by P. C. Cast
Artemis raised one golden eyebrow at him and nibbled at her second piece of salmon. "Do you?"
"Yes! You are too fiery to be the wan and ethereal Diana. You flame and sparkle, not just with the light of a full moon. You carry within you the nature of a huntress. Tomorrow we shall doff the silly vase you held today and replace it with a bow and a quiver of arrows. Diana's meekness has set, and the goddess Artemis has risen."
Pamela choked midswallow of bowtie pasta and a waiter hurried to bring her a glass of water. Between sputters she shared a secret look of surprise with Apollo, but Eddie was not finished. He placed his hand over his heart, and in a deep, resonant baritone his a cappella voice, rising and falling like one of The 3 Tenors, filled the desert night.
"I sing of Artemis of the golden shafts, who loves the
din of the hunt
and shoots volleys of arrows at stags. She delights in
the chase
as she stretches her golden bow to shoot the bitter
arrows.
Hers is a mighty heart; she roams all over
destroying the brood of wild beasts."
Artemis stopped eating when Eddie began to sing. She stared at him in obvious amazement. The big man paused, gesturing at the trio of musicians who had been playing soft background music throughout dinner. Their playing stopped, but when Eddie began singing again, the harpist caught the melody of his song, and the magical sound of liquid strings accompanied him.
"But when the arrow-pouring goddess has taken her
pleasure,
after slacking her well-taut bow, she comes to the
great house of her brother,
Phoebus Apollon, to the opulent district of
Delphi…"
He nodded at Apollo, who tilted his head in regal acknowledgment.
"… to set up a beautiful dance of the Muses and the
Graces.
There she hangs her resilient bow and her arrows,
and wearing her graceful
jewelry, she is their leader in the dance. Divine is
the sound they utter
as they sing of how fair-ankled Leto gave birth to
children,
who among the gods are by far the best in deeds and
counsel.
Hail, O daughter of Zeus and lovely-haired Leto!
I shall praise and remember you …"
Eddie's voice held the last note while the harpist improvised a fantastic flourish. And then the night became very quiet as the song faded. Pamela's gaze shifted from Eddie to Artemis. And there it stayed. Totally shocked, Pamela watched Artemis' stunningly blue eyes fill with shimmering tears. Then the goddess leaned forward and kissed Eddie lingeringly on the lips.
"You know the Homeric hymns," the goddess whispered, only a hand's length from the big man's face.
"I know the Homeric hymns," Eddie replied solemnly.
"You have surprised me, Eddie."
The goddess's smile of honest delight made Pamela's breath catch with its beauty.
"Brother," she said without taking her gaze from Eddie, "I wish to reward our host for his keen powers of observation. Will you play for me?"
"Of course," Apollo said. "But I have no instrument."
Eddie's distinctive voice boomed across the deck. "That is enough music for the evening. You may depart. But leave your instruments. My assistant will be certain they are returned to you on the morrow."
The three women left quickly and discreetly, and Pamela wondered just exactly how much money Eddie was paying them so that they didn't so much as blink at leaving behind their instruments.
Apollo took the harpist's vacated seat and put his hands on the instrument without showing any of the trepidation he was feeling. He was the God of Music. Harpists had worshiped him and sang his praises for uncounted centuries. The Muses revered him. Since the day he had talked the newborn Hermes into gifting him with the very first lyre known to mankind, he had taken his immortal power over his chosen instrument for granted. It was like the air he breathed and the wine he drank—unquestionably, always there. But today he was not the immortal Apollo. He was only a man. He knew the notes. The feel of the harp was familiar. Still, his stomach churned. What if his talent had fled with his powers? What if he played the wrong notes? Or worse, played the right notes so poorly that they seemed wrong.
He looked up. Artemis had stood and was backing gracefully away from the table so that she would have room to begin her dance. Eddie's eyes never left her face. The author was completely enamored with his sister. Apollo pressed his hand against the taut strings. He understood how the big man felt. Reluctantly, the god turned his gaze to Pamela. She was watching him intently, no doubt waiting to hear the brilliance with which the God of Light played. At that instant he sincerely wished that he had his immortal powers—or that he was in reality the mortal man, Phoebus. He suddenly wanted very much to be one or the other. Being stuck between two worlds was like being thrust into a battlefield with only the memory of weapons.
"Play Terpsichore's favorite melody," his sister said imperiously.
Apollo knew the melody. He'd been there when the Muse of the Dance created it, and he had played it for her when she performed it at one of Zeus' great banquets. He closed his eyes and concentrated. His first notes were tentative, soft, almost inaudible, but his fingers had more confidence than the god. They knew the feel of the silver strings, and they traveled up and down the length of the instrument like old friends returning each other's greeting.
He opened his eyes. Artemis floated across the deck, recreating Terpsichore's masterpiece. He smiled fondly at his sister. Tonight she had no immortal powers, but she needed none. The little silk slip of a dress Eddie must have purchased for her swirled gracefully around her body. Her movements were languid and filled with a unique, hypnotic suppleness. His fingers flew over the strings, increasing the tempo of the tune. Artemis matched him, twirling and undulating in perfect time with the music until the crescendo, after which she collapsed in an elegant heap near Eddie's feet.
"No!" Eddie cried, pulling her up so that she stood beside him breathing heavily. "It is I who should be at your feet, my goddess."
Artemis laughed breathlessly. "Then you liked your reward?"
"I will cherish the memory of your dance even unto my dying day."
The goddess's expression instantly sobered. "I do not wish to think of you dying."
It was Eddie's turn to laugh, and he did so heartily. "Then think not of it, for that day is far off, my goddess!"
Artemis' smile returned. "Eddie, will you walk with me? I know it is dark, and night has fallen, but—"
"Your wish is my command," he proclaimed. "Come, the grounds are well lit and it is my great honor to escort you."
Without so much as a glance at Pamela or Apollo, the two of them left the deck, heads already bent together as Eddie began asking her about the origins of her dance. Still dazzled by the goddess's incredible performance, Pamela watched them leave. She couldn't believe it. Artemis had danced for Eddie as if she really meant it, as if she really cared for him and wanted to thank him. What a difference a single day had made. This morning Artemis had been arrogant and impossible. Granted, the goddess was still impossibly arrogant, thoroughly spoiled and ridiculously self-indulgent and vain. But when she looked at Eddie there was no doubt about the softness that came into her eyes. Could Artemis really have a heart?
Two soft, magical chords waterfalled over one another, calling Pamela's attention back to her immortal. Her immortal. The thought shivered through her. Before tonight she would have imagined that a man playing a harp would look, at the very least effeminate, at the most, definitely gay. Apollo was neither. He was magnificently masculine. He didn't just play the harp; he stroked it with a lover's touch, coaxing beautiful music from it as if his caress had brought it to life. With his golden, well-muscled body and his sun-colored hair, he looked like an ancient warrior who had paused between battles to r
est and recite heroic deeds. She met his eyes as he began to sing while his fingers teased a sensuous, rhythmic hum from the strings.
"I am that man who sits opposite you
and, while close to you, listens to
you sweetly speaking
and laughing with love—things which cause
the heart in my breast to tremble. "
His voice was so perfect it was almost indescribable, and Pamela tried to imagine how he must sound when he was able to use his immortal powers. No wonder generations of people had built temples and carved statues in his honor. And now here he was, singing just for her. At that moment she wanted him so much that the force of it almost choked her. Without conscious thought she stood and walked to him.
"When I look at you,
I can speak no more.
My tongue freezes silent and stiff,
light flame trickles under my skin,
I no longer see with my eyes,
my ears hear whirring,
cold sweat covers me,
shivering takes me captive,
I become more green than the grass,
near to death to myself I seem. "
She stopped in front of him. The only power he had at his command was that of a man in love, but still he entranced her. She shivered as he repeated the chorus and blanketed her with the warmth of his emotions.
"I am that man who sits opposite you
and, while close to you, listens to
you sweetly speaking
and laughing with love—things which cause
the heart in my breast to tremble. "
When the little night breeze blew the last note away, she reached out tentatively and with one finger stroked the back of his hand that rested against the strings of the harp.
"Did you write that?"
He smiled and took her hand in his. "No. It was written by Sappho. She was a Greek poetess, and a passionate lover of women. I borrowed her words. She had a caustic sense of humor and a sharp wit. I think she would find our situation sublimely entertaining, and I do not believe she would mind the small changes I made to her verse."
"It was very beautiful. Your voice is…" She paused, trying to find words to describe what she had heard. "Your voice is like a half-forgotten dream. Something too fantastic to be real."
"But it is real. I am real." He pulled her towards him. She came hesitantly, and so he looped his arm around her waist, drawing her against him. "What you feel for me is real." Apollo pressed his lips gently against hers. He hungered for the taste and feel of her, but she was so stiff and unyielding that he contented himself with an almost chaste kiss—first on her mouth, and then on her cheek. Finally, she relaxed enough that her head rested against his shoulder, and he breathed in the clean scent of her hair. When he bent to kiss her again, she lifted her hand and pressed her fingers against his lips.
"I'm going to ask you to give me time," she said.
"Time?"
"I need time to think about what's happening between us, and I can't think when you touch me and kiss me. So I'm asking you for some thinking space. Will you do that for me?"
He wanted to say no—to toss the harp aside and take her into his arms and make slow, passionate love to her until she could not think at all. He knew he could persuade her to give in to him; he felt it in the way her body gravitated to him and the liquid way her eyes stared into his. He knew the passion that smoldered within her, and he knew how to awaken and use it. And then what? In the morning she would just retreat from him again. He wanted her to come to him freely, with no morning-after regrets.
Apollo took his arm from around her. Instead of trying to kiss her again, he brushed back the little tendril of dark hair that habitually fell over her forehead.
"I will give you your thinking space."
He smiled sadly, kissed her hand, and walked slowly from the deck. Alone.
Chapter 25
The 7:30 wake-up call from the perky-sounding young lady who announced that breakfast would be served on the deck at 8:15 came entirely too early for Pamela. What the hell was happening to her? Her internal clock usually woke her right around dawn. To her normal schedule, 7:30 a.m. was sleeping late. But this morning she rubbed her eyes and felt thick-headed, wishing she could curl up and sleep for a couple more hours.
It was Apollo's fault. Knowing that the God of Light was sleeping alone just down that hall from her had kept her tossing and turning most of the night. So had that damn liquid voice of his. It seemed to tumble around and around inside her head. And his touch. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel his lips burning against hers. Apparently it didn't matter that he was minus his immortal powers. To her his touch still felt like fire and light and sweat and…
Bloody buggering hell! She really needed to get a grip on her hormones. She rubbed at her eyes again and reminded herself that Eddie was bound to have excellent coffee all brewed and waiting for them.
Which reminded her that she was certain she'd heard Eddie and Artemis giggle their way back to one of their rooms at practically 2:00 a.m. They might have even had sex, as gross as that was to think about. Would Artemis do that? Wasn't she supposed to be one of the virgin goddesses? Pamela thought about her erotic stint with Zumanity and the sexy way she walked and talked. She seemed as virginlike as Madonna (the singer, not the other one); the exact opposite of an aloof, untouched and untouchable goddess.
Pamela groaned again as she got out of bed. She washed her face and brushed her teeth and reminded herself that it was Tuesday. Not counting today, there were only three more days till the portal reopened and Artemis and Apollo returned to their world to leave her to get back to normal in her own. Her stomach rolled. No, she wouldn't be naive enough to even hope that Apollo would actually stick around long enough to have a real relationship with her. He would leave. And she would return to her normal, boring, dateless life…
No. She'd already been over this with herself. She wasn't going to crawl back into her sexless, manless, romanceless shell. She had to think of Apollo as her beginning foray into the world of dating. It had been a successful reconnoiter. She would change her mission when she got back home. No longer would she be all work and no play. She. Would. Date.
"Bloody buggering hell," she told her frazzled-looking reflection in the bathroom mirror. "I'm thinking like a kooky member of a dating militia. V is going to be so ashamed of me—" She broke off, smacking herself on the forehead. "V! I haven't even checked in with her." She rummaged through her purse until she found her cell phone and punched in V's number.
"Are you tiring of me? You never call me anymore. Say it ain't so," V said instead of hello.
"It ain't so," Pamela said. "God, V, I'm so damn sorry I didn't call you. Things here have been more than a little on the gihugically insane side."
"The author is terminally crazy?"
"No. Actually, Eddie is a pretty good guy, and the job is even turning out to be almost semitasteful. You know, like something Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton would have liked."
"Shut up! Do not tell me you've talked him into creating scrumptious Cleopatra's palace!"
"Well, kinda."
"What does that mean?"
"Yes, I'm creating something like the set from Cleopatra. But it's not me who was responsible for the talking-into part."
"He has a lesbian assistant with an Elizabeth Taylor obsession, too? God, the world's a small and miraculous place," V sighed happily. "Are you fixing me up?"
"Again, no. His assistant is a guy, and I'm pretty sure he's straight. It's my assistants who have persuaded him into changing his focus, and it was just a happy accident that it's looking like an MGM set."
"Wait, wait, wait! You only have one assistant. She is me. And I am definitely not there because I am here dealing with crazy old cat lady Graham—who, by the bye, has finally let me talk her out of the plum-colored velvet settee. We're looking at chintz today. I told her it would show less cat hair. Regardless of th
e cat lady story, there is still the very important fact that your one assistant is moi, and I am here. Explain."
What could Pamela tell her? If she admitted that she believed Apollo and his sister were immortals stuck in Vegas, V would be on the next plane out there with a carry-on filled with valium and a reservation for her to spend a nice little "vacation" at the nearest psychiatric resting facility. Not to mention that she would needlessly worry her best friend. She definitely couldn't tell her the truth. She drew a deep breath. She wouldn't think of it as lying; she'd think of it as fictionalizing. It's what Eddie did for a living, and no one called him a crazy person. Okay, well, not to his face, they didn't.
"I hired Phoebus and his sister to be my assistants until Friday. Phoebus is an expert in ancient Roman architecture, and his sister is, well, so drop-dead that Eddie changed his mind about insisting the stupid center statue of his fountain be fashioned after horrid Bacchus and is using her as a goddess model instead." She finished, breathed, and waited for the storm.
"You hired your boyfriend?"
"He is not my boyfriend."
"And his sister?" V continued as if Pamela hadn't spoken.
"Yeah, well, his sister just kinda came with the deal. Phoebus really is an expert on ancient Rome. He's helped me convince Eddie to build an authentic Roman bathhouse instead of a tacky replica of the Caesar's Palace pool. Did you know that ancient Romans used their public bathhouses as country clubs?"
"Okay, focus. I'm not through with the boyfriend questions."
"He's not my boyfriend."
"Whatever. And I thought you said he was a doctor and a musician," V said. "And wasn't he supposed to be hightailing it out of Vegas early Monday morning?"
"He is a doctor and a musician. He's also an expert on ancient Rome. And, yes, he was supposed to leave, but he, uh, missed his flight, so he decided to stay," Pamela said, trying to keep her voice light and unliar sounding.