“Yes, it was lovely,” she agreed.
“I think you scrambled my signals.”
Mia released a heavy breath, deflating her tensed shoulders. “So, you don’t love me?”
Incapable of voicing the words, he simply shook his head. Knee-deep now in his very first lie, Cupid paused to consider why he didn’t feel worse about it. The answer was as near as Mia’s relief.
She lifted a hand to Cupid’s face and traced her fingertip along the edge of his jaw. He became aware of a stirring between his legs that would soon be impossible to conceal.
“For the record, Q, you shorted out my circuits, too.”
“Good.” His ego answered before his brain had a chance to filter its enthusiasm.
They sat quietly with their thoughts, Mia’s nails scritching up and down Cupid’s back. “Oh, wow. This tattoo is gorgeous.” Her fingers slowed. “Is this Latin?”
“It is.” Cupid cringed. Could there have been a worse time to explore Plato’s thoughts on love?
“Amor. That’s love, right?”
“Yes,” he answered, avoiding her eyes and holding his breath. He didn’t have the will to make up another half–truth.
Thankfully, she took the hint. “Anyway. God, I shouldn’t admit this, but it’s been so long since I’ve been with a man, and you were so sweet, and I wouldn’t actually mind if we . . .” Her voice trailed off as her gaze drifted down the length of his naked body and halted right there.
Now what? This situation had quickly spiraled out of Cupid’s control and beyond the boundaries of his understanding. He was capable of pleasuring a woman whose heart didn’t vibrate for him. He’d already proven as much with Layla and Rho—and Mia, though he hadn’t realized it at the time. The dilemma was whether he should have sex with Mia again, knowing his heart was locked onto her coordinates with zero chance for requital. Through all his pain and confusion, he couldn’t find a reasonable scenario where the answer was anything but no. No more sleeping with Mia until he understood the parameters of this arrangement and could make sense of this frustrating, indecipherable buzz.
Unfortunately, both his body and the beautiful girl offering herself were flagrantly ignorant of his decision. Feeling suddenly overexposed, Cupid rolled out of Mia’s lap and sat cross-legged in front of her, folding his hands with purposeful nonchalance over his midsection.
No sooner had he righted himself than his heartbeat picked up pace. Cupid recognized the mechanics of the terrible motor revving up inside him again, only this time, it was compelling him away from Mia, rather than toward her. “I have to go.”
Mia’s cheeks colored as Cupid rose and offered her a hand up. “Sure.” She acquiesced softly, making Cupid feel even lower. “I get it.”
A clipped, humorless chuckle escaped Cupid. Try as she might, Mia couldn’t begin to get it. Staring into her warm green eyes, he wanted to explain it all to her—his transgression with Hera, the fall to Earth, Pan, his broken heart—but how could a girl who believed the gods were invented by poets ever appreciate the forces at work here? She’d think his senses had left him, and he might be inclined to agree. His brain raced, but Cupid could not think of a single rational explanation to offer.
I hate you, Mother. The awareness assailed him suddenly, and he gasped aloud.
He’d known the gods to be a vengeful bunch, their judgments sometimes grossly out of proportion to the crime. Neither mortal limitations nor human notions of criminal reform constrained their wrath. But what Cupid couldn’t puzzle out was why the Goddess of Love would want to harm Mia. Here was a woman who’d already been brutalized by Love, married to the wrong man and left to raise three boys on her own with limited resources. In fact, Mia seemed to be the exact type of human Aphrodite would champion. Yet Cupid’s punishment had ensnared Mia somehow, made her the unwitting victim of divine designs, including feeling rejected now.
The remains of Cupid’s heart ripped open, the contents splattering all over the wasted barrel of his chest. He twisted his fingers around Mia’s and swept his thumb over her knuckles. “May I call you tomorrow?”
A ray of hope pricked up her eyebrows. “Sure, if you like,” she answered.
“Mia,” he promised, “I most definitely like.”
21
Aphrodite
Aphrodite bolted off her pillow, sodden night-sheath clinging to her skin and pulse pounding against both sides of her skull like twin mallets. Stirred from a deep sleep by the sudden disturbance at his side, Hephaestus forced open a bleary eye.
“Goddess, what is it?”
“The retribution has taken effect.” An ancient rocking consumed her. Aphrodite’s arms folded over her chest, cradling the baby far outside her reach in space and time.
Her husband wiped the sleep from his eyes and rolled onto his side. “What can I do for you, my beloved?”
“Bring me my gaiascope?” She knew better than to spy, knew her heart wasn’t landscaped for punishing her son—that would be his father’s area of expertise—but she couldn’t override the maternal instinct to watch over Cupid in his time of suffering.
The mattress beside her groaned as Hephaestus pushed himself up with a heavy sigh. Three thousand years of marriage had worn the necessary grooves into his neural pathways; he’d sooner attempt to drag the moon from the night sky than try to dissuade his wife once she’d made up her mind. She barely registered his ungainly body as he limped across their bedroom and retrieved the looking glass from its mahogany stand on her desk. Hephaestus’s eyes were soft and resigned as he set the instrument into her outstretched hands and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before falling back into bed.
Her fingers molded to the customized indentations in the oil-rubbed bronze handles on either side, lovingly crafted by Hephaestus and presented to her on their eighth wedding anniversary. He’d forged other gaiascopes since—what divine being wouldn’t pay a god’s ransom for a customized window into the affairs of mortals?—but only Aphrodite’s bore the inscription between the thumb rests: For My Divine Prize. The endearment seemed as deeply engraved onto her husband’s heart as into the metal, as evidenced by his re-etching of the lovely script on the eighth year of every new century.
Like an addict reaching for the opium pipe, Aphrodite set her gaze upon the scope between her white-knuckled fists. An anguished sob sprang from the depths of her long–expired womb, and the rocking began anew. Hephaestus snuggled closer and wrapped his thick hand around her waist.
She wilted into the security of his massive body. “He’s hurting, Heph. All these years, I’ve protected him, but now, my baby knows the pain his arrows can inflict.” She shook her head as she wept. “This can never be undone.”
“I’m sorry, love.” He dropped a tender kiss into the crook of her neck, then cautiously ventured, “That is the point though, is it not?”
Though not handsome by any standards, her husband’s auburn-framed, pitted face had done its share of growing on Aphrodite over the years—and foisted as he was upon the beautiful goddess through an arranged marriage, he’d had a great deal of growing on her to do. In the early years of their marriage, Hephaestus had charmed his wife by fully accepting her mischievous son, the offspring of Aphrodite’s affair with Ares, none other than his own brother.
Aphrodite had always admired her husband’s capacity for forgiveness. Not at first, of course, when he’d forged the chain-link net to catch the naked lovers together for all the pantheon to witness. But once they’d all moved on from the whole debacle, Hephaestus had embraced his role of stepdad with gusto, raising Cupid as his own and nurturing the boy’s aptitude for archery. In fact, it was Hephaestus who’d crafted Cupid’s first bow and arrows and who had continued to supply him with the unique love-tipped shafts right up to the day of Cupid’s unfortunate prank. They’d built enough history by now for Aphrodite to believe her husband was not being cavalier about
the boy’s discipline.
Aphrodite returned her attention to the ever–compelling one-way window to Earth, its destination directed by her desires and thus delivering her to the open front door of the object of Cupid’s adoration.
“Thanks again, Mia, for everything.”
Despite Cupid’s relaxed grip of Mia’s wrists, the anguished ridges at the bridge of his nose were a dead giveaway to the mother who knew him so well. Cupid was anything but relaxed. Tight coils of tension radiating off Cupid’s body permeated the thick layer of glass between the two worlds and wrapped their ruthless vines around Aphrodite’s heart. As Cupid leaned forward to press his lips to Mia’s temple, his eyelids pinched closed. When he pulled back, his lashes glistened with unshed tears.
Aphrodite tossed the scope to the end of the bed. “Cursed be Ares for talking me into this dreadful punishment.”
The reassuring arm slinked from her waist. “Yes, well . . .”
Aphrodite fixed Hephaestus with a glower. “I’m really not in the mood, dear husband.”
Immediately, his two hands shot up toward the fresco above their bed. “I didn’t say it.”
“As if words are necessary after all this time.”
“Okay, okay.” He surrendered, patting an invisible wall in the air between them. “You know you had no choice. Why torture yourself?”
Aphrodite’s focus darted toward the gaiascope at her feet. “Cupid is so fragile,” she said. Biting back a quivering lip, she asked the unimaginable. “What if he can’t take it?”
“You’re not giving the boy enough credit.”
In the kindest way possible, Hephaestus had uncloaked the goddess’s maternal insecurities. Her bravado collapsed in a deluge of tears.
“I know what Ares thinks, that the humiliating caricature of my son as a diapered cherub is all my doing, that I’ve coddled him and turned him into a mama’s boy.”
Hephaestus offered her a gentle smile. “To be fair, the boy has willingly assumed the role. Perhaps it’s time to snip the umbilical cord and free both mother and son from the cycle of co-dependency?”
“Oh, Heph. Have you been reading Cosmo again?”
A hearty laugh escaped him. “The articles are highly instructive.”
Aphrodite rolled her eyes. Her husband was a reasonable man, even if inflamed by the occasional blaze of jealousy. His counsel almost always steered her onto the right path, and she suspected his read on this situation was accurate as well.
“My son’s punishment is going to be a monumental trial—for all of us.”
“Yes, dear, I’m afraid so.” Hephaestus gathered Aphrodite into his brawny arms. While she succumbed to a long–overdue cry, he soothed her with whispered words and loving caresses. When her tears were spent, Hephaestus placed himself between Aphrodite and her troubles as he had time and time again. “Why don’t you let me keep watch for now?”
Pulling back from his loosened embrace, she nodded most gratefully. Hephaestus reached across his wife, and while he was stretched over her lap, Aphrodite stroked her fingertips down his furry back. He smiled at her tender gesture as he drew the delicate instrument into his lap. “No peeking, wife,” he said, shaking a meaty finger.
Aphrodite circled her arms around her knees, tightly grasping both elbows to ward off temptation. “Ready.”
Hephaestus peered through the glass, his pale face darkening with the reflection of Earth’s night sky. “Huh.”
Was he actively trying to get on her nerves? “What?”
“Cupid is driving a car.”
“Pan must’ve taught him.”
“Of course.” Hephaestus turned to regard his wife. “That must’ve been quite the reunion.”
She hardly needed his reminder of her greatest deceit. She’d squandered two thousand years’ worth of opportunities to come clean with her son. Maybe he would have asked to join Pan, maybe not. Perhaps the decision should have been Cupid’s to make. It was too late now.
“What was I to do, dear husband? How could I have denied my son if he’d begged to leave, and how could I manage a single day up here without him?”
Hephaestus set his battle–weary frown upon her. “I suppose we’re about to find out.”
“Pan has probably told him everything by now. My son must hate me.” Tears stung her eyes again.
“Cupid will do what needs to be done and find his way back to you.”
Aphrodite wanted desperately to share in her husband’s optimism, but with the mother-son bond shaken to its foundation, no one could predict how this would end. In addition to reuniting Cupid with his best friend, the planet below offered the potent lures of freedom and novelty, not to mention the double-edged sword called Love.
“I haven’t always been the best wife, but I always thought I was a good mother.” The crushing burden of all of Aphrodite’s parental mistakes and marital infidelities threatened to grind her heart to a fine powder. “What have I taught my son about Love?”
Hephaestus set the gaiascope down and angled his body toward her. “That’s what the Worthies are for.”
“Yes, but how many must he—?”
“Hush now, my goddess. You know that’s entirely up to the boy.”
Yes, of course she knew. The whole operation depended on how quickly and thoroughly Cupid learned his lesson.
Hephaestus lifted his hand to cup Aphrodite’s chin. “There’s only one question for you at this juncture: are you sure about this Mia?”
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. In the matter of Worthies, Aphrodite’s confidence did not waver. Cupid would deliver Mia into the arms of her intended and grant her the Right Love she’d missed the first time around. Aphrodite hoped, for all their sakes, Cupid would swiftly realize brooding over the girl would simply waste precious time. The faster he accomplished his mission, the sooner he’d be reinstated on Mount Olympus.
Assuming he didn’t pursue a Permanent Descent.
“Aph,” Hephaestus said firmly, tipping Aphrodite’s chin so she had no choice but to hear him, “how about we let Cupid do what Cupid needs to do, and save our worries until they’re necessary?”
Aphrodite swallowed over the lump in her throat and nodded bravely.
22
Panic
Step, clack. Step, clack. Step, clack. Pivot.
The trendy flip-flops had grown on Pan over time, though the leather thong between his toes had never quite stopped feeling like a twig lodged in his hoof. He found the lift-and-slap a comforting rhythm for his manic pacing up and down the driveway.
Step, clack. Step, clack. Check time.
Eighty-four minutes had dragged by since Cupid’s distress call, and Mia only lived eight miles away, twenty-two minutes tops allowing for traffic, not a factor at 11:41 p.m.—shit, 11:43. With a frustrated grunt, Pan chucked his phone from one hand to the other.
Step, clack, toss. Step, clack, toss.
Pan lifted his eyes to the constellations, hungry for answers the characters in the northern sky wouldn’t give up, certainly not the magnificent Cygnus. All summer long blinked the dazzling swan disguise of Zeus, a haunting nightly reminder that even the Queen of Sparta was not off limits if the God of Gods set His mind on seducing her.
The soft purr of the Prius was nearly indistinguishable beneath the roar of night critters, but Pan sniffed out Cupid’s scent long before the car rolled into sight. Relief shot through him at seeing his friend intact—at least physically—but Pan’s worry had fermented into a terrible brew.
Step, clack. Step, clack, plant large body in the middle of the driveway, place hands on hips, quell the urge to put fist through friend’s face.
The Prius coasted to a stop just inches from Pan’s knees. Cupid pushed the button to shut down the engine and collapsed against the seatback, staring straight ahead with vacant eyes.
> For fuck’s sake! Pan couldn’t decide whether he was more pissed at Cupid’s radio silence or the fact that he was too goddamn pathetic for Pan to stay pissed at. Either way, it made sense to yank the door open so hard the hinges creaked. The interior light flipped on and momentarily blinded them both.
“Why didn’t you answer my calls?”
“I was busy.”
Adrenaline pumped hard and fast through Pan’s system; his body itched for the fight. Cupid wasn’t the first of his gods to go off-grid, but he was easily the most important. Though Pan resisted copping to the sentiment, Cupid was more than one of his wards, even more than his best friend. Take away the novel physical attraction, and Cupid was a brother. Nobody gets a guy’s goat like a reckless kid brother.
Pan reached into the car and grabbed two fistfuls of Cupid’s shirt. “Ignoring my calls is not an option.”
Cupid’s head snapped up, the mesmerizing irises almost completely engulfed by rapidly dilating pupils. Raw animal fear.
Pan smirked with cruel satisfaction, his protective instincts offering only the narrowest mastery over his baser reflexes. “Good. I finally have your attention.”
Cupid regarded him warily, wisely keeping his yap shut.
Pan breathed in and out so hard, he moved the hairs on top of Cupid’s head—and what the hell was that rat’s nest? “Did Mia do that to you?” Clearly, Pan hadn’t given the girl enough credit.
“What?” Cupid asked, thrown off guard by the sudden shift in Pan’s tone.
“Why does it look like the Harpies had a rave on your head?”
Cupid’s hand flew to his hair, and he poked at the tangled mess with little success. “What’s a rave?” he asked, checking himself in the rearview mirror.
Pan huffed out one final, frustrated sigh and unfisted Cupid’s shirt. “A rave is an all-night dance party where people go nuts with all kinds of mind-altering substances, and you wake up the next morning with a big smile on your face, but you can’t remember why.”
First Quiver Page 11