Aphrodite's War (10 page)

Damn. I forgot.

She shifted her grip until she could haul Dave up by his neck. For a
brief moment he inhaled with his mouth gaping, coughing like a spent
hurricane.

Strife held him aloft with one hand, searched his jacket with the other.
“Keys and wallet, keys and wallet,” She let her fingers roam. “Eureka.
Thanks, Dave.”

She dropped him, pressing him under again when he surfaced. She
remained there until he stopped clawing and went still. Strife pocketed
his possessions and left. She would have to hurry if she wanted to get a
room in the city tonight.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Exhaustion and stress settled between Poetry’s shoulder blades, as
though her vertebrae were grinding together. Another long shift coming
to an end.

She craned her neck side to side, the audible crackle and the relief that
came with it induced a sigh of pleasure. The heavy abundance of hardearned loonies and toonies jingling in her apron lifted her spirits.

After grabbing a coffee from the Bunn burner she plunked down in a
teal colored vinyl booth with a phone book and a pen.

She settled her cheek on the surface of the table, just to soak in some
of the cool smoothness. But only for a minute. Her nose tingled at the
scent of vinegar and other cleaning substances she’d grown sick of. She
attempted to blow the odor away from her, but only succeeded in fluffing
her pink bangs.

Normally she liked the seven-to-three shift. She earned lots of tips
from the breakfast and lunch rush. Better yet, she had her evenings off.
But yesterday had been hellish and sleep didn’t come easy this week.

Last night she’d bused and transferred for forty-five minutes to pilfer
bedding and snacks from her parent’s house. The situation went from
awkward to tedious.

“What new place?” her father asked. “You and Jenny got a new
apartment?”

“No,” Poetry said. When she opened the fridge, the fresh scent of
homemade tzaziki hit her like a crisp cucumber wave. Yoink. Was there
any pita bread? “Jenny isn’t living with me.”

“Oh? Why? What happened? Did you have a fight?” her father asked.

Poetry locked eyes with her mother. The grim line of her disapproving
mouth said it all. Poetry broke contact to search for Tupperware in a
nearby cupboard.

“Just boy stuff.”
“Not too serious I hope?”

“Oh no, not at all.” She brushed him off, determined not to drag
daddy into her squabbles with her sensitivity-challenged friend. Dealing
with her mother was bad enough, thank you. “We thought maybe we
should take a break from each other. That’s all.”

“Perhaps I should drive you home,” Her mother placed half a dozen
dolmades into a Ziploc bag, and a small smile perked Poetry’s lips. She
loved stuffed grape leaves.

“It’ll give us a chance to talk things out.” her mother said, and Poetry
bit down hard in an effort not to groan.

All the way from Stony Plain Road to Fort Road her mother lectured
on Poetry’s poor choices and lack of responsibility. Whoever said that the
prisoners in Guantanamo Bay were tortured and treated unreasonably
hadn’t sat through one of her mother’s condescending speeches about
life.

As if she’d know what it meant to have one.

Her academic parents met and married in college, and pretty much
stayed there. Existence revolved around work and home. They’d never
even been to her father’s ancestral home country of Greece. Poetry
couldn’t bring herself to take advice about her future from a woman
who’d compromised hers.

“It’s not as though you aren’t smart enough. And taking Goldsmithing
in New York just isn’t practical. What will you use it for? Designing
baubles isn’t a desirable career for a young lady.”

Blah, blah, blah, whatever. If she heard one more word about higher
education and how many refined men she could meet in literacy courses,
she’d book a one way flight to Tierra del Fuego.

Not a bad idea. She could drink Chilean and Argentinean wine for
cheap and sell her wares to tourists.

The fifteen kilometer drive wasn’t more than twenty minutes, but it
seemed like hours. She didn’t get home until sundown, thanks to her
mother’s inability to talk and drive at anything above a crawl.

Once home, she’d been unable to sleep. Where was Amir? How
would she find Adrian? Would Jenny ever return her calls? Would Kevin
find her new place?

And where did that rose come from? That part worried her. She
couldn’t explain it.
The questions and the mystery hadn’t left her mind all day. She took
another swig of cold coffee and grimaced at the bitterness.

This is what happened when nobody rotates the carafes. The coffee
was old enough to vote. Another mouthful. She needed all the caffeine
she could get.

She had plans for the afternoon. She couldn’t stomach sitting around
staring at her belly button piercing. Time to get off her ass and do
something.

Poetry dragged the massive tome that was the Yellow Pages over and
began scanning its ancient pages. No internet listings for her; Kevin had
reduced her computer to shrapnel, and she couldn’t afford an iphone yet.
She’d just have to do it the old-fashioned way.

“L is for lawyer,” she said under her breath, and did a quick glance
around. The restaurant appeared nearly empty with only a few java
junkies. The occasional student from the college across the street studied
and did their homework. Nobody paid her any attention. No one stared as
she muttered so she returned her attention to the task at hand.

Whoa. Poetry counted the pages and shook her head in disbelief. Did
Edmonton actually need forty-eight pages of lawyers? True, a few of
them were full page ads, but forty-eight pages?

“Mel?” she said in the direction of the service area. “Can I get another
coffee?”

This would take days. Poetry’s sigh ended in a yawn. It sucked, but if
she had to call every damn lawyer in town she’d find the guy who had
Amir.

The chunky bass line from ‘Message from Opticon’ growled from her
pocket, startling her. She grabbed the vibrating phone and checked the
display. She hadn’t heard her ringtone for two days. Not since her
neanderthal ex had

Whose number was that? Local, but unknown to her. Not a cell
number either.
Hope blossomed. What if it’s him? What if it’s that Adrian guy who
has Amir?
Poetry snapped open the device. “Hello?” She heard the slightest
sound from the other end, a gentle sob. “Who is this?”
“Poetry?”
“Oh my God, Jenny?” Poetry’s heart began to pound. “What’s
wrong?”
“I need to see you. Can you meet me somewhere?”
Niggling doubts teased Poetry but she squashed them. Now was not
the time to bring up hurt feelings, not when a friend needed help.
“I’m coming. Where are you?”
# # #

Aphrodite hugged herself. She knew the ice surrounding her to be
god-made illusion…just like the rainbow bridge she crossed to get here.
But the effect was overwhelming. The high walls soared into
nothingness, the endless gray blended all corners of the room together in
a disconcerting wash of solemn neutrality and the dead flickered like
shadows. It must inspire a great deal of fear and awe in mortals.

A brawny Siamese and a petite snowy cat paced in front of Aphrodite.
Both glared up at her with contempt as pure as the blue of their eyes. She
hoped Freya’s love of felines did not include anything larger than the
domestic species. These animals clearly had no love for her.

By the Energy’s mercy, I want to go home.

“Aphrodite, Goddess of Love.” The feminine voice purred from a
stone chair before her. The cats ceased their haughty scrutiny to curl in
their mistress’s lap. “You are a long way from Olympus, brave girl.”

Aphrodite flinched. No one called her ‘girl’, but she held her tongue.
Here in Sessrumnir, with the menacing presence of a mournful army of
spirits, it would be foolish to challenge the woman.

For on this throne sat the Norse goddess of lust, love, and fertility and
she housed her hall with her share of Odin’s slain warriors. Not a being
to be taken lightly.

It was not just her intimidating appearance. With her white hair
flowing down her cloak of falcon feathers and her eyes like frozen ponds
she resembled the frost that permeated this country for much of the year.
It was the aura of menace about her. The Norse were not a friendly lot.

Aphrodite licked chapped lips. No food or drink had been offered.
Apparently they were not known for their hospitality either.
“Freya,” she said. “I am honored that you would see me on such
short notice.”
The other goddess cocked her head. “You have been busy.”

Aphrodite tensed, but tried to keep calm. Freya’s knowledge of her
business caught her unawares, but she suspected the Norse deity would
be sensitive to any weakness she might betray.

“Do not be surprised.” Freya fluttered her fingers at her before
stroking the Siamese. The throaty sound of its pleasure dispelled the
quiet. “News travels fast. Everyone has heard of the challenge you face.
Odin’s crows brought word to Asgard days ago.”

“Then you understand my need. Ares will use unethical methods
against me.”
“As you are now,” Freya’s colorless eyes narrowed. “If you come to
me for help is this not also cheating?”
Aphrodite took a gulp of the chill air and ran her hands down her
naked midriff.

Perhaps she should have worn something more respectful and less
revealing than her usual garb. From the disdainful vibe she felt, her
choice of clothing gained her no favor with her Nordic counterpart.

“I am not breaking the rules,” she said. “Merely bending them to suit
my needs.”
Freya sat back, toying with her exalted amber necklace. Aphrodite
coveted the glittering jewels.

Legend said the goddess had slept with four dwarven smiths to own
them. Aphrodite could understand why. They represented an opulent
masterpiece of light and sorcery she could detect from across the room.

I would have done the same to own that treasure.
“From what I hear, the rule is ‘no outside help’.”

“Zeus allows no outside help from the Egyptians, Asians, or Indian
deities,” Aphrodite said. “He mentioned nothing about Teutonic.”
“I see.” Aphrodite sensed a sort of amused respect from her. In fact,
the Norse beauty wore a subtle smirk. “And you chose me because…?”
Aphrodite met Freya’s cold glare. “You and I want the same things.
We draw our power from the pleasures of human interaction.”

“Surely you understand that if Ares wins, your own power would
dwindle. And besides,” Aphrodite said, straightening and stretching as
tall as she dared before Freya. “The male is of Norwegian descent.”

The twitter of Freya’s laughter caused ghosts to rush in frenzy to all
corners of the cavernous space. The white cat appeared to smile as it
blinked.

“And you think because your target has Scandinavian blood that I
hold some sway over him?” Her mirth might have sounded pretty had it
not been so mocking. “And this is why I should help you?”

Aphrodite took two courageous steps forward. “It is to your benefit.
Together we could become even stronger, transform this world into a
haven of pleasure and joy not unlike Eden. We could restore your
influence to that of-“

Aphrodite realized the arrogance of her statement only as the cats
darted from sight in a flurry of scampering claws. Freya arose abruptly
and stormed toward her, her hair and cloak streaming behind her like
wispy clouds. Aphrodite cowered.

“How dare you insinuate my power is lesser than yours.” Even with
her eyes shut tight Aphrodite felt the goddess towering over her. Freya’s
breath rustled the top of Aphrodite’s hair. The musty odor of feathers and
rawhide filled her nostrils.

“I may not be revered in the classic artwork of man, or gloried in
literature, but I am the goddess of lust and fertility, little one. Humans do
not require love when they are controlled by their genitals.” Aphrodite
recognized sarcasm in Freya’s tone. “They need no romance or
tenderness to procreate.”

To procreate, the chamber echoed. In her rage she reminded Aphrodite
of Ares. But she would not taunt Freya as she did him.

A rustling of cloth and retreating footsteps allowed Aphrodite to peek.
She saw only Freya’s ivory hair and the striking black and grey of her
cape.

“It is not me who should worry about the balance of magick,” Freya
said over her shoulder. “Regardless of who wins this contest, I will
remain strong.”

Freya’s left hand shot out and she snapped her fingers.
Aphrodite found herself shivering on the rainbow bridge.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Poetry found Jenny hunched like a broken doll over tea in the far
corner of Second Cup.

Poetry looped her purse over the chair across from her and parked.
She uncapped her bottled water--no more caffeine on an empty
stomach---and took a long swig.

It eased her tightened throat, but for a moment Poetry couldn’t speak.

Jenny had abandoned her, ditched her when she needed her the most.
Yet here Poetry sat, prepared to shove their disagreement under the rug
once again in the name of friendship.

Poetry wondered if maybe she deserved Jenny’s anger. She had a
point about her bringing that thug around. And what would have
happened if they’d been home when Kevin went on the rampage? Guilt
brought Poetry here.

Jenny picked her head up and peered at her with crimson-rimmed
eyes.

“You look awful.”
Jenny stared her down. “Thanks.”

Suddenly Poetry’s ragged cuticles and peeling cobalt nail polish
became the focus of her attention. She bit down a terse response.
Meeting Jenny had been a mistake.

“Sorry,” Jenny said. “It was a long night.”
“I bet.” I had the worst week of my life, thanks for asking.

Poetry waited for Jenny to quit rubbing at mascara tracks, tapping an
impatient beat on the plastic water bottle.
“Listen, I’m sorry for the way things ended. I shouldn’t have yelled at
you like that.”

“We both made mistakes,” Poetry said, feeling some tension seep
away. “You were right. Kevin was a jerk and I couldn’t see it. I should
have listened to you.”