything past the crunching. He jumped when the door opened, and his mother almost fell into the room, giggling.
Her black hair spilled down her back, her green eyes ringed with shadows, and the man behind her grabbed her arm to stop her from falling.
“Whoa there, Susie. I think you’ve had too much to drink. We should get you to bed.” He smiled down at her and nuzzled his face in her neck.
She giggled again and squirmed against him.
When he pulled away, he noticed Dean for the first time, and his smile slipped off his face and onto the floor. “Uh, who’s this?”
She glanced at Dean and rolled her eyes. “That’s just my kid. Don’t mind him. He’s on his way to school in a bit. Aren’t you?” She shot a look at him that let him know exactly where he stood.
“Yeah.” Dean pushed his bowl away, his appetite gone.
“Let me just go freshen up, okay, Joey?”
“Sure thing, baby.”
She made a face at Dean as she walked by.
All he wanted to do was get out of there, and he wished she had just waited a half an hour before coming home. His stomach twisted into knots as he picked up the bowl and poured the cereal back into the box. If she didn’t go shopping, he could eat it tomorrow.
Joey leaned up against the wall by the door and watched him with a friendly smile. “Hey, kid.”
“Hey.” Dean put the
bowl in the sink and made his way around the kitchen, collecting bread and peanut butter for his lunch.
“You need some help?”
“I got it, thanks.”
“You’re pretty good. You get yourself up and everything? How old are you?”
“Eight.”
Joey’s face fell. “Wow. I’m impressed. That’s very grown-up of you. Are you sure you don’t want a hand? I’d like to help.”
Dean looked up at him, wishing Joey really could help. For a split second, he imagined living in a world where someone wanted to take care of him. A place where he was tucked in tight by someone who loved him, a world where movies with popcorn or hot cocoa on cold winter nights existed. But Joey would soon be gone, and his mom would bring a new guy home. Or she would leave, and he’d be all alone again. Joey couldn’t help him, and his mother didn’t want to.
“I always do it by myself, but thanks anyway.” Dean turned for his room, leaving the bewildered man in the kitchen.
As he hurried to get ready for school, he tried not to listen to what was going on in his mother’s room, rushing out the front door, locking it hastily. He pushed his shaggy hair out of his face, but it wouldn’t stay put — it hadn’t been cut in months. The last time he’d cut it himself, it’d looked stupid, and he’d been made fun of for weeks at school.
Dean walked the three blocks to his elementary school and sat on the steps in the chilly morning with a composition book in his lap, waiting for the doors to open. His teacher had given it to him with permission to keep it to write about whatever he’d like. That was a week ago, and it was almost full. He drew a little, but he wasn’t very good, but he’d found what he really loved was to write poems.
As he flipped through the last blank pages, he realized how few pages were left, and he worried over what would happen when he was out of space. It didn’t feel right to ask for another book, and he didn’t have any money for one. There was no way he could ask his mom for one either, and he chewed on his lip, wondering how he could stretch the pages to last as long as possible.