by David Welch
“I’ll say,” he said. “And here I thought all this space was too big for one person.”
She chuckled. “So, are you suitably impressed?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t I the one who is supposed to impress you? That’s how it works, the man has to impress a woman into sleeping with him.”
He expected her to look a little shocked. Instead she smiled warmly.
“You know, I find your bluntness refreshing,” she said. “Games take so long.”
“True,” Desmond replied. “But they do represent the best way for a woman to exercise power over a man.”
“And what makes you think I want to exercise ‘power’ over you?” Artemis asked.
“Human nature,” Desmond replied, somewhat distracted. Among the ancient costumes on one wall he spotted a small, framed photograph. Intrigued, he walked over.
“All human beings want power?” Artemis asked, slowly following.
“Yes,” he replied, “in varying degrees.”
He examined the picture. It was an old-looking, black-and-white photograph of a woman in a nurse’s uniform. It looked like it had been taken during the Civil War. Behind the woman was a row of beds with men in them, and several of the patients were missing limbs.
What struck him most wasn’t the misery, but the woman. Though the hair was different and the face sadder, she looked identical to Artemis.
“Well, I can assure you I have no interest in controlling you,” Artemis said, sidling up next to him. “Amazing likeness, eh?”
“I’d ask if this was one of those fake old-timey photographs, but with the injured men in the background . . .” Desmond said.
“I bought it at an antique store,” she explained. “I figured the woman looked so much like me that it had to be a sign.”
“Yeah,” Desmond said, his gaze flitting between the picture and Artemis. “It’s freaky.”
“Oh, we all have an evil twin somewhere,” she said. Desmond felt an arm slide around his waist.
“You never answered my question,” she said.
“Am I impressed?” he said. “Do you need me to be impressed?”
“I think I do,” she whispered into his ear. “See, I get the feeling you’re just jaded enough to be bored by mere beauty.”
“I’ve slept with plenty of airheads,” he said.
“And I bet they weren’t that good,” Artemis continued. “Attractive people are so rarely interesting. Always getting everything without having to work for it, cashing in on their looks . . .”
“Spoken by a woman who could be on a dozen magazine covers,” replied Desmond.
“Yes,” she said. “Which is why I had to convince you that I’m not boring, and that there can be more to this than just a night of ho-hum sex.”
“Sex is never ‘ho-hum,’ ” Desmond replied, teasing her. “It’s like pizza. Even when it sucks, it’s still pretty good.”
She kissed his neck, running her lips upward to his ear.
“Of course, why eat hamburger when you can have steak?” he mused, then pulled her mouth to his.
He let out a deep breath.
“Jesus Christ, you weren’t kidding about the ‘not boring’ thing,” he said.
They hadn’t made it to the bedroom—they barely made it to the couch in the great room, having ripped each other’s clothes off on the way up the stairs. Two hours and two orgasms later, Desmond lay sweaty and exhausted, marveling at the way she’d used muscles that most women probably didn’t even know they had.
“Not ho-hum?” she said, her naked form sliding against him. Her nipples dragged across his chest, tracing little paths of electricity along his skin.
“Did you go to school for that or something?” he asked. “I mean, I’ve had my share of lovers, but damn . . .”
“Glad you liked it,” she said, fighting to hold back a laugh. “You weren’t exactly shabby yourself.”
“I feel like I’m double-A,” he said, “and just got called up to the pros.”
“Oh, stop it,” Artemis replied, her face flush.
“No, I’m serious,” he said, his voice changing from amazement to sarcasm. “You may have ruined all other women for me.”
She shook her head and sat up on his chest.
“Now you’re just being snarky,” she said. “What about that whole pizza thing?”
“Well, since you mention pizza, we never did get to dinner . . .”
“Oh?” she said, wiggling her hips. Still inside her, he felt himself stiffen. Artemis had a devilish smile on her face.
“Playing dirty? And here I believed that whole ‘no power over me’ speech,” he said.
“Not power,” she said, grinding her hips. “Just an appetite. Takes a half hour for pizza to get out here.”
She paused, but didn’t dismount. Reaching behind her, she picked up her cell phone. Her hips started to move again as she dialed.
“Yes,” she said. “Can I get a delivery . . . yeah . . . ah, one large Hawaiian and—what do you want, Des?”
Desmond fought the tingling in his groin, focusing on the woman looming over him.
“Pepperoni,” he managed to gasp.
“And a large pepperoni,” she said. “Thirty-five minutes? Great, thanks. Bye.”
She hung up and put the phone back.
“You’re evil,” he replied.
She grinned deliciously.
“Not boring?” she said.
“Not boring,” he replied, his breath quickening.
“So,” she said, bending low to kiss him, “think you can give me a thrill in thirty-five minutes?”
“Ticking clock, nice,” he said into her mouth before kissing her. “Do my best work under pressure . . .”
4
Indio, California
The Cadillac came to a stop in front of a grayish-brown cement building. Her GPS chirped, “Arriving at destination.” The woman clicked the device off and got out of the car.
She stepped from the car, a hot wind whipping off the desert and down the street, tousling the blonde hair that fell just below her shoulders. Aphrodite felt the grit of sand against her face, and frowned. Why her ex had loved deserts, she would never know. She’d never liked them. Everything about them was angular and coarse and dry. And the damn sun was always on you, so if you did anything outdoors that was even slightly athletic, you started sweating buckets. Then night would come and it would be freezing because there was no water in the air and nothing to hold in the heat.
Closing the door, she headed for the police station. She felt the eyes of two policemen on her, though not for reasons of suspicion, as she walked by. Men’s eyes were always on her. They always had been. She was a stunning woman. At five foot six, she cut a curvy figure, voluptuous without being what any man would call fat—though some jealous women certainly felt that way. Her face was soft and beautiful, with warm brown eyes, round cheeks with just the slightest hint of cheekbone, and pouty lips.
On any other day she probably would’ve felt a little flattered by the cops’ stares. But today only a cold fear gripped her mind. She’d gotten a call the day before, asking if she could come down to the station. They said it was for “purposes of identification.”
Which could mean only one thing. Something had happened to Hermes. He was the only person she knew in this part of California, the only person here who could’ve possibly listed her most recent assumed name as his next of kin.
Her pace slowed as she walked in and came into view of a long counter. She didn’t want to walk up to it, didn’t want to talk to the middle-aged woman sitting behind it. If she didn’t talk to the woman, they wouldn’t bring her down to the morgue. If they didn’t bring her to the morgue, they couldn’t pull out her ex-husband’s body. And if she didn’t look at the body, she couldn’t confirm what s
he already knew. And somehow, if she didn’t do all these things, it would make Hermes alive again.
She knew the feelings were irrational, but she didn’t care. She acknowledged the truth, academically at least. But the emotional reality hadn’t set in. She knew from experience. She’d felt it when she’d heard that Apollo had died. And again when Lenka had butchered Hestia. She knew that the worst was yet to come. But some small part of her still held out hope. Swallowing back her dread, she walked up to the counter.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” asked the woman.
“Hi. I’m Dita Hawkins,” she said. I received a call about a Mr. Max Reichert . . .”
“Oh,” the woman said, her voice going low. “Oh, yes. One moment, please.”
She disappeared into the back. A few minutes passed before a silver-haired man appeared. He walked out from behind the counter and offered his hand.
“Hello, ma’am. I’m Lieutenant Tunstall,” he said.
She shook his hand.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you to do this, but yours was the only next of kin we found mentioned in the property of Mr. Reichert,” he said, sympathetically. “If you could help us confirm his identity . . .”
“Of course,” Aphrodite managed, fighting to hold back tears. “Uh, we can . . . we can go look.”
“I know this is hard, ma’am,” said Tunstall. “Please follow me.”
He led her through a door, down a set of stairs, then along a hallway. Halfway to the end they came to a heavy steel door. Tunstall pulled it open with a jerk, producing a small hiss. The cool air of the morgue hit her, clinging to her skin. She knew the temperature was to slow decomposition, but part of her wondered if they kept it cool just to drive home the reality of death.
The thought made her pause for a moment. Tunstall held the door open, waiting patiently.
“I’m okay,” she said weakly, walking into the room. She grasped her purse strap unconsciously, seeking some sort of reassurance.
A young man in a white coat sat inside the room, hunched over a desk. He had a smile on his face when he looked up. It faded when he saw Aphrodite and realized this wasn’t a social call.
“Doctor, this is Miss Hawkins,” Tunstall said. “She’s here to identify Mr. Reichert.”
“Of course,” the doctor said, his voice softening. “If you’ll come this way, miss.”
He motioned her to a wall of silver tubes, each with a small door. He unlatched one and pulled the slab out from the wall. It rolled easily before coming to a stop.
Aphrodite’s breath hitched in her throat. She balled her fists, fighting to maintain her composure. Tears formed in her eyes anyway. There, undeniably, lay Hermes. Her lover for so many years, her husband. Father of thirty of her children, three of whom had survived to taste immortality. She hadn’t been the man’s wife for many centuries, but that didn’t matter. She recalled the nights spent in his arms, the days at the base of Olympus when they’d put on the show and reigned as gods. She could see him meeting Eros for the first time, after they learned Eros had survived to adulthood. She could see him roughhousing with one of his granddaughters, one of Tyche’s mortal children, and “losing.” She could even see the discomfort on his face when he’d first seen Hermaphroditus wearing a dress the night he’d wed Salmacis.
She wished at that moment that Ares was right, that there was a next world. That they all were there, Hermes, Apollo, Hestia, her children, mortal and immortal. She hoped that, as horrible as his murder was, it had finally released Hermes from the weight of so many years.
Torn by her thoughts, she couldn’t take her eyes from him. His lower half was covered by a paper sheet. He was pale, white, lifeless and drained. His chest was bruised from some sort of trauma, most likely bullet strikes. A small hole pierced his forehead, marking where a bullet had ended his life.
“Yes,” she choked out, wiping the tears away from her eyes. “That’s . . . that’s h-him.”
The doctor nodded sympathetically and rolled Hermes back into the drawer.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Tunstall said. “It’ll be over soon.”
The doctor opened another tube and pulled out another body. It was a Latina woman. Her naked form was bloody, two large holes punched into her chest. Aphrodite had never seen the woman in the flesh before, but knew who she was. Lethargically she reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone and sifting through her pictures until she came to the woman’s face. Her smiling visage, beautiful and young, filled the small screen.
“I never met her,” she said, showing the picture to Tunstall. “But Max talked about her. Carlotta was her name.”
“Thank you,” Tunstall repeated. “We’re trying to find her family.”
“Of course,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I’m glad I could at least do this for her.”
“Were you close with the deceased?” the doctor asked.
“Childhood friends,” Aphrodite lied. “We hadn’t seen each other in a while, but we did social media, kept in touch.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the doctor said.
“If you’ll come with me, ma’am,” Tunstall said. “The investigation is still active, but if you want to leave information, for afterward . . .”
“Of course,” she said.
The next hour went by in a blur, going through paperwork with the police. Nobody could tell her what had happened to Hermes. Some of the police thought it was a Mexican drug gang hit that had hit the wrong guy. Others thought it was just a botched home invasion. Nobody knew for sure. No officers had been in the area when it had happened. They’d arrived much later, after residents in Mecca had heard gunfire.
She didn’t need to hear their theories, though. The wound was too familiar. She could close her eyes and see the same hole in the forehead of Apollo, or Hestia.
“Lenka,” she whispered.
She sat in her car as she said it, her hands on the wheel. She was still in the parking lot of the station. She’d been here for a half hour, unable to move. Afraid to move. She felt as though the slightest movement would tear her apart. She’d long ceased trying to stop the tears. Her mascara was streaked, her face red from crying.
Her phone rang. It sat in a slot between the seats, charging. She stared at it for a while, seeing her husband’s face on the screen. Hands shaking, she grabbed the phone, answering the call.
“Was it him?” the deep voice of Ares asked.
For a long moment she couldn’t answer, afraid that if she opened her mouth, her husband would only hear her anguished cries.
“Y-yes,” she managed, almost too softly to be heard.
“God dammit . . .” Ares muttered, the coolness of his tone falling just short of hiding the anger. “Come home, love. Who knows if Lenka’s got the cops on the take? You’re not safe.”
“Okay,” she said. “I . . . I’m heading out.”
“And, love, I’m sorry. I really am,” Ares said.
“So am I,” she said. “Your brother . . .”
“I know, love,” Ares said, his voice stiff as he fought to hold back the rage she knew was gripping him. “I know. I’ll tell Dad. Please, come home. I don’t want you to be alone right now.”
“I’m coming,” she said. “I’m on my way.”
They hung up. Aphrodite put the phone back in the charger. She brought the car to life and headed out of the parking lot. She’d barely reached the road before anguished wails ripped from her throat.
5
Grand Lake, Colorado
As Desmond stirred, his heart raced. In the past two weeks he’d noticed a growing feeling of exhilaration every time he came here. When exactly it had started, he didn’t know. He noted that sadly. Should somebody ever actually ask him the exact time he realized he was falling for Artemis, he would only be able to reply with a vague period of days. Very unromanti
c, but true nonetheless.
He figured it was fitting, though. Nobody had ever criticized him for being the impulsive type. Love at first sight just wouldn’t fit in well with his life story so far.
He sat up in the bed, staring in the dim light of dawn. For a moment he wondered why he’d woken up so early. Then he noticed that the familiar warmth he’d felt beside him when he’d fallen asleep was missing. Artemis was gone.
Rubbing his eyes, he got to his feet and pulled on his pants. He padded across the blue carpet of Artemis’ bedroom, toward the small balcony on its west end. The sun was just peeking out behind him, casting dim red rays onto Grand Lake. Des opened the sliding door and stepped outside.
It was late May, but still quite cool in the morning. The chill felt invigorating against his bare chest, sending up waves of goosebumps. He took a deep breath, the flush of cool air in his lungs chasing away the last vestiges of sleep.
Then he noticed her. Artemis was by the lake, standing on the end of the dock. She was in a bathrobe cinched tight around her body, her feet bare. Squinting, he made out something in her hands, a pipe of some sort. She brought it to her lips, drew deep, and exhaled. He watched as she lifted the pipe to the four cardinal directions, letting small trails of smoke drift away into the morning mists. She repeated this several times. He could just make out her lips moving, but could hear nothing from this distance.
He retreated back into the bedroom, perplexed. He knew that a lot of Native Americans had significant Caucasian blood. So it was possible that Artemis was part Native, but given the paleness of her complexion he found it hard to believe.
As he dressed, his mind raced. Why would she be doing such a ritual? Was such a ritual even correct? This had once been Ute land. He didn’t know much about their religious rituals. Did they involve smoking a pipe? He knew Grand Lake had once been Spirit Lake, in their language. That it had once been considered the place where this world and the afterlife met.
Was that it? Had somebody she loved died, and was this just her way of remembering them? Or was she some trendy person who thought mimicking Native Americans was “cool” or “natural” or some BS like that. He doubted it. She’d never struck him as shallow, or liable to mouth politically fashionable platitudes. But then again, he’d really only known her for two weeks.