Aphrodite's War (7 page)

Strife swept a hand through her newly blonde hair. She hated it. This
tacky shade seemed to be the North American idea of beauty, but Strife
couldn’t understand it. What a monotonous color. Dreadfully boring. But
she would fit in better with these narrow-minded simpletons if she
looked more Caucasian.

It took her a long time to find a bleaching agent. Hair dye was not to
be found in this backwater town. She’d had to improvise with her
personal stash of chemical wonders.

A smile of satisfaction slid up her face as she recalled sneaking the
bag through customs. She’d used all her mental abilities and olfactory
influence to get the various liquids and powders through.

But the well-meaning and professional staff were exhausted and
easily distracted. If anyone discovered what she’d smuggled across the
ocean and most of Canada there’d have been widespread panic--
terrorism warning levels would reach new heights.

“You’re new here.”

Strife batted her eyes at the weathered face of a local who’d
approached the rickety stools. “I sure am.” She sidled closer and spread
her palms over the sticky bar. “It’s my first day.”

“Well, I must say you’re a prettier sight than old Max,” he said, sizing
her up without subtlety. “How’d you get that cheap bastard to hire you
anyway?”

Her chiming laughter filled the dank expanse, disturbing the two or
three customers huddled at the round tables. It drowned out the country
music warbling from the speakers.

Strife’s mirth ended in phony nonchalance. This must be her own
personal hell. The real question he should ask is why would she want the
job?

“I made him a drink he’d never forget,” she said with a wink. “It’s
called an Apple Jack. Want to try it?”
The stranger waved the idea away. “I’m a beer man, m’self. I don’t
drink that hard shit, pardon my language.”

“You know,” She poured a shot of Jack Daniels on the rocks, “it
would sure make me look good to Max if you had one.” She topped it off
with apple juice, and her ‘spices’. “I’d like to show him that I can sell
my…specialties.”

She held the frosty glass aloft, letting the caramel color catch the
meager sunlight struggling through the windows. “Just try it. For me?”
The bar patron eyed it and licked his lips. The heat of the day had
already seeped into the building and the lunch hour wasn’t even over yet.
Sweat glittered on his upper lip. “Well…Okay,” he said. “But only if
you’ll have one with me.”

“Fair enough.” Strife swiped another tumbler and filled it with a
scoop of ice. A shot of JD went in along with apple juice. She skipped
the cinnamon shaker. No need to muddle her senses.

The man raised his drink. “To your new job.”
She lifted hers in response. “To new beginnings.”

They toasted and drank deep. Strife savored the sweetness that
burned. She heard the audible swallow from her new friend and caught a
whiff of his boozy breath as he exhaled.

“Woo!” Strife grinned as he shook off the bite. “That’s really
something.”
“Told you.”
“Yep. You were right.” He swirled the contents around his jingling
glass. “So where is Max anyway?”

Strife pointed to her right where the barrel-chested owner wobbled to
a stool. He pumped a fist in the air while he snarled about justice and
retribution.

“He’s had a few of these,” Strife said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have let
him have so many.”
She shrugged. Her customer’s beverage needed refreshing. This time
she added extra cinnamon-flavored encouragement.

The bar-fly took the refill without question. “What’s his problem?”
Funny you should ask.
Strife waved a negligent hand. “He’s upset about Frank Fleisher.”

She stared at the man across from her, waiting for the desired
reaction. His clouded blue eyes refocused and widened. Perfect.
“Frank?” He sounded worried. “What happened to Frank?”
“You don’t know?” Strife painted her face with innocence. Inwardly,
she gloated. Humans were easy. “He’s been framed for murder.”

His jaw gaped open like a choking victim, disbelief registering in the
sudden sallowing of his leathery skin. Shallow gasps emerged from his
throat.

“I don’t believe it. What happened?”
The man sat primed and ready for her lies and embellishments. Like
Max. And she’d just begun.
CHAPTER TWELVE

Depression prevented Poetry from waking any earlier than nine.
Tossing and turning for hours hadn’t helped. The morning shadows and
warmth of her comforter conspired to keep her there.

She’d hidden in her room, pretending to be asleep until her parents
left for work at Grant MacEwan College. As soon as she heard the door
lock, she snuck up the basement stairs, showered and fixed herself
breakfast. Usually she loved bacon and scrambled eggs. Today they sat
like salty lard and congealed slime in her mouth.

She didn’t have a bingo dauber to color her hair, and leaving her
bangs blonde made her feel naked. Wearing last night’s outfit made her
look grungy. Not a good start.

She called in sick to work, claiming nausea and confessing to a long
night of dealing with her ex.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t even been back to the apartment yet.”
“Not a problem,” assured her boss, Carrie. “In fact, I expected this. I
heard about it when I got in this morning.”
Poetry’s gut shrank. “What? From who?”

“It’s all over the restaurant that he came in to harass you. Besides,
Jenny already called in with the same excuse. We’re going to be short
today. Good thing it’s Monday. Maybe it won’t be busy.”

Poetry’s stomach curdled. “Yeah, um, thanks. I have to go.” She hung
up without saying goodbye and punched in Jenny’s cell number. While
she waited for an answer, Poetry grabbed her bus pass, purse, and
apartment keys.

“Please pick up, Jen.” Jenny was a pain sometimes, but Poetry could
count on her. They’d been through rough patches before. Not as bad as
this, but they were best friends. They’d work it out somehow.

It would be a long day. She had an apartment to clean, but more
importantly, she needed information about Adrian because he had Amir.
Not to mention she needed to know what Jenny said to Carrie, and who
else she’d told about yesterday’s fiasco.

Nothing. An automated voice announced that Jenny Shaw was “not
available”. Leave a message after the tone. Poetry envisioned Jenny
glowering at her phone when she saw Poetry’s name pop up on the
display screen. Jenny was pretty upset last night. It wouldn’t surprise her
if Jenny avoided her this morning.

“Hi Jen, I’m on my way back to the apartment. Give me a call when
you get this. I know you’re mad at me but it’s important we talk, okay?”

Poetry made her way to Stony Plain Road. A warm breeze kissed her
face, bringing with it the smell of dust and a whiff of clover. Sweat
tickled her back and it was only ten o’clock. Gonna be another hot one.

From Jasper Gates she could see that she’d missed the Number 7 bus.
No big deal. She’d grab the 121 and walk the rest of the way. It was
perfect weather for it.

She quickened her pace. If she wanted to catch any bus she’d better
hustle.
# # #

Poetry checked her watch. Quarter to eleven. Time was getting away
from her. She glanced up to her apartment windows and braced herself
for the mess.

She climbed the stairs to the third floor, thinking how open windows
didn’t do much to rid the landings of the musty old building odors or the
usual lunchtime smells. Nor did it disperse any of the summer heat. Like
climbing a mountain in Hell.

Speaking of Hell, Poetry thought as she arrived at her apartment. The
door had already been replaced, even if the frame still needed more
repairs. That was quick. Her eyes were drawn to a yellow square of paper
taped under the eyehole. Breakfast lurched back up to lodge in her throat.

A forty-eight hour eviction notice. Poetry’s knees jellied and she
grasped the doorjamb to steady herself. She read it again through blurry
vision and let her forehead smack the wood. The door creaked open
slightly.

This wasn’t fair. They’d always been on time with rent. Never brought
parties home or disturbed anyone.

She stared at the splintered wood where her ex had kicked his way in.
Then she remembered the lake on the bathroom floor. So much for the
damage deposit. They’d be lucky if they didn’t get charged.

God, I hate you Kevin.

Tears fell hot on her cheeks and she snuffled until she swallowed salty
anguish. She’d lost Amir and she had no idea where Jenny could be or if
she would ever speak to…

A rustling whispered from within the apartment and Poetry held her
breath. Kevin’s sorry ass was in jail, right?
It came from the living room, no doubt someone looting through
whatever she and Jenny had left.
Enough. So far her week was off to a nasty start and having someone
messing with her things rankled her last nerve.

She threw the door open and let it bang like a gunshot against the
wall. “Hey! Stop touching our stuff!” The tinkling of Jenny’s ruined
unicorn lamp followed a loud shriek. Poetry hurried to find her
roommate cowering in the corner by the window. “Oh God, Jenny you
scared me.”

“I scared you?”
Jenny’s voice held more anger than fear so Poetry approached with
caution. So far this conversation wasn’t going well.

“I lived here too, you know,” Jenny said through clenched teeth.
“Until you got us evicted.” She kicked at shards as she glared around the
vandalized walls.

Poetry stood next to the shoe fire with her arms folded. Everywhere
she looked she saw torn bits of fabric, sofa stuffing, and shattered glass.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, but I’ll make it up…”
Jenny pushed her hand out in a halting gesture. “I don’t want to hear
it.”
Gary appeared from Jen’s bedroom. He wouldn’t meet Poetry’s gaze.
“Almost ready, hon?”
Jenny wiped the grit from her hands. “Yeah. There’s nothing else
worth keeping.” She and Gary shouldered past Poetry to the exit.
“Where are you going?” Poetry asked. “Where will you stay?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Jenny said. “but I’m moving in
with Gary.” Once she got her runners on, Gary settled a knapsack on her
back and hoisted a larger hockey bag. He shot Poetry a lame half-smile
that didn’t match his darting eyes before skulking from the apartment.

“Can’t we discuss this? We’re friends.”

Jenny fetched Poetry a filthy look. “We’re finished. I’ve already
blocked you on Facebook and taken you out of my contacts. Stay out of
my life.”

She spun on her foot and darted through the open door. Her hurried
footsteps pounded away before Poetry could get a hold of herself.

For a moment she could only gawk at the light coming from the
common hallway as she absorbed the verbal assault. Then it hit her. In all
the upset she’d forgotten to ask.

“Wait!” She raced into the echoing corridor and down the stairs. She
sprinted all the way to the parking lot in time to see Gary and Jenny
pulling out.

“Wait,” she said again. Jenny spared her a glance through the open
window. “Adrian has Amir. How do I reach him?”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “He works at the same firm Gary does.” Gary
gunned the engine, and the tires gave a reluctant squeak as they
accelerated away.

“Oh, that’s just great,” Poetry said to no one. “So where the hell does
Gary work?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Strife’s knees trembled. She wondered if she could make it down the
stairs without breaking her neck or vomiting.
What was he doing here?

She would find out soon enough. Her master had issued a summons.
Apparently he trusted her very little. She’d arrived in Grey not twenty
four hours ago, and already he felt the need to check up on her.

The echo of her heels on the steps couldn’t mask the panting she
heard around the corner. Strife knew that sound all too well. She would
wait until he finished before allowing him to see her. Just in case. She
was still tender from her last sexual encounter with him and didn’t wish
for another.

Her gaze darted around for distraction, something to keep her mind
occupied elsewhere, but the ambiance held no loveliness. A fat fly
buzzed at the pane of a window that had a decade or more of dirt caked
into its corners. Grime trailed down the walls in long, leaky tendrils. The
dreariness of the space made Strife long for the grace of Europe and the
life she’d enjoyed before the god returned to claim her.

The grunting reached its crescendo, a loud moan. Strife risked a peek.
Ares stood stroking his cock over the limp corpse of the hotel clerk.
Spurts of white appeared on her face and twisted neck as he jerked his
seed. Strife swallowed bile, breathed through her mouth. She could smell
his sex.

The woman, whose name she hadn’t bothered learning, stared at her
in frozen terror. Her expression reminded Strife of what it means to be on
Ares’ list of victims. She ventured a glance at him now that he’d tucked
his spent cock back in his black trousers. Her liver shrank. Smoldering
coal eyes betrayed his mood. Despite his orgasm, he wasn’t happy.

“M-master?”
“I think you are enjoying your assignment a little too much, wasting
precious time socializing and drugging the locals. I should have expected
as much.”

“No it’s not like that.” She cowered against the wrought iron railing at
his approach. “It takes time to manipulate humans. I can’t just march in
and say ‘Let’s storm the city’.”

Ares swept his arm behind him, the gesture making Strife flinch in
expectation. “You can now. I have given them just cause.”

Strife forced herself to examine the woman’s dead body. It lay across
the faded linoleum like a broken doll some temperamental child had
attempted to pull the head from.

“They’ll think I did it. I’m the only person staying here.”

“Stupidity does not suit you, Strife,” Ares said. “Human females do
not possess that kind of strength.” He zipped up, almost as an
afterthought. “Tell these villagers it was in retaliation for Frank
Fleisher’s murders. Blame it on the gay community.”