Her Creator
Normandie Alleman
Edited by
Masque of the Red Pen
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
About the Author
Also by Normandie Alleman
1
“I don’t care if I ever see you again.”
Ian cringed at the high, tinny voice. It definitely did not match the attractive woman it belonged to.
Maybe he’d finally learned his lesson, Ian thought as he slammed the door behind him and stormed down the gold-lined street.
He heard a window overhead creak open, and he braced himself.
Women had thrown many things at him over the years. In fact, he bore a scar from a particularly sharp high heel that, after being hurled thirty yards at him, gave him a concussion.
“I mean it!” the lovely model screamed down, probably expecting him to turn around and rush back into her arms.
He didn’t even acknowledge her with a wave of his hand.
He just kept walking.
The sooner he got away from her the better.
This was the problem with the women he dated. They were beautiful, but once he got to know them, they were flawed. Every single one of them.
No matter how pretty they were on the outside, on the inside—they were messed up.
Thank the gods the walk was helping clear his head.
It always filled his creative well to walk through the streets of Aphrodite’s city.
As soon as his friend Atalanta had gotten married, she got all serious about preparing to be the queen of Xenapolis. Not long before that, their other friend Psyche went and married a god.
Now Ian was the only one left of his friends who was still single.
Annoyed and looking for a new perspective and more excitement, he moved to the city run by the queen of beauty and love herself. If he couldn’t find a woman here, there was no hope.
This was where most vids were made. Some considered it the third coming, a renaissance reminiscent of old Hollywood. But the talent was thin, at least that he was exposed to.
It wasn’t his fault he dated models.
Hell, he was a sculptor. He was surrounded by models all the time.
He couldn’t help it his standard of beauty was high.
But the women he met seemed to be either high strung, unpredictable, indecisive, terribly moody, or a combination of the above.
His male friends told him that was how women were, but he refused to believe it.
Surely, there was a woman out there who was stable and easy to be around.
One who wouldn’t throw things at him, or pout all through dinner over some imagined slight.
But the longer he lived, the more women he met, the more he decided his friends might be right.
What if there were no “normal” women in the world?
Perhaps his fantasy woman would have to remain just that—a fantasy.
But he couldn’t be satisfied with that.
He walked the two miles home considering it, and when he finally got there, he let himself inside and fell into bed thinking about it.
The next morning Ian awoke from a dreamless sleep with an idea too crazy to ignore.
If the perfect woman did not exist, he would simply have to create her.
He threw off the bedclothes and roared into his studio, his mind singularly focused on this new project.
A giant slab of marble stood in a corner of the room.
Over a year ago, when he first saw the block of stone, he knew he had to have it. He wasn’t sure what he would use it for, but the beauty of its smooth texture and the meandering of the delicate veins running through it spoke to him. He’d purchased it outright even though it had been a large expense, especially for a hunk of stone he didn’t have a specific plan for.
He was an artist, and something inside told him he needed it.
Over the last several months, Ian had grown so accustomed to seeing the stone with the white bed sheet covering it that he didn’t even notice it as he walked past.
But today he knew what the purpose of that slab should be.
With a flourish, he grabbed the edge of the sheet and pulled it away revealing a gleaming hunk of marble that was larger than he remembered.
Tossing the sheet aside, he gazed at the rectangular block lovingly.
When he was finished, the slab before him would be transformed into the perfect woman. Her image began to shine through, and without tearing his eyes away, he ran to grab his tools.
Since he wasn’t watching where he was going, he tripped over a shoe, but he caught himself before he fell.
Next he donned a mask and armed himself with an array of power tools. Cutting into marble wasn’t an easy endeavor, and the dust it created was a bitch, but his dream woman was inside that slab, and he intended to uncover her. Dust be damned.
For hours he worked, carving away the larger parts, to give her the most basic of forms.
He lost track of time, and it wasn’t until the growls in his belly sounded almost as loud as his drill that he decided to take a break.
He needed to stop and refuel.
After making himself a sandwich, he took a shower to clean the dust from his body. Then he went right back to work.
He worked late into the night, taking care not to carve away too much.
There was a woman inside calling to him. He could practically hear her, and his hands and tools moved feverishly until he finally collapsed on the floor next to her from exhaustion.
The next thing he knew he was awakened by bright sunlight streaming in through the windows high atop the studio’s dome. He blinked a few times before remembering his work in progress, then jumped up eager to return to it.
A quick breakfast of eggs and toast and he picked back up his tools.
The hours passed swiftly, and he didn’t notice the shadows growing long until it got so dark he needed to turn on his floodlights to be able to see.
At the end of the second day, he could make out the beginning of her shape. The realization thrilled him so much he didn’t stop working until he passed out beside her.
What had started as an idea quickly became an obsession.
Day after day Leo worked himself to exhaustion.
His body began to rebel. At times his limbs shook, and he became lightheaded.
He probably wasn’t eating enough. He let himself get dehydrated a few times, and he knew he wasn’t sleeping properly. His bed didn’t get used for at least a week. Instead, he dropped next to her when he couldn’t go anymore.
But each morning when he woke up his creation looked more and more like a woman.
He chiseled the stone away to reveal the curve of her hip.
The swell of her bosom.
That proud, yet coy, tilt of her chin.
And she captivated him in a way no real woman had ever been able to.
She was the perfect woman for him.
No real live woman could compare to the exquisite creature he was creating with his own hands.
And the fact that she was his, of his own making, made him begin to fall in love with her.
It was crazy he knew, to have feelings for an inanimate object, but the more time h
e spent with her, the more he shaped her, the more attached he became.
He’d made statues before.
Many of them of attractive models.
But this time it was different.
Something about his beloved sculpture felt real.
He experienced a connection with his lovely creation he’d never had with women before.
Whenever he allowed himself to ponder this, it made his head spin.
Usually when that occurred, he took a break for something to eat and then focused intently on sculpting her ear or some other delicate feature that required significant concentration.
Several days into his frenetic work pace, he heard the chime indicating someone was at the door.
Reluctantly, he forced himself to walk away from her.
Rubbing one eye, he opened the door to find Patrick Sinclair, his business partner, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other.
“Ian! Thank the gods.” Patrick pushed past him into the apartment.
“Hey, what the hell?” Ian’s skin prickled. “I’m in the middle of something. Do you mind?”
He stared at Patrick and pointed to the door. “This isn’t a good time.”
Patrick threw up his hands in frustration. “Not a good time. What have you been doing over here? We’ve got clients whose work you haven’t finished. Communications are blowing up. I had to come over and see for myself what’s going on.”
Ian closed his eyes and tried to summon patience.
None came.
“Like I said, Patrick—this isn’t a good time.”
“What happened to you, man?” Patrick eyed him curiously. “You don’t look good.”
Ian ran a hand over his hair. Under normal circumstances he would care about his appearance, but he was in the process of creating the most important work of his life. Right now, that was all that mattered.
“Nothing happened. I’m just working on something important.”
“More important than your patrons?”
“Infinitely.”
Patrick put a hand on Ian’s shoulder.
Ian shrugged it off. “Look, I don’t need to be interrupted. As soon as I finish what I’m working on I’ll get caught up on the rest.”
Suspiciously, Patrick’s eyes went past Ian, and he started for the adjacent studio.
Like a mother bear protecting her cub, Ian sprang to position himself between Patrick and his beloved sculpture.
She wasn’t ready. He couldn’t let anyone see her like that.
“You’re right.” Ian moved Patrick away from the studio and toward the front door as he pressed forward, not giving Patrick the opportunity to get around him. Fortunately, Ian had broad shoulders and an athletic build.
If Patrick tried to get past him, Ian had no problem tackling him to prevent it.
The smaller man took a few steps back, but he wasn’t finished protesting.
“Ian, let’s talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Ian continued toward the door. “I got distracted. I’ll be finished soon then I’ll get caught up. You can tell the clients I’ve been sick or something.”
Patrick frowned. “I’m not sure that will be good enough. You know you have bills that are due, and if you don’t deliver the work, you won’t get paid.”
Ian opened the door and shoved Patrick to the curb. “I know. Thanks for stopping by.”
Then he slammed the door and turned the lock, reveling in the satisfying sound of the deadbolt keeping the rest of the world out.
“Ian!” Patrick tried one more time, but Ian ignored him and strode into the studio to what was clearly becoming the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
“Where were we?” he asked her, and at that moment it didn’t bother him that she couldn’t answer back.
2
Two months and several more unanswered knocks at his door later, Ian finally stepped back to survey his work and felt satisfaction.
What had been a formless block of rock was now transformed into the most beautiful woman Ian had ever seen.
She had haunting light-colored eyes and a perfect nose to go with her rich, full lips.
Her proportions were exquisite—voluptuous in fact, but not to an extreme.
No, she looked like a real woman, not a cartoon; only better.
The girl of his dreams.
Not only had he conjured her, but he built her as well.
And as her creator, he sat back and marveled at his work.
“This has to be the best thing I’ve ever created,” he said aloud.
Gazing into her unseeing eyes, he couldn’t help but speak to her. As strange as it was, she had become his entire world.
“You are so beautiful,” he said. “I must give you a name.”
He watched for any sign from the stone figure, any hint as to what her name should be, but she remained still.
“I shall call you Galatea.”
He hadn’t expected a response from the statue, but he was slightly disappointed that the moment was such a non-event.
Never mind. He sat in his chair enjoying her until the sun set.
When night fell, he decided to shower and feed himself—practices he admittedly had overlooked more often than not in the recent past.
But as he went about his daily chores, it felt odd having his creation in the next room. He wanted to move her into his adjacent apartment, but when he tried, he found that the marble weighed too much for him to move on his own.
Instead, he brought a chair into the studio and began to take his meals there, with her.
At night, he took to rolling out a pallet and sleeping on the floor next to her. It was during those nights that he opened up to Galatea. He told her stories about his past, shared his hopes and fears with her.
She never answered back, of course, but he reveled in those midnight confessions nonetheless.
If only she could share back…
One day, he awoke to find a few things about his creation that bothered him.
She looked a bit cold.
In his mind, he had grown to “know” Galatea, and she wasn’t cold.
He got out his tools and went to work softening her expression.
When he was finished, he stood back and took her in.
“There. I’ve made your eyes more kind. You appear more gentle now. That’s better. That’s the Galatea I know.”
The statue did not respond, and he felt a stab at his heart.
Suddenly, the fact that his beloved Galatea wasn’t alive and had no ability to love him back hit him hard.
The next day, he went to turn on his water, and only a single drop came out of his faucet.
Oh crap.
Not only had he ignored his patrons for weeks, but he’d also forgotten to pay his bills and apparently the water had been one of those oversights.
At first, he tried not to concern himself with it, but soon he realized he wasn’t able to make coffee, wash his hands, brush his teeth, or flush the toilet, so he gave in.
He needed water.
He would have to leave the apartment.
Foolishly, he kissed Galatea goodbye and promised a swift return.
The cool marble against his lips triggered a painful reminder of her inability to kiss him back.
Having no time for melancholy, he threw on a jacket before stepping onto the street.
To his surprise, there were people dancing in the street.
Music drifted throughout the air, and it sounded like it might be coming from a marching band a few streets over.
Revelers carried drinks in long, odd shaped cups.
They wore masks and colorful beads.
He knew he’d been behaving like a recluse for a while, but the scene was surreal, like he’d been transported to another time and place.
Desperate to find footing amidst the bizarre crowd around him, he tapped a woman on the shoulder and asked, “What is all this? What in the Darteen is happeni
ng?”
3
“It’s Aphrodite’s feast day, mate.”
September 15 already?
It had been a long time since Ian ventured outside his apartment, and he’d paid no attention to media of any sort. He’d been too busy working on Galatea to recall what day it was, much less what month and what holidays were coming up.
Partygoers and revelers lined the streets, and even though he was surrounded by people, he felt more alone than ever.
It had been nice, cocooning with Galatea in their own little world, but seeing all the people dancing and having fun with one another, made the loneliness in his soul explode.
A woman whispered into a man's ear, and his heart ached as he thought how his precious Galatea would never share her secrets with him. Before he knew it, he was caught up in the throng of people and found himself being carried away in the crowd down the street.
As they passed one establishment, a man held out a large mug of some sort of foaming concoction. Consumed by his sad musings, Ian took the drink and began to down it.
"Cheers!" Ian raised the cup.
"To Aphrodite, the goddess of love," the man replied.
Ian clinked glasses with him, and they both took large chugs of the fruity beverage.
It turned out the man’s name was Fred.
He and Ian quickly became fast friends, bonding over the drinks they tossed back.
Ian hoped fraternizing with Fred and the other celebrants would take his mind off Galatea, and it did for a time, but eventually, Fred tottered off after a redhead with a supremely round behind, which sparked in Ian a fresh bout of self-pity.
He had several drinks in him by then and thought he might need a place to get away from the crowd and rest.
Stumbling down a side street, he came upon a door. It was a beautiful door, so he opened it and let himself in.
Her Creator (Myths Retold) Page 1