Aphrodite's War (21 page)

He gripped the stranger by the throat and smashed his forehead into
the guy’s nose. Kevin lived for that crack and gush of blood. He even
tasted some of it.

Both the old man and the revolver tumbled to the linoleum and
Kevin’s fists delivered haymakers on their own.
But Geezer wasn’t done. His face was a snot smoothie, but damned if
he didn’t fight back. He had a lot of balls behind them bony knuckles.
Too bad Kevin couldn’t feel it. He’d never been higher in his life. His
numb face had a steel jaw that absorbed every hit. Like a fucking god.
Kevin let his hands slide around Grandpa’s throat; time to snuff the
bastard.
The man stopped hitting him as Kevin tightened his grip. Leathery,
nicotine-stained fingers scratched uselessly, desperate but weakening.
This must be how Ares feels, to just take a man’s life and soul.
Fucking awesome. The old guy pawed around the ground with one hand.
Forget it dude, nothin’s going to save you. I am all powerful.

Cartilage crunched in Kevin’s palms, and he knew if he could see
Grandpa’s eyes through the bruising they’d be fading out. Saliva flecked
Kevin’s face. Grandpa gagged.

Not long now.
Kevin wasn’t aware of the subtle scratch of metal against floor. Or the
final clack. He didn’t hear the gun go off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Strife bit her lip in irritation. Not another drawn out, exhaustive tour
of the ‘sights of Edmonton’. As if a university campus could be of any
use to her. She had enough issues with Ares without continuing to
gallivant around the city, but Ranjan insisted on showing her where he’d
studied.

She would endure it for the simple reason that Ares never attacked in
public. When it came to one-on-one situations he preferred guerilla
tactics. Degradations and cruelties remained private.

Thoughts of her master’s bathroom visit sent a chill throughout her
body, raising goosebumps on a sweltering day. Better to stay with Ranjan
and amongst other mortals. If she stayed within view of humans, Ares
couldn’t find a quiet place to bend her over.

“We’re on Groat Road.” Ranjan pointed across her nose with one
hand, while steering a slight curve with the other. He smelled of curry
and sandalwood.

“Down that way is Hawryluk Park. That’s where they hold Heritage
Days every year.”
“Very interesting.” She tried to inject fascination into her inflections.
“Maybe I can go sometime.”

“Sure. It’ll be here the first week of August. I’ll take you there. Of
course my favorite is the Indian pavilion,” he said with a sideways grin.
“But every year I try to eat something I’ve never heard of. Last time, I
had this runny purple jelly from Persia.” He shook his head as he
rounded a traffic circle. “I think they made it from plums. I’d like to find
that again, but I couldn’t pronounce it the first time.”

Ranjan thumbed back to a monstrous yellow building on the left.
“That’s the Butterdome.”

“Wow. It really does look like a giant pat of butter.” It must be the
ugliest architecture this side of the world. Energy’s essence, I miss
Europe.

“And we’re here,” he said, throwing the vehicle in park.
“Where?”
“I want to show you the law building where I got my degree.”

In front of her sat a three-story brown slab. Its monotonous stubbiness
reflected all the excitement law school promised.

“I can’t wait to see it,” she said through a tight smile. But boredom
would be easier to endure than anything Ares had planned. Strife braced
herself for a long afternoon of relentless drudgery.

# # #
Grogginess clouded Adrian’s head. It took a few minutes for him to
realize racket from the TV woke him. He didn’t recall switching it on.
He wiped grit from his eyes and sat up. His shinai still sat across his
lap. He must have completely crashed.

Long day and not much sleep.
He heard a Global News announcement. How long had he been out?

“Police are not saying how the man died, but are treating the death as
suspicious,” the female newscaster reported as the scene panned to the
background. “Witnesses say a woman with long dark hair was seen
leaving the establishment before the body was discovered…”

The rest of the report faded from Adrian’s hearing. He recognized the
building in the shot. He’d been there only a few hours previous, buying
Poetry’s good graces.

The vibrant designs on the store front perked up an otherwise grim
environment crowded with police ribbons and curious onlookers.

He couldn’t help but notice the woman with her back to the camera.
Her waist-long golden hair and frothy tunic singled her out from a group
wearing shorts and t-shirts. She resembled a genie or maybe a faerie.

As if alerted by his scrutiny, she peered over her shoulder. Her beauty
stole Adrian’s breath.

Eyes like the sea gushed grief without marring her pristine porcelain
skin. Tears fell from her face like pearls while she kneaded her bare
arms.

Adrian shuddered at the rage he saw there. She studied the camera
with accusation and defiance. Adrian could almost swear she glared right
at him.

Something in the room with him caught his eye. The silver circlet
glowed. What the…? Adrian had a ridiculous thought, that maybe the
woman on the screen had something to do with the way Poetry’s piece
shone like a disco ball.

He glanced back to the television, gulping hard. She was looking at
him.

She dropped her arms to her side and strode toward him, never
breaking eye contact. She loomed larger in the screen. Adrian clutched
his shinai, sinking into the cushions of his couch in a vain attempt to
kamae.

He couldn’t think straight. Nothing made sense. Sweat pooled on his
top lip and air became scarce. He tasted the salt of his panic, heard it as
harsh swallows.

The woman grasped the edges of the television and her fingers took
form, curling over the black plastic like flesh spiders. In a single stride
she crawled into the living room.

Adrian quaked until his weapon blurred in his periphery. She appeared
to be human, but couldn’t be. Unless…

“No, mortal,” she said, her soft feminine words floated through the
condominium like a song on the breeze. “You are not dreaming.” She
advanced until Adrian toppled off the sofa trying to avoid her.

Her honeyed scent engulfed him. It was the essence of a woman’s
desire, the playful musk of pleasure, a sugared kiss.

Adrian released his sword to shield his stirring groin. Visions of
Poetry’s face, flushing in the throes of passion, surfaced in his mind until
the woman leaned over him. With a dismissive gesture, she stilled his
racing thoughts.

“I understand why you would think I am a figment of your
imagination. You New Worlders sleep excessively.” She shut her eyes
and arched her brows, as though trying to gather her thoughts before she
unleashed fury. “It mystifies me how you managed to build this modern
empire of false joy. You are all forever sleeping as though Morpheus
himself stole your will. He must be truly powerful here.”

Adrian pulled himself off the hardwood floor to take a second glance
at his visitor.
She waited with hands on hips, moisture still dripping from her
phosphorous stare. Rain pattered at his windows.
“Wh-who are you?”

“My name is Aphrodite.” Her brows furrowed and lightning flashed.
“You know not who I am?” Thunder boomed. Adrian’s stomach rolled.
She’d read his thoughts. “I am the goddess of love. Do you New
Worlders know nothing?”

“S-sorry,” Adrian said, shivering. The room seemed suddenly colder.
“I’m not into mythology.”
“Mythology.” Aphrodite spat the word. “Do I look like a myth to
you?”
“No, ma’am.” She resembled a long forgotten wet dream, smelled like
a night of lovemaking.
The storm rivaled the news report. “…it is believed that all seven of
the suspects in custody will plead temporary insanity…”
Adrian’s vocal chords barely functioned. “What do you want?”

Outside the weather intensified. A deluge raged. Aphrodite seemed to
radiate pain until Adrian experienced the barrage of her agony. Tiny balls
of ice pelted him. He glanced outside his patio doors. It was hailing.

“She killed him,” Aphrodite said, her voice barely audible above the
gale. “I know it was her. Who else would use talcum powder in battle?”

“Who?” Adrian asked. “Who killed who?”
“Strife. She murdered my son.”

Adrian thought about the flower shop swathed in police tape and the
guy with the curly surfer hair…like hers.

“You mean Herrold?”
“That was his Earth name. His name was Hermes.”

“Earth name?” Adrian’s jaw dropped. What the hell was going on
here? “What are you people?”
“It would take too long to clarify. And why should I? You are mere
pawns.”
“What?” Something was wrong with his brain. This was just too
weird.

“I knew Ares would cheat. He never fights fair.” Aphrodite put her
hands to her face as fresh tears washed down her sallow cheeks. “But I
never thought he would allow his minion to kill our child.” The wind
howled in empathy.

Adrian plunked down on the arm of the couch, dumbfounded. Maybe
he’d eaten some bad sushi. That was it. Combine that with sake,
exhaustion, and a stressful day, and bang on; instant hallucination.

But what about the evidence on his clothes? He rubbed his collar and
pulled away chunks of precipitation like frozen white peas. Adrian took
another peek at his balcony. The doors were closed. If this came from his
sickened state, maybe he should give up law and retire to Ponoka. But of
course that was just ridiculous. There had to be a logical explanation, but
he couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“Wait,” he said as something she’d mentioned came back to him.
“Pawns for what?”
The downpour reduced to a shower. Aphrodite collected herself,
wiping wet trails from her jaw and straightening her clothing.

“If you must know, it was a contest between Ares and myself.” Sea
shells appeared in the palm of her hand and she placed them decoratively
in her hair. “My task was to make you fall in love. Ares only had to
prevent it.”

Adrian reached for the torque as his stomach lurched. He had to squint
at its brilliance. Its energy throbbed in his hand. Magick. That explains a
lot.

Now he understood why Poetry went to the Rosemount; why her ex
came to the restaurant, to her apartment. He’d been duped to watch out
for her, to care for her and her damn cat. The whole thing had been
orchestrated for the amusement of a couple of squabbling deities.

“Not everything,” Aphrodite said, but Adrian ignored her.

“It was just a game…” He shifted the neckpiece this way and that,
examining the tight weave Poetry had painstakingly created with her own
hands. “We were under a spell.”

He wanted to vomit. They’d been used as chess pieces. “None of it
was real.”
“I would not say that. I did not send her to meet you. Nor was Kevin
dispatched to torment her.” She stroked his hair.

“You defended her of your own accord. You escorted her home and
sought her enemy.” Aphrodite caressed his chin and brought his gaze to
hers. “It was all you. I merely suggested you bring her to dinner.”

Adrian didn’t believe her.
“She brought you a picnic out of gratitude that you earned.” Her
demeanor grew urgent. “Please. Will you not wear her gift?”
“Why?” Adrian couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice. “So you can
put me under your control?”
“No, human. That is not how it works.” She offered her open hand.
“You care for Poetry without magicks, yes?”
Did he? Or was it a lie?

He thought of her deep brown eyes, her olive skin ripe with that
metallic fragrance unique to her body chemistry. Not only had he grown
used to it, he’d started to like it.

He remembered yesterday on the rooftop, how she’d made him forget
the prison of his responsibilities. He tasted hummus every time he
thought of it. His heart lifted.

“I thought as much,” Aphrodite said. “Don the jewels and bring your
sword.”
“Why? What are we doing?”
Aphrodite’s face clouded. “If Strife is bold enough to kill Hermes,
there is no telling what she is capable of.” Thunder growled.
“Poetry is in grave danger.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Regurgitated sake sloshed the back of Adrian’s throat; his knees
jellied. The smell of blood and feces greeted him. If he had to open his
eyes, he might lose his sushi.

“Oh my Energy, what a mess,” Aphrodite said, and Adrian couldn’t
help himself. So much for not peeking.

“Holy…” Déjà vu. They were at Poetry’s new place, but it had been
trashed just like the previous one. Adrian identified Kevin’s condiment
scrawl on the peeling walls, complete with the same derogatory notes
written in ketchup. He seemed to like four-letter words beginning with
‘F’ and ‘C’. Light from the open refrigerator door revealed broken dishes
and ransacked drawers spilled all over the floor.

But what he didn’t expect to find was Kevin’s brain-splashed corpse
next to Frank Fleisher’s battered one. He recognized the musician’s
leather jacket and his client’s cowboy boots.

Well, that’s convenient.
Adrian pushed the insensitive opinion out of his head. Both men were
public menaces, but they were still remotely human.

He inched forward, trying to avoid a pool of congealed fluids. Kevin’s
skull lay gaping like a hatched egg. No hope for him, but Adrian should
examine Fleisher, just in case.

“Don’t bother,” Aphrodite said. “They are both quite dead.” She
shoved past him to lift Frank’s arm and flopped the stiffening appendage
at him. “See?”

“Don’t touch him.” He placed two fingers on Frank’s neck. Nothing.

Decomposing flesh in photographs was one thing, seeing it in person
required therapy afterwards. Frank’s cold epidermis could only mean
death. “Don’t tamper with the evidence. We have to call the police.”

His cell phone chirped. Adrian yanked it out of his pocket and stared
at the call display. Denny’s Restaurant? Who the…?
Poetry worked at Denny’s. He answered with hope in his pounding
chest.
“Hello?”

“Adrian, it’s Jenny.” The anxious babble on the line didn’t sound like
Jenny. Not even the slightest hint of a giggle. “Gary gave me your
number.”