by P. C. Cast
"That is what the Romans insisted upon calling him, but to the Greeks he will forever be their God of Light, bringer of medicine, music, poetry, and truth."
"Truth?"
"Yes, truth was very important to Apollo. He was one of the few Olympians who found dissembling and subterfuge offensive."
"I had no idea. I thought all of the mythological gods were supposed to be impulsive and self-serving. I think I remember one of my English teachers describing them as playboys and womanizers."
Apollo cleared his throat and shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "The gods are… were certainly passionate, and passion can sometimes lead to impulsive, self-serving acts. Also, you must remember that in the Ancient World it was considered a privilege to be loved by a god, particularly the God of Light."
"Oh, so what you mean is just because Apollo told the truth, that doesn't mean that he knew how to be faithful."
Apollo frowned and wasn't sure what to say. He wanted to defend himself, but he couldn't. Pamela was right. He'd been truthful but never faithful. He had never before had any desire to be.
"So, is mythology one of your hobbies?"
"I think you would call it more of a passion than a hobby," Apollo said with a slight smile. "I do know enough about it to assure you that the God of Light's lyre did not glow green when he played it, and his head was not that big."
Pamela grinned. "I'm glad to hear it. I don't know how he could possibly have been a womanizer looking like that."
"Did you know that some ancient texts report that Apollo found love?" He spoke quickly, before common sense caught up with his voice. "And that afterwards he was entirely faithful to his lover."
"I had no idea. Who was she? Some fabulous goddess?"
"No, he found the mate of his soul within a mortal woman."
"A mortal? Huh. I guess that's why they call it mythology. I can't imagine a real woman who would be stupid enough to take a chance on loving a god."
Apollo felt his chest tighten. "But look at what she gained. She took the chance and won her soul mate."
Pamela's smile was slow and sweet. "You really are a romantic."
"Yes," he said more fiercely than he'd intended and had to stop and take a breath to settle his raging emotions. "I haven't always been. Actually, I have been much like Apollo, content to find love where it seemed convenient or enjoyable and to think nothing more of it. But I feel myself changing." He shrugged and purposefully lightened his tone. "Perhaps that's why I understand the tales told about the God of Light so well."
Pamela silently studied her wineglass. She didn't know what to say to him. She was definitely attracted to him, and what he was saying touched her heart. He seemed so open and honest. But she was afraid. Thinking of having a weekend fling made her nervous and giddy. Thinking of beginning a relationship terrified her.
She glanced up at his handsome face. He was watching her intently. She took a deep breath, but instead of mouthing some offhanded quip about romantic reformed playboys, she heard the truth slipping out.
"I'm divorced. I had a bad marriage. No, scratch that. I had an awful marriage. I haven't really even dated since then. You're being honest with me, so I need to be honest with you. Just thinking about the possibility of a new relationship scares me. I don't think I'm ready for anything more than…" She hesitated, not wanting to sound like a slut or a dolt.
"You must heal." Apollo spoke into her hesitation.
"Yes, exactly," she said, grateful that he had put words to what she was bumbling around trying to say.
"And you shall heal, sweet Pamela," he said.
"Thank you for understanding," she said, resting her hand on his. "I know it sounds crazy. I've only known you for a couple of days, but there's something about you that makes me feel like you honestly do understand what I mean."
"It's true, sweet Pamela. And you have no idea how rare it is to find that connection between two people." He had literally lived eons without it.
Pamela stroked her thumb slowly over his hand and fell into the blue of his spectacular eyes. "Oh, I think I might have some idea."
The knot that had been building within Apollo's chest suddenly loosened. It wasn't that she was unwilling to give herself to love, it was that she had been hurt. Terribly hurt. She needed to heal, and that was one thing that Apollo, God of Light, could do for her.
"I brought something for you tonight. I think now is the perfect time to gift you with it." Apollo reached into his pocket and pulled out the delicate gold chain. He held it up so that the light glinted off a small coin, mounted in a thin circle of gold, which dangled from it. On the face of the coin was stamped the strong profile of a Greek god.
"Oh, it's beautiful," Pamela breathed. The coin was gold but imperfectly formed, its shape more of a chipped-at circle than a regular coin, and she realized that its irregular shape marked it as being very old. "I can't accept it, though. It's way too expensive."
"I can assure you that it cost me nothing. I have had it a very long time. Please, it would give me great pleasure if you would wear it. After all, we were just discussing the god who is depicted on the coin."
"Really? It's Apollo?" Intrigued, Pamela leaned forward and cupped the piece of gold in her hands, studying the handsome profile.
"It's a better likeness than the fountain statue," Apollo said, smiling wryly.
"You know," she said, glancing from the coin to Phoebus, "it looks like you. I mean, not exactly like you. But the profile is similar."
"That is indeed a compliment." His smile widened. "At least it is a compliment as long as you don't say that I resemble yonder statue, too." He pointed his chin at the big-headed fountain Apollo.
"No." Pamela laughed. "You look nothing like that statue."
He chuckled, appreciating the irony of the situation. "If you wear the coin you could think of Apollo as your own personal god," he coaxed. "Apollo could be your talisman. Perhaps the God of Light will help you to solve the problems you're having with your client's unusual request."
Pamela looked back and forth from the coin to Phoebus, ready to tell him no thank you. But she hesitated. What was so inherently wrong about accepting a gift from a handsome man? She liked him; he liked her. Okay, she didn't believe for an instant that it hadn't cost him anything, but he was a doctor. It wasn't like he couldn't afford it. And it was an interesting coincidence that they had just been talking about Apollo, the god who had supposedly fallen in love with a mortal woman. It was also silly and romantic and out of character for her to…
"Thank you, Phoebus. I accept it."
Before she could change her mind, he stood and moved behind her so that he could fasten it around her long, slender neck. But first he held it in the palm of his hand and concentrated his vast, immortal powers on the little piece of gold.
"May it bring you everything Apollo represents: light and truth, music and poetry, and, most of all, healing." Then placed the gold chain around her neck.
"That was a beautiful thing to say," she looked up at him, touching the coin. She could almost swear that it felt warm against her body.
Apollo smiled and bent so that he could brush his lips against hers. He hadn't meant for the kiss to be anything more than a quick gesture of affection, but her mouth opened beneath his, and one of her hands slid up to press against his chest. Automatically, he deepened the kiss. Her mouth was sweet and slick. He wanted to taste more of her, all of her. He wanted…
"Ur, uh, excuse me."
The waiter's voice broke through the red haze of lust that had enveloped Apollo. The god snarled dangerously at the hapless servant, who was quick to step back and apologize.
"Sorry, sir. It just gets kinda crowded in here, and I was trying to move around your table."
"Find another pathway," Apollo growled.
The servant nodded and hastily retreated. When Apollo turned back to Pamela, her face was blazing, and her hands were covering her cheeks.
"I can't believe it. I'm mak
ing out in public, and I'm a sober adult."
"Then let us go somewhere more private," he said, stroking the hand that covered one of her flaming cheeks.
Pamela opened her mouth, looked at him, sputtered something incomprehensible, closed her mouth, and looked at her watch.
"Oh, bloody buggering hell!" she gasped.
"What is it?"
"It's almost nine," Pamela grabbed her little gold purse and leapt up from the table. "Oh, God… I've forgotten. Which way is it to the front of Caesars Palace?"
Apollo pointed in the correct direction, wondering what was wrong with her. She started to hurry off, then she stopped, drew a long breath, and came back to where he was still standing. She ran her hand through her short hair as she spoke.
"I'm sorry. It's just so unlike me to kiss you like that, right there in front of everyone." She blushed again as she remembered how it had felt to meet his tongue and return his passion. "That freaked me out. Then I suddenly remembered that I managed to get tickets for us to a show that has been selling out, and that show starts in"—she glanced at her watch again—"fifteen minutes. So that's why I rushed off like an idiot. Accidentally without you." And without any sense, she added silently to herself.
"A show?" he asked.
"Yes, it's called Zumanity. It's… it's supposed to be erotic but tasteful." Her eyes skittered away from his. "It's by the same people who do Cirque du Soleil."
When she finally met his eyes again, they were smiling.
"An erotic circus of the sun? Fascinating." He took her hand and linked it through his arm. "We had better hurry."
Chapter 14
Apollo couldn't believe that the Zumanity players were mortal. The women moved with the grace and seduction of nymphs. The men were all beautiful of body and face. And the music! The music was ethereal. It was the perfect backdrop to the parade of sensuality performed on and above the stage. He and Pamela had been quietly ushered to their intimate seating on the balcony in a lushly upholstered couch that was fashioned like a chaise lounge. The performance had already begun. In the middle of the round stage there was an enormous glass, made to look like a wine goblet filled with water. Within the glass were two nubile young women, who wore very little except nude-colored loincloths. In time to the pulsing tempo of the seductive music the girls swam a dance of innocent seduction, personifying the awakening of uniquely feminine passion and desire. Though the golden god was much more interested in the woman who sat close to his side, his body stirred in appreciation. He glanced sideways at Pamela, gauging her reaction. She was watching with eyes that were large and round. When the scene was over, she applauded enthusiastically. Then she looked away from the stage and caught Apollo watching her. Her already flushed cheeks blushed even pinker.
"Did you find the young women pleasing?" he whispered as the stage temporarily darkened.
"I did. I mean, I'm definitely not a lesbian, but they were so beautiful." Her voice was breathy, and her laugh was a sensual purr. She'd have to remember to tell V that she finally understood her attraction to women.
Apollo leaned into her, drawn by her earthy response to the show. "There is nothing wrong with appreciating the beauty of the female body. You would have to be made of stone not to be moved by them."
She had been about to whisper back that it was definite that she wasn't made of stone when the spotlights illuminated the stage again and the appreciative audience fell silent. This time an exquisitely muscled man with black velvet skin appeared on the stage through a trapdoor in the floor. He, too, had almost nothing on. He moved in time with the music as he was joined by a woman who was as blond as he was dark. She was covered in sheer layers of a filmy dress, and as the two met in the center of the stage and began an erotic version of the lover's scene from the ballet Romeo and Juliet, he slowly unwound piece after piece of her covering, until they both wore only the briefest of G-strings.
They moved with a fluid, sensual grace and a passion for each other that Pamela could not believe was feigned. The scene ended, and this time Pamela readily met Phoebus' gaze.
"They must really be in love. No one can act that well. I swear I could feel the sexual tension between them up here."
"Now who's the romantic?" he said, putting his arm around her and pulling her close to him.
For the rest of the performance, that's where she stayed, tucked against Phoebus' body. About midway through the show, her hand found his thigh. It rested there, against the soft fabric of his slacks, through which she could feel the heat and hardness of his leg. His fingers traced a lazy pattern over the bare skin of her arm, caressing the smooth indention inside her elbow and causing gooseflesh to rise up and down her body.
Zumanity was, indeed, an adventure in eroticism. It titillated and teased, seduced and sensitized. When Phoebus' hand traced its way up her arm to slowly caress her neck, she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning aloud.
A tall, stunning redhead, who reminded Pamela very much of Nicole Kidman, left the stage after performing an incredibly sexy version of autoerotic masturbation, and before the audience's applause had died, the lights flashed on a thick length of red silk that dropped from the darkened ceiling of the theater as if an inattentive giantess had haphazardly thrown her scarf from a bedroom window. It unrolled to expose a woman whose waist-length hair shined golden in the spotlight. Her arms remained cunningly twisted in the scarf so that only the tips of her bare, gracefully pointed toes touched the stage. Beneath her, the end of the scarf pooled like wine on the slick onyx stage. Her beauty was blinding, and as the audience caught sight of her, the theater let out a collective murmur of awe. At first it seemed that she was nude except for body glitter, but as the lights flashed and changed, Pamela could tell she was really wearing a sheer body leotard, nude-colored and covered with brilliant, diamondlike sparkles. The music began, and the scarf was pulled up, and along with it up went the glistening golden woman. She spun and twisted in a sensual dance, all the while dangling over the stage. It was breathtaking.
"She's a goddess," Pamela whispered to Phoebus.
"She is indeed," he murmured, glad that Pamela was so transfixed by the performance that she hadn't glanced up to register the shock on his face. He sat very still, trying to school his expression into a mask of polite appreciation for the show his sister was putting on.
And he'd known it! The entire performance had felt snared in an Olympian web of eroticism. Now he understood clearly why—the modern mortals were being honored by the presence of the Huntress Goddess herself. Though she usually preferred her forest and her freedom, the rumor that had been proliferated by her independent ways was false. Artemis was no virgin goddess. She was, whenever she chose to be, an exquisite temptress. What she was up to tonight was obvious. She wanted to be certain that he fulfilled the invocation, so with her immortal kiss of power, she had generously blessed the mortal actors—their allure had been heightened, as had the sexual tension in the audience. He had to admit, it was clever of her—annoying, but clever.
Suddenly, the audience gasped once more as a small, muscular shape ran onto the stage. Apollo's eyes widened in surprise. A satyr! Though his cloven hooves were camouflaged by boots and the magic of the goddess, and the fur that covered his legs not visible beneath the silken pants he wore, his identity was obvious to Apollo. The top of the creature's blond head came no higher than Artemis' waist, but his bare chest and arms were so powerfully muscled that as he raised his arms to beckon the goddess to him, it appeared that he was one of the Titans. The satyr wound his arms in the end of the scarlet scarf, and he, too, was lifted into the air over the stage—and there commenced an erotic chase, which took place not just over the stage, but the two swung out and over the raptly watching audience, where the fey creature enticed and coaxed, stroked and seduced, until finally the goddess deigned to be "captured," and the two of them were gently lowered to the stage. Shocked, Apollo watched his sister allow the woodland creature to wrap her within his arms, and th
e Huntress melted into the satyr's kiss in a public display of sexuality he knew she would never allow had they been in Olympus. The two exquisite immortals exited, arms still around each other. The audience was totally silent. All eyes were still staring at the spot on the stage where the goddess had last been seen. Apollo was the first to break his sister's seductive spell, and his applause was soon joined by riotous shouts and cheers.
The house lights came up, but before the audience could begin to get to their feet, the cast of actors, led by Artemis herself, came back onstage. The Huntress Goddess addressed the audience.
"We greet you, lovers and friends, and hope that you have enjoyed our little offering to the shrine of love." Her voice was like honey, and it drew the mortals close in a sweet trail of words. "Before you depart, I would like to meet some of you—if you would be so kind."
Clarion bells rang a warning in Apollo's mind, but excitement soughed through the listening crowd like wind through a forest of trees.
The goddess smiled beatifically, as if she addressed crowds of modern mortals every day. Then she began speaking to them, asking them their names, choosing blushing young married couples and newlyweds, sprinkling the magic of her seductive voice throughout the theater. Just once, Artemis glanced up at the balcony where Apollo sat with Pamela close to his side. She met her brother's eyes only briefly, but it was long enough for Apollo to clearly see amusement flash within their cool blue depths. Almost imperceptively, she made a motion with her hand, and Apollo felt the warm shower of her magic rain on him. It tingled over his skin, causing his body to feel flushed and heavy. Pamela's reaction was much more elemental. Almost unconsciously, her hand gripped Apollo's thigh. She leaned into his body and looked up into his eyes. Her breathing deepened, and her lips parted with a moan that was an open invitation.
Apollo cursed silently under his breath, tightened his arm around Pamela, and forced his attention back to the stage. He couldn't kiss her. Under the spell of his sister's immoral magic, neither of them would be able to stop there. It will pass, he reminded himself, and even as the thought came to him, he felt the grip of Artemis' meddling magic loosen. He glared down at his sister, who was neatly ignoring him. Within the circle of his arm he felt Pamela shiver and knew that the glittering spell had begun blowing from her skin, too, and he breathed easier. He was not using his powers to seduce Pamela—he wanted her response to him to be honest. Artemis' foolery was no more welcome than his own magic. Neither brought about love, only lust—a temporary desire, which was too easily sated. He wanted more.
