by Staci Hart
She paused, panting as she moved down his body again. With one hand, she stroked him, and with the other, she propped herself up and spoke, her voice husky. “There is something you must do for me, Ares.”
Startled by the sound of her voice, he bent his neck to look down at her with heavy lids. “Anything,” he breathed.
“I need you to swear. Swear to me that you will not harm Adonis.” His eyes widened as she spoke.
He growled and tugged at the chains, then pulled hard. They did not yield. His eyes were hot, his teeth bared. “You have tricked me.”
“Not tricked, love, but I needed your attention. Nothing needs to change between us … if you do him no harm.” She stroked faster.
He dropped his head, the muscles in his neck tight. “Gods, Aphrodite. Not now … ”
“I will give you all that you want, Ares. And more.” She dropped down to take him with her mouth again, and he bucked into her, groaning.
“Gods … please … ” He strained against the chains.
“Swear it.” She took him again, stopping before his release.
He called out. “I swear! I swear to you. I will do him no harm. I swear.”
Her heart sang as she climbed up to him and laid her hands on his face. “Thank you,” she whispered and kissed him. His lips were hard on hers as she reached back and lifted him upright, backed up to him, and ran the length of him up and down her entrance before sliding him in, again and again, until they both cried out.
She collapsed on him, her heart hammering in her ears in time with his. “Ares, hear me. If you harm him, you will never have me again.” She rose with his deep breath.
“I know.”
She believed Ares when he promised, but when Adonis died, her first thought was that it had been Ares. At least until Apollo appeared and told her the truth. But ever after that day, she had stayed away from him as best she could, though competitions made it almost impossible. She always felt that something was off with the whole thing, but Apollo admitted to killing him, and Ares denied involvement, even after she used a token on him to force the truth. She had no real reason to doubt him, nothing tangible at least, but she couldn’t find a way to give herself fully to him again.
“You’ve got that look in your eye, Dita,” Eros said.
She blinked, realizing she was flushed. “What look?”
Eros rolled his eyes and laughed as he stood to go. “Right. Okay. Did you want me to go find Dad for you?”
“Gods, you are such a shit. Go put some pants on.” She flung her book at him, and it flew across the room, the air whistling through the pages. Bisoux jumped and trotted away as it thumped to the ground at Eros’ feet.
He twiddled his fingers at her, and she rolled her eyes as his perfect, naked ass trotted out the door.
Apollo walked into his office and up to a window, one of the many floor-to-ceiling fixtures in the room. He leaned against the frame and looked down on Central Park.
He was optimistic about his chances, having a plan in place. He wasn’t sure when to invoke the prophecy, but he knew for certain that it wasn’t time. Dita had set the stage, but his play would be a big one. Of that, he was sure.
He pushed off the wall and made his way across the black wood floors to pick up his mandolin. He sat and strummed, staring at one of his favorite Warhols that hung on the wall across the room. He scanned the shelves of books and plays, including original playbills from Shakespeare plays, books of sonnets, first editions of all of the classics, original, handwritten Poe poems, and ancient scrolls from Plato and Homer. The room was sectioned off by music, art, and literature, and the portion where he sat housed instruments from ancient lyres and zithers to electric guitars and a grand piano. Tall, white bookshelves lined the walls, holding records and boxes of sheet music, and a phonograph stood in the corner. His gallery sat in a room off the office, a huge space filled with statues and sketches from Michelangelo, paintings from Rembrandt to Picasso, photography from Adams to Uelsmann, just a small selection of works from his favorite humans.
On one open shelf was his laurel crown, the very same that he’d made from Daphne’s branches, the one he’d worn for eons as a symbol of his loss, his grief, as a way to carry her with him wherever he went, though she was always in his heart. He could not escape her, and didn’t want to.
The situation was an impossible one. He couldn’t blame Dita for never giving in, not with her believing he killed Adonis. He wished again that he could tell her the truth, and cursed Ares as he remembered back to that day, the day that everything fell apart.
Erymanthus bolted into Apollo’s chambers screaming, scratching at his eyes as blood rolled down his cheeks. Apollo rushed to his son, and the young man fell into his arms.
“What has happened?” Apollo tried to pull the boy’s hands away, but he fought every attempt. “Who has done this to you?”
“Aphrodite,” he wailed.
“Why? Why would she do such a thing to you?”
“I don’t know. I did nothing wrong. You must believe me. I … I was walking alone and happened upon her and Adonis coupling.”
Apollo took a breath, unsure if he should believe his son. The boy was known to be immodest and was nothing like Apollo, though much like his shrewd mother, who died giving birth to him. Apollo vowed to take care of the child, but he had grown into a deviant, and Apollo was at a loss with him.
But still, as he looked upon his son, blinded and screeching, rage filled his heart. He laid his hand over the boy’s eyes, his palm glowing white, but when he removed it, the boy had not healed. Such was the work of gods, especially one as powerful as Aphrodite.
“She will pay for this. Of that, I promise you.”
He dressed the boy’s wounds, lay him in bed, and left his chambers, rushing to Ares with shaking hands.
Apollo found Ares on a stool in his room, holding the hilt of his sword as he ran a sharpening stone down its length in long, smooth strokes. He glanced up at Apollo. “Hello, Apollo. Are you all right? You look … murderous.” He grinned evilly, then turned back to his blade and resumed his task. The metallic scrape rang in Apollo’s ears.
“Aphrodite has blinded my son.”
“I would argue that the peculiar boy might have earned such a punishment. What did he do to her?”
“He witnessed her in the throes of passion with Adonis.”
Ares hand froze, the rhythm broken for a long moment before he began the long strokes again. “And you tell me this because … ”
“She must pay, and I believe there is a way to deal equal damage.”
“What do you propose?”
Apollo paced, unable to keep still any longer. “I believe we have a common cause. You have a grievance with Adonis, and I with Aphrodite. He is her treasure, and to harm him harms her.”
“Ah, Apollo. You never did care to dirty your hands. But, alas, I cannot assist. I have sworn to her that I would do Adonis no harm.” He laid his sword down and turned to Apollo, leaning his muscular forearm on his knee. “If I am to help you, she can never know.”
Apollo nodded. “So, an oath?” It was the highest power that could bind them, higher than even Zeus had the authority to break.
“I believe that would be the most effective way to approach the matter.”
Apollo took a breath, his mind reeling, too angry to think clearly, though he tried to reason through it as strategically as he was capable of. “He is not to be killed. Only hurt. Can you agree to that?”
“Oh, I believe I can.” He smiled savagely.
Ares rose and held out his hand. Apollo looked at it a moment, hesitating before he found resolve in his outrage, then clasped forearms with Ares. A beam of white light ran down Apollo’s arm, winding around his bicep, around his forearm, then entwined the hands of the gods. A stream of blood ran down Ares’, and the threads twisted around each other, binding them together.
Apollo spoke. “I do swear that I shall never speak of the arrangement b
etween Ares and I in the harming of Adonis, that I shall never speak of his connection to the acts that will be committed against the mortal.”
Ares spoke. “I do swear that I shall punish Adonis on Apollo’s behalf and should any inquire, that I shall never speak of my part of the responsibility.”
The bond threads grew brighter, flashing before they languished, forging their oath.
“Now,” Ares said, “it is time to begin.”
Apollo always had been a fool.
Ares ran through the thick woods, the trees whipping by in a blur as adrenaline coursed through him. He was in his favorite animal form, that of an enormous, feral boar. His heart thumped in his barrel chest as he realized that the chance was upon him to rid himself of the nuisance that was Adonis with no fear of retribution.
He skidded to a halt and lifted his snout, searching for Adonis, but found nothing. His nose hit the ground as he stomped about, running his snout through the tall, cool grass until …
Ah, there you are.
He shot into the forest, overwhelmed by his rage and the thrill of the hunt. Ares broke through the underbrush and slammed to a stop in a clearing, dark even in mid-day under the thick canopy of the trees. Fog floated up in curls and tendrils, licking at Ares’ belly as his eyes locked on Adonis before him, crouched in anticipation. Ares dropped his head, swinging it side to side, slashing his tusks through the air like blades.
This ends now, was the thought that consumed him as he stamped his hooves and charged the foolish man, his heart beating so fiercely with triumph and vindication that he felt he could rule the world.
Apollo pushed open the doors of Ares’ chamber with such force that they slammed against the marble walls, shooting a crack up the slab like lightning. Ares stood near the window, wiping blood from his face with wild eyes, his hair mussed and streaked with gore. His skin shone with a sheen of sweat and blood, and he smiled a wicked smile when he saw Apollo.
“He was not to die, Ares. You made a promise, an oath, you traitor.” Apollo’s voice boomed, echoing off the walls, and his skin glowed yellow-white.
Ares had the boldness to smirk. “Yes, well, I could not help myself. I promised I would punish him, but I never promised to let him live. I have not broken the oath, only bent it. The opportunity was too sweet to let pass.”
Apollo bared his teeth, screaming as he rushed Ares. Ares caught him when he neared, flipping him around to lock his arms behind his back in a swift, single motion.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Ares said through his teeth as Apollo struggled against him. “Now, remember who you are dealing with. What is done is done.”
He whispered, “I will not forget this, Ares. Never.” Apollo burned brighter and brighter until the light was blinding, and a scream ripped from his throat. A pulse of light shot out in a ring with a boom.
Ares dropped Apollo, shielding his eyes against the white light as it receded into Apollo, whose chest rose and fell with his heavy breath.
“I do not expect that you will.” Ares folded his arms across his broad chest. “Nor will I. I am indebted to you. You have given me a way to rid myself of a foe who has long been protected from me, and for that, I thank you.”
Apollo stood, dumbfounded and furious, staring at his betrayer for a long moment before turning on his heel and flying through the halls to his chambers.
As he paced his quarters, he tried to sort through it all, marveling at his foolishness. He should never have trusted someone so villainous, so nefarious. No, he should have handled the matter himself, because he was in the most precarious position, all because he had been so rash as to trust a snake.
And now … gods. Poor Aphrodite. I am to blame.
His heart sank as his anger fell away, and guilt pressed down on him as the consequences of what he had done came into focus. She had committed an act against him, against his son, and she deserved to be punished. But so severely? Apollo did not want him dead, only damaged, though at that moment, he wanted no retribution. His only wish was to turn back the clock.
She would never forgive him.
There was little he could do, other than offer her the comfort of blame. He would tell her what he could, which meant he would have to convince her that he killed Adonis. He wondered over how he could persuade her, thanking the gods that he was an actor.
The natural thing to do would be to act as Ares would — haughty and vengeful. Apollo straightened himself as he pushed aside the brush in the clearing where Aphrodite sat in the grass. Adonis lay in her lap, gray and still, and she wailed, her blood stained face wrenched in pain as Apollo began the longest ruse of his immortal life.
Day 7
LEX FIDDLED WITH HER PENCIL as she stared at a blank page in her notebook, trying to concentrate. For the fiftieth time that night, she shifted on her stool, comfortable for only a second. Lex laid her pencil down in the crease of her notebook and rested her head on her hand to stare out the window.
It was the first night that she had to work since she’d started going to practice, and she didn’t want to be sitting in the quiet bookstore. Not when she could be curled up on the worn couch at the warehouse.
She wondered what he was doing, pictured him as he performed, thought about how she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. And how she should have been watching Travis.
The bell on the door dinged as it opened, and Lex jumped, relaxing when she saw Kara glide in. Kara walked up to the counter and leaned over to rest her forearms on the surface.
“You look absolutely thrilled to be here tonight.”
“Does it show?” Lex inspected herself for clues.
“Like a blinking neon sign. With an arrow.”
Lex’s phone buzzed on the counter with a text from Travis.
Meet at The Crow Bar at 1030? Band is going, text Kara?
She raised an eyebrow and passed her phone to Kara.
“Ooh, yes.” Kara’s face lit up. “I even wore my favorite shirt, see?” She shoved her boobs together with her arms to demonstrate.
“Classy.” Lex looked at her phone. 9:56. Perfect. She texted him back.
Just have to close up, c u there.
Kara plopped her enormous bag on the counter and pulled out her compact mirror. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders as she reapplied her lipstick.
Lex packed up her things and made her way around the store, flicking off lights and putting away books and magazines that were left out. She slung her purse on, grabbed her keys, and locked up, pausing to laugh at Kara making a duck face at her reflection in the shop window as she shimmied her boobs around in her bra. Lex slipped the keys into her bag and buttoned her jacket up against the cold.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Kara asked as they headed toward the subway entrance.
“Talk about what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Alexis. Mister Mesmerizing?”
Of course she knows. She sighed. “He’s just so … I mean, you’ve seen him.”
“I have. He’s so pretty, it almost hurts to look at him.”
“Right? It’s practically criminal.”
“For real. His panty moistening skills are off the charts.”
“Gross.” Lex side-eyed Kara, deadpan.
“Seriously, Lex, does he light the fire of desire in your lady cave?”
Lex cackled, and both girls broke into giggles. “Oh, my god, Kara. I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Really? You’re really shocked?”
“No, actually. You’re right. I’m not.”
They walked in silence for a moment. “He’s a serial manwhore. You know this,” Kara said.
“Can’t a girl lookie-no-touchie?”
“I don’t know. Can you?” Kara laughed at her. “I saw you stripping him down to the tube socks with your eyes. You want to eat the man candy. With your mouth. On his—”
“Okay, okay. I get it. And yes, I do, but I won’t. I have a boyfriend.”
Kara shoved her hands into the pockets of
her military jacket and turned to Lex, amused. “Do you think said ‘boyfriend’ sees your flames of passion for the Panty Wizard?”
Lex snorted. “God, Kara. No, I don’t think he sees it. I just don’t know what to do about me and Travis. I think I might need to leave him, but I’m afraid to hurt him. I mean, clearly it’s over, right? Does that make the decision for me if I’m lusting after a stranger?”
“I don’t know, does it?”
“You’re no help, you know that?”
“Yes, I do. Would you ever date Dean?”
“How would that work? The guy’s never even had a real girlfriend. He’s a quitter. Plus, he’s Travis’ bandmate, the same one that keeps boning drummers’ girlfriends. And anyway, why are we still talking about this?”
“Hey, you started it.”
“No I didn’t, asshole. You did.”
“Come on, let’s go get drunk. That’s sure to breed good decisions.”
Dean leaned on the old saloon bar as he waited for his drink. He loved the Crow Bar, not just because they had some great, little-known acts that played there, but because of the creepy circus look they had. He stood next to a taxidermy jackalope posing on its hind legs, its antlers stretching up into the darkness.
The bartender turned to him, her flapper dress swinging fringe as she slid his drink across the bar to him. The tall, red feather in her beaded headband waved at him as she tipped her head in acknowledgement.
He walked under old, beaded chandeliers and past a long wall of taxidermy crows mounted alongside old sepia photographs of Siamese twins and other carnival oddities. Dean paused at the stage backed by worn, red velvet curtains to watch the blues band that played there.
An old man sat on a stool behind the microphone with a standup bass player and a drummer on a trap set at his back. His coffee-colored skin gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat under the stage lights, and his gray hair peeked out of his porkpie hat as he crooned into the microphone and played his guitar, his voice gravelly and raw.