A Touch of Chaos (32 page)

The porch was crowded with people, their bodies bathed in firelight as they danced, drank, and fucked, caught in the throes of holy ecstasy. The smell made him dizzy. It was a vibrant blend of perfumes, both musky and powdery, and the putrid mix of alcohol and drugs, particularly Evangeline, which had the distinct, pungent odor of ammonia.

It was a far cry from other places of worship, where devotees would come in quiet peace to pray, leave offerings, and hear the word of the reigning oracle. Perhaps the hardest part for Dionysus was that this particular brand of worship was a result of Hera's madness, and despite being “cured,” his body still trembled at the sight.

He hated that he held on to the memory of that volatile time, hated that he felt dread at the doors of his own temple where the priestesses within worshipped him. In truth, he feared slipping back into the chaos, losing control, and never surfacing again, and it made him feel as though he would never truly know freedom from the horror of Hera's magic.

He was not sure how long he waited at the base of those steps, but eventually he felt stable enough to make his way inside. Unfortunately, there was no relief from the jostling crowd, which spilled out of the temple doors. His frustration mounted. He considered transforming into a jaguar or a lion and leaping over their heads, but he would likely only cause a fatal stampede.

Finally, he came to the altar where a statue of his likeness was raised, and it was there beneath its shadow that he found his oracle.

She was a beautiful woman. Tall and willowy, she rose to stand from where she had been reclined at his feet, surrounded by attendants who fed her grapes and offered wine.

“Erigone,” he said in acknowledgment.

She tilted her head, her arms braced behind her. It was a stance that pushed her chest forward, and because she was draped in sheer, shimmering robes, he could see every part of her.

He remained intently focused on her dark eyes, which were bright with amusement.

“Dionysus,” she said. “It has been a long time.”

“I fear I have not required your talents.”

“Or desired my counsel,” she said, accepting a golden
chalice from one of the attendants. “Until now, it seems. You must be desperate.”

There was a beat of silence following her comment, and it was filled with fury.

“I am,” he said. He knew humility would go a long way with his oracle, especially since he usually avoided her, even if it was hard to say aloud.

She sighed. “What do you want, Dionysus?”

She sipped her wine, which had already stained her lips a deep burgundy.

“I require assistance locating a woman,” he said.

“Does she wish to be found?”

“She likely didn't,” he said. “But she has since been kidnapped by pirates. Now they are holding her for ransom.”

Erigone studied him for a moment, her gaze hard and unwavering. Despite their history, she would not deny a woman in danger.

She handed off her cup and then gathered her shimmering robes into her hands.

“Come,” she said, and he followed her into the darkness of an adjoining room.

A few torches burned low, illuminating piles of glittering gold and shining silver, offerings brought by worshippers across lifetimes. She wound her way through the treasure until they came to the center of the room where there was a small table and a tray of incense.

“This woman,” said Erigone, lighting one of the slender sticks in the torchlight. “Is she a lover?”

“Would that matter?” Dionysus asked.

“No,” she said, turning back to him. “But she must be important to bring you here.”

Dionysus said nothing, and Erigone narrowed her eyes as she blew out the flame. Ribbons of smoke danced around her, smelling of spice and resin.

“Do you recall how I would prophecize for you, Dionysus?”

He shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. “Must we revisit the past?” he asked.

“I am not asking to revisit,” she said. “I am asking if you remember.”

He stared, frustration making his teeth clench. “I remember,” he said.

“On your knees,” she said. “Between my thighs.”

“That was a long time ago, Erigone,” he said. “We are both beyond that.”

“Perhaps you are,” she said. “But I still want you on your knees.”

He stared at her for a few slow seconds and then spoke. “You are my oracle.”

“And like anything that has belonged to you, I have been abandoned,” she said. “Does this woman know? The one who has you so chivalrously holding my gaze and shifting with discomfort in my presence, that your loyalty is as flimsy as a spider's web in the wind?”

“Give me the prophecy, Erigone,” Dionysus said.

“You are a pathetic god,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “The only reason you still have followers is because everyone likes to drink and fuck.”

His fists tightened; his anger felt molten in his veins, and for a few brief seconds, he wanted to kill her. Those were the claws of his madness digging deep.

Erigone gave him a shrewd smile, and for a moment, he thought that perhaps that was what she wanted too,
but then she threw her head back and spread her arms wide. The smoke from the incense became a straight column rising into the darkness. She said things, but they were not words he could understand and were more like a song, spoken in a low and lyrical cadence.

It was unnerving but mesmerizing to witness, and there was a part of him that wanted to crawl inside her, to see what she was seeing for himself, but that was the magic of Erigone. She was a seductress as much as she was an oracle, and she gave prophecy like she fucked, with reckless abandon.

Dionysus's nails sank into his palms. It was that sweet sting that kept him grounded, that ensured he did not descend into the strange madness of her fortune-telling, and when she emerged from her trance, she looked upon him in dazed disappointment.

He did not move, too afraid to break the spell.

“You have neglected a sacred duty. You have left the dead unburied,” she said.

Before the oracle was finished with her foretelling, Dionysus knew what he had to do—bury the ophiotaurus, which he had left to rot on the island of Thrinacia after Theseus murdered him.

Fuck.

“Correct this offense,” Erigone continued. “And all will be revealed.”

He should have listened to Ariadne the moment she'd begged to return to the island and complete the task, but at the time, her request had seemed rash given the danger.

“You know what you must do,” the oracle said.

“I do,” he said.

They were silent for a few moments, and then Erigone spoke again.

“Death marks your path, Dionysus. Be careful where you tread.”

With the echo of her words on his heels, he left the small room.

He could have teleported then, but instead, he returned to the crowd and waded through their revelry, knowing he would need their worship to carry him through the coming days. Even as their energy washed over him, he could not shake the keen awareness that they were all coming to the end of their days. Soon, this warmth that surrounded him would no longer come from their bodies but from their ashes.

Dionysus needed a way to reach the island of Thrinacia since he could not teleport directly, given it was Poseidon's territory. The only reason he had managed to escape before was because Hermes had located him and Ariadne and teleport them home—which was how he found himself in the Underworld, begrudgingly knocking on Hermes's door.

“Come in!” the god said in a muffled, singsong voice.

The merry tone only set Dionysus on edge, but he was right to be suspicious. As he pushed open the door, he found Hermes's ass in his face.

Well, not literally.

He wasn't naked, though he might as well have been. The leggings he wore were skintight and left very little to the imagination, and his crop top was basically just sleeves.

“What are you doing?” Dionysus asked.

“What does it look like?” Hermes asked, staring at him from between his legs.

Dionysus couldn't meet his gaze.

“Torture?” he ventured.

“A downward dog,” Hermes said as he straightened and then bent over backward.

“As I said,” Dionysus replied.

“You should try it.”

“I'll pass,” Dionysus said.

“You're just jealous I'm more flexible,” said Hermes.

“I'm not sure jealous is the right word.”

“Aroused, perhaps?” he suggested as he tried to get back on his feet but fell on his ass.

“Not in the least,” Dionysus said.

Hermes frowned. “Well damn,” he said, standing and brushing off his hands. “What do you want?”

“I need to locate a few pirates,” said Dionysus.

Hermes narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure this isn't a sexual thing?”

“Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“I'm seriously reconsidering,” said Dionysus.

“Well, that's just fine,” said Hermes with a huff. “I don't have powers anyway. Why do you think I'm doing yoga?”

Dionysus glared. He knew Hermes didn't have magic, but he also knew that all gods had at least one magical article. Hermes was no exception.

“You have sandals,” he said.

“You want my sandals?”

“I can't teleport to the ocean, Hermes.”

“My sandals are relics! They belong in a museum, not on your feet!”

“If that's true, then where are they?”

“Like I would tell you!”

“You forgot about them, didn't you?”

“No!” he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest before letting them fall again. “If you want them, you'll have to take me to my house.”

Dionysus cocked a brow. “Which one?”

Hermes hesitated. “We'll start with the one in Olympia.”

“
Start
?” Dionysus repeated.

“It's been a long time since I've had to use them!” Hermes said defensively. “At this point, they're
symbolic
!”

“Fuck me,” Dionysus grumbled, and before Hermes could open his mouth, he teleported, appearing outside Hermes's sprawling Olympia mansion, which had a steeply pitched roof and a stucco exterior.

Hermes approached the rounded entrance, which was grand and framed by a set of white columns.

Dionysus followed Hermes, who had started to pat his hips, his chest, even his ass.

“What are you doing?” Dionysus asked, already annoyed.

“I forgot my keys,” said Hermes.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Don't judge me! I usually have
magic
!”

Dionysus sighed. “Move.”

The God of Wine stepped forward and then shoved his foot against the doors. There was a cracking sound as they burst open with such force, they hit the interior walls, shaking the glass within.

When he turned toward Hermes, the god glared at him.

“You could have used magic,” he said, sweeping past him into the house.

Dionysus followed and was immediately met by a massive double staircase.

“How do you decide which side to go up?” Dionysus asked.

Hermes opened his mouth and then closed it before answering. “I never gave it much thought,” he said, his hands pressed to his head. “Fuck. How do I choose?”

Dionysus gave him an incredulous look. “
How
have you lived this long?”

“Hey!” Hermes said, pointing at himself. “
I'm
cunning!”

“Sure,” said Dionysus, taking the staircase on the right. “And I drink water.”

“You and Hades have issues,” Hermes said as he followed.

Once they reached the top, he overtook Dionysus, taking the hall on the left. When Hermes switched on the lights, Dionysus was blinded by the color pink. It was everywhere—on the walls and the floor and the bed, even the chandelier—and all varying hues.

“Why is everything
pink
?” Dionysus asked, shielding his eyes.

“Because,” said Hermes. “This is the pink room.”

“The pink room?”

“Yeah, I have a gold room and a red room and a—” Hermes marked them off on each finger.

“Are they all bedrooms?”

“Yeah.”

“
Why
?”

Hermes shrugged. “Why not?”

Because it's insane
, Dionysus wanted to say but didn't.

“I never know what my mood will be,” Hermes explained, shuffling over the pink carpet as he made his way into the adjoining pink bathroom. “Some nights, I'm a gold. Some nights, I'm a green.”

Dionysus considered asking what that meant but decided against it. He was short on time, and he needed Hermes's sandals. The fewer distractions, the better.

Inside the bathroom was a safe door. It was also pink and framed by mirrors that reflected the light overhead. Dionysus imagined it was supposed to look glamorous, but it really just hurt his eyes even more.