by Staci Hart
She returned to Olympus, thinking over the exchange as she soaked in a steaming bath, trying to relax, though her mind was occupied, searching for a way to bridge the gap between her and Adonis. The room glowed with the soft light of candle flames that lined the edge of the enormous marble bath. She sank into the fragrant water, and her eyes had just closed when he called her, his voice ragged with pain.
Adonis.
She shot up, the force spilling water over the edge, putting the candles out with a hiss, filling the room with the acrid smell of sulfur.
“Gods,” she whispered and when she blinked, she was dressed and by his side.
The horror of what she saw stole the air from her lungs, and she fell to the ground next to him. Blood was everywhere, on the grass around him, on his ashen skin. The flesh on his torso was torn open from groin to sternum, and his entrails lay all around him in the grass. She leaned over him, called his name, shouted and cried as she pushed them back in, her hands splayed to hold him together.
His eyes tracked her, and he reached up to touch her face.
“Please,” she cried. “Please, don’t leave me.”
“Forever … was not long, after all.”
“No, please. I love you.”
But he looked away as he breathed his last, and his brilliant eyes stared at the sky, at nothing.
She pulled him into her lap and wept as she rocked him, not knowing how long had passed. The brush rustled, though she barely heard the sound.
“Oh dear, Aphrodite. What a mess,” Apollo said.
She looked up at him, and shock tore through her, hot and angry. “You,” she whispered.
“Yes, me. You blinded my son. I could not let that go unpunished, could I?”
Her throat twisted closed as she realized that she had caused his death. It was all her fault.
The wind stirred around her, and her hair rose, mottled with drying blood. She breathed deeper as emotion washed over her, her chest rising higher and higher until she took a deep breath, kicked her head back, and screamed, her anguish exploding out of her with such pain that she thought she would shatter.
“I believe we are even now.” Apollo took a last look at her before he turned to walk away.
Aphrodite bent over Adonis and buried her face in his neck as she cried, whispering words of solemn promise. The debt would be repaid.
Dita’s face was tight, and she bit her lip hard to keep herself from crying at the memory. His face in the moment that he died, smeared with his blood, white as snow, the tang of blood in the air, they were all the things of her nightmares, and Apollo was the focus of all of her blame.
“Want to talk about it?” Perry stuffed the last bite of her criminally large donut into her mouth.
She smiled, knowing it was weak, and that Perry wouldn’t buy it. “I’m okay.”
Perry licked residual chocolate from her fingers in earnest, and her black Buddy Holly glasses slipped down her tiny nose. Once her fingers were licked clean, she leaned back to watch Dita over her glasses with sweet, hazel eyes. A streak of chocolate was smeared at the corner of her mouth, and there were crumbs in the ‘v’ of her t-shirt.
“What?” she asked around a mouthful of donut.
“Uh, you’ve got a little schmutz right there.” Dita motioned to her face.
She rolled her eyes, pawing at her face. “Jeeze. Did I get it?”
“No, Perry, right there.” Dita pointed to Perry’s face from across the couch.
Perry wiped the wrong cheek. “Now?”
Dita sighed. “Yup, totally.”
Bisoux hopped into Perry’s lap and licked his chops, then curled up into a tiny ball of fur with eyes. Perry scratched his head and sat quietly, patiently, giving her a few more minutes to work through her thoughts. Dita was a talker, rarely able to contemplate things internally. Perry was her opposite. She processed almost everything in silence and knew exactly when to keep her thoughts to herself.
The two goddesses had been friends since Persephone was a girl and had experienced eons together, through good and through bad, as close as sisters and as sworn enemies. But, when all was said and done, Perry was Dita’s closest friend and always would be.
Perry settled back into the couch as she scratched Bisoux’s ear. “You never really answered me. If Apollo wins, and you have to give him a token, how are you going to feel about that?”
“Well, he’s going to ask me for Daphne, and I’ll have to help him whether I want to or not.”
“No, what I mean is, do you think that you and Apollo will ever forgive each other?”
“I don’t know. It’s been thousands of years. I’m not as mad as I once was about it, and anyway, if Apollo wins, I won’t have a choice.”
And she wondered, could she blame Apollo for doing whatever it took to win a token? Because she would do the same, if the tables were turned.
Day 3
APOLLO LAY HIS HEAD BACK on the cushions of his lounge chair, closing his eyes against the sun as he stretched out on his patio. It had been ages since he pulled the sun across the sky in a chariot, and he couldn’t say he missed it. Talk about a long day. Heff automated it during the industrial revolution, freeing up Apollo to spend most of his time inspiring music, theater, and films, and he needed the extra time. Hollywood alone was enough to keep him busy.
He smiled, pleased with his choice in player. Dean was a rock star in the truest form: wildly talented, brooding, and damaged. He oozed sex appeal like Jim Morrison sans drug issues. Apollo smiled nostalgically. The Doors were fun while they lasted.
Dean’s band was going places, and soon. Apollo would know, being the god of prophecy and all.
He stretched and sighed, warm and content from the sun’s rays. The bigger Dean’s band got, the more opportunities he would have for getting some ass. Between that possibility and Dean’s track record, Apollo was sure his player wouldn’t give Lex the time of day. Maybe he’d give her a night, but not more than that.
Probably.
It didn’t help his case that Dita had been playing the game before he’d even officially chosen his player. He was certain that Dita had set the whole thing up with Jenny and Dean. The minute that Travis accepted Elliot’s spot, Apollo knew.
He frowned and shifted in his chair.
Dita was impossible to beat. She had a stockpile of tokens to use, since she rarely lost, and no one knew love like she did. She owned it. Of course, how much fun would the challenges be if one was not an expert in the subject matter they defended? But when it was between Apollo and Dita, it was never for fun. Not since the whole mess began, thousands of years before in ancient Greece.
The golden sun lit the tops of the clouds in oranges and yellows as the sun set, and Apollo waited with Eros, their feet hidden in the mist of the cloud as Artemis aimed her silver arrow down far below. It was a game that the three of them played to test their skill, Apollo being the patron of archers, his twin Artemis, the virgin goddess of the hunt, and Eros, Aphrodite’s son and wielder of love arrows.
Artemis’ target was a young woman who was locked in an embrace with a man whose hands roamed her body as they kissed in a dark corridor. The girl was a virgin, though she was dangerously close to losing the title. Apollo watched his sister, her hair dark as night with her silver bow drawn, her feet set apart as she aimed, let out a soft breath, and fired.
Her arrow hit the girl in the heart.
“Leodes, wait,” she berthed.
“Why, my love?”
“Please, it is too soon. I … I must go.” She turned to go, but trotted back to give him a final kiss before leaving him confounded in the dark.
Apollo and Eros laughed.
“So cruel, Artemis, to leave a man wanting so. A problem which I believe I can rectify,” Eros said, and stepped forward.
His white wings flapped behind him with a lively snap before folding against his naked back, and his tan, muscular arms drew his bow, the dove feathers coming to rest against hi
s cheek. He fired.
The arrow struck true, and Leodes straightened up with a dazed look on his face. He marched off after the girl and pulled her off the street, eyes on fire as 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, and 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 succumbed to him.
Eros clapped and laughed. “Well done, Apollo.”
Artemis appraised Apollo with narrow 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 this.”
“I have bested you before in distance. Do not be so assured. Another stipulation — each must have a different target, and on a different continent.”
Eros raised a blond eyebrow. “And who shall go first?”
“I will,” she said and looked toward the dark horizon behind her. She drew and loosed, her arrow flying far and fast to a quiet hut on a freezing plain. A small fire burned inside, and a small group of women collected around Artemis’ 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 at him.
Eros contemplated the dark sky to the east for a moment 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 before he crouched and made his way around the edge of a building, glancing around 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.
“They will kill us both if they find us.”
“Then let us hope that they never do. Come.”
He pulled her away, and they disappeared into the dense jungle.
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 Pyramids, 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 around the world, over oceans and deserts, and into the chamber of Strabo, who sat staring at a blank piece of papyrus with a frustrated scowl. When the arrow struck, he dipped his reed brush into the ink pot, and it raced across the page, telling the tale of Rhodopis, the servant granted a pair of rose-gilded slippers from her master. She fell in love with the Pharaoh, though he knew not who she was, only knew her by her shoes. When one slipper was given to him by the god Horus, he searched the kingdom to find his love, the holder of the other gilded shoe.
Eros’ mouth hung open.
“I believe that makes me the victor.” Apollo said, smug and unabashed. “You should also know that 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 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, if 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’ face went red. “Let us see, shall we?” He nocked a lead arrow, whose intent was to turn love to disdain, then drew and loosed in a swift motion. Apollo watched in horror as the arrow sailed down toward a river below.
Daphne laid 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 twisted 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 his heart. He loosed.
Apollo looked down at his chest as the arrow dissolved into twinkling dust, his mouth slack as 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, then stood and turned to run 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, screaming 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, and he threw out his hand.
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 ear, 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, 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 him. He saw it every time he closed his eyes.
Aphrodite bid Eros to leave the arrows where they fell, Apollo’s penance for Adonis. Eros’ powers fell under her domain, and as her son and confidant, he wouldn’t go against her.
And so, winning was imperative for him and for Daphne, because the only way Dita would reverse the curse was if she had no choice.
———— New York ————
Dean sat on the arm of the big couch in the warehouse as Roe brought Travis up to speed. He’d been instructed to keep quiet by Roe, who he was in deep shit with, but Dean had no desire to cause any more trouble. The band would be better off with Travis’ talent, and they’d gotten him quickly enough that they hopefully wouldn’t fall into any trouble with their label for dicking around. And, past that, Travis seemed like a good guy, or 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 fuck-up 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.”