First Quiver

by Beth C. Greenberg

  “I don’t know, I . . . I’m confused.” Jesus, the guy was a wreck. “I think I did it, Pan.”

  Pan’s heart raced a mile a second, painfully aware every word might be their last. “I’m so proud of you, Q. Where are you, exactly?”

  “I’m not sure. I pulled over somewhere. I’m afraid to drive. What if I, you know, just vanish into thin air while I’m driving down a busy street? I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  “Q, listen to me. That’s not how this works.”

  “How does this work?”

  “They’ll send Mercury to retrieve you somewhere you won’t be seen by mortals.” The thought of it broke Pan’s heart all over again. He would have given anything to be there for Cupid, but the gods weren’t big on emotional support.

  Silence followed, then a small, sad, “Okay.”

  Fuck, he hated this job sometimes. “So, you just left Mia’s? I watched the whole thing on TV.”

  “Sorry about that, Pan. I couldn’t help it. They were all over the place when we got there.”

  “Forget it. It’s not your fault,” Pan said, hoping his assurances could offer Cupid some measure of comfort. “How are you feeling?”

  “At the moment they crossed their Liminal Point, it felt like I took a dozen thunderbolts directly to the heart, but now it’s more of a constant ache, like I got beat up from the inside out. I’m going to miss them all so much, Pan.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lieutenant Goode promised to take care of her and the boys now. They’re just at the beginning of everything, but it’s been a long time since I’ve heard such a perfect echo.”

  “The Right Love,” Pan said. “You really did it, buddy.”

  More silence.

  “Pan, if I did what the Council wanted, why am I still here?”

  Pan pulled the phone away from his head to check the time. Nearly five minutes had passed since Pan’s happy, south-of-the-equator discoveries. The slowest retrieval he could remember had taken just over three minutes. Huh.

  “The gods must not be ready to send you home.”

  “What? Really? I’m staying?” The lift in Cupid’s voice tore a fresh hole in Pan’s heart. An extended tour of duty was no cause for celebration.

  Pan found himself pacing again. “If you don’t ascend today, that only means they’re not done fucking with you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  A long pause. “What should I do, Pan?”

  “Come home.”

  43

  Getting Vertical

  Cupid woke to the harsh beating of a fist against his bedroom door.

  “Go away. I’m sleeping.”

  Pan burst into the room, bolted straight for the windows, and yanked open the blinds. “It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. You haven’t been vertical in three days. Your ass is gonna get flabby if you don’t get off it soon.”

  The bed creaked as Pan flopped down next to Cupid. His bulk offered a small creature comfort but did little to ease the raw throbbing in Cupid’s chest. He groaned and pulled a pillow over his eyes.

  “You’re lying. My body will go right back to how it was before whether I stay in bed and starve myself or stuff my face with every nasty kind of junk food in your kitchen, so you can just kiss my flabby ass.”

  A low, booming laugh shook the bed. “You’re developing quite the potty mouth.”

  Cupid squinted one eye open from beneath the corner of the pillow. “Flabby ass, potty mouth, who could possibly care? I am going back to sleep.”

  “No, you’re not.” Pan gripped the covers and threw them across the room.

  “Hey!” Cupid thrust the pillow over his privates and shot up off the bed. “What the fuck, Pan?”

  A wide smile stretched across Pan’s face. “Hallelujah. We’re not using ‘fudge’ anymore. At least one part of you is back to normal even if your internal clock is shot to hell.”

  “It’s not just my clock, Pan. That whole heart guidance system is gone too. Like someone switched it off.”

  “Someone did,” Pan answered, jabbing a finger toward the ceiling.

  “Well, how am I supposed to know what to do now without any direction?”

  Pan shrugged. “I guess you can do whatever you want for now. What do you want to do?”

  Cupid brought his fingertips to his chest and rubbed. “Nothing.”

  “Nuh-uh.” Pan shook his head. “No more doing nothing. This room smells like a festering wound. You need a shower, and we both need a decent meal. I’m afraid to leave you alone, and if I don’t get out of this house soon, I swear, I will blow the roof off.”

  “I’m sorry, Pan, but I’m not ready to go out.”

  “I understand this is hard, Q. I’ve nursed a broken heart or two myself, and it is the suckiest of all sucks. It feels like you’ll never feel good again.”

  “How could I, without Mia?” Cupid asked, his voice breaking on the name he hadn’t allowed on his lips since their final goodbye.

  “Look, I can’t make any promises involving forces beyond my control. Who knows what the gods have lined up for you next? All I know is you’re still here, and you need to get back into circulation while you still can.”

  “Don’t you mean while we still can?”

  Pan opened his arms. “Okay, yes. I’ll admit, I’m eager to take advantage of my restored manhood. Is that so terrible?”

  No, there was nothing terrible about Pan’s manhood except it, too, seemed to be off limits to Cupid. He swallowed hard and shook his head while Pan railed on.

  “There’s one thing we can count on: the future is uncertain. I, for one, would like to take this opportunity to celebrate our little intermission for as long as it lasts and surround myself with hot bodies, preferably of the hard, male persuasion.”

  Hard. Male. So that’s where Pan’s pent-up desire had crash-landed.

  No wonder, after their dramatic goodbye at the police station. Their unexpected kiss had caught Cupid entirely off guard, but oh, the yearning of Pan’s last, stolen nip. The memory had provided a reassuring, albeit confusing, lifeline more than once during Cupid’s bedridden grieving.

  The pillow shield was starting to feel grossly inadequate. This conversation needed to end.

  “Fine. Where do you suggest we find these hot bodies?”

  Pan grinned. “You go clean up. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Cupid waited for Pan to leave his room before tossing away the pillow. The old goat was right; this place stank. Cupid opened the window and left the winds to their work.

  The hot shower washed away days of grit and caked–on tears. Some God of Love, crying like a baby over the girl who got away. Cupid was no different from any of the other poor suckers pierced by his gold-tipped arrows. His immortal heart would beat forever, but that didn’t guarantee the absence of pain. No, that was a privilege Cupid had surrendered the day he shot his arrow into Cerberus. He could no more regain his immunity to love than he could take back his virginity.

  Did Cupid regret his actions, inciting the ire of the First Lady of the Mount and the God of the Underworld? Handing Ares the long–awaited excuse to discipline his wayward son? Shaming Aphrodite in the eyes of her peers, putting her in a position where she had no choice but to punish him? Those things weren’t good. Neither was the hurt Cupid had unwittingly inflicted on Mia along the way, building up her hopes only to dash them again and again. Nor did he feel good about how Pan had suffered in all of this.

  With all those tally marks piling up, Cupid should have regretted his actions. Wasn’t that the whole point of consequences? How could he though, when the alternative was a monotonous life of watching everyone around him fall in love while he floated along in his impermeable bubble, free from harm but blind to the glory of love?

  He whom Love
touches not walks in darkness. At once, he understood the inscription tattooed down his spine.

  Would Cupid have preferred love’s tender caress to the chokehold that besieged his heart? A happy ending instead of this misery? No question. But would he choose to erase recent events and return to the not–knowing, the darkness? No, thank you. No matter that his insides were a pit of snarling snakes depositing venom into every chamber of his heart. The burning continued day and night, awake or asleep, never letting him forget the love he had known so briefly and lost forever. His punishment, but also his revelation. A wound he could bear, knowing he’d delivered Mia into the arms of her Right Love.

  He scrubbed the shampoo through his hair and took extra care with the razor blade around the contours of his chin and cheeks. When he finally stepped out of the shower, he at least looked and smelled presentable.

  True to his word, Pan took care of the decisions, driving Cupid to an “out-of-the-way spot” for dinner—a nearly deserted, refurbished train station where they could more or less be themselves. Two friends out enjoying a couple of thick, juicy steaks.

  “Nothing like a good slab of beef to put the color back in a man’s cheeks,” Pan said cheerfully. “You were starting to get a little pasty.”

  “I guess that’s what happens when you eat nothing but ramen for three days.” Cupid finished off his wine, and Pan swiftly refilled their glasses. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  Pan’s gaze met Cupid’s. “Just relaxed. I want you to have a good time tonight.”

  “I’m trying.” Despite his best efforts, Cupid couldn’t help but wonder what vegetarian dish Mia was serving the boys tonight and whether the lieutenant had joined them. “Are you sorry I’m still here?”

  Pan’s head snapped up. “Of course not. Why would you ask me that?”

  “I don’t think I could be worse company.”

  A gentle smile eased the corners of Pan’s mouth. “Sure, you could. You could be lying in bed, pissing and moaning and stinking up my house.” Pan waved his fork through the air. “Stop trying so hard, man. You’re fine. However you are, for however long you’re here, I will gratefully take your company. Okay?” With a hearty wink, Pan stabbed another piece of meat and placed it between his lips.

  “At least I have one friend down here,” said Cupid.

  Pan leaned forward, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You haven’t been paying attention, my friend.”

  He thought he had this time. “To what?”

  “Don’t look now, but every female in this place—and maybe that one guy at the bar—is hot for you. The God of Love is back, baby.”

  44

  Wanted Again

  “Welcome to Versailles.” Pan waggled his eyebrows and pushed open the ridiculously ornate doors. “So,” Pan yelled over the pounding sex beat, “what do you think of Tarra’s one and only male dance club?”

  For starters, there are an awful lot of men, was Cupid’s first thought. The dance floor was an enormous circle, ringed by a series of connected, mirrored archways. At the center, a glittering crystal monstrosity of a bar rose two stories above the dance floor.

  “Looks like Narcissus threw up all over the place.”

  “Hahaha. C’mon, let’s hit the bar.” Pan slapped a hand onto Cupid’s shoulder and steered him through the crowd of hungry stares. “What are you drinking?”

  Wine was for dinner, and alcohol was for serious action, according to Pan.

  “Hmm, I feel like something fancy.” Expensive–looking bottles with etched designs stood in colorful rows, awaiting their big chance to be poured by deft–handed bartenders in bowties and black leather thongs.

  “Two Ketel One dirty martinis,” Pan said to the nearest bartender, a cute blond boy who seemed barely old enough to serve drinks.

  Pan rested his elbows on the bar behind him and gazed up at a dancer wearing what looked like Cupid’s boxer briefs, only briefer. Nothing subtle about this place, but then subtlety wasn’t exactly the goal. A burst of high-pitched laughter across the dance floor caught Cupid’s attention.

  “Why are there women here?”

  Pan leaned in and still would have had to shout if not for Cupid’s superhuman hearing. “It’s mix night. Whatever you’re in the mood for, you’ll find it here tonight.”

  Whatever was Cupid in the mood for? After three days of licking his wounds, Cupid felt he might be able to tolerate being wanted by someone other than Mia, but that was as far as he’d gotten.

  “Two dirty martinis for two dirty boys.”

  Cupid and Pan spun around and picked up their drinks. “Here’s to a night out with my best friend in the cosmos,” Pan said, setting his mouth near Cupid’s ear before adding, “and two sets of working equipment.”

  They clinked, and Cupid took a cautious sip of his salty drink. “I can’t believe you never told me your . . . equipment was broken.”

  “It’s not exactly something to brag about. Bad enough I had a tail.”

  A sweat-soaked, skinny young man tapped Cupid on the shoulder. “Did someone say ‘tail’?” he asked with a cute wiggle of his hips.

  “Thanks, but we’re having a drink at the moment,” Pan answered.

  The man glanced at Pan, shrugged, and moved backwards until the crush of dancers absorbed him.

  Cupid locked eyes with Pan. “So, Pan . . .”

  Pan lifted a lazy brow. “Hmm?”

  “That was quite a kiss at the station.”

  “Oh.” Pan looked away first, swirling the spear of olives around the edge of his glass as if missing a spot might have dire consequences. Throwing back his head, he lifted the plastic sword to his mouth, plucked off the bottom olive with his tongue, and washed it down with a gulp of martini. “Sorry.”

  Cupid nudged his elbow into Pan’s side and waited for Pan to return his gaze. “Really?”

  A little smirk lifted Pan’s mouth at the corners. “Maybe not entirely.”

  “Maybe not at all,” Cupid answered, taking another sip of his drink. “Not that I minded or anything.”

  “Yeah, didn’t taste like you minded.”

  “You’re a good kisser.”

  “You’re not terrible yourself.” Pan’s lips parted. His nostrils flared ever so subtly. All that carefully restrained passion seemed to be leaking out like the contents of Pandora’s urn. “But then, if Cupid can’t kiss, we’re all in trouble.”

  A blush filled Cupid’s cheeks, and he cooled off with a sip of his drink. “I thought we agreed we weren’t doing that.”

  Pan released a heavy sigh. “You’re absolutely right. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’d only meant to throw Lieutenant Goode a few hints—holding hands, googly eyes, that sort of thing.”

  “That was pretty smart.” Cupid grinned at his friend’s ingenuity. “So, all of your grave talk about responsibility and reckless joyrides and why we shouldn’t . . .?” He finished the sentence with a jut of his chin.

  “Yeah, well.” A pained gaze flickered from beneath Pan’s blondish-red lashes. “All of a sudden, it hit me you were really leaving, and I was about to lose you again, maybe for the rest of our eternal lives this time. I might’ve gotten a little carried away.”

  Pan had taken a terrible risk, and his body language right now—dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, racing pulse—screamed he would willingly take the plunge again. If anything, the pull was even stronger now that Cupid’s full potency had been restored.

  Freed of his obsession with Mia, Cupid could have succumbed to temptation as well. Anyone could see what made Pan stand out from the sea of men at Versailles: rugged bone structure and broad shoulders, the alluring combination of mossy green eyes and thick, auburn hair, the way he strode through the crowd with the virility of the god of the hunt. On top of all that, Cupid had the inside track on the glint of mischief in Pan’s eye, the easy, disa
rming smile, and the soul of the wild beast that lurked just beneath the surface of the man. And it didn’t hurt that Pan was fully aroused and completely absorbed in Cupid alone.

  “You know, Pan, I wasn’t so keen on losing you again either.”

  Pan angled his body toward Cupid. “Oh?” Was he fishing or just being dense?

  “What do you think?”

  Pan’s mouth lifted in a lopsided grin. “I think you were understandably sidetracked by a certain girl we’re not talking about tonight and more than a little anxious about what was about to happen to you.”

  “True enough. When I was driving away from Mi—her house, leaving behind all the people I loved so much, everything came roaring back. That awful day they told me you’d died. It felt as if someone had cut off my right arm. And then the other day, when I thought I was about to evaporate into the clouds and return home again without you, I—”

  Pan spun his martini glass on the bar, fidgeted with the napkin, anything to avoid meeting Cupid’s eye.

  A week ago, Cupid might’ve pounced on the situation. No question, he’d exhibited a lack of judgment with Mia at times—many times. But try as he might to convince himself it would be okay to mess around with Pan right now, something bigger than Cupid’s sexual urges had taken control of his behavior. Huh, who would’ve ever thought I’d be the mature one?

  “No matter what happens now, Pan, we’ve found each other again, and you’re still my best friend. I don’t want to mess that up for a few minutes of physical pleasure.”

  “A few?” Pan’s eyebrows popped up to meet his unruly bangs. “Pshh. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to.”

  The two friends exchanged wicked grins.

  “I can’t imagine Cheri would complain about your stamina.”

  Pan huffed. “Not while everything was working properly.”

  “Is that why we’re here in this testosterone palace, then? Because Cheri dumped you? This is my fault, isn’t it?”

  A soft smile danced in Pan’s eyes. “Don’t sweat it, Q. My tastes fluctuate, and I enjoy a wide range of partners. Right now, I have a taste for men. Is that your fault?” Pan’s half–lidded gaze came to rest on Cupid’s mouth. Cupid’s lips parted; Pan’s did the same, forcing a puff of desire to Cupid’s tongue. “Yeah, that’s on you.”