Right this instant she must pretend she worked here, to feign interest in the human sitting at the bar. His eyes mooned at her like a puppy begging for scraps. Pathetic.
Strife tilted her lips in a friendly expression as she engaged him. Being human bored her sometimes but she had to play along. Good thing he was attractive.
“So I haven’t seen you around here before. When did you start?” “Yesterday. I’m new to the city.”
“Really?” His chocolate eyes twinkled, reminding her of Ares. And just like Ares, he had sex on his mind. Desire oozed from his pores like the sandalwood cologne and curry scent of him.
Her master never exuded such warmth. “I know Edmonton like the back of my hand,” he said. “I’d love to show you around.” To Strife’s left, the washroom door squealed, announcing the women’s return. They spoke in hushed and urgent tones as they approached her. The usual guy stuff: Gary’s a jerk and Adrian is goodlooking. Meaningless chatter.
“Another round, ladies?” Strife asked. Maybe she could smuggle some spice into Poetry’s beer. They muttered their approval, but before she could fill the order another presence arrived.
Strife whirled toward the glass door on her right. An overbearing essence wafted in like the subtle kiss of a forest fire’s flare. A beautiful man entered the tavern, raising her hackles. She recognized those foppish curls. She longed to scalp them from his tanned forehead.
“You.” The word came from not only from her lips, but Poetry’s as well.
Hermes spared Strife a haughty glance before sauntering towards the human females with his noxious basket of roses.
“Hello, love,” he said, and Poetry’s tattoos leapt out in contrast to her paling skin. “Did you get your flower back alright?”
Strife didn’t need to see her stricken face. Rank terror rolled from her pores like a gush of blood.
“How did you find out where I live?” “I have my ways. I…” Hermes’s eyes narrowed at the unexpected reaction. It seemed Poetry did not succumb to his charms. Her friend hugged her protectively. The Indian stood in front of them, a noble gesture from a man who had no clue what he truly faced.
You screwed up, pretty boy. Out loud Strife said, “She does not like you.” His irises shrank to pinpoints. “This isn’t your concern.”
He extended his hand toward the girl in a placating matter. “Listen, I was just…”
“I’m afraid this is my concern,” Strife said. “My pub, my customers.” My territory.
She crossed her arms, lifting her chin to glare down her nose at Hermes. Try me.
Aphrodite’s favorite son peered from Poetry to Strife and back again. “Please,” Poetry pressed her fingers to her mouth. “I’ve had enough of this kind of attention for a lifetime. Just leave me alone.” Hermes appeared to consider his options. “Don’t make me phone the police,” Strife said. Her widening lips hinted dangerously. He would not challenge her here. Not in front of the mortals.
He stared her down, even as he pivoted away. “This isn’t over.” “Leave.”
The four of them watched him depart. The only sounds were his unhurried footsteps and the tasteful notes of contemporary jazz. Adrian and Gary held quiet conversation, unaware of the confrontation.
At the thud of the door, Poetry exhaled audibly. “Thank you so much,” she said, her eyes bright with gratitude.
“No problem.” Strife resumed the task of opening a beer and mixing another Apple Jack. “That is not my first run in with him.” She constructed lies about him hassling and stalking customers. “Consider him barred.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” The girl babbled while hugging her friend and glowing at Strife. The brown man gazed at her with renewed respect and appreciation. “What’s your name again?” he asked.
She opened her mouth but stilled her tongue. She’d almost given them her true identity, the hiss forming on her lips.
What was she going to call herself? Something beginning with ‘S’, since it was halfway out of her mouth. “Sarah,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Sarah. I’m Ranjan.”
Strife’s lips twitched. Ranjan. “Delight to his parents,” if she understood correctly. It had been hundreds of years since she’d been in that part of the world.
“That’s Poetry and Jenny. Over there are Gary and Adrian.” He indicated his cohorts with vague hand gestures. His eyes never left her face.
“That was a cool thing you did for me,” Poetry said. Strife performed a demure lift of her shoulder. “Glad I could help.”
Poetry and Jenny took their drinks back to their seats, their humor returned. She’d gained acceptance. Even if their glances and grins had not said so, their resonance spoke for them. How she hated ‘sweet and fuzzy’, but that’s what she must work with.
Then it occurred to her, perhaps she could use this to her advantage. A plan began to fester. If she entertained this mortal, her proximity to the prey would increase. If she treaded carefully.
“Where were we?” she asked. Ranjan drained his Jack Daniels and apple juice. “Excuse me?” “You were saying you could show me around?” Happiness encompassed his entire face. “Absolutely.”
“That would be nice.” Step One. “Throw in lunch and we have a deal.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Hephaestus allowed himself a leisurely perusal of Freya’s throne room. Not what he expected. All of Asgard lacked opulence and color, but Sessrumnir’s grey stone walls lent the cavernous space an intimidating iciness. The ghostly wisps that drifted in and out of view did nothing to enhance the place, nor did the smell of mildew and old meat.
“You waste your time and mine,” Freya said. Her only movement since his arrival was to pet the black and white cat perched on the arm of her chair. Hephaestus stared into the feline’s green eyes and instantly thought of margaritas. He could use a drink right now. “Your bitch will not receive my assistance.”
Hephaestus shook his head. “She is not my bitch.” She is a bitch unto herself. “I am not here on her behalf.” He hoped the goddess experienced the purity of his distain. Otherwise this visit was pointless.
He retrieved a bauble from his vest, letting it twinkle in the meager light. “She does not understand her place,” he said. He twisted the bracelet over his fingers and smiled as the diamonds dazzled rainbow colors. “She knows not the charm and strength you possess, my white queen. Nor did she show the proper respect.”
Hephaestus glanced at the Norse goddess. Her wide eyes stayed transfixed to the gold and gem encrusted masterpiece. He had no doubt they would be. Pretty trinkets were her legendary weakness. Even mortals knew how she’d ‘entertained’ dwarves to own the trademark necklace she wore.
“In Canada, in a province named Alberta…” “I know where Alberta is,” Freya said, the edge in her voice ringing off the slate. “But did you know there are endless tunnels where vast wealth still lies hidden?” The wonder and curiosity in her expression lent her youthfulness. “They are the Cadomin mines, once bursting with coal.”
He extracted an ordinary lump of the inky rock from his other pocket and held it before her. It amused Hephaestus how she leapt from her seat for a better view. Her hide-bound footsteps skittered and echoed across the silent hall as several felines scurried from her path. Her falcon feather cape gave her the illusion of flight.
When her slender fingers ventured to the fossil, Hephaestus closed his hand, denying her.
Anger and disappointment drifted across Freya’s features, but her emotions remained unspoken.
Hephaestus smiled. “Allow me.” He tightened the fist holding the ebony stone, grunting with the effort to squeeze it. Sharp edges began to shift inside his grip. He concentrated on the body heat he generated, on the brawn required to transform this humble chunk.
“What are you doing?” Freya asked. “Surely you can’t…” Hephaestus released the pressure with a gasp and opened his hand. “But I have.” In the center of his palm sat a rough diamond the size of a milky grape.
“For you, my raw wonder.” He placed the unfinished jewel in her hand. Freya’s face brightened. “You are so strong.” She caressed his twitching muscles as she stared at his offering. Her mouth curved in a lopsided quirk of lascivious intention.
“It is true,” he said. “Indeed, I employ my power to make these treasures of the Earth into pretty things.”
He brought the bracelet forward to encircle her wrist. “I made this for you. You are a goddess worthy of my finest.” His eyes met hers. “Had I met you before Aphrodite, my life might have been different.”
That much might have been true. Freya spent her existence pursuing lust, whereas Aphrodite believed in love. But his lost lover proved herself to be a betrayer, and Freya knew her own heart; she never denied it. What could have been had he met this volcano of passion before he’d known Aphrodite? Or the smoldering simplicity that was Poetry?
Freya caressed his stubbly cheek, causing him to twitch. “It matters not,” Her breath tickling his ear. “You and I can be together here. Now.” Freya heard his thoughts and desires as though he’d spoken them. And she had not judged. Her touch wandered downward. She stroked his hardening length and his heart lodged in his throat. She drew nearer, her breasts brushing against him to create an electric shock that spread to his curling fingers and toes. With a quick flutter of fingers, her cape and clothing ceased to exist and she stood naked before him. Once again she eased inside his personal space, brushing her taut nipples against his chest as the environment shifted around him.
Before he could find his balance, Hephaestus found himself sprawled on a bed of furs, Freya straddling him like a determined wrangler. The softness of the pelts against his buttocks reminded Hephaestus of Freya’s will. He had no idea how or when his garments had disappeared, but he was more than willing to give her whatever she wanted.
She would take without hesitation. Freya lowered her body to meet his throbbing cock and sighed. Her rhythm started slow, her groans subtle. He gripped her hips, squeezing them as he dragged her deeper. Ragged breathing puffed from his lips. He wanted to fuck her harder.
He growled and thrashed, fantasizing that the pale nipples bobbing before his eyes were dark like Athenian olives. In his mind’s eye her shoulders were decorated with tribal markings, lilies and satyrs…like Poetry’s. He savored the woman on top of him, gloried in her shouts and her tightening spasms as she came. Spurting sex streamed warm down his loins.
Freya went limp, but Hephaestus knew the Norse goddess of lust and fertility wasn’t done yet. He sat up, gently pushing her back as he got to his knees. Her skin, soft and yielding as he parted her thighs, reminded him of flower petals. Her sparse ivory curls opened to reveal the tender pink meat he needed to taste.
He teased at first, darting his inquisitive tongue in and around her flesh until she whimpered. His powerful grip held her legs apart as he dove in, smearing his face with her creamy heat. She bucked into his mouth. He obliged by licking faster, lapping at her sweet nectar.
He continued this dance until his jaw ached and her howling grew hoarse. He sat back on his heels, watching the perspiration beading on Freya’s abdomen like tiny stars. A wicked smirk crept across his face with her desperate panting.
The scent of her drove him mad: a combination of sweat, sex and Reinroses. Like a rutting beast, he plunged his cock inside. More. His pulsing need ached. He collapsed on her torso, grinding against her clitoris. His relentless, eager movements would make her orgasm with him. He wouldn’t stop until she did.
He rutted with her for what seemed like hours, growling and biting until Freya’s screams joined with his in ecstasy. Hephaestus sucked the sweat off her collarbone as they climaxed together, sliding at last to a joyous conclusion. He roared his release, snarling with his final thrusts while fireworks erupted throughout his being.
The rush ended. Hephaestus could not move. He relished the sensation of his spent cock spilling from Freya along with his seed. How it would feel to have Poetry tremble beneath him like this?
Freya planted both palms on his chest and nudged him off. With some effort he crawled off the bed and got wearily to his feet. He sensed her delighted exhaustion, shared it.
He extended both his hands to assist her, careful to keep his head respectfully bowed and eyes lowered. This magnificent woman he accepted as his superior. He would not risk offending her, not when he’d come this far.
He felt a flicker of respect from her before her delicate hands took his calloused ones. He pulled her from the mess of sex-stained wolf and rabbit hides.
Freya’s wet tongue darted across his cheek and Hephaestus raised his head to draw her into a kiss. Her mouth still tasted fresh and sweet; he drank her in like a dying man until she struggled for oxygen.
“I enjoyed your visit, Hephaestus,” she said, her gaze sleepy and dazed. “Come to my hall anytime you wish.” She crushed his knuckles and yanked him to her chest, the movement so sudden that he stumbled. The eyes that had twinkled with pleasure were now secretive slits.
“The magick will activate only when the piece is complete. When they are worn for the first time, the wearer will yearn for the first person she sees. Be certain it is you, or your quest is for naught.”
His eardrums popped and Hephaestus found himself alone in his Edmonton condominium. He shivered from head to foot as his sweat slicked skin chilled in the summer heat. He opened his clenched fists and grinned. In pleasing her he’d received his prize. Two round beads of amber, each the size of his thumbnail nested in his palms, dazzling in their refinement.
Hephaestus peered through the balcony doors of his living room to the setting sun. The sky matched the stones exactly. He limped to the veranda and took in the view. To his left, the River Valley flowed with streams of headlights along Groat Road. To his right, new apartment towers clawed the sky.
He felt like a true god for the first time in decades. Invincible. His heightened awareness presented him with the human vibe he once shunned. Petty squabbles reached his ears, but their amplified outrage and heartbreak failed to move him.
Though unlikely anyone saw his statuesque nudity, Hephaestus cared not. Not if they could see him, nor how it might offend them. Modesty and emotions were for mortals.
Never again would Hephaestus permit his feelings to get the better of him. But inevitably, he felt rage sneaking into his soul. He’d long ago disposed of his hurts in the face of Aphrodite’s and Ares’s duplicity. He would never surrender to love again.
A breeze caressed him, bringing with it the odor of mutual gratification that clung to his flesh. He pushed his fury aside and grinned. What a woman. Perhaps he would return to her hall someday.
But he must give Poetry the amber. Between Freya’s magick, his limited abilities, and Poetry’s talent, Hephaestus would have what he coveted. The human female would belong to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The best thing about living above Vulcan’s Forge, Poetry decided, had to be the immediate access to the tools she required to create. Her black roses lay unfinished in a heap, but they gave her the heebiejeebies now. She’d already moved onto something new. She crouched over a wooden dowel, coiling wire through precise loops two centimeters apart. She paused long enough to assure straight lines by making marks with a pencil. She’d only been at it for two hours but her hands cramped from the strain.
So far the pattern seemed tight enough, a testament to Poetry’s patience. The links were forming a snake-like chain the width of her finger.
She’d woken early and set to work before breakfast or showering. Her stomach complained, but Poetry didn’t dare stop now. She might lose her rhythm. Third loop, pull, turn the peg. Fourth loop, little tug, shift again.
“What are you working on?” Poetry gave a yip of surprise, spinning to face her mentor. How did a man with such a pronounced limp manage to sneak up on people like that? He’d told her it was from a long drop from the sky, but never gave her details about the parachuting accident
. Sometimes she wondered if it was the truth. He was pretty stealthy for a guy with a crippled leg.
“You scared the crap out of me.” Poetry placed her project on the counter with a trembling hand.
“Sorry,” Hugh said, not that he looked apologetic with his lazy grin. Poetry rubbed her face, using the unexpected break to unwind muscles she hadn’t realized were so tense. Her shoulders, back, and feet began a throbbing chorus, and she did the hokey pokey to relieve it.
Hugh glimpsed over Poetry’s shoulder at the intricate metal weave she’d been working on. “Interesting,” he said. “What’s it going to be?” “It’s a torque.”
Hugh grimaced, an expression Poetry knew to be disapproval or irritation. “Since when do you create Viking art?”
She shrugged. “I thought I’d try something else.” Poetry glanced over her shoulder at the sleek ribbon of interlocking wires. For someone who didn’t do this kind of metal work often, she’d done a pretty good job, she thought.
“It’s a far cry from flowers,” Hugh said. “An artist should strive to grow and experiment with new things.”
She caressed the ridges she’d so lovingly crafted and the sharp slopes of Adrian’s face appeared in her mind.
Along with their odd agreement. Hugh cleared his throat, and Poetry realized a conspiring smile had crept up her face. Her cheeks burned in embarrassment and she dropped her gaze.
Poetry zeroed in on Hugh’s meaty paw. “What do you have in your hand?”
He brought his fist into the light and opened it. Poetry caught her breath. Among the lines and cracks of Hugh’s palm lay two exquisite orbs the color of tangerines. Inclusions bubbled within them like champagne frozen in time.
“Are those real?” “Sure are.” He pushed them toward her. Poetry could smell the warm metal heat of iron on him. “Here. Take them.”
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