by Staci Hart
“Let’s give them a couple of days to miss each other, and see if we can’t work on them in the meantime.”
“All right. In more exciting news, I have an exam today so I’ll be out early. Pick you up for dinner before you have to work?”
“That would make my day so much better.”
“Mine too.”
———— Olympus ————
Ares gritted his teeth as he walked into the game room and saw that his twin sons were playing God of War. He stormed in and turned off the Playstation.
Phobos shot off the couch, his blue eyes wide as he threw his hand up in the air. “What the fuck, Ares?”
Ares folded his arms across his chest and glared. “You know I hate that game. It’s fucking garbage.”
Deimos snickered. “You’re just mad because Kratos kills you off.”
Ares rolled his eyes. “I’m immortal, asshole. I can’t die. Certainly not by the hand of a demigod.” His lip twisted in a sneer. He turned to the PlayStation and put in another game, then tossed a controller to Deimos and grabbed one of his own.
They had his dark hair, though they wore theirs longer, and they were tall and lean. Their bright eyes twinkled with mischief and mayhem under their heavy brows. They looked so much like him, behaved so much like him. They had always ridden with him into battle, Fear and Terror, Phobos and Deimos, his sons.
Ares sat down between the twins.
“Dita’s player ran for the hills.” Phobos said, “Told you.”
The corner of Ares’ mouth rose. “You were right. But you can’t exactly take credit for that. I set up the Vegas texts about Eric. I’ve been cultivating his crazy. Sent him on a little rampage last night.”
Deimos shook his head. “That might have been a bad move, Ares. You’ve tipped her off.”
Ares reached over and slapped Deimos in the back of his head.
“Ow,” Deimos furrowed his brow, but his eyes never left the television.
“Don’t talk shit. I split them up, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, and Kat made a real shit show of it,” Phobos said. “We’ve been fucking with Kat and Dillon for years. I don’t know why Dita chose Kat. Seems pretty dumb, if you ask me.”
Ares turned and looked at him squarely. “Your mother is smart, and she’s got an advantage. Kat and Dillon are perfect for each other, and you know when Dita picks a match, they’re drawn to each other. There’s a science to it. That’s what she does. We’re all fools for even thinking we can compete.”
The twins wore equally cowed expressions, their eyes stuck to the screen as they mashed buttons on their controllers.
Ares eyes rested on the television screen as his sons blew up a barricade. He smiled. As much as Eros was Dita’s, Phobos and Deimos were his own.
On the day that they were born, Ares held her hand while she labored, hating to see her in pain. He pictured her with her hair stuck to her sweaty face, her legs split open as she panted and pushed. He remembered the moment he held Phobos for the first time, his dark hair matted to his head, his mouth a tiny ‘o’ when he cried. His shock almost brought him to his knees when Artemis told him that there was a second, Deimos, identical to the first. But the moment he cherished was seeing her face, full of wonder as they lay with their babies between them, watching them greet the world.
The boys had been raised by Hera, since neither he nor Dita had the disposition required to raise children. Hera gladly accepted, though Ares knew that Dita was not pleased with the idea. She knew they were more like Ares than her, and although Persephone had raised Eros, Dita didn’t think laying a set of mischievous twins on her was a responsibility that she wanted to peg on her friend.
Hera had undoubtedly spoiled the boys, rendering them even more like Ares than they may have been otherwise.
Eris entered the room, breaking him from his thoughts. She nibbled on red licorice, one hand stuffed in her hoodie pocket as she walked around the couch. She sat down on the floor with her back up against the couch and stretched her striped legs out in front of her, boots crossed.
“Hey, Eris,” Ares said absently as he mashed buttons on his controller.
“Strife.”
“I’m not calling you that.”
“Is that any way to thank me for my influence on your players? They bicker like children. They’re a couple of my favorite bickerers.” She took a bite of the licorice. “I’ve been pitting men against Kat since she got her first training bra. She used to be more fun to push than she is now.”
Ares snorted. “That was you?”
“Yup. The men in her line of work don’t require much nudging. They talk smack to her, never take her seriously, underestimate her.” She picked at her chipped black nail polish. “Oh, I also got them calling her a nickname she hates. It makes her crazy. It’s made her stronger, though. The last few years she’s learned to let shit roll off her back. Good for her. Sucks for me.”
Ares kept his eyes on the television. “It’s too bad it’s all for naught. I could win. I’d love to win. But the odds aren’t really in my favor, even though we all seem to have hooks in the humans. Dita’s going to cream me.”
“Yeah she is, if she hasn’t already,” Deimos said.
Ares ignored them, hitting the ‘x’ button wildly with his thumb, and they all cheered when he blew up the encampment.
“And that,” Ares said as he tossed the remote down and stood, “is how you do it.” He stuck his finger in the twins’ faces and said, “Don’t let me see you losers playing that stupid game again, or else.” As he walked out of the room, he called jokingly, “And, if I catch you talking shit about your mom again, I’ll kick your teeth in.”
Dita’s wet feet sank into her sheepskin mat as she stepped out of the shower and reached for a fluffy white towel. She was quiet and solemn while she dried off her arms, her legs, her hair, then dropped the towel to the ground and walked naked into her closet.
She couldn’t shake her funk. Kat had ditched Dillon, which she had expected. But she was still disappointed. Both players had been through so much, especially Dillon, and she wanted them to be happy. If she could pull it off, they would be truly happy for the first time in both of their lives.
She tugged on an oversized gray sweatshirt with the neck cut wide. Her bare shoulder hung out, and she pulled her damp hair out of the neck. She wrapped her arms around herself and stood in the chilly room. A cold droplet of water slid slowly down her neck, speeding up as it rolled down her spine, and she shivered.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Adonis. She had seen him daily, sometimes many times a day, for thousands of years. His tantrum was wearing on her, and she wondered how long it would be until it was over, or if it would ever end. She smiled, knowing just the thing to make herself feel better, her spirits lifting as she padded to her closet doorway and punched a series of numbers on the key pad.
Rooms spun around through the door frame and her hair stirred, heavy with water. Goosebumps pricked her legs when the cool air hit them. When it came to rest, she walked inside, feeling lighter.
She stepped into the soft, spring grass that carpeted the floor of the room. The walls were lined with shelves, and myrtle trees grew between each set, always in bloom. She looked up at the bright, domed ceiling, and it seemed to go on forever, colored in the golden hues of sunset.
She was in Adonis’ room.
Black painted pots with their story sat on shelves, mingled with scrolls of poems, sonnets, and books telling tales of her and Adonis’ love. She traced her fingers across the spines of the books as she walked by. Paintings in gilded frames hung all through the room, some propped on the floor, all of her and Adonis. She stopped in front of her favorite, her Waterhouse of the Awakening of Adonis. She bent down to peer at it, her heart heavy as she took in the two figures, forever anticipating a kiss. It always hit a little close to home.
She stood and wandered to the set of shelves of her own keepsakes. His spear leaned against the wall, and she ran the pad
of her finger along the edge of the blade. His leather belt and sandals lay on the grass next to it, as if he would be back for them at any moment. Flowers that he picked for her one summer afternoon bloomed in a vase eternally. She picked up a wooden dove that he had carved for her out of cypress and closed her hands around it.
She turned and walked to the pride of her collection, a statue of Adonis that stood in the middle of the room.
In the early 1500s, Dita approached Michelangelo just after he completed the statue of David. He was Apollo’s star, and as much as she hated Apollo at the time, she was in awe of Michelangelo. All of the gods were.
She went to Earth and commissioned the piece from him, paying him handsomely for his secrecy, even though he tried to refuse the gold. He was not a man for fame or fortune, but a slave to his work. She sat with him for hours while he sketched, recounting every detail of Adonis’ face and body, the lines of which she knew better than her own. It took him four years to carve the likeness of Adonis from a marble block, and the statue was absolute perfection.
She walked up to it and reached up to place her hand on the cheek of the cold, white marble. She traced the crease of his lips, and a tear slipped down her cheek.
Her hand fell away, and she sat in the grass, hooking her elbows around her bent knees, looking up at Adonis. Her Adonis. But not anymore.
She didn’t know what she could do to make things right with him. Her chest ached as she stared up at the frozen figure, wishing for something, anything to convince him, to make him see the other side. But he didn’t care. All he cared about was himself.
Realization washed over her, and her face went numb.
Her heart caught in her throat as she chased her thoughts. Had he ever sacrificed anything for her? Had he ever given himself to her? Had she ever really had him? Or had it all been a lie that she’d convinced herself was truth for thousands of years?
Daphne, Apollo, even she didn’t really matter to Adonis. He had always been that way, and she wondered how she hadn’t seen it before. He had always gotten whatever he wanted. He was never denied. And even when Persephone kept him from Dita in the underworld, he would never make a stand for her.
For years, even though she begged him, he wouldn’t leave the underworld. They snuck around behind Persephone’s back like teenagers. He would never stand up and leave. She braved journeying through the underworld, through tricks and traps that Hades laid to stop her, to get him back. And even then, even at that point, he wouldn’t make a choice.
And then she knew the truth. He didn’t love her. If he loved her, he would have fought for her. And he never did. He never would.
Day 8
SWEAT POURED OFF OF DILLON as he ran through the streets near the East River, the cold biting his wet skin, his mind on Kat.
He hadn’t heard from her and didn’t know if he would, but that hadn’t stopped him from thinking about her. He had picked his phone up more than once, thinking that if he called her, maybe she’d answer, maybe she’d be apologetic. Maybe there was a reason, something he could understand. But his anger had gotten the best of him. He couldn’t bring himself to make the call. He was too mad, too hurt, and too busy licking his wounds.
He pumped his arms faster as he took off down a hill toward the river. He hated what he was, who he was. He wondered again how much of that was genetic, and how much of it was from getting boxed in the ears for eight years after his mother had died. Before he took Owen away from that place, and they started fresh together.
Moira protected them the best that she could, but after she died, Dillon stepped into her place. Jimmy had been after Owen from the minute he could talk, and after their mother was gone, Jimmy drank more, got more and more angry. And he always had his eye set on Owen.
Dillon learned how to rile his father, which kept the attention on him and off of Owen, who was altogether too young and gentle natured to ever fight. Not like Dillon fought. He had his father in him, that was certain.
When they left, they never looked back. His mind raced to the beat of his feet on the pavement, and the memory of the day filled his mind.
Dillon was two weeks away from turning eighteen. Two weeks until he could get a place of his own, and he could take Owen away from that hell hole. Away from Jimmy.
He pulled into the driveway and stepped out of his car. He had been working two jobs all summer to save enough to move out, and he would have had more, but it took him a year to save up enough to buy a car and another six months to fix the vintage GTO up enough that it was drivable. He regretted being so selfish as to do that before saving to move. But, soon enough, Jimmy would be a distant memory. They had survived for almost eight years, a few more months couldn’t hurt.
When the screen door clapped shut, the hair on the back of his neck stood. Something was off … it was too quiet, and the air was charged. He dropped his chin and marched through the house.
“Owen?”
“In here,” Owen called from the bathroom.
When Dillon stepped into the doorframe, he saw Owen, gangly and awkward at only thirteen, dabbing at his face with a towel.
Dillon went numb. “What the fuck did he do to you?”
Owen ducked his head, angling it to hide part of his face from his brother. “It’s nothing, Dillon. I’m fine.” His voice was muffled, and Dillon knew immediately that something was wrong with Owen’s nose, the word “fine” sounding closer to “fide.”
Dillon grabbed his face, turning it to inspect. His eye was swollen shut and purple, and his lip was fat and red. His nose was broken, and the bottom half of his face was covered in blood that dripped off his chin, onto the floor. Dillon took in the gore, and his vision went dark.
The screen door closed with a slap, and Owen’s undamaged eye went wide. Dillon spun around and blew into the kitchen to find Jimmy. He set a bottle of liquor down on the counter and raised an eyebrow at Dillon, his tone taunting and cruel. “Don’t look so angry, Dillon.”
“Fuck you, Da.”
Jimmy smiled savagely as he turned, his head cocked. “Do you think you’re gonna do something about it? Hmm?” His smile fell as his face twisted in hate. “You know that every time you stick up for that bastard, it makes me sick? He’s not even your true brother.”
Dillon’s fists clenched at his sides. “He’s more my brother than you were ever my father.”
Jimmy stalked toward Dillon. “You don’t know shite, Dillon. You think you know how the world works. But you don’t know shite.” His lips pulled back as he menaced over his son, inches from his face. “Your ma didn’t, either.”
That was all it took to push him over the edge. Dillon’s nostrils flared, and his hands clenched, aching with anticipation. The room dimmed, and all he could see was Jimmy’s weathered, spiteful face. The face of the man who murdered his mother and stole his life.
Dillon swung and popped Jimmy in the nose. Blood spilled out down his shirt, but didn’t faze him otherwise. Jimmy clenched his jaw and swung at Dillon, who ducked and pounded Jimmy in the ribs.
He saw his mother’s face in his mind when he cracked Jimmy in the jaw. He saw her blood on Jimmy’s hands when his fist connected with his father’s eye. He saw Owen, small and gentle, rejected by the only father he ever knew, as Jimmy fell to the ground, and Dillon descended on him.
He didn’t know what happened after that, up until he heard Owen’s voice, felt Owen shaking his shoulders, pulling him out of the dark. Dillon sat on Jimmy’s chest, and his muddled brain took in his father, whose face looked like raw meat, swollen and inhuman. Dillon held up his hands, turning them over, trying to make sense of the wet crimson that covered his skin. He turned to Owen, whose face twisted in horror. He had fought with Jimmy before but had never, ever gone so far.
Jimmy coughed weakly beneath him, and Dillon stood, stumbling as he backed away.
Owen dragged his brother to the sink and washed his hands, and Dillon vaguely grasped that his father stood in the same spot years
before, washing his mother’s blood down the drain. His eyes focused on nothing as he stood, numb, grounded to the spot.
Owen shepherded him into their room and sat him down on the bed. He bent down to level his eyes with Dillon’s. “Dillon,” he said firmly, “you need to pack. We can’t wait. Do you understand? Where can we can go?”
Dillon’s mind slowly creaked and groaned. Go? Leave. They had to leave. He fumbled around his thoughts. Brian was older and had an apartment. They’d known each other a long time, and he knew about Jimmy. He was sure Brian would put them up, knowing what Dillon had gone through.
“Brian.” His words were like sawdust in his mouth. “We can go to Brian’s.”
Owen nodded and shoved his things in a bag. He tossed in a picture of their mother, then glanced at Dillon sitting in shock on the bed. Owen sighed and began to pack a bag for his brother.
It was minutes, or it was hours. But they packed the car and changed Dillon’s bloody clothes, and as they walked out, Dillon stopped and stood over his father, watching his slow, wheezing breaths.
He swallowed hard as he stared at the broken man on the floor, his voice raw and cracked. “If you come after us, I’ll kill you.”
Jimmy turned his head toward the sound, the movement so slight it was almost imperceptible.
“Do you understand me?” He knelt down. “Because if you don’t, I’ll kill you now.”
Jimmy held his gaze for a long moment. He nodded, and Dillon stood, turned around, and never looked back.
Kat was racing again. She wasn’t proud, and in fact, she was downright disgusted with herself. She was going to get them caught, but she was losing her shit. Between everything going on with Dillon, and the threat of Eric always in the back of her mind, she had to race. It was a compulsion. And, from the minute she lined up, she felt better.
She gripped the wheel. She gripped her gearshift. The pedals under her feet, the rumble of the car around her, all of it brought her back to life, back to the ground, back to herself.