Aphrodite's War

by Donna Milward

  “It’s not as though you aren’t smart enough. And taking Goldsmithing in New York just isn’t practical. What will you use it for? Designing baubles isn’t a desirable career for a young lady.”

  Blah, blah, blah, whatever. If she heard one more word about higher education and how many refined men she could meet in literacy courses, she’d book a one way flight to Tierra del Fuego.

  Not a bad idea. She could drink Chilean and Argentinean wine for cheap and sell her wares to tourists. The fifteen kilometer drive wasn’t more than twenty minutes, but it seemed like hours. She didn’t get home until sundown, thanks to her mother’s inability to talk and drive at anything above a crawl.

  Once home, she’d been unable to sleep. Where was Amir? How would she find Adrian? Would Jenny ever return her calls? Would Kevin find her new place?

  And where did that rose come from? That part worried her. She couldn’t explain it.

  The questions and the mystery hadn’t left her mind all day. She took another swig of cold coffee and grimaced at the bitterness. This is what happened when nobody rotates the carafes. The coffee was old enough to vote. Another mouthful. She needed all the caffeine she could get.

  She had plans for the afternoon. She couldn’t stomach sitting around staring at her belly button piercing. Time to get off her ass and do something.

  Poetry dragged the massive tome that was the Yellow Pages over and began scanning its ancient pages. No internet listings for her; Kevin had reduced her computer to shrapnel, and she couldn’t afford an iphone yet. She’d just have to do it the old-fashioned way.

  “L is for lawyer,” she said under her breath, and did a quick glance around. The restaurant appeared nearly empty with only a few java junkies. The occasional student from the college across the street studied and did their homework. Nobody paid her any attention. No one stared as she muttered so she returned her attention to the task at hand.

  Whoa. Poetry counted the pages and shook her head in disbelief. Did Edmonton actually need forty-eight pages of lawyers? True, a few of them were full page ads, but forty-eight pages?

  “Mel?” she said in the direction of the service area. “Can I get another coffee?” This would take days. Poetry’s sigh ended in a yawn. It sucked, but if she had to call every damn lawyer in town she’d find the guy who had Amir.

  The chunky bass line from ‘Message from Opticon’ growled from her pocket, startling her. She grabbed the vibrating phone and checked the display. She hadn’t heard her ringtone for two days. Not since her neanderthal ex had

  Whose number was that? Local, but unknown to her. Not a cell number either.

  Hope blossomed. What if it’s him? What if it’s that Adrian guy who has Amir?

  Poetry snapped open the device. “Hello?” She heard the slightest sound from the other end, a gentle sob. “Who is this?”

  “Poetry?” “Oh my God, Jenny?” Poetry’s heart began to pound. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to see you. Can you meet me somewhere?” Niggling doubts teased Poetry but she squashed them. Now was not the time to bring up hurt feelings, not when a friend needed help. “I’m coming. Where are you?” # # # Aphrodite hugged herself. She knew the ice surrounding her to be god-made illusion…just like the rainbow bridge she crossed to get here. But the effect was overwhelming. The high walls soared into nothingness, the endless gray blended all corners of the room together in a disconcerting wash of solemn neutrality and the dead flickered like shadows. It must inspire a great deal of fear and awe in mortals.

  A brawny Siamese and a petite snowy cat paced in front of Aphrodite. Both glared up at her with contempt as pure as the blue of their eyes. She hoped Freya’s love of felines did not include anything larger than the domestic species. These animals clearly had no love for her.

  By the Energy’s mercy, I want to go home. “Aphrodite, Goddess of Love.” The feminine voice purred from a stone chair before her. The cats ceased their haughty scrutiny to curl in their mistress’s lap. “You are a long way from Olympus, brave girl.”

  Aphrodite flinched. No one called her ‘girl’, but she held her tongue. Here in Sessrumnir, with the menacing presence of a mournful army of spirits, it would be foolish to challenge the woman.

  For on this throne sat the Norse goddess of lust, love, and fertility and she housed her hall with her share of Odin’s slain warriors. Not a being to be taken lightly.

  It was not just her intimidating appearance. With her white hair flowing down her cloak of falcon feathers and her eyes like frozen ponds she resembled the frost that permeated this country for much of the year. It was the aura of menace about her. The Norse were not a friendly lot.

  Aphrodite licked chapped lips. No food or drink had been offered. Apparently they were not known for their hospitality either. “Freya,” she said. “I am honored that you would see me on such short notice.”

  The other goddess cocked her head. “You have been busy.” Aphrodite tensed, but tried to keep calm. Freya’s knowledge of her business caught her unawares, but she suspected the Norse deity would be sensitive to any weakness she might betray.

  “Do not be surprised.” Freya fluttered her fingers at her before stroking the Siamese. The throaty sound of its pleasure dispelled the quiet. “News travels fast. Everyone has heard of the challenge you face. Odin’s crows brought word to Asgard days ago.”

  “Then you understand my need. Ares will use unethical methods against me.”

  “As you are now,” Freya’s colorless eyes narrowed. “If you come to me for help is this not also cheating?”

  Aphrodite took a gulp of the chill air and ran her hands down her naked midriff. Perhaps she should have worn something more respectful and less revealing than her usual garb. From the disdainful vibe she felt, her choice of clothing gained her no favor with her Nordic counterpart.

  “I am not breaking the rules,” she said. “Merely bending them to suit my needs.”

  Freya sat back, toying with her exalted amber necklace. Aphrodite coveted the glittering jewels. Legend said the goddess had slept with four dwarven smiths to own them. Aphrodite could understand why. They represented an opulent masterpiece of light and sorcery she could detect from across the room.

  I would have done the same to own that treasure. “From what I hear, the rule is ‘no outside help’.”

  “Zeus allows no outside help from the Egyptians, Asians, or Indian deities,” Aphrodite said. “He mentioned nothing about Teutonic.” “I see.” Aphrodite sensed a sort of amused respect from her. In fact, the Norse beauty wore a subtle smirk. “And you chose me because…?” Aphrodite met Freya’s cold glare. “You and I want the same things. We draw our power from the pleasures of human interaction.” “Surely you understand that if Ares wins, your own power would dwindle. And besides,” Aphrodite said, straightening and stretching as tall as she dared before Freya. “The male is of Norwegian descent.”

  The twitter of Freya’s laughter caused ghosts to rush in frenzy to all corners of the cavernous space. The white cat appeared to smile as it blinked.

  “And you think because your target has Scandinavian blood that I hold some sway over him?” Her mirth might have sounded pretty had it not been so mocking. “And this is why I should help you?”

  Aphrodite took two courageous steps forward. “It is to your benefit. Together we could become even stronger, transform this world into a haven of pleasure and joy not unlike Eden. We could restore your influence to that of-“

  Aphrodite realized the arrogance of her statement only as the cats darted from sight in a flurry of scampering claws. Freya arose abruptly and stormed toward her, her hair and cloak streaming behind her like wispy clouds. Aphrodite cowered.

  “How dare you insinuate my power is lesser than yours.” Even with her eyes shut tight Aphrodite felt the goddess towering over her. Freya’s breath rustled the top of Aphrodite’s hair. The musty odor of feathers and rawhide filled her nostrils.

  “I may not be revered in the
classic artwork of man, or gloried in literature, but I am the goddess of lust and fertility, little one. Humans do not require love when they are controlled by their genitals.” Aphrodite recognized sarcasm in Freya’s tone. “They need no romance or tenderness to procreate.”

  To procreate, the chamber echoed. In her rage she reminded Aphrodite of Ares. But she would not taunt Freya as she did him. A rustling of cloth and retreating footsteps allowed Aphrodite to peek. She saw only Freya’s ivory hair and the striking black and grey of her cape.

  “It is not me who should worry about the balance of magick,” Freya said over her shoulder. “Regardless of who wins this contest, I will remain strong.”

  Freya’s left hand shot out and she snapped her fingers. Aphrodite found herself shivering on the rainbow bridge. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Poetry found Jenny hunched like a broken doll over tea in the far corner of Second Cup. Poetry looped her purse over the chair across from her and parked. She uncapped her bottled water--no more caffeine on an empty stomach---and took a long swig.

  It eased her tightened throat, but for a moment Poetry couldn’t speak. Jenny had abandoned her, ditched her when she needed her the most. Yet here Poetry sat, prepared to shove their disagreement under the rug once again in the name of friendship.

  Poetry wondered if maybe she deserved Jenny’s anger. She had a point about her bringing that thug around. And what would have happened if they’d been home when Kevin went on the rampage? Guilt brought Poetry here.

  Jenny picked her head up and peered at her with crimson-rimmed eyes. “You look awful.” Jenny stared her down. “Thanks.”

  Suddenly Poetry’s ragged cuticles and peeling cobalt nail polish became the focus of her attention. She bit down a terse response. Meeting Jenny had been a mistake.

  “Sorry,” Jenny said. “It was a long night.” “I bet.” I had the worst week of my life, thanks for asking.

  Poetry waited for Jenny to quit rubbing at mascara tracks, tapping an impatient beat on the plastic water bottle.

  “Listen, I’m sorry for the way things ended. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” “We both made mistakes,” Poetry said, feeling some tension seep away. “You were right. Kevin was a jerk and I couldn’t see it. I should have listened to you.”

  “You’re a really good friend for coming here after the way I acted.” Jenny looked down again and picked up her tea. The fresh green grass smell of it wafted over to Poetry, reminding her of old times hanging out, watching movies, and talking about guys. She could almost taste buttered popcorn.

  What I am is a sentimental mush. A variety of comforting platitudes came to mind but Poetry couldn’t push any of them past her teeth. She didn’t want to tell Jenny it didn’t matter now, that all was forgiven. Jenny would not do the same for her.

  Instead she said, “Tell me what happened.” Jenny put her cup down, pressed her tissue back to her cheek as fresh tears pooled at the corners of her eyes.

  “It’s Gary.” A dramatic torrent of sobs and moisture gushed forth, and Poetry peered around to see if anyone gawked.

  Other than a young woman on a laptop, they were the only customers. A furrow appeared between the girl’s brows as she typed.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Poetry said, her hands going out to squeeze Jenny’s. “What did he do?” Terrible thoughts surfaced. She pictured the biceps on Gary, what they could do to a woman of Jenny’s petite stature. “He didn’t hurt you did he?”

  “What?” Jenny stopped wheezing long enough to scowl at Poetry. “No. It’s not like that.”

  “Then what is it?” Poetry asked as she took her hand back. What else could a new boyfriend do to upset her so much?

  Jenny exhaled, a weary sound that suggested reluctance. “We got into an argument about money.”

  Poetry’s shoulders slumped. Of course. What else would it be? “Wow, that was quick,” Poetry said. “Don’t waste any time, do you? Most people don’t fight about money until they’re married.” “He wanted me to help pay rent,” Jenny said. Her gaze drifted away from Poetry, past the parking lot to the traffic along Jasper Avenue. Her lips tightened into a stiff line of resentment.

  “Oh, is that all?” Poetry couldn’t help the sarcasm that oozed from her lips. “How dare he.”

  “Why should I pay rent?” Jenny’s slicing glare prevented Poetry from smiling. “Gary makes four times as much as I do.”

  Poetry fumbled for words. “That’s not the point.” “The point is I can’t afford a place like that on my wage,” Jenny said. “Why should I pay for it when he can?” “Because it’s the right thing to do. Because you don’t want him to think you’re with him for his wallet. Besides, I’m sure he doesn’t expect you to cough up half.”

  “Hello?” Jenny smacked herself in the forehead. “I’m a waitress? He’s a lawyer? He drives a BMW? He can afford his own rent.” “Whatever.” Poetry wanted to smack Jenny in the forehead too. Not everything was about money. “So what happened?”

  Jenny drained her mug. “I left. Then I called you.” “I see,” Poetry said. She sipped at her water, wishing for a stiff drink. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking.” Jenny began wringing her hands. Not a good sign. Whenever Jenny did that it meant she was working up to something. “I don’t have anywhere else to go…” Oh no. No. Poetry’s stomach rolled. Not that.

  “Could I stay with you?” Hell no. “Jenny, my new place is way too small.” “I could sleep on the couch.” “No, you don’t understand…”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Jenny’s fingers knotted over and over themselves, squirming like vipers in a nest. “I have no place else to go. And besides,” she peered at Poetry from under her eyelashes, “you did get me evicted.”

  Poetry swallowed her anger. It didn’t want to stay down. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Of all the obnoxious… “Please?” Poetry made the mistake of making eye contact.

  Jenny had changed tactics. She leaned forward, resorting to the doeeyes Poetry had seen her use on countless people. “It’ll be fun.” Fun? I’m going to puke. That would be more fun. An ear-shredding blast cracked the windows of the coffee shop, chasing the thought from Poetry’s head and replacing it with confusion. “What the hell?” Poetry could hear screeching brakes and car alarms. The girl with the laptop stood with one hand covering her open mouth. “Oh my God!” She jabbed a finger eastward. “Buddy’s is on fire!” “What?” “Where? What’s going on?”

  Poetry shot to her feet and pressed against the spider-webbed glass. Jenny did the same, mashing her nose into it as though it would help her see.

  A barista abandoned the counter and ran outside. Poetry followed. She needed a better view.

  “Poetry?” Behind her, Jenny shuffled around chairs. “Where are you going?” Poetry ignored her and bolted for the parking lot, nearly bowling into an employee with the nametag labeled ‘James’. He halted near the corner and stared wide-eyed at the charred remains of the bar across the street.

  Blackened bits of plastic and rainbow-colored cloth floated through the air. Pepper lights dangled. Shards of glass and broken stools littered the street. The air smelled like smoke; noxious with the taint of fertilizer. When it burned her senses, Poetry slapped a hand over her mouth and nose.

  “Oh shit, Poetry.” She became aware of Jenny standing next to her, as well as the odor of scorched flesh. “What’s going on?” “I don’t know,” she said, squinting her eyes. Through the smoke she could make out the gaping holes where a row of windows used to be. Flames clawed for the sky, blocking the entrance. Screams of the dying grew fainter by the minute.

  A crowd had gathered and they were…cheering? For what? The destruction of the well known gay hang out wasn’t something to be happy about. She’d thought Edmontonians were more enlightened than that.

  Fire engines appeared, their sirens drowning out the conflicted noise. Neon yellow coats leaped from the massive vehicle. Poetry watched in horror as byst
anders dragged the firemen away from the explosion, kicking and pummeling. Others scattered the hoses, or used them to vandalize the grocery store across the street. Looters charged through broken glass.

  A chant reached Poetry’s ears. Burn. Burn. Burn. It churned her stomach.

  Poetry heard a shriek from behind. The other customer hugged her laptop like a security blanket. “What are they doing?” “They’re attacking the firefighters,” James said. His voice held incredulous anger. “They’re attacking the fucking firefighters. Hey!” He broke into a run, straight for the melee. “Leave them alone!”

  Another howl, this time from the other patron. She raced to join him, brandishing her computer over her head with lethal intent. Poetry turned toward Jenny. “This is surreal, I…” Jenny had her dilated gaze fixated on the violence. She tried to pass Poetry with a lunge but they both tumbled to the asphalt.

  “Ow! Jenny, what’s wrong with you?” Jenny rolled off, tearing her hands across the ground in her struggle to rise. She growled and grunted, snarling like a beast as she tried to break Poetry’s grip.

  “Has everyone gone insane?” Poetry had to stop Jenny. Even as she fought with her friend she heard running footsteps and shouts. The only thing missing is the din of swordplay, she thought. Gunshots rang out. “Jenny, we gotta go,” she said. Jenny didn’t seem to hear her. With singular intent she groped the ground, trying to free herself. “Let me go!” The frightening snarls coming from Jenny’s throat made Poetry tighten her grip. . “I want…I need to…”

  “Need to what?” Poetry asked. She managed to crawl over Jenny, turning her over and straddling her.

  “I have to…” “Get a hold of yourself!” Poetry delivered a slap so hard it stung her palm. Jenny went still. Her body unwound beneath Poetry, her pupils shrank to their normal size.