Aphrodite's War

by Donna Milward

  A pleasurable sigh eased through Strife’s lips when her foot came to rest on the back of Hermes’s throat. The light faded from his eyes, his spirit dissipated.

  Tension drained from Strife’s body. She could not remember the last time she’d been so satisfied. And hungry. Murder gave her an appetite. She straightened her clothes and checked for stains. Strife wiped talc from her face and clothes, combed it from her hair with her hands. Good thing she’d worn a paisley print blouse. The pink and red swirls would hide her sins, as would the black capris. She found a cloth to wipe blood spatter from her legs and shoes.

  She’d only been here minutes, but Strife hastened. Time to get out. She exited the store as calmly as she could manage and returned to Kyoto, sniffing her collar for tell-tale hints. Fortunately, she smelled like a fresh shower of hygiene products.

  When Strife approached the table, Ranjan and Adrian were engrossed in conversation. “I mean, I know it’s just a car, but I worked so hard to get it. I loved that Bentley,” Adrian said. “I am going to kick that guy’s ass so hard he’ll beg for jail time just to get away from me.”

  “I get that,” Ranjan said. “Just don’t do anything that might jeopardize your… Hi, Sarah.” He sidled over to make room for her. “Sit here.”

  “Thanks.” She pushed aside the menu and took a generous gulp of green tea. Its soothing heat and fresh flavor flooded her dry throat. The server with the dark blue kimono approached. “Did you want to look at the specials?” Ranjan asked. “Or do you know what you want?”

  “I’ll have the tuna sashimi.” She salivated, fantasizing about the silken sensation of raw fish grazing her teeth. This would be the nearest thing to tasting Hermes blood she would get, and she intended to partake with pleasure. She brought her teacup to her lips to hide her relish.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Poetry moaned. The echo it caused disturbed her, but she didn’t open her eyes. Her head hurt too much. She wasn’t up to stabbing rays of sunshine in her brain.

  As consciousness returned, so did her instincts. Something was wrong.

  Instead of the clammy heat of her apartment, a bone-chilling dankness embraced her. No noise of traffic, no dull roar of furnaces below. She licked cracked lips and tasted mud. Not good. Every shift of her body resounded in her ears. Water dripped, she couldn’t tell where. It seemed to be all around.

  Poetry dreaded the discovery that would no doubt greet her once she risked a peek at her surroundings. But she had to know… Panic engulfed her. She couldn’t see. Despite protesting muscles she rushed to her feet. Her screams reverberated back the sound of new horrors.

  Bats. They slapped her face and caught in her hair, squealing their united indignation and digging what must be hundreds of tiny claws into her scalp. Poetry danced to dislodge them and ran blindly in the dark.

  The decision nearly popped her arms from their sockets. A cry of anguish and agony ripped from her throat and ricocheted into space. She dropped to her knees, barking as they connected with solid rock and jagged pebbles.

  Poetry’s head swam. Her empty stomach lurched. Tendons ached and now her legs were shredded and sore. And she was still blind. Her heavy hands reached to rub her throbbing shoulders. Why did her arms feel like they weighed a ton?

  The answer came with the rasp of metal on metal. No way. It can’t be. She explored her limbs and discovered the truth. Poetry smelled standard, every-day iron. Her touch found solid cuffs encircling her wrists. Shackles. The links were huge, almost the size of her thumb.

  She groped to their source and found a stone wall. Gouges and crags scratched her palms.

  Her misery complete, Poetry collapsed to the ground and wailed until she couldn’t stand despair ringing in her ears. Memories patched together. She’d been sleeping. The shadow in her room, someone she knew. Everything happened so fast, she couldn’t be sure what she remembered.

  The only thing she understood was that she crouched on a dirt floor covered in, she took a whiff, bat shit, and she couldn’t see or move. She’d been kidnapped and locked away in a cave.

  Damp air, seeping moisture, flying rodents, and utter darkness…It must be a cave. Poetry didn’t know if Edmonton had anything like that, and her worry grew. Where the hell was she? Did anyone even know she’d gone missing?

  Loneliness eroded her strength. Tears welled hot in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. No one would find her. Not her parents, not her co-workers. Her boss would probably think she just no-showed and quit. She couldn’t count on Jenny to get her head out from her ass long enough to think about someone else. And Adrian had written her off as a sexual conquest.

  For reasons Poetry couldn’t explain, the last thought hurt the worst. If there ever existed a time when she needed a smart, compassionate warrior-type hero, it would be now.

  She dismissed the guy who’d seduced and left her. In his place, Poetry wished for the brave man who’d fearlessly confronted Kevin, then searched her apartment with a broomstick. She envisioned the slender Norwegian, dressed not in the garb of a Viking, but in the blue robes of a Kendokka.

  But he’d never come for her. He didn’t want her anymore. Grief tightened her chest. “Adrian.” Poetry listened to the echo of her desperate whisper, and surrendered to her sorrow.

  # # # Adrian dragged himself inside and disengaged his home security system. What a gong show of a day. Ranjan had dropped him off, something about showing that Sarah girl the University of Alberta campus.

  Poor guy had it bad. Adrian had resisted the urge to tell Ran he should wipe the drool from his chin and stop making eyes like a love-sick moron. It was too funny. Worse than Gary.

  They’d invited him to tag along, but between lack of sleep, the trashing of his Bentley, and several hits of sake Adrian wanted shut-eye more than ever.

  Light poured in through the balcony windows. Afternoon sun toasted the apartment, making him feel even lazier. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks, flopped down on the sofa, and checked the time. Two o’clock. Adrian groaned. Kendo practice didn’t start until nine, but he didn’t have the strength to kira-kaeshi or do any other drills, never mind kiai.

  Charging across the dojo, striking motodachi opponents while yelling at the top of his lungs sounded like more work than he could handle tonight. Besides, his shinai needed maintenance.

  Not a bad idea, he thought, rolling to stand again. Adrian liked oiling and waxing the bamboo sword. It recharged him and brought on a sense of pride for his sport.

  He grabbed it from his bedroom closet, the safest place for the weapon, and tripped over something round and metallic. He bent and retrieved the forgotten torque Poetry made for him. Now he winced as he remembered chucking it when he awoke this morning. She’d obviously worked really hard on it, judging from the intricate braid. How long did it take to weave metal wire into a rope? He eyed the stones, rubbing the suddenly tingling burns on his collar bone.

  Guess he’d had a reaction to these rocks. But he wouldn’t tell Poetry. He brought it to the coffee table and sighed. If she ever spoke to him again.

  After firing off an apologetic e-mail to his sensei, Adrian assembled his tools. He gathered paper towel, a pocket knife, sandpaper, light mineral oil, and a white candle. He prepared a cup of green tea before settling to the task.

  Adrian unwound the himo. The string loosened and he pulled two loops free. He removed the leather nakayuki, sakugawa, and tsuka, leaving only four staves.

  He separated the set, careful not to lose the top plug or the crucial metal square that connected them from the other end.

  Pausing for a sip of hot grassy brew, he checked for chips on the blades. After filing and sanding each stave, the rest of the job went quickly. He doused the paper towel with oil, coating each piece of bamboo until they glistened. Adrian ran the candle down all edges, ensuring smooth motion between staves.

  Adrian realigned all four blades, the notches on the bottom fitting with the thumbprint sized tin plate. The tsuka
sleeve slid on, then the plug at the point. Nakayuki and sakugawa came next, along with the himo.

  He checked his kitchen clock. Two forty-five. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Adrian to get lost in the ritual, but it took him longer than usual to scrape the dents out. Normally he’d do this in twenty minutes.

  With his loops and winding done, Adrian inspected his work. The staves clicked to his satisfaction and the himo twanged like a ukulele string. Perfect.

  Sipping his tea, Adrian pondered what to do next. He probably could make practice, now that he’d had a chance to relax. He leaned back on the couch, letting the leftover strain fall away. Maybe he could make practice after all. After a nap. Adrian shut his heavy eyelids.

  # # # ‘Message from Opticon’ blared from the kitchen, harshing Kevin’s rainbow haze and amping him up. Poetry’s ringtone. He didn’t miss it. He fucking hated that song. He couldn’t wait to bash it into oblivion.

  He’d caught a lift from Ares and his Batmobile, so Kevin could make her pay again.

  She deserved it. That’ll teach her for getting him arrested. Bitch had cost him a lot in the last week. Gonna get even this time. He stomped across the room to the shitty table and chairs where he found the buzzing phone. He slammed it to the floor and crushed it with his heel.

  “Shut the fuck up!” What was the bitch gonna do without her precious Koodo? Now she had no cell, no computer, no nothing. If he had his way, she’d get another eviction too. Kevin wouldn’t be happy until she’d lost everything. Then maybe he’d take her back.

  Two sounds interrupted his thoughts. First, the slow stroll of big-assed boots coming from the bathroom. The second clicking Kevin knew better, having been on the business end of a gun a few times.

  Kevin glanced up to see some skinny, wrinkled fuck pointing it at him.

  “And who might you be?” The old man asked, drawling out the first word.

  “I don’t gotta tell you, Gramps.” The dope made Kevin brave. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “None of your goddamn business.” Geezer wasn’t backing down. Good. I could use a half decent scrap. Even if he had a revolver, Kevin could take him. He coughed up a chortle. This was gonna be fun. Kevin feinted left, then right. Gramps couldn’t keep up, his aim waggled back and forth. He gripped the stranger by the throat and smashed his forehead into the guy’s nose. Kevin lived for that crack and gush of blood. He even tasted some of it.

  Both the old man and the revolver tumbled to the linoleum and Kevin’s fists delivered haymakers on their own.

  But Geezer wasn’t done. His face was a snot smoothie, but damned if he didn’t fight back. He had a lot of balls behind them bony knuckles. Too bad Kevin couldn’t feel it. He’d never been higher in his life. His numb face had a steel jaw that absorbed every hit. Like a fucking god. Kevin let his hands slide around Grandpa’s throat; time to snuff the bastard.

  The man stopped hitting him as Kevin tightened his grip. Leathery, nicotine-stained fingers scratched uselessly, desperate but weakening. This must be how Ares feels, to just take a man’s life and soul. Fucking awesome. The old guy pawed around the ground with one hand. Forget it dude, nothin’s going to save you. I am all powerful. Cartilage crunched in Kevin’s palms, and he knew if he could see Grandpa’s eyes through the bruising they’d be fading out. Saliva flecked Kevin’s face. Grandpa gagged.

  Not long now. Kevin wasn’t aware of the subtle scratch of metal against floor. Or the final clack. He didn’t hear the gun go off.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR Strife bit her lip in irritation. Not another drawn out, exhaustive tour of the ‘sights of Edmonton’. As if a university campus could be of any use to her. She had enough issues with Ares without continuing to gallivant around the city, but Ranjan insisted on showing her where he’d studied.

  She would endure it for the simple reason that Ares never attacked in public. When it came to one-on-one situations he preferred guerilla tactics. Degradations and cruelties remained private.

  Thoughts of her master’s bathroom visit sent a chill throughout her body, raising goosebumps on a sweltering day. Better to stay with Ranjan and amongst other mortals. If she stayed within view of humans, Ares couldn’t find a quiet place to bend her over.

  “We’re on Groat Road.” Ranjan pointed across her nose with one hand, while steering a slight curve with the other. He smelled of curry and sandalwood.

  “Down that way is Hawryluk Park. That’s where they hold Heritage Days every year.”

  “Very interesting.” She tried to inject fascination into her inflections. “Maybe I can go sometime.” “Sure. It’ll be here the first week of August. I’ll take you there. Of course my favorite is the Indian pavilion,” he said with a sideways grin. “But every year I try to eat something I’ve never heard of. Last time, I had this runny purple jelly from Persia.” He shook his head as he rounded a traffic circle. “I think they made it from plums. I’d like to find that again, but I couldn’t pronounce it the first time.”

  Ranjan thumbed back to a monstrous yellow building on the left. “That’s the Butterdome.” “Wow. It really does look like a giant pat of butter.” It must be the ugliest architecture this side of the world. Energy’s essence, I miss Europe.

  “And we’re here,” he said, throwing the vehicle in park. “Where?” “I want to show you the law building where I got my degree.”

  In front of her sat a three-story brown slab. Its monotonous stubbiness reflected all the excitement law school promised. “I can’t wait to see it,” she said through a tight smile. But boredom would be easier to endure than anything Ares had planned. Strife braced herself for a long afternoon of relentless drudgery.

  # # #

  Grogginess clouded Adrian’s head. It took a few minutes for him to realize racket from the TV woke him. He didn’t recall switching it on. He wiped grit from his eyes and sat up. His shinai still sat across his lap. He must have completely crashed. Long day and not much sleep. He heard a Global News announcement. How long had he been out?

  “Police are not saying how the man died, but are treating the death as suspicious,” the female newscaster reported as the scene panned to the background. “Witnesses say a woman with long dark hair was seen leaving the establishment before the body was discovered…”

  The rest of the report faded from Adrian’s hearing. He recognized the building in the shot. He’d been there only a few hours previous, buying Poetry’s good graces.

  The vibrant designs on the store front perked up an otherwise grim environment crowded with police ribbons and curious onlookers. He couldn’t help but notice the woman with her back to the camera. Her waist-long golden hair and frothy tunic singled her out from a group wearing shorts and t-shirts. She resembled a genie or maybe a faerie.

  As if alerted by his scrutiny, she peered over her shoulder. Her beauty stole Adrian’s breath. Eyes like the sea gushed grief without marring her pristine porcelain skin. Tears fell from her face like pearls while she kneaded her bare arms.

  Adrian shuddered at the rage he saw there. She studied the camera with accusation and defiance. Adrian could almost swear she glared right at him.

  Something in the room with him caught his eye. The silver circlet glowed. What the…? Adrian had a ridiculous thought, that maybe the woman on the screen had something to do with the way Poetry’s piece shone like a disco ball.

  He glanced back to the television, gulping hard. She was looking at him. She dropped her arms to her side and strode toward him, never breaking eye contact. She loomed larger in the screen. Adrian clutched his shinai, sinking into the cushions of his couch in a vain attempt to kamae.

  He couldn’t think straight. Nothing made sense. Sweat pooled on his top lip and air became scarce. He tasted the salt of his panic, heard it as harsh swallows.

  The woman grasped the edges of the television and her fingers took form, curling over the black plastic like flesh spiders. In a single stride she crawled into the living room.

  Adrian quaked
until his weapon blurred in his periphery. She appeared to be human, but couldn’t be. Unless… “No, mortal,” she said, her soft feminine words floated through the condominium like a song on the breeze. “You are not dreaming.” She advanced until Adrian toppled off the sofa trying to avoid her.

  Her honeyed scent engulfed him. It was the essence of a woman’s desire, the playful musk of pleasure, a sugared kiss. Adrian released his sword to shield his stirring groin. Visions of Poetry’s face, flushing in the throes of passion, surfaced in his mind until the woman leaned over him. With a dismissive gesture, she stilled his racing thoughts.

  “I understand why you would think I am a figment of your imagination. You New Worlders sleep excessively.” She shut her eyes and arched her brows, as though trying to gather her thoughts before she unleashed fury. “It mystifies me how you managed to build this modern empire of false joy. You are all forever sleeping as though Morpheus himself stole your will. He must be truly powerful here.”

  Adrian pulled himself off the hardwood floor to take a second glance at his visitor.

  She waited with hands on hips, moisture still dripping from her phosphorous stare. Rain pattered at his windows.

  “Wh-who are you?” “My name is Aphrodite.” Her brows furrowed and lightning flashed. “You know not who I am?” Thunder boomed. Adrian’s stomach rolled. She’d read his thoughts. “I am the goddess of love. Do you New Worlders know nothing?”

  “S-sorry,” Adrian said, shivering. The room seemed suddenly colder. “I’m not into mythology.”

  “Mythology.” Aphrodite spat the word. “Do I look like a myth to you?”

  “No, ma’am.” She resembled a long forgotten wet dream, smelled like a night of lovemaking.

  The storm rivaled the news report. “…it is believed that all seven of the suspects in custody will plead temporary insanity…”

  Adrian’s vocal chords barely functioned. “What do you want?” Outside the weather intensified. A deluge raged. Aphrodite seemed to radiate pain until Adrian experienced the barrage of her agony. Tiny balls of ice pelted him. He glanced outside his patio doors. It was hailing.