Aphrodite's War

by Donna Milward

  The temperature plummeted as Poetry cleansed the eyeliner rivers she knew would leave tracks on her cheeks. Kevin was a jerk. But it didn’t make breaking up with him any easier.

  Poetry half-assed dried off, the heat outside would evaporate the rest, and shimmied into her outfit. She opened the door to let the steam out and wiped condensation from the mirror before checking her eyes. They were red as coals from crying. Better get the drops.

  She opened the vanity to find another reminder of her ex. He always kept at least three bottles of Visine around: one for his place, one for hers, and one in his pocket; for getting rid of the hung over appearance when they’d stayed out too late. Poetry sighed. Now she used it to wash away the tell-tale signs of missing him.

  She steeled her resolve. What kind of dweeb hides his nights out so often that he needs more than one bottle of eye drops anyway? The kind that smacks women around when he drinks. Bolstering her confidence, Poetry brushed and preened until her hair lay sleek and shiny. She applied her make-up like war paint, with dark eyes and plum lips. Poetry reached for a green bingo dauber, but changed her mind. Red. Today felt like a red day. She gave the bottle a good shake and began striping her bleached bangs with it.

  She chose a braided chain with sculpted silver daisies dangling at various lengths with pearly beads to represent baby’s breath; one of her most feminine necklaces. After adorning her neck, she owned her style with an appraisal in the mirror.

  The familiar padding of tiny paws on the linoleum announced Amir. “What do you think?” she asked. “Rowr.”

  “I think so too,” Poetry said, placing her hands on her hips and striking a haughty stance. “Kevin who?”

  “Ready!” She meandered to the kitchen with Amir trotting behind. “How do I look?”

  “That’s what you’re wearing?” Jenny asked. “You have other clothes, you know.”

  “You think the guys at the Rosemount won’t like it?” Jenny shook her head, but her lips betrayed her humor. “More for me.”

  Poetry gave Jenny’s arm a swipe. “Nice.” “Nice, nothing. You can borrow my patent pumps. At least you’ll somewhat resemble a lady that way.”

  “Whatever,” Poetry said, covering her cat with kisses. “Give Amir lovins before we go.”

  Jenny took him from her arms while Poetry searched for shoes that matched. Time to have some fun. No more sitting at home feeling sorry for herself. This would be the first night of the rest of her life, and Poetry intended to make it a good one.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Poetry stifled a groan. She’d envisioned a local hangout where coworkers and friends shared a few quick brews over a game of darts. This place featured a lacquered bar with polished chrome stools and the scent of genuine leather chairs permeated the air. The work of a painter she didn’t recognize decorated the walls in black and red.

  At least she matched. How much would a beer cost in a pub like this? She cringed. Maybe she shouldn’t order beer. Not fancy enough. The men were strictly suit and tie. Not a hockey jersey in sight. The women…well, needless to say Poetry felt underdressed and over-pierced. People stared. Her favorite little black number suddenly looked too cheap and showed too much ink.

  She leaned toward Jenny’s ear. “You could have warned me.” “I did,” Jenny’s tone was insistent. “I told you not to wear that, remember?”

  Poetry cursed inwardly. She’d taken the comment as a ribbing. “Check it out.” Jenny motioned to the corner next to the patio with her chin. Bright sunlight poured in from patio doors, showcasing three men and an older woman.

  The woman had obviously had more than she could handle. She pawed at a guy with a brown brush cut and biceps that strained the sleeves of his jacket. The lady’s voice carried throughout the room, announcing her interest. Poetry was embarrassed, even if she wasn’t.

  Jenny marched straight for her. Oh God, what’s she going to do?

  “Hi, honey,” she said with a wave. Who was she talking to? Poetry’s jaw dropped when Jenny leaned over to Mr. Biceps and pecked him on the lips. “Sorry I’m late. Is this woman bothering you?”

  She didn’t.

  The cougar glared at Jenny. Her gaze drifted to Poetry with the tattoos crawling down her shoulders and arms. Apparently not liking the looks of them, the woman excused herself in a hiss.

  When her rival was out of earshot Jenny flashed a charming smile at Mr. Biceps again.

  “I always wondered if that would work. I’m Jenny.” Poetry clenched her teeth in a phony smile. Only Jenny possessed that kind of nerve. “Well, Jenny.” The jock motioned to the now empty spot. “I’m Gary. Why don’t you and your friend have a seat? You never know…She might come back, right?”

  A barmaid came forward and took their order. Poetry followed Jenny’s lead and ordered a vodka-Seven. She squirmed in her creaking chair as introductions were made.

  “This is my roommate, Poetry,” Jenny said with a vague sweep of her hand. “We work together.” Gary-with-the-beef nodded to his dark friend. “This is Ranjan.” He indicated the blonde man closest to Poetry. “That’s Adrian. We work at the same law firm.”

  “Oh, you’re lawyers.” Jenny beamed while Poetry suppressed a sigh of annoyance.

  Lawyers. Great. Should be a fun night. Intuition told her the guy sitting next to her felt the same way. While Gary and Ranjan devoted their attention to the effervescent Jenny, he slouched and stared at his glass.

  What was his name? Adrian. Girl’s name. Not bad looking, though. He wore his hair short and spiky. Just enough product to make it sit still. His face had that sexy chiseled bone structure that makes for pretty men--square jaw and high cheekbones.

  But his eyes were the striking part. Such a light shade of blue they were almost grey. Icy. He must be Scandinavian.

  Not her type at all. Especially since he wore a sport coat. No doubt it cost more than your average off-the-rack kind. Were those pink pinstripes in his tie? She glanced up to see him staring at her. A blush warmed her face as she concentrated on keeping her expression neutral.

  # # # Drinks arrived, and Adrian broke eye contact with the olive skinned girl. He took a long pull from his Guinness and braced himself for a dull evening.

  What was he doing here? He’d rather be at home, fixing the splintered board in the hardwood floor he’d installed a few weeks ago. Stupid miscalculation. His head throbbed from dwelling on it. Best think about something else.

  As the bitter brew and creamy foam washed over his teeth he appraised the woman, as he’d seen her doing to him. Not much to look at. She smelled odd, like baby powder and iron. Adrian suspected that if it wasn’t for her bubble-puppy friend over there that she’d never set foot in a place like this. Goth girls with rainbow hair and tattoos never did.

  And he’d caught the contempt for his tie. Not that he’d do her, either. He liked his women a tad bit thinner. And more conservative. She fiddled with the rhinestone embedded in her cheek. Why would anyone do that to their face? Bet she had tribal markings across the small of her back like he’d seen on so many hookers and junkies he’d defended. What were they called? Oh yeah, ‘Tramp Stamps’.

  He spared a glance at his friends. Gary and Ranjan were talking over each other, competing for the other girl’s attention. She just sat there, smiling like an airhead.

  He glanced at the misfit and experienced a pang of empathy. She sipped and chewed at her straw, obviously uncomfortable. At least we have that in common. She had intelligence in her eyes, a wariness no doubt borne from others making assumptions about her appearance. Maybe he’d been too critical.

  “What’s your name again?” he asked. She took the straw out of her mouth, splashing him with drops of soda. “Poetry.”

  What kind of hippie names their kid ‘Poetry’? A distasteful thought hit him. Maybe it’s a stage name.

  “Uh huh, and what do you do, Poetry?” Adrian took another pull of his beer. Not like he had anyone else to talk to. Could be interesting. “I create jewelry,
” she said with a tilt to her chin that dared him to comment. “I’m an artist.”

  Adrian almost choked on his Guinness, fizz burned the back of his throat.

  An artist. Named Poetry. Lucky him. Who breeds these people? CHAPTER FOUR

  “I choose him,” Ares rubbed his greasy hands together. “The blonde man.” Aphrodite rolled her eyes. She expected no less. Ares decided on the one person at the table who found Poetry distasteful. But brutal rogues like Ares could not see the warm hearts of men.

  “You lack subtlety,” she said. “But it does not matter. I will defeat you.” “You must admit, I have a good start.” He planted his dusty sandals on the polished floor and stretched until his joints cracked and popped like autumn leaves.

  “The champions have been chosen,” Zeus said. Mutterings and whispers quelled and the courtyard fell silent except for the wind. “Rule number one: aside from your champions, you must not interfere with humankind.” Zeus employed a meaningful stare as he pointed to both of them in kind. “I want no repeats of the ‘Troy’ incident.”

  Zeus raised another finger. “Rule number two: no outside help. You may use minions and demigods of our community. You may not ask for assistance from the Egyptian, Asian or Indian deities.”

  “Rule number three,” Ares said, glaring at Aphrodite. “No cupid arrows.”

  “No charmed weapons of any kind, Ares,” Zeus said, furrowing his brows at both of them in turn. Aphrodite smiled her approval as she stood. She did not need her little cherub to do her dirty work. “I do not have issue with your decree, mighty Zeus.”

  Ares clenched his fists and tightened his jaw. “Nor do I.” “Then it is settled,” Zeus said. “You have two mortal weeks to make them fall in love, Aphrodite. Ares, you must stop her.” “Let it be known,” Zeus addressed the excited crowd. “The challenge is concluded at the end of July, by the Christian calendar.” A breeze whistled through the hyacinth, saturating the courtyard with its luscious floral scent. “The defeated will be banished from Olympus and must roam the earth as a human for one hundred years.”

  Zeus spread both his hands wide creating dancing shadows to dim the golden filigree that accented the furniture and urns. Ares repeated the gesture, pressing one hand against that of Zeus and waited for Aphrodite to comply. She stood, raising her palms and completing the circle.

  “We are agreed,” Zeus said, and jagged ribbons of electricity connected them. Aphrodite’s muscles seized as the aching hum coursed through her body. The ritual demonstrated a show of trust and power, like a human handshake. But enduring the physical manifestations of Zeus’ authority left crisp agony in its wake.

  She gritted her teeth against the taste of blood, watching Ares grimace as they were honor-bound.

  When the lightning faded Aphrodite released the bond. The smell of ozone and charred flesh stung her nose and seared the back of her throat. “You may begin at your leisure,” Zeus said. “I care not what else you do.” He dissipated without further comment. The hall returned to a loud bustle, ripe with wagers and gossip. Aphrodite leveled her sights at Ares.

  “I look forward to your downfall,” she said. Her triumph would be absolute.

  His lips crooked upward. “As I do yours.” He spun with a flourish, creating a musky gust with his exit.

  The tension left Aphrodite’s shoulders and neck as it always did when Ares vacated Olympus. She breathed easier, in fresher air. In his stead, a long absent but welcome presence made himself known to her. His arrival could not be more fortunate. Her heart lifted as she faced the newcomer.

  Her reason for coming to Earth appeared before her, luminous as sunshine on falling rain. She would never have had Hermes in Eden. Her kind could not procreate there; only in a mortal realm could she give birth.

  She smiled her adoration on his perfect tan skin, his flaxen curls. His sea-foam eyes met hers and she saw love reflected there. Whenever Aphrodite worshipped the beauty of him, she forgot the pain of her exile.

  “My son,” she said, placing a gentle hand on his jaw. “Where have you been?” “Mother…” He said the word with reverence and deep affection. “… You remember I’ve been to the southern hemisphere, yeah?” He planted a warm kiss on her cheek. It felt like butter and fireworks to her heart.

  “Oh yes, that is correct.” She tsked him with sweetness. “You speak in the vulgar dialect of the mortals with their clumsy English.” Her child had been chasing waves in Australia, no doubt. “What brings you here, my sweet?”

  Hermes held her at arms length and teased her with a grin. Sunlight danced from trellises and twinkled in his eyes. “Can’t a man visit his mother on a whim?”

  “Surfing season is over?” Hermes gasped, clutching at his chest in a mockingly disgruntled fashion. “What? You’re implying I only came to see you because I’m bored?”

  Aphrodite arched her brows and placed her hands on her hips in response, causing Hermes’ boisterous laugher to ring off the pillars and shake grapes from the vines. He folded her into his arms and squeezed. She reciprocated, and experienced a comfort she never knew anywhere else.

  “You are well timed,” she said. “He just left.”

  “I know.” Her son’s visage shadowed at the mention of his father as he dropped his arms. “I sensed his anger.” He peered into her eyes, concern clashing with his handsome good looks. “He’s up to something.”

  “Absolutely,” Aphrodite said. “Did you hear of the competition?” “Yeah, I was wondering about that. Everyone around here is buzzing like flies on a dead dingo, but I couldn’t quite pick up on it. What’s going on?”

  Aphrodite tried to be brief. “Ares and I are embattled. Losing means departing Olympus.” “Really?” Hermes stroked his smooth chin. Aphrodite could almost see the rivers of thought rambling through his head. She understood how Hermes felt about his father. Their loathing for him was mutual. “So if he fails…”

  “He cannot set foot in Olympus for one hundred years. He shall become not unlike a mortal man.” “Sweet,” Hermes said. Aphrodite shared the idea of an Ares-free home sifting through his thoughts. But his features crumbled. “Mom, he’ll cheat.”

  “More than likely.” She shrugged. “I might need a little assistance, and since you have nothing better to do now that summer is over in Australia…”

  He grinned at her, pearly teeth gleaming. “Anything for you, Mom.” # # # Strife relished the bite of a stiff martini as the warble of Circuit Freq thumped through her body and assaulted her ears. She hovered in a dark corner, absorbing the vibe in the air and breathing the dusty odor of dry ice.

  The crowd jumped to the beat, their mood giving Strife an extra high that had nothing to do with alcohol.

  She delighted in Germany’s club scene. The black clothes, the piercings, and dismal dance bars amused her. She’d called Europe home since the sixteen-hundreds, and Strife enjoyed watching fashion and culture evolve. Just in the last forty years music had gone from Disco, to New Wave, to Electronica. The constant changes thrilled her. Not to mention she’d take Latex and leggings over a toga in any era. And certainly the men were easier to manipulate under the influence of increasingly potent drugs.

  Even now, hot sweating bodies writhed together. Lust and artificial pleasure oozed through her veins as though it belonged to her. She leeched it from the crowd like a greedy lover, giving nothing in return.

  She became dimly aware of a shift in mood. Strife experienced it first as irritation, an unexpected ache deep within that she tried to brush away. It disturbed her euphoria.

  A glance at the thick fog on the dance floor revealed an abrupt scattering of limbs and fists. A brawl broke out. Strife inched to the edge of it to observe. Dancers fled or became trampled in the melee. Screams overpowered the clash of drum machines and keyboards.

  What had set them off? She’d sensed no ill will or anger in this ecstasy-laced bunch before. What happened to the happy haze? A familiar ghost seeped into her consciousness like poison gas. By all th
e realms of life, not him. Not here. Strife recalled the drowning sensation she felt whenever that aura invaded her space. She’d hoped to never experience it again.

  Horror twisted her intestines as fighters, victims, and bouncers were tossed like bowling pins from the man marching toward her. A shiver stroked her spine. Strife tried to blink the vision away with no success.

  Ares. “Did you miss me, my pet?” he asked. He looked out of place in formal wear with his wavy black hair slicked back. He’d trimmed his beard to a goatee. Knowing Ares he’d done it purposely, to tempt aggression from those who abhorred the upper class.

  She’d run from him more than three hundred years ago and now he stood before her as though time and distance were of no importance. She stood astonished and belittled.

  “How did you find me?” “Dear Strife…” he said, winding her hair between his fingers, and causing her to flinch. His pungent cologne couldn’t mask the smell of blood. Strife suspected his sleeves would be warm and sticky to the touch.

  I always knew where you were. The words were unspoken, yet they carved an angry welt in her psyche. Her whereabouts were never a secret; he just hadn’t bothered to search for her. Until now.

  “You must want something.” No need to hide her repugnance, he deserved it. “What makes you think I’ll give it to you?” “Ah, Strife… May I call you Strife? I understand you use your true name these days.” He halted a steampunk with a top hat and a soul patch, took the drink from his hand, and claimed it in a swallow. “I imagine it works well with this riff-raff. Makes you sound so interesting.”

  “What’s your fucking problem, man?” the kid said, but Ares tamed him with a narrowed glare. Whatever the young man saw, or whatever Ares sent to the boy’s thoughts she missed, but the human went white. He shuffled away, peeking back as he distanced himself.

  “I have a task for you,” Ares said. Strife stood her ground. “No. I like my life here. I have a man that takes care of my needs and gives me anything and everything. Not to mention a lucrative trade.”