Zeus’s smooth skin was quivering slightly, and Ganymede felt rumbles like thunder in Zeus’s body. Greatly daring, he looked up and saw that Zeus was speaking.
“I can’t hear you, my lord,” Ganymede said, and couldn’t tell if he was talking, whispering, or shouting. “The thunderbolt that destroyed the tree made me deaf.”
Abruptly he realized that Zeus must have sent the lightning to stop Minos from killing Ganymede and he feared Zeus might take his words as criticism. Terror crawled cold down his spine.
“But thank you for saving me, my lord,” he added hastily. “Minos would have killed me if not for you.”
In answer, Zeus put a finger under Ganymede’s chin and looked deeply into his eyes. The blue gaze was at the same time piercing and tender. Terror vanished. Ganymede’s heart lurched and began to race. Then Zeus brought a finger to his mouth. He licked it, and a tiny spark jumped from his tongue to the fingertip. Zeus gently ran the finger over Ganymede’s left ear. Ganymede gasped at the electric rush that flashed through him at the touch. Zeus licked his finger again and touched Ganymede’s other ear, and Ganymede jerked involuntarily at the same amazing sensation.
“There,” Zeus rumbled. “You can hear me now.”
“My lord,” Ganymede gasped. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”
And then Zeus kissed him hard. The move caught Ganymede by surprise. Zeus’s arms went completely around Ganymede, and the kiss deepened, stealing Ganymede’s breath. The world crashed to a halt, and all the sensation in Ganymede’s body rushed to his lips. When at last Zeus pulled away, Ganymede was panting, and he wanted more. The stiffest hard-on of his life pressed against his stomach, and it screamed for Zeus’s touch. Ganymede squirmed.
“I’ve been watching you,” Zeus said. His voice was rich and deep. “You’re beautiful. And brave. And I had to have you.”
Ganymede couldn’t do anything but look mutely into Zeus’s eternal eyes. Emotion swelled and broke and spilled down his face. A few minutes ago he had been facing rape and torture and death. Now the king of gods, ruler of the universe, had just called him beautiful. Still unable to speak, he touched Zeus’s cheek with a tentative hand. Zeus smiled, and the power of that simple expression thundered over Ganymede, blew through him like a tornado on steroids. Ganymede’s muscles went weak as water, and all he wanted in all the universe was for Zeus to smile at him again.
“You’re my favorite,” Zeus murmured into Ganymede’s ear. “Now and forever. Always my favorite.”
He lowered Ganymede to the soft bed of clouds. Ganymede didn’t struggle, didn’t want to. It hurt like a motherfuck when Zeus pushed into him, but at the same time the god’s touch fired every pleasure connection in Ganymede’s brain with electric glee. Zeus clutched and howled, and Ganymede was vaguely aware that beneath them, the storm had started up again. Lightning stabbed at the water again and again and again, and then came one final explosive crash of thunder. The storm ended.
Above the clouds, Zeus pulled Ganymede to him for one more kiss, and another bout of fear struck him. Was Zeus going to take him back to earth? Leave him there? The idea made him shake.
Zeus seemed to be reading Ganymede’s mind. He took Ganymede’s hand. “Come along.”
“Where?”
“Mount Olympus, of course.” He smiled again, but this time it didn’t have the powerful effect it did before, though Ganymede still caught his breath. “I told you—you’re my favorite. I can’t send you back to Minos.”
“But I thought only gods and immortals could enter Olympus,” Ganymede stammered.
“True, true.” Zeus stroked his beard. “But my essence inside you has made changes. It healed the rest of your wounds” —here Ganymede noticed for the first time that the aches and pains from his fight with Minos had vanished— “and granted you temporary immortality. Once we’re on Olympus, I’ll arrange for you to be granted that gift forever.”
Ganymede stared at Zeus for a long moment, trying to take this in. He was going to be a freaking immortal? Some kind of … god? He didn’t know whether to be excited or scared.
“What am I going to do there?” Ganymede asked. “On Olympus, I mean?”
In answer, Zeus grabbed him by the shoulder. Ganymede felt a strange rushing sensation, and suddenly he and Zeus were standing before an enormous set of stone doors. They were carved and decorated with intricate designs that moved and shifted in eye-twisting ways even as Ganymede watched. Abruptly he realized he was wearing a wine-red tunic edged with gold. Where the hell had that come from?
Zeus raised a hand, and the doors boomed open. Beyond lay an enormous banquet hall with pillars, but the floor was soft green grass, and the pillars supported nothing except open air and mild sunshine. A ring-shaped table the size of a ballroom took up the center. In the center of the ring, a large fire danced on the grassy floor. Twelve enormous thrones surrounded the table, and each throne was different. The biggest one was made of swirling clouds, and it sparkled with lightning. The one next to it was made of rigid stone, painted purple and decorated with gems and peacock feathers. One throne seemed to be made of ivy and wheat sheaves and flowers. Another was made of gold and onyx and old bones. Yet another was entwined with grape vines, and blood-red grapes hung from them in heavy bunches. Ganymede didn’t have time to look at much more. Zeus slammed his hands together with the sound of a thunderclap. Instantly, the hall was filled with people. Amazing, breathtaking people.
Gods.
Ganymede saw Hermes, god of merchants and thieves and healers, with his winged helmet and sandals, settle into a throne created of coins. Athene took up her bronze throne and instantly noted Ganymede’s presence. Her wise gray eyes flicked a millisecond glance at him, and Ganymede had the uncomfortable feeling that in that tiny time she had learned everything there was to know of him. Her brother Ares, his armor dented and bloody, flung himself down with a scowl onto a throne of sword hilts and broken shields. Poseidon appeared, dripping wet, and sat on a watery throne with fish swimming through it. Artemis and Apollo, twins as opposite as night and day, occupied thrones made of silver moonlight and golden sunbeams. Aphrodite lounged with lush grace on her red satin throne and ran her pink tongue over pouty lips. Ganymede couldn’t take his eyes off her indescribable beauty until Zeus touched his shoulder and the spell was broken. Aphrodite tossed her head, pretending not to notice. Her husband Hephaestus, his legs twisted and broken, uncertainly fingered his blacksmith’s hammer from a throne of burning coals and raw iron. Hestia knelt at the hearth in the center of the great hall and quietly poked at the fire with her staff. Hades took the throne of gold and onyx, while Dionysus took the one with the grapes.
Hera, Zeus’s wife, appeared a second after all the others. She was the tallest among the goddesses, almost as tall as Zeus himself, and only Aphrodite was more beautiful. She wore a long purple gown and carried a peacock, its long tail trailing down her arm like a waterfall with eyes. Like Athene, she flicked a glance at Ganymede. Their gazes met, and Ganymede felt the power and rage behind her eyes. In that instant, Ganymede realized that she understood exactly what he and Zeus had been up to only moments before, and he also realized she was royally pissed off about it.
Abruptly Ganymede remembered all the stories about Zeus and his love affairs, and how his wife Hera had reacted. She wasn’t able to do anything to Zeus—he was more powerful than she was, and in any case, he was the king—but she could and did go after his lovers. He swallowed hard. His guts twisted inside him and he moved a little closer to Zeus, who didn’t seem to notice a thing. Hera gave Ganymede a grim little smile, and in that moment Ganymede knew he was fucked.
Zeus regally sank to his cloud throne, gestured for Ganymede to stand beside him, and held up a hand. The conversation in the great hall fell instantly silent.
“I’ve summoned you all here,” he boomed in his powerful voice, “because I have some wonderful news. It begins with a story.” Here he told the tale of Ganymede’s fight with Minos, embellis
hing the story and making Ganymede sound like a great hero who was nonetheless overwhelmed by the evil king. Zeus ended with Ganymede’s rescue, though he left out what happened right afterward. The Olympians listened with varying degrees of attention, though none of them dared interrupt.
“The boy’s bravery and beauty must never die,” Zeus finished. “That is why I have brought him here to Olympus. He will join us, the immortals, and live forever.”
Hera stared and glared through the entire thing, and after Zeus’s speech, only a smattering of polite applause drifted around the open hall. Ganymede shifted, feeling more and more uncomfortable and uncertain. The gods were in a tough spot and were behaving just like some of the people he’d seen at court in Troy and while visiting Minos on Crete. If they didn’t act like Zeus’s decision was cool, the king would get ticked off. If they acted like Zeus had done the greatest thing since the sun started burning, the queen would be mighty pissed. So they walked down the middle of the road. This was unfair, as far as Ganymede was concerned. The gods seemed to spend a lot of time wondering who they might have offended among themselves. Didn’t they have a universe to run?
Completely oblivious to all this, Zeus turned his head away from Ganymede to the other side of his throne. A girl, maybe thirteen years old, was standing there. She was blond, rosy-cheeked, and very cute. She held a long-necked jar of wine, and she was pouring a steady purple stream of it into a cup on the table before Zeus. With Zeus and the other powerful gods all lounging on their thrones, Ganymede hadn’t noticed her. Now he began to notice other beings had slipped into the hall—minor gods. Pan, with his goat’s horns and hooves, squatted near Dionysus. Eris, goddess of discord, stood near Ares’s throne and watched Hera’s angry face with hungry glee while little Deimos and Phobos—terror and fear—hovered overhead as tiny demons. An athletic, redheaded teenager wearing a quiver between the shining white wings on his back insolently leaned on Aphrodite’s throne. He caught Ganymede’s eye and winked. Ganymede didn’t know how to react to that, so he didn’t. A teenage girl wrapped in a tunic of shifting, glimmering color leaned over to whisper in the winged kid’s ear. They both laughed softly, and Ganymede wondered if they were laughing at him. He flushed slightly.
Zeus, meanwhile, was talking to the young girl on the other side of his throne. “Hebe,” he commanded, “bring Ganymede a plate of your ambrosia and a cup of your nectar. Ganymede will have eternal life and eternal youth.”
The wine jug vanished, and a golden plate and cup appeared in Hebe’s hands. The most wonderfully indescribable smell drifted across the hall, and Ganymede felt suddenly ravenous. A lot had happened since the breakfast he’d barfed up this morning. How long ago had that been? Weird to think, although he began the day retching into a smelly chamber pot, he had no way to know he’d finish it on Mount Olympus.
Hebe was turning to bring the cup and plate around the throne to Ganymede when a powerful female voice echoed through the hall.
“No!” Hera boomed, and Hebe froze.
Zeus raised his eyebrows at her. “No? Wife, I think you go too far.”
“Husband,” Hera’s words fell cold as hailstone, “I think you’ve forgotten. Hebe is the goddess of youth, and only she can decide who lives forever. Not even you can order her to give this … boy her gifts, any more than she could order you to toss a thunderbolt. Your little friend will have to do without.”
Hera sat back on her tall, straight throne, a triumphant smile on her lips. All eyes went to Zeus, who stroked his red-blond beard with a broad hand.
“You’re right,” he said at last. “I did forget.” But before Hera could smile further, Zeus turned to Hebe. He reached down, put a finger under her chin, and turned on the charm. “Hebe, darling daughter, will you do Daddy a favor and give Ganymede eternal youth? You’re doing such a fine job as my cupbearer, and if you do this little thing for me, I’ll give you some new responsibilities. Would you like that?”
Hebe flushed and her face grew excited. “Yes! Yes, I would! Thank you, Father!”
Before Hera could rise to object again, Hebe thrust the golden plate into Ganymede’s hands. The ambrosia on the plate kept changing shape. First it was chocolates. Then it was plump grapes. Then it was new-baked bread slathered in butter. It smelled fantastic, like all those foods and more. Hebe snatched up a piece and stuffed it into Ganymede’s mouth. His eyes widened. This was a feast in a single bite. It was every bit of deliciousness put into a single crumb. It was a morsel of orgasm. He shuddered in an ecstasy he never imagined could exist.
Hebe put the golden cup to Ganymede’s mouth before he had quite recovered from the ambrosia, and her nectar filled his mouth. It was every drink in the world—sweet wine, hearty ale, icy water, hot chocolate, warm milk. Ganymede’s eyes widened, and he shuddered again as every cell in his body reacted with an electric jolt. The nectar mixed with the ambrosia on his tongue, and sudden power thrummed through him, like he’d been hooked up to a dynamo powered by a volcano. Liquid light poured from every pore. For a moment, the entire universe washed through him in a tidal wave. He was the salty ocean, and he felt every fish, every whale and dolphin, every grain of sand. He was the fresh-water lake, and he felt the stones and algae, the crawfish and turtles. He was the flowing streams and rivers, the bubbling springs, the hidden pools. He was the clouds of mist that hugged the ground and the silent clouds that puffed through the sky. He encircled the world, flowed beneath it, wandered over it. An integral part of everything.
Then he was back on Olympus, and Hebe was pulling the cup away from him.
“Join me in welcoming Ganymede to Olympus,” Zeus declared, clapping him on the shoulder from his throne. “We will have a banquet in celebration!”
A great cheer went up from all the gods. Apollo pulled his lyre out of thin air and struck up a happy melody, and Artemis joined in on a rough-made skin drum. Pan produced his own pipes and played an eerie counterpoint. Aphrodite pulled Ares from his throne to dance. The other gods laughed and chattered, except for Hera, who sat in cool silence. Platters filled with ambrosia appeared on the table. It continually changed shape, just as Hebe’s food had, and the wonderful smell of it filled the air.
Ganymede grinned, still a little uncertain but growing in confidence. The gods seemed a little different, less overwhelming and powerful now. He supposed it was because he had become immortal. And that was a major head trip. He tried to wrap his mind around the idea. He would never grow old, never develop wrinkles or arthritis, never wither and die. He’d be young forever.
As Hebe moved back around to the other side of Zeus’s throne, it occurred to Ganymede that even though she looked barely thirteen, she had to be thousands of years old. Wow.
Hebe reached her spot next to Zeus. The wine jug had reappeared in her hands. Zeus drained his golden cup and set it on the table. Hebe leaned in, ready to refill it, but Zeus almost casually pushed the jug away. Some of the wine spilled. It trickled over the edge of the table and vanished before it could hit the grassy floor. The hall fell silent again and everyone stared. Hebe’s face turned red with embarrassment and surprise.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Zeus rumbled. “But you’ve been replaced as my cupbearer. That job now belongs to Ganymede.”
BOOK 8
PART V
Nothing “happened” that night except that we stayed up fairly late talking. Then the night of bad sleep and the day at the ocean caught up with me and I started zoning out. Eryx and I heard other people moving around in the hallways outside our room, which made us a little uneasy, but Irene said it was just the others coming back, no worries, though we were too tired to meet them. Eryx and I conked on the floor and Irene slept on her mattress.
I shut my eyes and jerked them open a second later to find it was morning. Late morning. My heart was pounding and I felt sweaty. Bad dream. Something about running down dark corridors filled with hairy hands that reached out to grab me, and then being flung around in a terrible storm. The details
were already fading, and I was glad to let them go.
Paper crinkled, and I sat up. Irene was just coming back into the room with a white paper bag. Eryx was still asleep.
“Hey,” she said. “Took you long enough to wake up.”
“What time is it?”
She shrugged. Her clothes were another crazy-quilt mishmash of colors and styles that seemed to run together like a dozen flavors of half-melted ice cream. “It’s half past sunrise. I don’t watch the clock on my days off. Everyone’s already gone for the day again, I know that.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Breakfast. Day-olds from the donut place. Super-cheap.”
We woke Eryx up and went outside to eat under an overgrown tree because Irene’s room was already heating up. The air was warm and muggy, and all three of us had bedhead—minus the bed—and limp, wrinkled clothes to go with our breakfast of stale donuts. It was like a day-old picnic.
“We should go over to the hotel today,” Irene said, “if you two want to ask about jobs. Lucian’ll be in today.”
We combed our hair with my comb, and Irene showed us an outdoor faucet behind the strip mall laundromat where we could get water for washing up. Irene said it’s best to use it after dark so the laundromat owner doesn’t notice people are swiping their water and remove the faucet, but just this once should be okay. We also filled our water bottles. Finding easy access to water lifted a major-ass worry I didn’t even realize I was carrying.
The hotel is about a half mile from the nursing home, easy walking distance as long as you stick to the shade. It’s weird to feel summer air in October and strange to sweat when you walk down an autumn sidewalk.
The Haidou Hotel isn’t on the ocean, which kind of sucks. I was hoping it had beachfront so we could swim without having to hike halfway through town, though I should have realized it was nowhere near the sea—Irene would have been swimming at the hotel’s beach, if one existed, instead of by our packs. Like everything else in Aquapura, it’s kind of run-down, but it’s pretty big. It has five floors, a pool, and a restaurant/bar that sometimes gets live music. Irene said employees aren’t allowed to use the pool.
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