Aphrodite's War

by Donna Milward

  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.”

  He strolled to the cadaver and nudged the broken neck with his toe, causing the head to loll back and forth, as if denying its demise. Strife struggled to swallow regurgitated coffee.

  “Why do you think I decorated the ugly bitch instead of fucking her?” That explained why he’d changed his methods. Blame it on the homosexuals and create more discrimination. Strife clamped her mouth shut and nodded her understanding. Ares gave her a condescending smile.

  “Do you require more instruction?” “No, Master.”

  Ares drew close enough that Strife smelled the wine on his breath and perhaps…mustard gas. It burned her eyes and reeked of hatred. He stroked her cheek with a gentle touch that put her on edge. He might be tempted to use Strife for his own cruel desires. “The new world is ripe for the taking, Strife. Power beyond imagining can be ours. We will crush Aphrodite and all other gods like insects under our boots.” He brought her chin up so that she could meet the ebony pools of his eyes.

  “Hurry,” he said. “Run and tell them what you have found.”

  # # # Please be here. Please be here. Poetry hurried to the huge double doors of Vulcan’s Forge, praying her mentor just happened to be around on this sweltering afternoon, however unlikely. Often in the heat of the summer months the shop stayed quiet. Her colleagues had better things to do, like put crafted chainmail to use for mock battles. Some of them travelled with their wares to flea markets and festivals. Poetry didn’t have the resources for either. Living on a server’s income meant laboring in the dank depths year round to make extra money. Not that she minded the small sacrifice for her art. But today she needed to see the owner of the smithy for reasons that had nothing to do with her work.

  She heaved on one handle, using her waning strength to pry the huge door open. The outside heat combined with the stress of the mother-ofall-Mondays had stolen her energy. She let the door slam shut behind her and waited while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The orange and blue fire of the ovens lent the shop a hellish cast. No windows or cooling systems brought mercy.

  “Hugh?” The name reverberated over the roar of the furnaces. “Hugh, are you here?” Poetry risked a few steps. “Hugh?” She knew this place well enough to find her way in the dark. She eased past the benches of her peers, letting her gaze skip like a stone over half-finished projects. To her right lay George’s greaves. He’d yet to properly fit the bindings for his shins. On the table across from his, Shawn’s molded pewter gobl
ins waited for their seams to be filed away. Farther behind the work stations, up a rickety set of stairs, a fluorescent lamp shone like a beacon, drawing Poetry closer. Her heart fluttered.

  Hugh’s office. She sucked in warm air and dragged herself toward it. A clammy paw weighed down on her shoulder and she screamed as she spun around. “Poetry? Aren’t you a little early today?” She craned her neck to meet Hugh’s stare.

  Sweat flicked off his red goatee as he spoke. This close he smelled like clean sweat and leather. “What are you doing here?” “I…” Poetry hadn’t thought about what she’d tell him once she got here. Didn’t know what to say now that his imposing visage peered down at her. Words tumbled out in a frightened babble. “I have no place else to go.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Poetry told Hugh everything. About Kevin, the trashed apartment, her missing cat, the fight with Jenny and the eviction. Hugh took her upstairs where he fixed iced tea. He listened with his bad leg propped on a chair and arms folded while she tried to stop sobbing.

  “Damn,” he said over and over. “Damn.” Poetry calmed long enough to sip at the sweet beverage that soothed on such a hot day. “What am I going to do?” She didn’t expect an answer. Hugh wasn’t much for words, let alone advice. It didn’t matter. Just having a sounding board made her problems a little easier to bear.

  “I can’t live with my parents. Even if I never see Amir again and cat allergies aren’t an issue, I can’t live with them. They won’t ever let me hear the end of this. They treat me like a child.”

  Hugh ran a burly mitt over the ginger stubble on his skull. The sound cut through the quiet like the whisper of sandpaper. “I know a place you can stay,” he said finally. Poetry clasped both hands together. Her mentor always had great ideas. Maybe he knew a way out of her predicament. Hugh shut her enthusiasm down with one finger of condition. “But it’s only temporary.”

  Poetry snuffled. She had to be stronger than this, her hopes were dangling. She peered up at Hugh’s stern gaze, knowing how pathetic she must look with her puffy eyes and dripping nose.

  “It’s pretty small too,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of options.”

  Hugh hesitated for precious seconds. “Grab your stuff and follow me.” He limped to a large closet door near the back of the common room, or at least Poetry had always assumed it was a closet. But when Hugh unlocked it, she saw a set of stairs she didn’t know existed.

  “Where do these go?” Hugh smiled wide, soot creating streaks at the corners of his eyes and mouth like ripples. “You’re the only other person who knows about this.” The wooden steps groaned under Poetry’s feet as she climbed behind Hugh. They were warped, making her unsure of her balance. She waited in the dark, taking note of clicks and clunks as Hugh unlocked the door at the top.

  It creaked open and a ray of sunlight bathed the narrow stairwell in pale yellow. “When I first came to Edmonton this was home,” Hugh said, the lopsided thud of his heavy boots nearly drowned out his words. “It was simple, warm, and cheap.”

  Poetry gawked. The whitewashed trim and moldings along with the decrepit appliances gave away the age of the décor. Poetry experienced a strange timelessness, like she’d walked into the sixties.

  Hugh flicked a switch and the overhead light fixture sputtered before providing a better view of the grunge. And the peeling paint. And the dried husks of dead insects on the windowsills.

  Drop cloths covered the furniture, but Poetry imagined the table, couch, and chairs to be every bit as ancient as the rest of the place. At least they wouldn’t be dusty.

  “It’s very…” She struggled for the appropriate word while stifling a sneeze. “Nice.”

  “It isn’t much, but it’s all yours if you want it.” A smile crept up Poetry’s face. Although tiny, it had a kitchen area, a living room, bathroom and bedroom. And she could spend as many hours as she wanted in the forge below. What more would she need? “What’s the rent on this?”

  “For you?” Hugh grinned back. It wasn’t something the smithy did often. “Seven hundred.” Poetry let her jaw drop. Seven hundred dollars a month? She wouldn’t get a better deal anywhere in the city. One bedroom apartments never went for less than nine hundred in Edmonton. She and Jenny had been splitting twelve hundred. Unfurnished.

  “Yeah, I can afford that,” she said, trying to sound casual. Her heart thumped faster. So far, so good, but she wasn’t in the clear yet. “What about damage deposit?”

  Hugh appeared to consider a price. He stood licking his teeth with his mouth closed for so long, Poetry wondered if he’d forgotten the subject. Please let it be cheap, Poetry thought. I can’t afford much. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll waive the damage deposit if you take it as is. And you can move in now.”

  She could have kissed him. Instead she said, “Deal,” and shook his hand.

  What a load off her mind. She could buy groceries this week. Yay. It occurred to Poetry that she hadn’t eaten since the morning, and she groaned inwardly. She just had to think of food. Her stomach clenched and hunger gnawed like a beast in her belly.

  “Great,” Hugh said, cracking his knuckles. “It’s settled. I’ll drive you to the bank, and we’ll settle the paperwork over burgers. My treat. You’ve had a pretty long day.”

  “Wow, you’re a mindreader.” Gratitude overwhelmed Poetry. She fluttered her hands to cool her blushing cheeks. She didn’t want to cry again, even if they were tears of joy. “You’re a great friend, Hugh. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  Hugh grunted into his chest. “Don’t mention it.” This time he didn’t return Poetry’s smile. “To anyone. I don’t need anybody thinking I’ve gone soft.”

  # # # Strife had to give Ares credit. The war god understood how to stir a hornet’s nest like no one else, past or present. Time and time again he proved how the mob ruled.

  It seemed the population of the rural town had tripled. Grey’s entire police force, all two of them, were joined by a forensics team. Extra RCMP from other counties came in just to control the media. It wasn’t a paparazzo’s dream, but enough flashbulbs created a menace that left Strife seeing yellow dots behind her eyelids.

  It didn’t take much for Strife to slip away from the crime scene. She deflected attention away from herself as she always did, expounding on the horrors instead. She pretended to be too distraught to continue.

  Part two of the plan involved riling the masses into frenzy. Strife bathed in the energy of the crowd. Her power grew with the fear, rumors, and speculation. From the minute she’d run screaming into the bar about the murder, chaos had taken hold.

  I truly missed this, she thought. Just like old times on Mediterranean battlefields, she could almost smell the blood. But instead of passing apples of discord, she slung Apple Jack from a thermos.

  “You folks look like you could use a drink,” she said to a middle-aged couple. They’d parked in front of their pick-up with lawn chairs, watching the hotel with unabashed interest.

  The man glanced up at her, swallowed the rest of the beer in his mug and held it out to Strife. “Very kind of you.”

  “My pleasure.” Strife poured tainted bourbon into his coffee cup and held the thermos out for his wife.

  “Hey, I know you,” the man said. “You’re Max’s new girl, right?” “That would be me. I’m…” What name should she give? No one had bothered asking her. Not Max, not the old hag in the hotel. Her ability to influence humans had improved to the point where they did her bidding with blind trust. Interesting.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” she said, trying hard to look sympathetic as she poured.

  The woman’s eyes welled. “Poor Delores. She didn’t deserve to die like that. Is it true she was gang-raped and decapitated?” Strife fought the urge to laugh and struggled to maintain a somber expression. Humans had a unique way of twisting messages for morbid entertainment value. “Yes. It was horrible.” She stroked the smooth, cool surface of the thermos. �
��I think the killers were trying to send a message.”

  Both people responded with sharp intakes of breath. Strife heard that musical reaction each time she spread gossip.

  “A message?” the man asked. The distraught woman put a hand to her chest. “Who would do such a thing?” “You know those homosexuals that Frank Fleisher shot on his property?” Strife felt their mounting anger like a swelling river. “I think this was payback.”

  “Those bastards!” The man’s hands shook as he gulped another mouthful of Strife’s potion. “I know,” Strife said. “We simply can’t let them get away with this.” “Goddamn right,” the man said. “We have to do something.”

  “People have been saying that all day,” Strife said, trying to hide her excitement. “But sitting on watch will do nothing to change the situation. We need to take action.”

  “It’s a good idea, but what should we do?” the woman asked. Strife topped off their drinks as fury elevated under their skins. She could almost hear the blood racing hot through their veins. This was more fun than drugging club kids. “I think you should discuss this with your neighbors. Get a plan together. We can’t let this go unanswered, right?” Strife smiled as the couple agreed with shaking fists and mottled faces.

  “You’re damn right, sweetheart!” The man’s face had become ruddy with indignation and alcohol.

  “Very good,” Strife said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to refill my thermos.”

  She had to mix more Apple Jack and pass it around until everyone came under the influence. Strife glanced at the late afternoon sky. She had to hurry if she wanted to accomplish all of her chemistry before nightfall. The residents of Grey weren’t the only ones who would taste her talents tonight.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Poetry ascended the stairs of her new home. Each step grew heavier with fatigue and loneliness. She missed the smell of Ichiban already. Nothing felt familiar anymore. Truth be told, she dreaded sleeping here tonight. She’d never lived alone before, not even during her artistry course in New York.