by David Welch
Ares nodded knowingly.
“I can respect that,” he said. “I held similar thoughts once.”
“You were vaguely agnostic?”
“Agnostic, devout, atheistic, convinced I was a deity . . . ,” Ares said. “Pretty much everything at one time or another.”
Desmond took a drink of water and got to his feet. They moved to the edge of the deck, staring out over the deep blue of the Pacific. A pair of gulls wheeled lazily over the grassy slopes.
“Ares, you don’t strike me as the type to sit around and wait for somebody to find you,” Desmond said.
“Athena doesn’t know we moved here,” said Ares. “We lost contact with her before we bought this place. So if he has her, she won’t be able to reveal where we are.”
“From what I hear about this Lenka guy, he’ll find a way,” Desmond said.
“Yes,” Ares said, a familiar urge growing in his chest. “He will.”
“So why not go on the offensive?” Desmond asked. “Why leave the initiative to him?”
Ares ground his teeth, his fingers digging into the railing of the deck. Why indeed?
“Because I was outvoted,” he replied. “My family wants to hide and outwait Lenka. Twenty years to us is nothing. Just lie low and let him die. Don’t ‘risk’ getting yourself killed.”
Desmond nodded, thinking.
“Well, I personally don’t agree with throwing away twenty years, but putting myself in your shoes, I can see how that might work,” Desmond said. He didn’t sound very convinced.
“Yet we’re still dying,” Ares grumbled. “Good as I am, I can’t take out twenty-odd people by myself. Especially trained men with guns . . .”
He shook his head, taking a deep breath.
“Guns . . .” he said. “Give me a blade or a spear, and I’ll take out a dozen men without breaking a sweat, but those damn guns . . . they equalize things.”
“But all of you with guns? That would be a different thing altogether, wouldn’t it?” Desmond asked.
Ares smiled, imagining them standing together with guns blazing. He supposed it was a bit sinful to take pleasure in that, but he smiled all the same.
“My wife and siblings aren’t quite as skilled as I am. But they’d be able to hold their own on a range with any Marine,” Ares said, then shrugged. “Except maybe Dionysus.”
Memories of such times floated up. He’d found himself fighting alongside most of his family members at one time or another. He’d saved Dionysus from countless bar fights, half of which Dionysus didn’t even remember. He’d covered his father’s back multiple times, and Zeus had been a tough one to fight with. Back then his temper had been volcanic, leading him to make crushing charges when he’d killed a dozen men in a blurred streak of pure violence. But despite his brute strength and seasoned skill, he’d been prone to not paying attention to his surroundings. His kill-rages had gotten the best of him, leaving him vulnerable to people sneaking up behind him or using his anger against him. Ares rarely fought alongside his mother, but when he had, he’d seen in her the same cold, calculating approach that he took. She knew, as he did and as the best professional warriors did, that a mind trained in the art of killing usually won out over bursts of raw power and emotion. He’d fought countless battles along with Artemis, her bow raining arrows around him and taking down approaching foes while he was engrossed in hand-to-hand slaughter.
Then there was Athena, his gray-eyed pipsqueak of a sister. The self-declared Goddess of “Just” Wars. There’d been some jealousy about that all those centuries ago. She’d always had a self-righteous streak a mile wide, and never missed an opportunity to remind him that she fought for causes while he was just a mindless killer. And she’d never missed a chance to tell her followers that she was the better fighter, and he was just a brawler. Granted, the smugness had strained the sibling relationship between them, but he couldn’t begrudge her skill with a blade. The woman could fight. She was quick and ferocious, a screeching Valkyrie whose outward passion hid a quick mind. He remembered her leading Celts into battle, as naked as them, painted blue, carrying nothing but a sword. He remembered being on the other side of that battle, watching her force kill twice their number before being crushed by the sheer size of their enemy. He’d killed her compatriots with his normal deft skill, but then found himself quickly turning against his “side” after victory. Athena had managed to survive, and after being pulled from the piles of dead had found herself naked and surrounded by the eyes of lusty men. Luckily he’d “claimed” her as a prize of war, and killed the only man stupid enough to challenge him. Later that night she’d conveniently “escaped.”
He remembered fighting side by side with her at Plataea, one of the few times she’d deigned to be at the side of a brutal monster like him. That had been a sight. Greek men hadn’t been known for their enlightenment when it came to women, but she’d fought her way into their good graces. He could see her petite form in his mind, covered in a custom-made bronze cuirass, her red skirt swirling about tanned thighs, caterwauling as she led the charge. He’d been the bruiser, smashing and stabbing with sword and spear. She’d been the athlete, darting about him, using her speed and uncanny precision to cut down Persian tribesmen by the dozen.
“But your family won’t attack Lenka,” Desmond said, breaking his reminiscence.
“No,” Ares said. “You have to understand our viewpoint. Since we don’t die naturally, when we do put ourselves in harm’s way, we risk losing forever.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Desmond said with a dismissive wave.
The word caught Ares off guard. He turned to Desmond, who had a disbelieving look on his face.
“You really think you guys risk any more in a fight than the rest of us?” Desmond continued.
“A thousand years is different from a hundred,” Ares answered coolly.
“Is it? Look, there’s only one way out of this. For any of us. Death. So you don’t die naturally, so what? Eventually death will catch up to you, even if it means you live till the sun balloons up and swallows the Earth whole. And you think risking your remaining years is different than me risking mine? Heck, Artemis was just talking to me about this the other day! You think the fifty years ahead of me mean less to me than the thousand ahead of you? Hell, given that I have so few, I could argue I’m risking more! You’ve already experienced pretty much everything this world has to offer. What are you going to see in the next ten centuries you haven’t seen before? As opposed to me? I’ve never been married, never had children, grandchildren, any of it!”
Ares paused, letting the words sink in.
“I’ve heard speeches like this before,” Ares said.
“Doesn’t mean it’s any less true,” Desmond replied.
“Point taken,” Ares said.
“By the way, you never answered my question,” Desmond said, moving back to his chair.
“I didn’t?”
“You said you wouldn’t live to see science make all of us immortal,” said Desmond. “Why is that?”
“I was promised,” Ares said.
“Promised?” Desmond said, thinking. “By Jesus?”
“Who else but God can see the future?” Ares said. “One day he pulls me aside and says, ‘Ares, I’m going to ask more of you than any other of my apostles. But in return, I promise you, not long from now, you will die.’”
“Oh,” Desmond said. “Blunt. But wasn’t that two thousand years ago?”
“Yes,” Ares replied. “But his conception of time is somewhat different than ours. Being eternal and all.”
“And you think that’s going to be soon?” Desmond ventured.
“Think . . . hope,” he said. “I don’t know. He never would tell me exactly when. Kept saying people shouldn’t know when they were going to die.”
“But with Lenka on his rampage, you figured
. . .”
“Possibly,” Ares said. “He’s not the first mortal who’s tried to kill us. Or even the first one who has killed one of us. He is the first to have killed three of us.”
He trailed off, images of Lenka’s victims flashing through his mind: Apollo, Hermes, Hestia, and now Keilana. Two brothers, his father’s ex-wife, and one of Ares’ many “stepmothers.” One who he’d admired a great deal. One who’d been nothing but good for his father, and even his mother. By God, did he hate Lenka Sidorov.
Ares sighed. “I’m not blind to the possibility that he may be my end.”
Desmond shifted uneasily.
“You’re not . . . not going to let him? Are you?”
Ares shook his head slowly.
“That would be a form of suicide,” Ares said. “And that’s a mortal sin. My life is a gift from God. How can I just throw it away?”
“Artemis said many of your fellow immortals have,” Desmond said.
“They never knew God,” he replied simply, then sighed. “Come on. We’ve got more training to do.”
“More?” Desmond groaned. “I’m gonna be black and blue just from this morning.”
“Better bruised now than dead later,” Ares replied. “Besides, we never did get to twelve seconds.”
“It is so good to see you, Arty,” said Aphrodite, biting into a guacamole-covered tortilla chip. “I love Ares something fierce. But sometimes . . .”
She rolled her eyes in that way exasperated wives sometimes do. They sat on a sectional in the great room, their backs to the windows and the deck where Desmond and Ares sat. A bowl of chips and a cup of guacamole sat on the coffee table in front of them.
“He’s such a guy,” Aphrodite continued.
“Yes,” Artemis said. “He certainly is that.”
“So, tell me about your new fellow,” Aphrodite said, smiling deviously. “Do you lead him around by your little finger?”
“Des isn’t the type to be led anywhere,” Artemis replied.
“So you got yourself a strong, manly one,” Aphrodite said. “With all the usual quirks, I bet.”
Artemis sighed. “Just because you date boring stiffs—”
“My husband is not boring,” Aphrodite interrupted with mock indignation. “Laconic, stoic, maybe even a little taciturn. But not boring. Come on, you remember what he’s like in—”
Artemis put up her hand, motioning Aphrodite to stop.
“Dita, don’t. I don’t do that anymore,” she said. “We never should have. None of us!”
“Oh?” Aphrodite said, reaching across the table to stroke Artemis’ cheek with her thumb. “None of us?”
Now Artemis rolled her eyes.
“You’re not my sibling, Dita,” Artemis said.
“Or your father,” she said. “Or your sister . . .”
“Now you’re just trying to get me upset,” Artemis declared.
“Well, everybody’s become less fun,” she pouted. “Just because we stopped pretending to be gods doesn’t mean we have to live like boring old Mormons!”
“Mormons who usually have seven or eight kids?” Artemis replied. “Judging a book by its cover?”
“Oh, don’t try to deny it,” Aphrodite replied. “You know Ares hasn’t touched another man in two thousand years? Says it’s sinful! Sinful! From the man who used to sodomize challengers after beating them in the practice ring!”
“Don’t remind me,” Artemis said.
“Except for the time he fought Heracles,” Aphrodite said.
Artemis shook her head at the memory. Herc had been the strongest immortal she’d ever seen, hell, the strongest human. So much so that Hermes had used to joke that Zeus must’ve slept with a gorilla to sire a man so powerful. He was probably the only legend the myths actually underserved.
Despite what the myths said, he’d only ever fought Ares once, and looking back, it had been the ultimate contest of skill versus strength. Ares had landed four blows for every one that his half-brother had managed, but every punch of Herc’s would’ve knocked out a lesser man. But Ares had always had a granite chin, and could withstand Heracles’ best, much to Herc’s surprise. Soon the practice bout had turned into a knock-down, drag-out fight. By the end of it, neither man would’ve been up for much sodomy, given that neither was capable of standing. Each man had to be carried back to his room.
“Herc was a virile man,” said Aphrodite wistfully. Artemis sighed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty. He wasn’t my half-brother!”Aphrodite said, shooting her a semi-accusatory glare. “Or did you forget that time I caught you two—”
“Enough, Dita,” Artemis interrupted.
“And you . . .”Aphrodite continued. “When was the last time I got to wake up to those blue eyes gazing at me?”
Artemis carefully grabbed Aphrodite’s hand, removing it from her cheek. She folded both her hands over it.
“I’m with someone, Dita,” she said. “So are you.”
“Ares wouldn’t care,” she said. “He knows I love him most of all.”
“Desmond would care,” Artemis said.
“Bring him too!” Aphrodite said. “I’m not gonna lie, I wouldn’t say no to that man.”
“He’d say no,” Artemis repeated. “He’s not some dumb, horny frat boy. He loves me.”
Aphrodite sighed. “You pick out the one man in the world . . .”
“Come on, Dita,” Artemis replied. “I told you, I’m not sharing this one. I like him.”
“Fine . . .” Aphrodite said.
They were quiet for a moment. Aphrodite ate another chip.
“So Lenka found you . . .” she began uneasily.
“One of his mercenaries,” Artemis replied. “We got out before his team could show up.”
Artemis nodded sadly, frowning.
“I drove by Hermes’ place after I identified his body,” Aphrodite said. “There was blood everywhere. The police had it all marked off.”
“So he put up a fight,” Artemis figured.
“One hell of a fight, from the looks of it,” Aphrodite said wistfully.
“Are you okay, Dita? I know you loved him,” Artemis said.
“I love all of you,” Aphrodite replied.
“You were married to him,” Artemis said. “You had children with the man.”
A tear formed in Aphrodite’s left eye, and rolled down her cheek.
“That was so long ago,” Aphrodite replied. “But still . . . seeing him there . . . cold . . .”
She wiped away a few more tears, struggling to regain her composure. All told, Artemis was surprised by how well she was doing. Aphrodite had gotten to be known as the Goddess of Love for two reasons. First, she was a bit of a slut. Pretty much every immortal and countless mortals had felt her embrace at one time or another. The woman loved sex. Second, she wore her emotions on her sleeve. She was a passionate woman who felt things intensely. Nobody had ever called her laconic, or stoic, or even the slightest bit taciturn.
“I’m scared, Arty,” she said through tears. “First Hermes. Then he finds you. Then he finds Dad and kills Keilana!”
“He must have Athena,” Artemis said. “It’s the only way he could know.”
“And Theni!” Dita cried, using Athena’s nickname. “Oh, God. What he must be doing to her . . .”
She buried her face in her hands, hiding her tears. Artemis felt for her friend. Genetically speaking, Athena was not Aphrodite’s sister, but they’d been close for so long that they might as well have been siblings. Artemis found herself pushing back images in her mind, images of Athena. Beatings, whippings, electrocution, amputations . . . she doubted Lenka would leave anything out. She remembered the things he’d done to Hestia before he’d killed her.
Things he’d do to you!
Artemis
grimaced at the thought. Why Lenka had tortured Hestia before killing her, she didn’t know. He’d killed Apollo in a gunfight, after Apollo and Hermes had killed seven of his men. And from what Aphrodite had told her, he’d been just as brutally efficient with Hermes. There’d been no signs of torture. Artemis feared it was just another side of the psychosis in his mind. Lenka hated his mother. He hated that she was immortal and he was doomed to die. His hatred had led to his vendetta, but maybe there was something more to it, at least where women were concerned. Maybe he felt compelled to make any female immortal suffer as much as possible, as much as Athena was likely suffering right now.
She shivered at the thought. She’d suffered torture in her life. She’d felt whips and canes and closed her eyes as evil men had used her body as their plaything. But none of them had known who she was, and most of them had felt the sting of her vengeance not long after. Her vengeance or her family’s. But Lenka wasn’t like most men. He wouldn’t torture her to keep her in line or break her will. He’d do it just to make Athena watch, so he could watch her suffer.
Sociopath, she thought. She’d seen so many of them. Humanity was never free of them. She’d even put a few to death who’d been brought to Olympus to stand judgment for their crimes. Hell, by most people’s standards, she and pretty much every immortal that had ever lived had been a sociopath, at least when they’d believed themselves to be above “mere” morality. She’d done terrible things, she knew. But even in the midst of all that debauchery, she’d still felt. She’d still been able to imagine herself in the place of another person, feeling what they felt, and dealing with what they had to deal with. It seemed inconceivable to her, on an instinctive level at least, that a person could exist without that ability, without that empathy.