by David Welch
The first thing Desmond noticed was the size of the place. It was big, larger than a McMansion but smaller than a real mansion. Still, a house of this size, in Big Sur, had to run several million dollars. But he supposed if you had enjoyed five millennia to amass a fortune, a few million bucks weren’t out of the question.
It was a tall home, at least three stories high, with the lower level built into the side of the mountain, the others jutting up above it. The front of the place was a wide, rectangular shape with a sloping roof that angled back from the front of the house. Two wings swept back from the upper two floors, into the hill. He couldn’t see it, but he was sure there was some sort of open area in the middle. The whole place was covered in dark-stained redwood siding, with what looked like an incredibly expensive slate-tile roof.
A large deck extended off the front of the house, with a smaller deck on the second floor, and a series of individual balconies on the upper level. They all looked out over the mountainside, toward the distant ocean.
Unlike some of the swanky places he’d seen driving in, this one didn’t hang right over the ocean. They were a little over a mile back from the sea, about two thousand feet up. Around the house, for a quarter mile in any direction, was nothing but the grassy slopes this area was famous for. Behind the house, those slopes rose to a ridgeline. Below, they transitioned into a pine-dominated forest. He’d seen a few redwoods in the mix when coming up the winding driveway.
“Do all of you have such nice places?” he asked, getting out of the car.
“Yes,” Artemis replied with a grin. “But this is Ares’ doing. Up on a mountain, surrounded by open terrain . . .”
“Defensively advantageous,” Des said.
“And scenic enough to keep his wife happy,” Artemis declared. “She has always liked the ocean.”
She wasn’t looking at him, but at a woman who’d appeared on the deck. Desmond blinked, taken aback by the woman's beauty. She had curly blonde hair, framing one of those flawless faces you usually only see staring out at you from fashion magazines. She stood the same height as Artemis, more or less, but was far curvier.
“I’d ask you to put your tongue back in your mouth,” Artemis said and sighed. “But everybody has this reaction to Aphrodite.”
“My mouth didn’t open until I said these words, right now,” Desmond said. “Besides, brunettes are much more fun.”
Artemis rolled her eyes and dashed forward. She met Aphrodite on the edge of the deck, and the two embraced and chattered in some ancient language. Desmond approached more slowly. Behind the two women, a new figure appeared. This one was male and well muscled, though not with the boutique muscles of people who lived in the gym. He had the consistent build, and suspicious gaze, of a soldier. Desmond figured this was fitting, as he was assuming this man to be Ares.
“Oh, sorry, Des,” Artemis said, switching back to English. “We forget sometimes when we’re with each other.”
Desmond smiled, but said nothing.
“So,” Aphrodite said, squaring up and facing him. “This is the quirky young mortal who swept you off your feet?”
Artemis sighed.
“There was no ‘sweeping,’ ” she replied.
“Quirky?” Desmond said, rather liking the description.
“She tells me you don’t think right,” Aphrodite said. “In the best of ways, of course.”
“Of course,” Desmond said.
“Well,” Aphrodite said, eyeing him head to toe. “Whatever the case, I see she still picks the lookers.”
“Enough, Dita,” Artemis said, her face turning red. “Stop torturing the man.”
“I think she was trying to torture you,” Desmond said.
“Ah, he is a smart one,” Aphrodite declared.
Ares stepped forward.
“Be nice,” Artemis warned her brother.
Ares didn’t noticeably reply. He stared at Desmond for a second, arms folded behind his back.
“So . . . you’re the man screwing my sister,” he said.
“Ari!” Artemis shrieked. “What did I say—”
“Seriously?” Desmond interrupted, meeting the man’s stare. “You think I’m gonna react to that?”
Ares’ head cocked quizzically.
“Since I’m accepting that you people are as old as you say you are, I gotta believe you’ve come to terms with your five-thousand-year-old sister being with men. Which makes me think you’re just trying to mess with me,” Desmond said.
Ares shrugged and said, “Maybe a little. She brings men home so infrequently . . .”
He stuck out his hand, and the two men spent a few seconds shaking while trying to crush each other’s finger bones. As is usually the case, neither was successful. As Ares pulled back his hand he smiled, his first such gesture.
“Artemis tells me you’ve been around weapons,” he said.
“I’m a decent enough shot, though I get the feeling that you’re better,” Desmond replied.
“Maybe. But it took me nearly a century to get any good at guns,” he said. “And you’re what? Thirty?”
“Twenty-nine,” Desmond replied.
“Really?” Ares said, genuinely surprised.
“I know,” Artemis said. “He looks old for his age.”
“Well what with young people looking so damn young these days, somebody had to balance out the universe,” Desmond said with mock irritation.
“I like him, Arty,” Aphrodite said.
“I’m glad,” Artemis replied. “But I’m not sharing him.”
Aphrodite frowned.
“I’m a one-man woman!” she declared indignantly. “At the moment.”
“I’m right here, you know,” Desmond said.
“Yes,” Aphrodite said, her tone changing. “You are. Much as I like Arty being happy, you do know what we’re facing?”
“Insane nephew with mommy issues who’s mad he can’t live forever?” Desmond said.
“Concise,” Ares said. “But we’re not joking around. Things could get very dangerous here.”
“Which is why you,” Artemis said, sticking a finger in Ares’ chest, “will train him as best you can. Don’t waste your time trying to talk him out of it. He’s determined to protect his woman.”
Des sighed and shook his head.
“Yes, I’m the chivalric caveman. Lord forgive me!” Des declared.
“There are worse things for a man to be,” Ares said with a shrug. His phone rang. “Sorry, excuse me.”
He moved off to answer the phone.
“Well, let’s get you guys unpacked,” Aphrodite said. “Oh, are you hungry? I got these sausages from town that are to die for—”
She paused, her eyes glued to Ares. His expression had darkened considerably.
“What is it?” Aphrodite asked.
“It’s Mom . . . something’s happened . . .”
Ares rested his weight on his arms on the wooden railing of his balcony. His thoughts were troubled, more so than usual. His mother’s words ran through his head, telling him what had happened to Keilana, of the battle . . .
How Lenka had found them, Ares didn’t know. He figured somebody must have tailed him from Connecticut, though why they’d waited until Missouri to make their move he couldn’t say. The tactician in him wondered if Lenka only had one team in the country. Then the strike would make sense. Having come from Colorado, after failing to get Artemis, they could’ve very easily not intercepted Zeus until he reached Missouri.
If Lenka had only one team . . . he was vulnerable.
He frowned, knowing what the family’s reaction would be. If we attack, we risk all dying at once. We can outlast Lenka, and not risk lives that could go on for millennia. He is a mortal, and an old one. Best to hide and wait him out.
But he didn’t like waiting
. He never had. His soul bristled at the thought of cowering and letting an enemy dictate the terms of your life.
But it’s not just you, he thought. Good as he was at war, there was a chance that Lenka or one of his men would kill him should he take offensive action. Were it just him, he probably wouldn’t mind. There were many days when he wondered why exactly he lived through to the next one, wondered what tomorrow held that today and the endless days before didn’t. But Aphrodite had no such thoughts, at least none that she told him. And she loved him. If he died . . .
It would be worse than Hermes, he realized. Aphrodite had married countless times, to many men other than him. Hermes, Hephaestus, Dionysus, Freyr, and Poseidon had all spent decades with her, even having immortal children by her. She’d loved countless mortals, from Anchises to one Mr. Todd Descourts, who had met his end on a beach at Dunkirk. But she came back to him, again and again. In between most of the other marriages, she would spent forty or fifty years at his side. Like Hera for Zeus, she was his true love.
And as tired of life as he sometimes felt, he wouldn’t hurt her by leaving. Time went by, and the world they knew got smaller and smaller. Aphrodite’s world was no exception. Poseidon had been killed by the Islamic hordes as they swept out of Arabia. Freyr had gotten himself killed by the jealous husband of a mortal woman he’d seduced, nearly a thousand years ago. Hephaestus had slit his own wrists back in 1684. And now Hermes was gone. And Dionysus . . . Ares sighed and shook his head. His half-brother had always been a fun-loving type of guy, but over the last few centuries he’d become a shadow of himself. The booze and women had stopped being about enjoying life and started being a way to avoid it. For all the man’s experience with a bottle, Ares worried that one day he’d “accidentally” drink too much, and end up dead on some hotel bed. And his family would wonder how a man so “expert” in drinking could make such a mistake, not one of them willing to notice the damn elephant in the room: That he just wanted to be done with it. That he’d joined Hephaestus, and Demeter, and Pan, and so many others who hadn’t been able to deal with immortality anymore.
“Our cross to bear . . .” he said aloud to the sky. “Our punishment?”
The Almighty didn’t answer.
“My punishment?” he pushed.
Again he got no answer. He never did. The last time he’d actually heard Jesus speak to him had been in Gethsemane. Ares knew he shouldn’t think of his immortality in terms of punishment. Jesus had specifically told him not to. But truth was truth. Were it not for Ares, they wouldn’t have nailed Him to a cross.
And your sins would never have been forgiven, his mind said. It was an old argument. His Lord had been meant to die; every Christian in the world knew that. If it hadn’t happened, there would be no Heaven, no paradise, and no forgiveness. For most Christians it was an easy concept to live with. But no matter how many times he rolled the words through his mind, there was still that gut feeling of guilt, an instinctive voice that seemed to creep into every inch of him. You killed him. Whether He asked you to or not, you killed God. You don’t walk away from that without paying some price. Or at least you shouldn’t.
His fingers curled tightly against the wood of the railing.
“So what now?” he said to the Almighty. “Modern-day Ragnarok? Borrowing from Odin’s megalomania? We live these millennia to face death all at once? At the hands of a lunatic?”
No answer.
“I’m sure this is all according to some plan of Yours . . . ,” Ares continued, “but you know these ‘plans’ aren’t very reassuring when you’re the person subjected to them.”
He sighed, dropping his head.
“But I suppose You know that best of all,” he admitted. “Should I even ask?”
The wind blew by, the taste of salt in it. But beyond that, nothing.
“Faith is a bitch . . .” he grumbled, then took a deep breath. “Can you keep Dita safe? Can I get that, at least?”
He heard a stirring behind him. He turned, seeing Aphrodite emerge from the house. He almost took it as a sign that his prayers were being answered, but then he saw her. Her eyes were red, streaked by tears. She dabbed at them with a tissue.
“So what’s ‘God’ saying today?” she asked, trying to focus bleary eyes on him. There was a great deal of anger in her voice.
“Same as ever,” he replied, heading back in.
“Well,” she said sarcastically, “make sure to ‘thank’ Him for me. For everything.”
She turned violently, and stormed back into the house. He made no move to stop her. She’d never understood his faith, and any attempt to explain it now, amidst all that had happened, would just enrage her. When bad things happened to people she loved her claws came out. It was one of the rare situations that caused her to get truly angry. And there was nothing logical about it. When she got this upset she was liable to snap at anyone. He’d learned many millennia ago to let her be alone at times like this, to let her work through it in her own way. As much as it pained him to stand back and do nothing, as much as he wanted to wrap his arms around her and will whatever pain she was feeling far, far away.
But he didn’t. He gave her space and did the only thing he could right now: continue staring into space, seeing nothing but worries.
16
West of Weatherford, Oklahoma
Lenka always felt a bit strange driving in the big RV. It didn’t seem a fitting vehicle for a man like him. RVs were something fat American tourists drove cross-country. Men like him were supposed to drive sleek sports cars, or nondescript black SUVs.
One of which Zeus now had!
He grumbled at the thought. Grigori looked over from the driver’s seat.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing new,” Lenka replied. “Just harping on mistakes.”
Grigori said nothing and kept driving. A painful scream echoed through the RV. Grigori jolted, the whole RV shaking. Lenka let out an irritated groan, and got up from the seat. He made his way past Yevgenny and Ruslan, toward the bedroom in the back of the RV. He opened the small door, finding himself in the cramped compartment.
Athena was tied to the bed. Her clothes lay on the floor in a heap, having been cut away with a knife. Over her, also naked, was Duscha. She had something in her hand. Looking closer, he could see it was a wood-burning tool. He glanced to his mother. Cyrillic writing ran across her chest, just above her breasts. Not nice words, to say the least. Duscha had apparently tired of being so literate, and had moved to drawing searing spiral patterns on Athena’s breasts.
“What are you doing?” Lenka said.
“Grigori was looking horny,” she replied. “And it is a bad time of the month for me. So I am preparing her.”
“Preparing her?” Lenka asked.
“I’m decorating her, Papa,” she said. “Doesn’t it look pretty? Like those weird people in New Zealand!”
Athena groaned. Her eyes were wandering, unable to focus.
“And why are you naked?” he asked.
Duscha shrugged. “I didn’t want her to feel self-conscious.”
Lenka shook his head.
“You are a twisted girl,” he said.
“I’m your little girl,” she replied in disturbingly cute-sounding English.
“Grigori will have to wait,” Lenka said. “I will not have Mother birthing any new children.”
He felt a flush of anger run through him at the words. He could just see her now, holding a baby in her arms. He could see her watching the child grow, get old, and die. He could see her centuries later, still there, mocking him with her immortality. Even if she didn’t abandon the child and let him become a twisted shadow, it didn’t matter. The child would still one day be where he was, staring death in the face while dear old Mom just moved on to the next passing fancy.
“Papa,” Duscha began, her usually evil sm
ile forming as she switched back to Russian, “not all forms of sex lead to pregnan—”
“No!” Lenka snapped. “No man in my employ, nor my daughter, is to touch her!”
Duscha frowned.
“Can I still decorate her?” she asked, flashing pouty lips and doe eyes. “She will heal . . .”
“I do not care,” Lenka sighed, stalking out of the bedroom. The door closed behind him, followed by muffled screams. Lenka made his way back to the passenger seat, collapsing into it. He coughed into his hand, breathing hard in an effort to calm himself. When he settled down, he turned to Grigori, who drove on oblivious to the cries of pain coming from the bedroom.
“Are you still sleeping with my daughter?”
Grigori shot him a dark look, confirming what he thought.
“I think you should break up with her,” Lenka said. “For your own safety.”
Grigori cocked his head, a trace of danger coming to his face.
“Are you threatening me?” he asked, more curious than confrontational.
“No,” Lenka said. “I just worry you might not survive her. I believe my daughter would eat her own children.”
Grigori said nothing, just turned back to the road. For several minutes they drove on, the men chatting. Then a cell phone rang.
Lenka realized it was his, and fished it out of his pocket. His new partner’s number flashed on the screen. He frowned and answered.
“Yes, Miss Ezra?” he said.
“Ms. Ezra,” the woman replied with instinctive defiance. “My man says you failed to kill Zeus or Hera. That you only got Zeus’ mortal whore!”
“Well, perhaps next time your man will bother to get his hands dirty and join the fight,” Lenka replied. His free hand gripped the armrest of his seat, digging into the vinyl.
“I don’t pay him for that!” Chloe declared. “I thought I was paying you for that!”
“Your funding is appreciated,” Lenka said. “But do not think I don’t have other resources. I am not hunting these people for you, Miss Ezra. You came along for this ride. It would do you well to remember that.”
