Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  INTO THE QUIET

  Copyright © 2021 Beth C. Greenberg

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests: beth@bethcgreenberg.com

  ISBN (paperback): 978-1-7359447-3-9

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-7359447-4-6

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-7359447-5-3

  Cover design, illustrations, and Isotopia logo by Betti Gefecht

  Interior design by Domini Dragoone

  Family tree background image © sabphoto/123RF.com

  ISOTOPIA PUBLISHING

  www.isotopiapublishing.com

  www.bethcgreenberg.com

  First Edition

  For Larry,

  who carried me over the threshold of our

  first apartment many years ago

  and has never once let me down.

  BOOKS BY

  BETH C. GREENBERG

  The Cupid's Fall Series:

  First Quiver

  Into the Quiet

  Isotopia, by Jeff Greenberg

  (prepared for publication by Beth Greenberg)

  Happy are those who dare courageously to defend what they love.

  —OVID

  1

  Goddess

  The second time Cupid’s heart revved up should have been easier, and in some ways, it was. He recognized the stabbing pain in his chest right away, and he had a general idea what was expected of him.

  But Cupid wasn’t particularly eager to relive the Mia experience—except for that one exceptionally nice part just before he blurted out he loved her, realized her heart wasn’t echoing his love beat, and vomited up his dinner. Also troubling, this signal was sharper than the first. The gods weren’t messing around.

  Cupid heaved his body off the barstool. His knees buckled from the alcohol swimming in his system—or perhaps from the grim understanding that his next trial was upon him—and he pitched forward. Pan thrust out his hand and steadied his best friend as he’d been doing in one way or another since Cupid fell to Earth twelve days ago.

  “Easy,” Pan said, his voice taut with concern.

  Cupid dragged in a deep yoga breath, exhaled slowly, and nodded. “Okay, I’m ready.” He sure hoped he sounded braver than he felt.

  “Where’s your shirt?”

  Cupid’s gaze dropped to his bare chest. Right. That pretty boy he’d been dancing with had tugged it off him. Cupid turned toward the dance floor, one giant, tangled organism pulsating under the purple lights. “It’s buried somewhere in that pile of bodies.”

  Pan tapped his nose. Locating Cupid’s scent would pose no challenge for the demigod of the wild even in human form. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  Cupid had nearly wrapped his head around the here-we-go-again when his shirt came flying at his face. Pan was not one to coddle.

  “Lead on,” said Pan.

  “You’re coming?”

  “Of course. My ass is on the line, too, or have you forgotten already?” Truthfully, Cupid had been working quite hard to put Pan’s ass out of his mind.

  “Fine. This way.” Off they went, Cupid’s relentless heart-compass guiding the way with Pan trailing tight on his heels. Judging by the intensity of the churning in his chest, whatever Cupid was meant to find was right here at Versailles.

  So intent was Cupid on following his heart, he nearly crashed into a raised platform that placed a dancer’s gold-covered bulge exactly at eye level. An impressive set of white feathered wings fanned out from the dancer’s shoulders and somehow fluttered gracefully while the lower half of his body popped and gyrated at his audience.

  Pan licked his lips and stared, mouth agape. “Wow.”

  “He’s all yours,” Cupid replied. “He’s not my Worthy.”

  But Cupid was close; he could feel it. The signal pulled him along the edge of the stage and into a flock of wild women, screaming and stuffing money into the dancer’s pouch. Not this one, nope, nope . . . boom! Cupid stopped short, and Pan—distracted by the slicked-up, writhing angel on the stage—slammed into Cupid’s back, ramming him into the new love of his life just as she was tucking a bill inside the dancer’s thong.

  The woman grasped at the fabric to regain her balance, but the measly garment was no match for her downward velocity. The pouch gave way, spilling money and genitals, before Cupid could manage to grab the falling woman around the waist. A collective gasp went up around them—with Pan’s enthusiastic, “Oh hell, yeah!” loudest of all—before the angel could tuck himself and his tips back inside.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cupid said, relaxing his grip around the goddess in his arms as she regained her footing. “Are you okay?”

  She blinked up at him with a shocked pair of hazel eyes set into a deep blush. “I . . . I honestly don’t know.” But Cupid knew. The woman’s racing pulse, dilated pupils, and dry mouth were dead giveaways, and he was feeling quite the same.

  She shook her head, freeing a tendril of spun gold across her cheek. Without thinking, Cupid reached in and gingerly tucked the loose hair behind her ear. The two sets of eyes locked, and neither would let go, dazzle-ee meeting dazzle-er and vice versa. She melted his insides with every shaky breath passing between her lips.

  “Take your time,” Cupid said, finding himself in no rush to go anywhere or do anything except exactly this.

  Need poured off this woman in hot, dangerous waves—waves that had already pulled Cupid under. She raised her hand to wipe the beads of sweat from her brow. Two rings dwarfed her left hand: a diamond the size of a robin’s egg with a solid gold band below. Married.

  “Hey, what’s—” Pan stopped cold. “Oh boy. Q, we need to talk. Now.”

  “Call me,” Cupid answered Pan, barely registering his presence.

  Fully prepared to sweep his precious love into his arms, carry her to bed, and pleasure her for the rest of his days, Cupid remembered his circumstances and the horrible ordeal he’d gone through with Mia. He couldn’t draw another breath until he knew the truth.

  Summoning as much focus as he was able, Cupid tuned in to the chorus of hearts beating all around him. He peeled them away one by one until he had distilled his beloved’s from all the rest.

  No echo.

  Frantic, Cupid placed an ear to her chest and listened with all his might.

  In that terrible moment, Cupid understood. The goddess in his grasp was not his Right Love after all; she was his next torment.

  2

  Torment

  “C’mon, man. Get your face out of her tits. That shit is not dignified.” Pan’s fingers curled around Cupid’s shoulder and pinched—hard.

  Cupid turned his head as far as possible with the girl still locked in his arms and shot Pan the dirtiest glare he could muster. Pan’s face was so close, the two men could have kissed. “Must you always be so crude? I was listening to her heart.”

  Pan’s eyes worked back and forth between Cupid and his goddess. “She’s the one, right?”

  Not that he doubted it for a second, but Cupid focused on the wild thumping in his chest just to be sure. “Yes.”

  One of Pan’s bushy, copper eyebrows quirked up. “And?”

  And to the crows with you, Cupid wanted to say, because the truth hurt. Cupid’s gaze dropped to the floor as he shook his head.

&n
bsp; “Motherfucker.” Pan’s death grip relaxed into a gentle squeeze. “You best take your hands off her.”

  Sensation flooded back into Cupid’s fingertips. Only a thin layer of fabric separated the pads of his fingers from the girl’s warm skin.

  Raising his gaze to her agonizingly beautiful face, Cupid asked, “Will you be okay if I let go?”

  She blinked at him again, lacquered lashes opening and closing over eyes flecked with amber and emerald. Her lips formed the word, “Yes,” as if trying to convince both of them—and failing. Her weight shifted away onto her own two feet but not before Cupid filled his lungs with all her delicious scents: vanilla and brown sugar, something fruity she’d been drinking, sweat and musk. He forced open his grasp and dropped empty hands to his sides, but he couldn’t stop staring. And grinning. Just looking at her was making him downright giddy. Helen of Troy paled in comparison, but this woman seemed entirely unaware of her charms.

  Pan clapped him on the back and placed his lips near Cupid’s ear. “What’s your next move, lover boy?”

  “Who’s this?” A dark-haired woman angled in beside Cupid’s Worthy, took one look at Cupid, and grinned, causing a dimple to appear at the center of each of her full cheeks. “Well, well, well, Ruthie. Look what you found.” Her brittle voice rattled Cupid’s eardrums, but at least now he knew his goddess’s name.

  Ruthie. She blushed bright pink as she looked away.

  A third woman, the tallest and skinniest and blondest of the group, looped her arm around Ruthie’s waist and yelled over the music at Cupid. “Are you into girls, or what?”

  The dark-haired lady reached across Ruthie and thwacked the tall woman on her arm. “Jesus effin’ Christ, Wen. How about a little tact?”

  “Hellllo-oh! It’s a gay bar. The only straight guys in here are wearing G-strings stuffed with singles. Do you see a G-string?”

  “Give the guy a chance, huh?” The brunette switched her smile on again and aimed it straight at Cupid.

  Wen’s gaze shifted over Cupid’s shoulder, where Pan had been hovering with his arm around Cupid and taking in every word. “Um, can you not see the hot bear whispering sweet nothings in his ear? Hey there, Ginger.” She twisted a clump of her blond hair around a bony finger. “What’s your story?”

  Ruthie covered her eyes and mumbled, “This is not happening.”

  Pan cleared his throat and greeted them with a tight, “Ladies.” Somehow, he made it sound sweet for the women’s ears, but Cupid heard his, “Get us the hell outta here,” loud and clear.

  “Hi. I’m Gail,” said the one with dark hair, placing her hand over her chest, “and you’ll have to excuse our friend Wendy over there. She doesn’t get out much. I believe you’ve already met Ruthie.” Gail jerked her chin toward Cupid and gave Ruthie a not-so-gentle nudge.

  Cupid locked eyes with Ruthie, who looked as though she wanted to drop through the floor. He gave her an encouraging smile and shouted to make himself heard over the sex beat. “Hi, Ruthie. I’m Q!”

  Ruthie’s mouth curled up at the edges, and a series of deep creases rippled her cheeks like a pond making way for a pebble. Ah, that’s better. “Nice to meet you, Hugh.”

  Cupid shook his head and chuckled. “That’s ‘Kyyyewww,’ as in Quentin.”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s a bit loud in here.”

  Cupid leaned in so she wouldn’t have any trouble hearing his proposition. “Would you like to get out of here, Ruthie?”

  The color drained from Ruthie’s face. “Oh, no, I . . .”

  Oh dear. Cupid reached out and placed his hand over hers. She gasped and drew back from his touch as if he’d stuck her with a hot poker. “I’m sorry,” he shouted. “I just wanted to talk to you where it’s a little quieter.”

  “I shouldn’t. I mean, thank you and all. You’re very sweet, but . . .” For a moment, she stopped protesting and met Cupid’s gaze, and he thought she might reconsider. “No. I can’t.”

  Good gods, this one was going to be a challenge. Cupid hadn’t been rejected since the reinstatement of his charms. It’s not that Ruthie was unaffected—she was shooting off pheromones like fireworks—but her willpower mastered her desire. What an unusual mortal she was.

  The wise course would be to leave it for now, sober up, talk the situation out with Pan, strategize, and regroup. Cupid would have no trouble locating this woman again with or without her cooperation—the mechanism inside his chest would take care of that. Still, ego being what it was and Cupid’s loins burning as they were, he wasn’t ready to give up. After all, she was still standing here talking to him.

  The music pounded away at Cupid’s sensitive eardrums, one harsh line of electronic noise crashing into the next. Cupid had no love for the volume, but he couldn’t deny the pull of that beat. His hips pumped in time with the music, drawing Ruthie’s gaze directly to his center of gravity. As a gesture of goodwill, he clasped his hands behind his back; he’d learned his lesson with the unwelcome touch.

  Ruthie stared—all three ladies did, but it was only Ruthie he cared about. Cupid made the most of his opportunity, copycatting that dancer Pan had his eye on. He wanted to unleash Ruth’s inner tiger, the woman who’d stuffed all those bills into the stripper’s thong. The hawkish friends on either side of her weren’t helping his chances any, though Cupid had a feeling they were more likely to be bad influences on her than good.

  Remembering his first time at the Stagecoach and how that woman named Rho had coaxed him ever so subtly out onto the dance floor, Cupid moved steadily backward, planting his heels behind instead of directly under his gyrating hips. Ruthie inched forward with him, taking tentative, wobbly steps on too-high heels. She followed him into the heart of the crowd, leaving her chaperones behind. Cupid stuck to the unwritten rules of their game, holding her in his orbit with his gaze, his smile, the thoom, thoom, thoom of his hips. She danced too, but Cupid would’ve bet she didn’t know it. The bob of her head, the sway of her shoulders, the tap, tap, tap of her heel, and the glorious smile she finally released when she unclenched her teeth.

  Cupid leaned in, taking full advantage of the excuse to place his lips next to her ear. “Having fun?”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  He stole in closer yet, this time brushing the tip of his nose along the rim of her ear. “You’re a good dancer.”

  “Nah.” She blushed madly and dropped her gaze to the floor. Cupid didn’t mind; she was still here, still dancing with him, and when she looked up at him again, they smiled at each other.

  Oh, how he longed to gather her hips into his hands and hold her against his body. But this would have to do for now. The crowd jostled the two of them closer and closer together, and Ruthie didn’t reclaim the distance. Her defenses were weakening. Another push, and she caught her balance with a hand on Cupid’s arm. Braver and bolder his sweet goddess was getting—

  “I need to go.” She turned suddenly and fled, as much as one could flee in a wall of bodies. Ruthie picked her way through the crowd, and Cupid chased her to the sidelines. “I need to go,” she repeated to her alarmed friends, who gawped at Cupid as if he’d violated her.

  “Ruthie, please . . .”

  She stared at him. Please, what? He really hadn’t planned any further than that.

  Figuring his chances were better if the others didn’t overhear, Cupid leaned in one final time. “May I please have your number?”

  “I shouldn’t,” she said, but she was still here, still clapping those eyelashes at him.

  Seconds ticked away. Cupid could hardly believe his good fortune when Ruthie’s hands moved to unclasp her little purse. She rummaged around inside, then pulled out a pen and a piece of tissue.

  “This is all I have,” she said with an apologetic shrug.

  “It’s fine.”

  She scratched out her phone number, folded the tissue twice, a
nd placed it onto Cupid’s outstretched palm. He curled his fingers around the flimsy sheet and clutched it to his heart.

  “Thank you.”

  “I had a really nice time,” Ruthie said.

  3

  Summoned by Ares

  Aphrodite’s chariot required neither driver nor reins. Four white doves harnessed together under a gaily jeweled yoke cooed with pleasure at their beloved mistress’s arrival. The goddess gathered the folds of her ankle-length chiton in one hand and mounted her sleek, golden carriage in a graceful swoosh. Setting her mind on the destination, Aphrodite reclined into the comfort of her luxurious coach, a present lovingly crafted by Hephaestus—the same husband whose sandals would be pacing the marble tiles of the palace floor until his wife returned from her late-night “strategy session” with the formidable God of War. The chariot rose into the sky, and Aphrodite left all thoughts of Hephaestus behind.

  The doves soared higher and leveled off to an easy coast at an altitude reserved for the upper echelon. Aphrodite tried to synchronize her pulse to the smooth rhythm of the dappled wings, but it was no use. The closer her carriage to Ares, the more furiously her heart raced. By the time the chariot touched down outside the compound, Aphrodite’s nerves were as twisted as a bag of angry snakes.

  Pull yourself together, she admonished her frazzled self as the guard swung open the iron gate. The metal wall clamped shut behind her, sending a chill crawling down her spine. She marched toward the entrance with purposeful, measured steps. Holding her breath, she reached a fist to the thick maple door.

  Before she could knock, the door swung open, and she was greeted by one of the foot soldiers. “Greetings, goddess,” he said with a respectful tip of his chin.

  “I was summoned by Ares.” A fresh thrill ran through her at the singular “I.”

  “Yes, of course. He will receive you in his chamber.”

  Oh dear.

  “Not the War Room?” she asked, but the guard had already taken off down the long passageway to the private residence. A litany of questions cycled through Aphrodite’s brain, each one boiling down to the basic dilemma she’d been turning over and over since Cupid’s fall: Would she risk it again?