Aphrodite's War

by Donna Milward

  But now she wanted answers. Adrian placed the headgear on the coffee table before crumpling next to her. “Shoes off,” he said, and frowned when they remained on his feet. “Shoes, we’re done now. Off.”

  Normally Poetry would question the wisdom of commanding footwear. But having flown with them, the lack of response seemed odd to her too.

  Adrian groaned, leaning forward to untie them. Poetry winced in sympathy at the painful grunts he emitted while removing the now inanimate sandals. They seemed ordinary, dangling from his fists like plain leather soles and straps.

  But depleted magicks were not her concern. “We’ll call Gary and Jenny,” she said, “after you tell me what happened.” “That’s just it. I don’t know what happened.” He shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. Poetry felt bad for him, he must be wiped out. “I fell asleep, and when I woke, Aphrodite popped through my TV and beamed me to your suite like in an episode of Star Trek.”

  He peered straight into her eyes and Poetry didn’t see any hints of untruths. “When we got there, Kevin and my client were dead.” She should have experienced some sort of sadness for her ex, but couldn’t muster any.

  Good, she thought. He deserved it. Now she could stop checking over her shoulder and everything would go back to…Wait a minute… “You mean Frank Fleisher? What was he doing there?” Adrian shrugged. “Who knows? He was a racist and he didn’t like… anybody.” His expression turned severe. “I think you dodged a bullet. Literally.” A shiver rolled over Poetry’s skin.

  The phone chirped. “Jenny again. I’d better get this, now that I can actually give her some good news.” “You do that.” Poetry extracted herself from the sofa. Her arms had little strength left, but she’d muster some if it meant getting food in her belly and not dealing with Jenny. “I’m starving. Got breakfast fixings?”

  “Lots. Bacon would be great, if you don’t mind.” Adrian pushed a button and placed the phone to his ear. “Hi, Jen.”

  Poetry glanced back to see Adrian yank the phone to a safe distance as Jenny’s squirrel-like scolding rattled through the receiver.

  “Good morning to you too, Jenny.” Poetry buried her head in the refrigerator before he volunteered her to take the call. More angry chittering from the other line. “I found her. She’s alright.”

  Poetry strained to listen over the banging of pots and pans as she raided the cupboard. “It’s a long story. We’re both going to need some time to rest and process everything….” A long pause. “No, Poetry’s fine.” A short interlude. “No, that isn’t necess… Jenny? You’re breaking up…”

  Poetry heard the disconnect and Adrian’s weary muttering about yappy people. He joined her in the kitchen and headed for the coffee maker. “That was quick. You handled that like a pro.” “You think that got rid of her?”

  “Absolutely. If there’s anything Jenny hates, it’s being cut off midrant.” Poetry mustered a grin. “Enjoy the silent treatment.” The Melita burbled and the savory scent of cured pork drifted. Poetry switched the burner to low and added pepper and seasoned salt to a bowl of beaten eggs.

  Adrian massaged her back and arms before digging around for plates. It felt good, the whole domestic scene. They worked quietly and efficiently, like it was a routine they’d enjoyed countless times. There was only one thing missing.

  “Where is Amir?” “Freya promised to take care of him,” Adrian said. “Now that I think of it…” He left the dishes on the counter and grasped the torque he still wore.

  With closed eyes and a muttered request Adrian resembled a praying monk.

  What was he doing? Within a minute, Poetry heard a hiss and oxygen rushed from her lungs. Her hair danced like grass in a gale force. The strange phenomenon ended with a pop and the smell of broken halogen light bulbs filled the air. Adrian hurried to the living room. Curious, Poetry followed.

  And let her mouth drop as she craned her neck. A gorgeous woman dressed in animal skins waited. “I am pleased to see you survived, human,” she said. Strange way to say hello. “And you brought your lover home alive as well.” She spared Poetry a nod.

  Her snowy hair shone like moonlight. Her lightning eyes pierced the murk of the coming dawn.

  Poetry shut her mouth and swallowed her disbelief. Freya, I presume? In one arm she held a weary-looking Ranjan. In her other hand, a fluffy black cat.

  Poetry forgot her awe. “Amir!” At the sound of his name, the kitten leapt from his perch and raced to Poetry’s feet. She scooped him up for cuddles. “Amir, baby, I missed you so much.” His rumbling purr and plush fur tickled her chin. She didn’t realize until now just how much she loved him. How much she loved Amir and Adrian.

  “Ranjan?” Adrian’s concern grabbed her attention. “Freya, what’s he doing with you?”

  Poetry glanced up to observe the tenderness in which the ivory deity settled Adrian’s friend to the couch. “His presence at the battle was unexpected. I fear he has witnessed events no mortal should.” She parted the hair from Ranjan’s forehead. The gentle gesture seemed uncharacteristic for the severity of her face.

  “Back up a bit,” Adrian parked on the lacquered table across from Ranjan, and looked him over. “What battle? What happened to Ran?” “Aphrodite confronted Ares and died in the struggle.” Freya observed Ranjan, affection and amazement evident in her gaze. “Strife made the same sacrifice for this man.”

  Ranjan peered up from his lap, but his expression remained empty. “Sarah’s dead.”

  Poetry quit petting Amir. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Adrian ran his hand down his jaw. “Jesus, Ran.” He gripped Ranjan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Me too.”

  “I brought him to Asgard,” Freya said. “We healed his burns and bones, but only time will soothe his heart.”

  A hush fell. The sounds and smells of sizzling bacon and fresh percolating coffee seemed inappropriate for the somber mood. Freya waved her hand over Ranjan’s head. He collapsed like a toppled tree and began snoring. “He needs rest. It has been a long night.” Freya said, all softness denied. “You must continue in secrecy. Never speak of your association with our kind or the things you have seen.”

  Adrian twisted to face Freya. “That’s going to be tough. There are two dead bodies at Poetry’s place. Not to mention her disappearance. How do we explain that?”

  Good point. “There will be no evidence. Hephaestus’ forge is charred rubble.” Freya snapped her fingers, and a blue flame danced on her palm. “Arson. Frank Fleisher is the perpetrator.

  She peered sideways at Poetry. “He did not appreciate his lawyer consorting with you. You are not Caucasian.”

  Poetry’s face warmed with anger. She’d felt guilty for his death. Not so much now.

  Freya closed her hand to douse the fire. “Kevin Ferris had the unfortunate luck to be there, vandalizing. No one shall mourn him.” “Convenient,” Adrian said. “But it’s not that simple. We could still be suspects. We have no alibi.”

  He’s such a lawyer. But in this case, Poetry was grateful. “You spent the entire evening at a bar called McNasty’s,” Freya said. An unlikely grin warped her pale lips. “A red-haired biker who calls himself ‘Thor’ is willing to testify to your bickering and groping each other for hours. He remembers you well. Your constant racket disturbed his game of pool. He wished you would find accommodations.”

  “Whatever.” Poetry rolled her eyes. “It’s a cliché but it works.” “Fine,” Adrian said, throwing his hands up with a sigh and a sidelong glance. “I’ve heard dumber excuses. I’d better get Ran a blanket.” When he left, Freya turned to Poetry and grasped hold of her cuffs. The manacles dissolved into dust. The raw skin beneath the goddess’s fingers healed.

  Freya released her and Poetry placed Amir on a cushion to inspect her clean wrists. No scarring. “Thanks!”

  The titan tilted her head. “You must tend to your stove, lest your meal burn.”

  “Oh, right. But wait…Hugh.” Poetry had almost forgotten him. But before she could voice h
er fears, the goddess held up her hand. “I will take good care of him.” Something in the way Freya licked her lips, the way she stroked her breasts suggested she’d make Hephaestus forget all about them. “He won’t bother you anymore.”

  Poetry nodded her gratitude and hurried to the oven. She grumbled under her breath as she flipped the rigid contents in the pan with a spatula.

  Hope everyone likes their bacon crispy. Poetry snagged the mixing bowl on her way back, but the goddess had departed without a sound. Adrian brushed past her with a duvet. He covered Ranjan before entering the kitchen. Poetry accompanied him.

  “Interesting people you know.” “Look who’s talking.” He had a right to be bitter. He’d nearly been killed saving her, but his voice held humor, not spite. I can’t believe he came for me. Warm and fuzzy didn’t begin to describe her giddiness. But it was contaminated by anxiety. They weren’t in the clear yet.

  “So what do we tell our friends?” she asked. “Exactly what Freya told us to; we argued all night and came here to have incredible, mind-blowing sex.”

  Poetry laughed. “Works for me.” Her mood shifted again when Ranjan’s wheezing reminded her of his despair. “But what about him?” Adrian stopped pouring. “Ran buzzed in after last call, babbling about breaking up with Sarah.” He placed the carafe on the warmer. “When he gets up we’ll fill him in, and help him as best we can. But don’t say anything to Jen and Gary. They wouldn’t understand.”

  Poetry dropped the well-done bacon on a paper towel and tipped the scrambled mixture into the leftover grease. “I’ve probably lost my job.” Oddly enough, the thought didn’t bother her. “And you lost your biggest client.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I don’t really care.” “What do you mean, you don’t care?”

  He dug around the fridge. “It was a long ride home, and I’ve been thinking.” Adrian sidled closer to Poetry’s side and wrapped his free arm around her.

  “This last case did it for me. Defending creeps like Frank Fleisher isn’t really what I signed up for.” Poetry stared into the sapphire windows to his soul and saw resignation. He planted a delicious, lingering kiss on her lips, and pressed his forehead to hers. “I don’t want to do it anymore.”

  Poetry wanted to jump for joy. This was great news. But… “What will you do instead?”

  Adrian released her and scrounged through various containers on a wooden shelf next to her.

  “I have a lot of money saved and invested-ah, here it is.” He retrieved a ceramic sugar bowl. “You know what I’ve always wanted to do? “What?” “Flip houses and sell them.”

  Poetry slid her fingers along the stone countertop. “If this is any indication of your talents,” Adrian could succeed at this kind of thing. She knew it. “Then I think it’s a fantastic idea.” She gave him an encouraging kiss.

  You know,” he said, curling a lock of her hair around his finger. “I could use the help of a real artist.”

  “Who?” Poetry stepped back. “Me?” His mouth widened in a grin. He was serious.

  “Just think about it.” He tasted her tongue lovingly and strolled away to set the table. Poetry stirred eggs and thoughts.

  Her future just changed for the better. This sunrise announced a new beginning with a great guy. Not a psycho.

  Lucky her. EPILOGUE I Freya absorbed the opulence of Olympus as she marched, it distracted from her cramping stomach. She would never admit fear, even though she would not be the only one to succumb to it.

  She gazed upon the marble pillars and gold statues with distain. The excessive ornamentation spoke of decadence. Freya snorted indelicately. Small wonder these Mediterraneans were so weak; they spent too much of their energies on luxuries. She preferred the bitter haunts of Asgard. It kept her kin humble and strong.

  A deep, fragrant breath stabilized her before entering the hall. Ares’ howls raged from within. Once inside, Freya ignored the throng of celestial beings to observe the hideousness contained within. It lifted her heart to witness Ares tethered like a common mutt, a crimson ribbon tight around his neck.

  Despite her confidence in the magick fetter, she drew her sword. “Its name is Gleipnir,” Freya said, indicating his restraint. “A gift from my people to yours in recognition of a mutual enemy.” She admired the handiwork of the impossible thread from a safe distance. “It is fashioned of commodities that cannot exist. Mountain roots and bird spittle, a cat’s footfall and the breath of a fish to name but a few. You cannot escape our sorcery.”

  Ares ceased thrashing and glared at her; a smile crawled over his perspiring face. His unwashed odor and grim visage defied the pleasant surroundings.

  “Ah, but that is not true, is it?” Ares said. He had lost none of his bravado. “Is this not the same way you bound the Fenris wolf?” Freya maintained a façade of indifference even as her blood chilled and last evening’s mead soured in her mouth. He knew of their legends. And a god of Ares’ power could break the magick. Freya sent a rare prayer to the Energy for time enough before Ares escaped.

  “I am stronger than some overgrown beast,” His voice clamored to a shout. “When I am free, I shall take my revenge on all of you.” “You will not be given the chance.” The booming voice could belong to none other than Zeus. Every assembled entity shifted as one to view his manifestation from the clouds.

  “Your crimes are many,” he said. “Your judgment is at hand.” “What crimes?” Ares directed his sneers at the assembly. “I am the god of war. I have done nothing untoward.” He drew himself tall. “I destroyed my challenger, therefore I won. I should be rewarded, not disciplined.”

  Freya’s lip curled. She expected this kind of arrogance from Ares, but his callousness astounded her. “Sacrilege!” Zeus’ temper manifested as lightening crackled in his eyes. “You sought to extinguish thousands of human lives to create a war not of their making. You murdered mortals.” His voice softened with sadness. The wind silenced. No one stirred. “You killed Strife. You brought about the deaths of Hermes and Aphrodite, your wife and son.”

  Ares appeared unmoved. He slouched with crossed arms. Freya sensed his apathy, and she was not alone. Though no soul spoke, the air thickened with their combined wrath.

  “You cannot continue,” Zeus said. “Your existence endangers us all.” “You intend to eradicate me?” Ares laughed until he struggled to stand. The crowd muttered amongst themselves. Others circled the demented titan.

  “That amuses me.” Ares wiped a tear of mirth from his filthy cheek. “There is a dictum on Earth that applies here.” He set his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. “You and what army?”

  Zeus frowned and thunder bellowed. “You challenge me for the last time.” He raised two fingers. “Summon the others.”

  At his signal, Freya conveyed Zeus’ will to her kin. The great room filled with newcomers; many Freya identified only by regional clothing or reputation.

  Asian gods appeared in silken embroidered finery, their kimonos swishing with each movement. Razor sharp fans flicked and fluttered. Bejeweled Indian deities proudly displayed their luminescent blue skin, an accepted mark of their station. Many boasted additional appendages or eyes.

  The Egyptians emerged in gold and lapis, their animal faces resolute. Her brothers arrived at her side; Thor with his hammer and scarlet braids, one-eyed Odin, one-handed Tyr, and even the infamous Loki. The intense concentration of power raised the hair on Freya’s arms. Her confidence returned.

  One by one they merged around Ares. His eyes darted with an expression Freya had never seen him wear; concern.

  Zeus elevated his fist. Pale lightning raced over his forearm and through his clenched fingers.

  “On my command,” he said. The sound of broadswords, spears, bows, axes and hammers coming to bear clattered throughout the cramped space. Freya raised her weapon, savoring the vibration of narrowly contained strength. For the first time in history, Mount Olympus would erupt. Justice would taste sweet.

  Zeus dropp
ed his arm. “Fire.” EPILOGUE II

  This must be Tartarus, Aphrodite thought. Hades for disposable gods. It was the horror she always imagined it would be. No light, no sound, no salvation. The endless night stretched beyond fathoming. She screamed in terror and despair, only to realize she had no voice. She clenched her fists in impotent rage to discover she had no fingers, no body at all.

  And no pain. This should have soothed her. Her last moments were excruciating. She had embraced death willingly. But the thought of floating forever without sensations unnerved Aphrodite to the edge of madness. She would drift as an everlasting bubble. No one would ever see her. No one would hear her cries. No one would know she existed in this cocoon of misery.

  How did it come to this? Millennia ago she was a new soul, a servant to the Energy. Her discontent festered. She coveted the worship of the human race and the gift of childbirth.

  Aphrodite abandoned Eden to live as a god. And died like a mortal.

  What would become of her son? Would the world ever learn of her desire to save them? Would they remember her?

  Aphrodite. Her plunge into dementia had begun. She grieved for her future, wishing the voice were not a figment of her already failing mind. Aphrodite. Her own psyche taunted her. She longed to cover non-existent ears. Leave me alone.

  Aphrodite. Listen to me. Dread. Please, no. What new torture is this?

  A speck of light twinkled in the distance. Aphrodite prepared for punishment. Her child was lost and she endured cremation at the hands of a man she once adored. She could withstand whatever came.

  The mists swelled in size and brightness, but Aphrodite felt no malice, only a benevolence she recognized. The Energy. Had she any tears, Aphrodite would have wept in elation. My Lord, is it truly You? Long are the years since you graced my presence, Aphrodite.

  When she departed Eden, she never believed she would see the Energy again. She did not care then. But she welcomed It now. She had no knees to fall to, no form to prostrate. It mattered not. The Energy’s calming demeanor enveloped her. Darkness fled from shimmering love incarnate.