Aphrodite's War (14 page)

“Precisely,” he said, and Poetry felt her smile fall. “We could see each
other as procedure and give feedback and critiques.”
Poetry sat back, dumbfounded. ”Adrian, how many beers have you
had?”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Strife ran a hand through her back-to-black hair. Her stomach
churned. Confidence returned with natural beauty, but things weren’t
going quite as well as planned. She could call her chemically induced
riot a success. With the city’s water system compromised, violence
would continue. But the civil upheaval chased new recruits away from
the taverns. Things were stagnant all over Edmonton. Mass hysteria
buzzed in her blood, but most people were frightened into remaining at
home. At least she’d made the right decision in coming to this
establishment to apply her trade. Ares was correct about their chosen
haunt and would be pleased to learn Strife had acquired the targets.

Still, she glanced around warily. Her hands shook a little. Perhaps he
lurked in the shadows, spying on her and would appear when everyone
left, just to remind her he owned her. The expensive art on the walls
stared back. No manifestation tickled her senses. She was not ready for
her master yet. Not only were the chosen humans avoiding her potion in
favor of beer, but Adrian and Poetry appeared to be getting along quite
well.

The other couple was clearly influenced by the drink. Their constant
waves of lust, happiness, and pettiness created a nausea rivaled by a bad
day at sea.

“I’ll have another if you don’t mind.” The Eastern Indian perched in
front of her shot a flirtatious grin in her direction.

“Sure thing,” she said, gifting him with a dazzling smile. “Glad you
like these so much.” Better put in extra spice. After three Apple Jacks he
was a little drunk, nothing more. His aura remained calm, his face
personable.

“How’s it going?” The other female approached from behind him with
Aphrodite’s champion, clapping both hands on his shoulders
affectionately. “You loaded yet, Ran?”

“Working on it,” he said. The women strolled past, apparently for a
‘girl trip’ to the washroom.

The handsome brown-skinned man turned his attention back to Strife
and flashed another glimpse of perfect white teeth. “Friends of my
friends.”

“I see.” Her heightened hearing picked up on the girls’ conversation,
not that she could make out much more than echoes. The one with the
streaked hair did most of the talking. Or rather, whining. That must be
Poetry’s stupid friend, Jenny. Not that Strife cared. Not unless she could
use her. She considered that option and dismissed it. Too self-absorbed to
be serviceable.

Right this instant she must pretend she worked here, to feign interest
in the human sitting at the bar. His eyes mooned at her like a puppy
begging for scraps. Pathetic.

Strife tilted her lips in a friendly expression as she engaged him.
Being human bored her sometimes but she had to play along. Good thing
he was attractive.

“So I haven’t seen you around here before. When did you start?”
“Yesterday. I’m new to the city.”

“Really?” His chocolate eyes twinkled, reminding her of Ares. And
just like Ares, he had sex on his mind. Desire oozed from his pores like
the sandalwood cologne and curry scent of him.

Her master never exuded such warmth.
“I know Edmonton like the back of my hand,” he said. “I’d love to
show you around.”

To Strife’s left, the washroom door squealed, announcing the
women’s return. They spoke in hushed and urgent tones as they
approached her. The usual guy stuff: Gary’s a jerk and Adrian is goodlooking. Meaningless chatter.

“Another round, ladies?” Strife asked. Maybe she could smuggle
some spice into Poetry’s beer. They muttered their approval, but before
she could fill the order another presence arrived.

Strife whirled toward the glass door on her right. An overbearing
essence wafted in like the subtle kiss of a forest fire’s flare. A beautiful
man entered the tavern, raising her hackles. She recognized those foppish
curls. She longed to scalp them from his tanned forehead.

“You.”
The word came from not only from her lips, but Poetry’s as well.

Hermes spared Strife a haughty glance before sauntering towards the
human females with his noxious basket of roses.
“Hello, love,” he said, and Poetry’s tattoos leapt out in contrast to her
paling skin. “Did you get your flower back alright?”
Strife didn’t need to see her stricken face. Rank terror rolled from her
pores like a gush of blood.
“How did you find out where I live?”

“I have my ways. I…” Hermes’s eyes narrowed at the unexpected
reaction. It seemed Poetry did not succumb to his charms. Her friend
hugged her protectively. The Indian stood in front of them, a noble
gesture from a man who had no clue what he truly faced.

You screwed up, pretty boy.
Out loud Strife said, “She does not like you.”
His irises shrank to pinpoints. “This isn’t your concern.”

He extended his hand toward the girl in a placating matter. “Listen, I
was just…”
“I’m afraid this is my concern,” Strife said. “My pub, my customers.”
My territory.
She crossed her arms, lifting her chin to glare down her nose at
Hermes. Try me.
Aphrodite’s favorite son peered from Poetry to Strife and back again.
“Please,” Poetry pressed her fingers to her mouth. “I’ve had enough
of this kind of attention for a lifetime. Just leave me alone.”
Hermes appeared to consider his options.

“Don’t make me phone the police,” Strife said. Her widening lips
hinted dangerously. He would not challenge her here. Not in front of the
mortals.

He stared her down, even as he pivoted away. “This isn’t over.”
“Leave.”

The four of them watched him depart. The only sounds were his
unhurried footsteps and the tasteful notes of contemporary jazz. Adrian
and Gary held quiet conversation, unaware of the confrontation.

At the thud of the door, Poetry exhaled audibly.
“Thank you so much,” she said, her eyes bright with gratitude.

“No problem.” Strife resumed the task of opening a beer and mixing
another Apple Jack. “That is not my first run in with him.” She
constructed lies about him hassling and stalking customers. “Consider
him barred.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” The girl babbled while hugging her friend
and glowing at Strife.

The brown man gazed at her with renewed respect and appreciation.
“What’s your name again?” he asked.

She opened her mouth but stilled her tongue. She’d almost given them
her true identity, the hiss forming on her lips.
What was she going to call herself? Something beginning with ‘S’,
since it was halfway out of her mouth.

“Sarah,” she said.
“Nice to meet you, Sarah. I’m Ranjan.”

Strife’s lips twitched. Ranjan. “Delight to his parents,” if she
understood correctly. It had been hundreds of years since she’d been in
that part of the world.

“That’s Poetry and Jenny. Over there are Gary and Adrian.” He
indicated his cohorts with vague hand gestures. His eyes never left her
face.

“That was a cool thing you did for me,” Poetry said.
Strife performed a demure lift of her shoulder. “Glad I could help.”

Poetry and Jenny took their drinks back to their seats, their humor
returned.

She’d gained acceptance. Even if their glances and grins had not said
so, their resonance spoke for them. How she hated ‘sweet and fuzzy’, but
that’s what she must work with.

Then it occurred to her, perhaps she could use this to her advantage.
A plan began to fester. If she entertained this mortal, her proximity to the
prey would increase. If she treaded carefully.

“Where were we?” she asked.
Ranjan drained his Jack Daniels and apple juice. “Excuse me?”
“You were saying you could show me around?”
Happiness encompassed his entire face. “Absolutely.”

“That would be nice.” Step One. “Throw in lunch and we have a
deal.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Hephaestus allowed himself a leisurely perusal of Freya’s throne
room. Not what he expected.

All of Asgard lacked opulence and color, but Sessrumnir’s grey stone
walls lent the cavernous space an intimidating iciness. The ghostly wisps
that drifted in and out of view did nothing to enhance the place, nor did
the smell of mildew and old meat.

“You waste your time and mine,” Freya said. Her only movement
since his arrival was to pet the black and white cat perched on the arm of
her chair. Hephaestus stared into the feline’s green eyes and instantly
thought of margaritas. He could use a drink right now. “Your bitch will
not receive my assistance.”

Hephaestus shook his head. “She is not my bitch.” She is a bitch unto
herself. “I am not here on her behalf.” He hoped the goddess experienced
the purity of his distain. Otherwise this visit was pointless.

He retrieved a bauble from his vest, letting it twinkle in the meager
light.

“She does not understand her place,” he said. He twisted the bracelet
over his fingers and smiled as the diamonds dazzled rainbow colors.
“She knows not the charm and strength you possess, my white queen.
Nor did she show the proper respect.”

Hephaestus glanced at the Norse goddess. Her wide eyes stayed
transfixed to the gold and gem encrusted masterpiece. He had no doubt
they would be. Pretty trinkets were her legendary weakness. Even
mortals knew how she’d ‘entertained’ dwarves to own the trademark
necklace she wore.

“In Canada, in a province named Alberta…”
“I know where Alberta is,” Freya said, the edge in her voice ringing
off the slate.

“But did you know there are endless tunnels where vast wealth still
lies hidden?” The wonder and curiosity in her expression lent her
youthfulness. “They are the Cadomin mines, once bursting with coal.”

He extracted an ordinary lump of the inky rock from his other pocket
and held it before her.

It amused Hephaestus how she leapt from her seat for a better view.
Her hide-bound footsteps skittered and echoed across the silent hall as
several felines scurried from her path. Her falcon feather cape gave her
the illusion of flight.

When her slender fingers ventured to the fossil, Hephaestus closed his
hand, denying her.
Anger and disappointment drifted across Freya’s features, but her
emotions remained unspoken.
Hephaestus smiled. “Allow me.”

He tightened the fist holding the ebony stone, grunting with the effort
to squeeze it. Sharp edges began to shift inside his grip. He concentrated
on the body heat he generated, on the brawn required to transform this
humble chunk.

“What are you doing?” Freya asked. “Surely you can’t…”

Hephaestus released the pressure with a gasp and opened his hand.
“But I have.” In the center of his palm sat a rough diamond the size of a
milky grape.

“For you, my raw wonder.” He placed the unfinished jewel in her
hand.

Freya’s face brightened. “You are so strong.” She caressed his
twitching muscles as she stared at his offering. Her mouth curved in a
lopsided quirk of lascivious intention.

“It is true,” he said. “Indeed, I employ my power to make these
treasures of the Earth into pretty things.”
He brought the bracelet forward to encircle her wrist.

“I made this for you. You are a goddess worthy of my finest.” His
eyes met hers. “Had I met you before Aphrodite, my life might have been
different.”

That much might have been true. Freya spent her existence pursuing
lust, whereas Aphrodite believed in love.

But his lost lover proved herself to be a betrayer, and Freya knew her
own heart; she never denied it. What could have been had he met this
volcano of passion before he’d known Aphrodite? Or the smoldering
simplicity that was Poetry?

Freya caressed his stubbly cheek, causing him to twitch. “It matters
not,” Her breath tickling his ear. “You and I can be together here. Now.”
Freya heard his thoughts and desires as though he’d spoken them.
And she had not judged.

Her touch wandered downward. She stroked his hardening length and
his heart lodged in his throat. She drew nearer, her breasts brushing
against him to create an electric shock that spread to his curling fingers
and toes. With a quick flutter of fingers, her cape and clothing ceased to
exist and she stood naked before him. Once again she eased inside his
personal space, brushing her taut nipples against his chest as the
environment shifted around him.

Before he could find his balance, Hephaestus found himself sprawled
on a bed of furs, Freya straddling him like a determined wrangler. The
softness of the pelts against his buttocks reminded Hephaestus of Freya’s
will. He had no idea how or when his garments had disappeared, but he
was more than willing to give her whatever she wanted.

She would take without hesitation.

Freya lowered her body to meet his throbbing cock and sighed. Her
rhythm started slow, her groans subtle. He gripped her hips, squeezing
them as he dragged her deeper. Ragged breathing puffed from his lips.
He wanted to fuck her harder.

He growled and thrashed, fantasizing that the pale nipples bobbing
before his eyes were dark like Athenian olives. In his mind’s eye her
shoulders were decorated with tribal markings, lilies and satyrs…like
Poetry’s. He savored the woman on top of him, gloried in her shouts and
her tightening spasms as she came. Spurting sex streamed warm down
his loins.

Freya went limp, but Hephaestus knew the Norse goddess of lust and
fertility wasn’t done yet. He sat up, gently pushing her back as he got to
his knees. Her skin, soft and yielding as he parted her thighs, reminded
him of flower petals. Her sparse ivory curls opened to reveal the tender
pink meat he needed to taste.

He teased at first, darting his inquisitive tongue in and around her
flesh until she whimpered. His powerful grip held her legs apart as he
dove in, smearing his face with her creamy heat. She bucked into his
mouth. He obliged by licking faster, lapping at her sweet nectar.

He continued this dance until his jaw ached and her howling grew
hoarse.