Aphrodite's War

by Donna Milward

  Cool basement air enveloped Adrian. He was grateful for the deep chill; it kept him alert. Nothing disturbed the hush, save his footsteps. He pointed his remote starter, reassured by the eager tweeting response and instant ignition. The Bentley purred to life. Damn, he loved his beautiful beast.

  Adrian couldn’t wait to get home. His pillow called to him. Headlights illuminated the gloom, and Adrian’s weariness evaporated in a moment of rage. His keys clanged to the concrete. His heart lodged in his throat when he caught sight of the scarred remains before him. Glass littered the ground. A can of spray paint lay discarded next to a pillar.

  “What the fuck happened to my Bentley?” CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Poetry reached for her kitten with trembling fingers. She wanted his soft warmth and rumbling purr, a comfort during emotional rough patches. Her hand found nothing but emptiness on the pillow where Amir slept. The spot still held his body heat. He must have just left.

  She’d probably stolen a couple of hours of slumber, not that it helped. Her eyes remained puffy and sore from crying, tracks crusted her face. She still wore yesterday’s dress and it bound her thighs uncomfortably. Her mouth tasted gritty.

  After she’d checked Amir’s food and water to assure that he’d eaten something, she’d brought him to bed, hoping for a nap before the evening shift. Collapsing in a shaking, sobbing pile of sex-stinking misery, Poetry slept fitfully.

  How could she have been so stupid? Humiliation and regret threatened to overwhelm her again as Poetry rehashed the recent memory.

  Seduced by a suit. What was I thinking?

  She’d let her guard down and he’d boarded her like a pirate. No wonder people hated lawyers. The hard part? She was fond of Adrian, thought he might be different.

  Wrong… As Lemmy Kilmister would say, “The chase is better than the catch”.

  She didn’t know which felt worse, the fact that he’d tricked her into sex or that she’d enjoyed it so much. Her heart ached as she remembered the way he’d touched her, how his fingers feathered over her skin. Poetry let her hand slide down her stomach. She could almost feel him between her legs as he pumped inside her over and over.

  The tears started again, much to Poetry’s frustration. Poetry jerked her hand away and willed herself to stop fantasizing. She thought back to Amir’s absence.

  Amir stayed close and meowed when he wanted down, especially now with his injured ribs. Where would he go?

  Sorrow forgotten, Poetry sat up. “Amir?” Nothing disturbed the stillness. “Where are you, baby?” A presence caused her to jerk her head toward the shadowed door. Something…no, someone waited there. Just staring. Not moving. A sense of dread crept from her gut to her throat.

  “You,” she said. “What are you doing here?” No answer. Poetry drew a sharp breath as the shadow manifested to the solid form and a fist to her temple killed the scream before it could leave her lips.

  # # # The officer handling the scene didn’t like Adrian. He wore the distain on his face as if it were part of the uniform. Not that Adrian really blamed him. As defense lawyer and cop, they were sometimes at odds. This guy brought criminals in and Adrian got them off. Plus, Adrian got paid a lot more without as much personal risk. Sometimes knowing that embarrassed him.

  “So whatdaya think?” The policeman took a pen and notepad from his pocket, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “Former client, maybe?” Adrian bit down his rising anger. “Not exactly.” Adrian had a pretty good idea who’d done this. All four tires were slashed, every window smashed. His leather seats were punctured in a dry parody of a murder victim, like a warning. The noxious smell of spray paint, gloss red to be exact, stung his nose.

  After the police arrived to bag evidence and take photos he made some inquiries. Sure enough, Kevin Ferris was out on bail. How did that asshole find out where he worked and which car belonged to him? How’d he get past the parkade guard? It had to be him. Adrian couldn’t think of anyone else who might hold a grudge. Adrian ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Innocent until proven guilty, he reminded himself. Resentment seethed inside his chest and he swallowed it like half-chewed meat.

  Watching as fingerprints were lifted from a wheelwell put his mind at ease.

  No problem. Forensics would prove it. When they did, Adrian would pull a few strings to lobby for a six-figure bail.

  “Are we done?” he asked. “I’d really like to get out of here.” “Suit yourself.” The pen and blank paper disappeared. “You think of anything, you know where we are.” “Thanks.” I’m sure you’re right on it. For the umpteenth time Adrian wished he could clock that jackass junkie. But he’d have to drop it and let the system work.

  And he genuinely hoped it would this time. Adrian snuck out a side door and checked both ways before making his exit. Police interceptors were parked on the other side of the building. Lucky him. That should keep reporters engrossed long enough for his escape. He walked west a few blocks until he crossed 109th. He should grab a bite to eat.

  Adrian absentmindedly pressed Ranjan’s number on his cell. His cases were wrapping up. Maybe he could spare an hour. Half a ring. “Adrian, where have you been?” Why? What was that about? He should have checked his messages. “Sorry, Ran,” he said. “I’m having a shitty day.” “So you heard about the bombing? Not Buddy’s, the one at West Ed.” The sidewalk wobbled beneath Adrian’s feet, bringing him to a halt.

  “Where exactly?” Not that it mattered. An explosion anywhere in a mall that size spelled disaster, but Adrian had an ugly hunch. Please tell me it wasn’t Frank’s buddies. Please tell me it wasn’t another tavern.

  “The Asian grocery.” T&T Supermarket. An entire store dedicated to imported foods; fresh, frozen, dried, and cooked. It catered to Chinese, Vietnamese, Filipinos, and more.

  “Racially motivated.” Adrian groped for a nearby bus stop, wincing as his palm found the hot plastic window of the shelter. Dizziness nearly claimed him before he found the tiny metal slab that served as a seat inside.

  “That’s what it looks like.” Adrian hadn’t even realized what he’d said until Ranjan agreed. “Do you know where your client is?”

  Adrian didn’t need to ask which one. “Come to think of it, no.” He hadn’t thought about the bastard all day. “I’ve been kinda occupied filing police reports for vandalism.” “Why? What happened?” “I was calling you for a sympathetic ear,” he said. “Somebody trashed the Bentley.”

  Adrian’s eardrum rattled with the noise of a loud exhalation on Ranjan’s end. “Shit.” “Yeah. This day just keeps getting better and better.” “Where are you?”

  “I’m on Jasper and 109th.” Adrian rubbed the bridge of his nose, desperate to drive away the ache burrowing into his eye sockets. “Where should I meet you?” “I could really use food and beer.” Adrian checked his surroundings. “Kyoto is right behind me. Make that sake and a bento box.” “Sounds good. I’ll be there in a half hour. Oh…” Ranjan spoke away from the phone. A feminine voice answered but he couldn’t make out words. “I’m bringing Sarah, okay? She’s had a rough day too, and I don’t want to leave her alone.”

  “Sure, whatever.” Right now Adrian didn’t care who Ranjan invited. He just wanted some miso soup and a shot of alcohol. “See you in a bit.” He ended the connection and took a deep, humid breath. The tiny structure made it unpleasant, like breathing steam, so Adrian stepped back into the sunshine. Kyoto’s front entrance was on the other side of the mini mall.

  He took note of the new store on the corner. Adrian didn’t spend a lot of time in this square, but he couldn’t recall a florist being there. Poetry. She popped into his head for the first time in an hour and a fresh wave of guilt hit him. He’d need more than a single rose to make up for his earlier attitude. He found himself trudging to the door. All women liked flowers…Right?

  The name ‘Herrold’s’ flowed across the windows in black and yellow paint. Pink blooms decorated the glass along with chubby cherubs playing horns and harps. Adrian recognized th
e work. Several pubs and retail establishments used the same cartoonist who painted in a washable medium.

  A tinkling chime announced his entrance in the dim shop. The chill of air conditioning relieved him instantly. The welcome sight of wall-towall carnations and baby’s breath lifted his mood.

  “Can I help you?” asked the man behind the counter. “I remember you. You’re the guy who sold me the black rose.”

  The golden-haired man emerged into the light and flashed a winning smile. “Told you the little Sheila would like it.” He winked as if they’d shared a dirty joke. “Back for more, then?”

  “Yeah.” Adrian studied his shoes and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly uneasy in the Australian’s presence.

  “What did you do?” His tone suggested Adrian had committed some crime of the heart. Which he had.

  “I, uh…left her. After…” Why was he telling this guy his personal business? “I had to go to work.” “You didn’t…” Adrian wanted to shrink into a corner. As if he didn’t feel bad enough without this guy’s two cents. “You’re going to need a huge bouquet.”

  “I know.” How big would it have to be to make Poetry absolve him? Maybe he should just buy her a tree.

  The owner, Herrold, Adrian assumed, poised a pencil above notepaper.

  “I’m thinking something soft and romantic,” he said. “And apologetic. We better break out the red roses.” Adrian shuffled uncomfortably while Herrold muttered and sketched. A peek at the picture prompted Adrian to dig out his Visa. Forgiveness looked expensive.

  “There we are.” Herrold presented the doodle like an easel, pointing out highlights. “Red, white, and yellow roses with a spray of baby’s breath and forget-me-nots. Beautiful and symbolic.”

  “Looks good.” Adrian handed him the credit card. “I don’t suppose I can get that delivered?” “Of course.” “Today?” Herrold shook his mop of golden curls. “Not a problem.”

  Adrian checked the time on his cell phone. Maybe he didn’t understand just how badly he’d screwed up. The sooner Poetry got it, the better he’d feel.

  “Can you put a rush on it? I’m in a bit of a hurry.” Herrold gave him a slow easy smile. “Dude, I’ve been doing this a long time. Trust me, I’m fast.”

  Herrold seemed to reach inside Adrian’s to skull with that stare, exposing him.

  “You’re gonna think I have wings on my feet.” CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Strife jumped at the unexpected chance. Joining Adrian for a meal offered her an opportunity to get back on task. Ares might forgive her if she at least re-established contact with his pawn.

  Perhaps he’d be easier to manipulate than Ranjan. Her current prey seemed amicable. Strangely enough, she liked him. His manners were refined by proper rearing and education. His confidence had not yet aged to arrogance.

  But her affections wouldn’t complete the mission. She still had no idea why he seemed immune to her spells. And she needed a plan. Adrian sat hunched over a ceramic flask and matching cup when they arrived. He greeted them wearily.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. He bear hugged Ranjan, nodding politely to her before they sat.

  “You work at the Rosemount, right?” He eyed her curiously. “Yes, good to see you again. I wish it were under better circumstances. Ranjan says someone vandalized your car.” “It’s been one hell of a day.” He waved down a waitress in a navy blue kimono covered in cherry blossoms. “More tea please, and…” Adrian gestured with an open hand.

  “I’ll have sake as well. Sarah?” Ranjan looked at her, questioning. “What about you?”

  “Tea is fine,” she said. Despite the dim lighting and the delicious scents of cilantro and chicken broth, Strife felt ill at ease. Something wasn’t right. She scanned for the cause of the twitch between her shoulders, but she couldn’t see beyond the L-shaped alcove. “Where’s the ladies room?” Adrian waved back the way they’d come. “To the right of the sushi bar.”

  “Thanks.” She examined faces as she strolled. She recognized no one. Not that she expected to sense anyone from her past. After all, this was the New World. The only other gods she’d been in contact with were Ares and…

  …And that candy-assed hippie, Hermes. She glanced back to Adrian’s table before quickening her pace. Both men were ignoring her in favor of secretive chatter, judging by their hunched shoulders. Her nemesis must be here somewhere.

  She rounded the corner. Neither man would notice she’d left the restaurant so Strife slipped away to investigate. Once outside the vibe became stronger. Where did it come from? She surveyed her surroundings, peering across the parking lot to the SaveOn-Foods and Quiznos. Too far away.

  She moved her small purse over her shoulder and opened the zipper. She had backup weapons inside she might need.

  If I were the pretty-boy offspring of a prissy, naïve love-goddesswhore where would I be?

  To her left were more businesses: a dental office, nail salon, and a florist on the end. Her head throbbed with his presence. She remembered Hermes carrying his basket of roses, not to mention the golden logo seen around the world representing flower delivery bore a strong resemblance.

  Eureka. Some people never changed tactics. Predictability will get you killed, Hermes.

  Strife yanked the door open, nearly tearing it from the hinges. Chimes jangled in protest.

  A pair of scissors flew past her head. She heard the loud chunk as they embedded themselves in the wall. “Is that so, Strife?” Hermes crouched behind the till. He’d recognized her as well, now he had her at a disadvantage. “So will barging into a man’s domain when he knows you’re coming.”

  “This ends here.” She pried the blades from the wooden frame with a tortured squeal. “You’ve interfered with my work long enough.” “Are you sure that’s wise?” A small paring knife sliced the air, but Strife dodged before it could strike her left eye. “I am Ares’s son, after all.”

  Strife snorted. She aimed the scissors for Hermes’ face but missed. “He donated his seed, nothing more. You are a disappointment to him. He won’t protect you from me.”

  “I don’t need protection from you.” Hermes edged backward, and Strife made ready to strike. “You’re just his whipping-bitch underling, begging at his feet for scraps and cock. Ares only kept you because my mother had more respect for herself than to tolerate his abuse.”

  Strife shrieked, vaulting onto the counter in a single leap. She perched like a gargoyle, hissing her rage as Hermes fled.

  She pounced on his back before he could escape. “I’ll kill you,” Strings of spittle flew from Strife’s mouth. “I’m going to snap your neck.” Hermes struggled beneath her weight. She gripped his hair with one hand and groped his jaw with the other, but he wriggled free and tossed her before springing to his feet.

  “Nice try. But you’ll have to do better.” He hurled a computer monitor from the desk.

  She scuttled to one side and the equipment slammed into the wall. Glass and plastic showered Strife. She ducked and shielded her face. The rumblings of wood rolling against tile alerted Strife and she stood in time to avoid decapitation. Hermes pinned her with the oak desk, grinding it into her hips with bone-crushing intent. Hot agony raced up Strife’s spine and Hermes increased the pressure, grunting with the effort like a wild beast.

  She struggled, both hands prying at the solid edge in vain. Her thumb brushed her purse, and Strife wriggled her fingers inside, searching for anything that might assist her. They closed over a vial. She popped the top and dashed the contents in Hermes’s eyes.

  Talcum clouded the air, instantly filling the small space with delicate sweetness, blinding them both. The painful tension ceased. Hermes bellowed in anguish. Strife collapsed to the floor, retching with the soapy taste of perfume in her mouth.

  From the corner of her watering vision, Strife saw Hermes lurch toward the entrance. You will not get away this time. She gave chase, determined to finish him. But he’d almost made it to the door. She had to do something.

 
; Hermes made a critical error in judgment, shuffling left of the exit. Strife once again leapt on the service counter.

  A cooler filled with lilies and orchids sat to her right. With all her inhuman strength, she peeled it from the wall. A metallic groan filled the room as the gargantuan refrigerator sailed through the air. Hermes’s failed attempt to catch it bore him to the ground with a sloppy crash peppered with a chorus of breaking glass and singing shelves.

  Yellow, orange, and purple petals fluttered throughout the store like confetti. Floral scents combined with baby powder made the room reek like women’s deodorant.

  The abrupt quiet brought serenity to chaos. The only sound: the panting of a dying man.

  She must hurry. The noise would bring curious humans, and she couldn’t be caught. Not with her objective so close at hand. She eased to the floor, her sandals transforming glass to powder. “That was too easy,” She strutted over to stare at Hermes’s ruined face. Shards embedded various pockets of flesh, including his left eye. “I expected better from a demi-god.”

  Hermes glared contemptuously through milky tears, trying in vain to spit blood at Strife. His thoughts dimmed. “Yes, it’s too bad,” she said, “but if it is any consolation…” She extended her hands to the multicolored carnage. “This is the prettiest death I’ve ever seen.”

  Strife backed away from the growing pool of blood and cocked her head to examine the damage. Hermes’s bones and inner organs were crushed, she knew. But as much as she wanted Hermes to experience an excruciatingly slow and miserable demise, she couldn’t permit it.

  Both his parents were original denizens of Eden, angels who claimed godhood on Earth.

  Grievous as his injuries were, the possibility Hermes could survive had occurred to her. She stepped down on his Adam’s apple, putting her full weight on it. Sickening popping and crunching music filled her ears as more bodily fluids gushed from Hermes’s mouth.