by Staci Hart
Dean was so deep in thought that he didn’t see James McCoy coming. He slapped Dean’s open notebook, and it fell down the stairs along with his pencil.
“Hey, Monroe. Are you writing some more stupid girl poems?”
Dean glared at him. “Hey, McCoy. I saw you munching your mom’s butt earlier. Need a breath mint?”
“Yeah, you got any in your purse?”
“Is that the best you’ve got?”
McCoy scowled. “You’re such a girl, Monroe. You sure you don’t have boobs under there, dick breath?” He hooked a finger in Dean’s collar and tugged.
Dean slapped his hand away. “Whatever, fat ass.” He stood and took a step toward his notebook, but McCoy pushed him hard enough to land Dean back on the step.
“I don’t have a fat ass, shit for brains.”
Dean stood again, and his fists clenched. “Fuck you, McCoy. Get out of my way.”
“You gonna make me?”
Dean was so focused on keeping himself from hitting McCoy that he didn’t see the blond kid picking up his notebook and pencil until McCoy turned to him.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the kid who’s about to stick my foot in your craphole if you don’t walk away.”
McCoy turned to Dean. “Who’s this? Your girlfriend?” He flailed his hands and rolled his eyes.
Dean pulled back his fist, but before he had a chance to throw the punch, the blond kid kicked the back of McCoy’s knee, and he crumpled on the step, whimpering.
“I’m telling!” McCoy called as he hobbled off.
The blond kid laughed. “That guy’s a real winner.” He turned to Dean. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Roe,” he said with bright eyes and a friendly smile. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Dean. Thanks, by the way.”
Roe shrugged. “No problem. I hate chodes like that — there were a ton at my old school.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We just moved here, and I don’t know anybody yet.”
Dean smiled at the possibility of having a real friend for the first time. Roe had his back without even knowing him, and he knew even then that he’d do the same. He’d do anything for someone who cared — loyalty was all he had to offer.
“Well, now you know me,” Dean said, sealing their friendship.
And they were inseparable ever after.
Roe gave him everything — friendship, reliable and unconditional — and Dean would never be able to pay him back. But he could try.
Dita’s radio was up way too loud as a moody song rolled out of her speakers. She always turned it up until her ears almost hurt, wishing sometimes she could climb inside the music and live there. She almost got up to put on headphones, wanting to shoot the music directly into her brain with as little distance as possible, but she was too lazy.
Her feet were propped on the coffee table, and her head was stuck between the fluffy cushions of her couch. The competition was moving along, and she had done what she could to get Dean and Lex in the same place. It was only a matter of time until that happened, and when it did, the game would really be on.
Dita thought of Apollo’s face the day he’d lost Daphne, so full of pain. She’d seen the look before in shades and versions throughout the many years, though that wasn’t nearly the most shattered she’d seen him. That look was on the day Daphne had been cursed.
Aphrodite had appeared behind Eros, who looked down from the cloud in horror as Apollo fell to his knees at Daphne’s feet.
Eros had turned to her. “I … I did not know. I must set this right.”
He’d pulled a dove arrow from his quiver, but Aphrodite had laid a hand on his shoulder before he could nock it.
“Leave him.”
“But—”
“Let him know my pain.”
He’d looked down at Apollo, his face lined with sadness. “Yes, Aphrodite.”
Thinking back on that day always left her heart heavy and cold in her chest. After thousands of years, the feud seemed petty and cruel, no matter how much pain she had been through. She had mended, healed, as best as she could. But she couldn’t just end the fight with Apollo. It wasn’t that simple.
The elevator dinged, and Dita sighed as she picked herself up and strode toward the foyer.
“Dita?” Heff cautiously looked around as she strolled into the entryway.
“Hello, Husband,” she said, smiling.
“Hello, Wife.” Heff’s dark hair was tousled, his eyes blue and bright.
His lips bent in a smile, lined by his thick, dark beard as he walked in, and her eyes trailed over his body with appreciation. The white tank he wore stretched across his wide chest, smudged with grime, and his broad shoulders glinted with sweat, likely from working on gadgets or tinkering with his machines.
“Thanks for coming up.” She turned with a smile, swinging her arm in invitation for him to follow her. “Let me show you the problem with my closet.”
He limped after her, his mangled leg oddly weak, the contrast stark against his strong body.
Hephaestus had always been an outsider, preferring his workshop and automatons to social gatherings. For ages he’d lived underground with his Cyclopes in relative solitude. Some of the gods didn’t take him seriously, though they were happy to use his beautiful mind when it suited them. He was the only one among them with physical flaws.
Hera had conceived him on her own, jealous after Zeus impregnated one of his mistresses, but realized before he was born that it was a mistake. She’d feared retribution from Zeus, and when Hephaestus was born, she had thrown him out of Olympus and down to Earth, into the ocean, damaging his leg in the process. Thetis, a nymph, had found him and raised him in Poseidon’s domain, where he’d learned smithing and cultivated his passion for the craft. Years later, he’d exacted revenge by creating a golden throne for Hera that imprisoned her the second she sat her proud ass on it. From that moment on, he’d earned respect from almost everyone alongside earning his way back into Olympus.
Dita and Heff walked through her bedroom and to the infinity closet that he’d made for her. The keypad mounted on the wall outside of the closet door beeped and booped as Dita tapped a series of numbers. She stepped back as the door whirred and clicked, and when it stopped and she opened it, an immense dressing room lay in front of them.
Lights shone down on racks of shoes lining one wall, all displayed on custom shelves that Heff had built. On the back wall hung an ornate mirror the size of a Buick, flanked by drawers of negligee and lingerie below hundreds of shirts, blouses, and jackets. A floor-to-ceiling cabinet system displayed her jewelry, scarves, and purses on the other long wall of the room. A round orange silk bench sat in the center of the room under clusters of brightly colored paper lanterns in pinks, reds, and oranges.
“It looks okay now,” she said, “but watch this … ” The keypad beeped again as she hit the numbers. “Now, it should pull up 1500 AD, but instead—”
They stepped back as the closet whirred again, and rooms spun around behind the portal of the doorway like a cracked-out carousel. It came to rest in what was obviously 1500 BC.
The room made her regular closet look like a shoebox. It was at least three times the size, full of a century’s haul of keepsakes and clothes from the time. There were robes of deep purple, royal blue, shining gold. Sandals made of calfskin, embellished in gold, were shelved next to dozens of ornate necklaces and crowns, arm cuffs and rings. Pottery as well as ancient tomes, all created for her, were displayed on shelves throughout the room.
It was an archaeologist’s wet dream.
Heff looked down at the keypad and furrowed his brows. “Seems like there’s a problem with the algorithm. Let me see what I can do.”
“Okay.” She turned to her room of treasures. “Is it safe to go in? It’s been forever since I’ve been in here.”
“Yep,” he said with a sideways smile as he knelt down. “I’ll let you know when I have it fix
ed.”
Her stomach fluttered as she stepped onto the white marble floor, feeling the cold gold-veined stone under her feet. She made her way across the room, running her hands through her robes as she walked by, pausing at a lavender silk robe embroidered with an intricate pattern of roses in gold thread. Most didn’t know that the thread was actual gold.
Every single piece in the room had a story. She stopped at the turquoise robe she had worn when she gave her blessing to Pygmalion. He’d carved a beautiful statue and fallen in love with it, and when prayed to Aphrodite, asking that she make his creation real, she gave the statue life. His face was the picture of love in the moment when they fell into each other’s arms, the creator and his creation, perfect for one another.
Dita smiled to herself as she made her way to the palette of black cowhides on the floor, piled with blood-red silk pillows. They were a small showing of sacrifices to Aphrodite out of the hundreds of thousands she had received in her heyday.
She could never throw anything away and loved to come into her hidden rooms to remember. Only two others knew her little secret.
Perry knew since she knew everything about Dita, and she didn’t think it was a big deal.
If it doesn’t have dust on it, you’re not a hoarder, she’d say.
And of course Heff knew, but he would never tell anyone.
She lay down on the pillows and propped her head on her hand as she ran her eyes over her things, coming to rest on Hephaestus as he worked. Heff had always been there for her, even when she was cruel to him. It wasn’t his fault that he had been tapped to marry her, but that hadn’t stopped her from taking it out on him.
Dita didn’t believe in marriage. She was all about the present. Things that required long-term responsibility, like marriage and motherhood, didn’t interest her — that was Hera’s domain.
But Zeus thought he knew better and policed all of them as he saw fit. His word was law, and his decisions were never up for discussion. So when the in-fighting over Dita had become a problem, Zeus had forced her to marry Hephaestus, and it was something she never forgave either god for.
Aphrodite tightened the last strap on her leather sandals and stood, sky blue silk train dragging behind her as she reached for a crown of blush roses and placed it in her golden hair.
Ares had been fighting with Hermes over her again, and that time, Ares had succeeded in provoking a true fight. Fists and blood had flown by the time Zeus intervened, and he had not been happy.
Neither had Aphrodite. She was not a toy, not a thing they could fight over, not an object, though nearly every god only thought of her as such.
Well, there is one, she thought as she pushed her long hair behind her shoulder.
Hephaestus was one of the only gods who treated her as an equal, which was a comfort, though they spoke little. There were times when she believed men could only behave as small children, bickering and fighting over things that they believed they owned, though they had no rights, no claim. But Hephaestus renewed her faith that perhaps some men were more evolved than the masses.
She hadn’t allowed Ares into her bed since, though that state was temporary, as it always was.
Aphrodite sighed and left her chambers, making her way through the wide halls and into the throne room. A soft breeze blew through the open space, the deep blue sea sparkling in the distance past the marble columns, and cypress trees swayed, tall and slender all around. She was the last to arrive that day, and all the Olympians had already taken their thrones. Zeus sat in the tallest throne in the center of the room with his fist propped under his chin and his mouth bent in a frown as he stared off at nothing.
Something is amiss, she thought as she looked around the room. All eyes were on her, and a few gods whispered to each other. Ares’s eyes were dark, his jaw set, and Hera looked pleased, which was a bad omen. Her eyes found Hephaestus’s, blue and bright in his tan face, and her heart jumped when she realized his expression was one of apology.
Zeus straightened up. “Aphrodite,” he called, his voice echoing in the expansive marble space.
She walked to Zeus, lifted her chin, and braced herself.
He looked down at her with stern eyes. “As you know, we’ve all grown weary of the hostility between the gods over you. It seems that only a few are immune to your charms, though the ones who are not have caused enough problems for the lot.”
“I am as vexed by the fact as you are, Zeus.”
“I very much doubt that. It cannot continue, and so I have decided that you will marry.”
The gods murmured together, filling the throne room with their echoes. Aphrodite painted her face into a placid mask as her heart fluttered like bird wings in her chest.
Ares stood, as if to accept, and all eyes flew to him.
“Sit down, boy. You could not be so foolish as to think that you were the one I’d chosen for her husband,” Zeus scoffed.
Ares chest rose, his teeth bared. “You cannot do this, Zeus.”
A cloud passed over Zeus’s gray eyes, and he rose, growing taller, menacing, as the room dimmed and thunder boomed with his voice in the sweeping space. “You dare tell me what I can and cannot do? It is in part your doing. You bloodying the eye or nose of any god or mortal who glances at her is tiresome and churlish. The feuding ends, and it ends now. Do not defy me, and do not forget how you have been punished in the past for your arrogance because, this time, not even your mother could save you from me.”
Hera sat in Zeus’s shadow, her brows pinched together, her bottom lip between her teeth as she leaned forward with her eyes on Ares.
Aphrodite watched as the gods stared each other down, tense and taught as a bow string. Ares’s forearms twitched in his leather cuffs as he tightened his fist and sat slowly, the red plume in his helmet trembling alongside his rage. Once Ares was seated with his eyes locked on Aphrodite, Zeus sat as well. The room returned to soft daylight as he shifted his attention back to her.
“There is only one god I trust to bear the responsibility. He is steady and true, dependable and respectful. He will take care of you.”
“I do not need to be taken care of.”
“Someone must keep you under control.”
“No one can control me,” she snapped, her fury twisting around her heart.
“It will be done, and you will not disobey.” His eyes were hard, his jaw set. “You will marry Hephaestus.”
The room erupted in noise, and Hephaestus rose, strong and sure, his eyes begging her to understand, but she could not. She would not.
Aphrodite stood alone before the thrones of the gods, still as stone, her wrath rolling through her like thunder.
“Do you believe, Zeus, that you can hold me back? That you can strip me of the power that is mine by marrying me off? I am older than you, older than all of you,” she said, sweeping her hand across the room. “You are children, and I am the daughter of Uranus, father of the sky, grandfather of Zeus. Of all of you, I am entitled to the seat of power over Zeus.”
Zeus slapped the arm of his throne.
Aphrodite held out a hand to stay him. “I do not want the throne. If I did, it would be mine. But your insolence is insulting.”
The air moved around her, her wrath just under the surface, her glowing white-hot eyes never breaking from his. The wind stirred the soft waves at her back and the petals of the roses in her crown.
Her eyes were narrow as she continued, “Are you certain this is what you wish? Because I will not forget. This goes against all that I stand for. I do not love Hephaestus, and he does not love me.”
“You will learn to love each other.”
She fought to hold herself back. “As you have done with Hera?”
A few gasps and laughs rolled through the gods, but Zeus was not amused.
“Do you mock me?”
“Why would you ask a question to which you know the answer?”
Zeus stood, and she would have been afraid had she not been so angry.
<
br /> “I will do your bidding,” she continued before he could speak, “but not without consequence.”
“Do you threaten me, Aphrodite?”
“I promise.”
His jaw flexed, but his voice was dismissive. “We shall see. Do not dare disobey me. I will not be gentle.”
Her fists were so tight, her fingernails bit into her palms as she turned on her heel and flew from the throne room with all eyes on her and Persephone in her wake. When Aphrodite reached her heavy door, she pushed it open and slammed it behind her with a savage scream.
She turned to exhibit her fury on everything in her chambers, smashing pots and ripping tapestries from the walls, roaring. She climbed onto her bed and tore the curtains down, shredding them before slashing her bedding to ribbons.
When Aphrodite had caused sufficient damage and collapsed on the bed crying, Persephone silently restored the destruction. And once the room was back in order, she climbed into bed with her friend.
Aphrodite wrapped her arms around Persephone’s waist. “I will never forgive them. Never,” she whispered as Persephone stroked her hair.
And as Aphrodite’s tears fell, her rage ebbed, and resentment took its place.
Dita had kept her promise. Zeus was the original philanderer, the first womanizer, largely due to her influence on him. The job had been made easy by the fact that he was an egomaniacal douche, married to a vain harpy.
To add insult to injury, Zeus had forced her to move to Hephaestus’s workshop to live with him there. As a wife would live with a husband, he had said. Hephaestus had given her a break and made a room for her just above his home, knowing how she hated the confined spaces underground. Knowing how she resented their marriage might have played a part too.
She had sworn before they were married that she would never love Hephaestus, vowing that she would never give him her body or soul — he was the catalyst in a situation that objectified her and forced her into a construct to which she didn’t subscribe. So she’d carried on with her love affairs as she wished, and he’d complied, never forcing her, giving her whatever space she needed. He’d always respected her wishes even though it went against the sanctity of their marriage, knowing she felt the whole thing was a sham.