Aphrodite's War (28 page)

Aphrodite would find out soon enough, but not before she terminated
this abomination.

Agony gave way to numb indifference. She had become deaf to the
warning system, but still felt the thrum of the cyclotron. She found it
mostly by instinct. Courage was all she had left.

She fumbled for it, using the last of her might to rip it from the melted
fasteners. It keened, a high-pitched wail like a swarm of angry bees.
Aphrodite dropped to her knees, cradling it, shielding Ares’ mutated
child from the world as it thrashed against her battered torso.

She prepared to absorb the weapon. Her final thoughts were of
Hermes, gone forever. As Ares’ instrument of chaos burst, Aphrodite
remembered the love of her son, how all her hopes and dreams came to
fruition because of him.

Aphrodite endured the dissolution of her body with bravery and pride.
She had defeated Ares, once and for all. She saw herself as gold sparks in
the night sky over the Institute as her essence faded into the ether.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Adrian unlocked the door to his condo and Poetry let her nerves
unwind. A healthy stretch caused several joints to crackle in her arms and
shoulders. Every bone in her body ached from endless hours in the damp
cave, not to mention the white-knuckled flight home. The shackles still
chafed, but at least she wasn’t burdened with chains anymore. Though no
longer dehydrated, her stomach roared protest.

Adrian stroked her hair before dialing his voicemail. Subtle beeps
chimed in the empty hall.
“Inbox is full,” he said. “Most of the messages are from Gary and
Jenny. I’d better call them. They’re worried about you.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound like Jenny.” Well, she could be
protective… sometimes.

Adrian smirked, but didn’t look up. He pried the helmet from his
sweaty head and trudged inside. Poetry smiled at the way his damp hair
stood up in tufts.

“Jenny’s the one who told me you were missing. She called me in a
panic because you hadn’t shown up for work. I hate to tell you this, but I
found two dead bodies when I got to your place.”

“Dead bodies?” She groped for a seat before her knees gave way.
“Who are they? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The journey home had been quiet. Even the streets of Edmonton were
serene: no fires, screams, or explosions. Things must have settled down.
Poetry hadn’t had the energy to talk, and she’d used her adrenaline to
hold on for dear life. She’d assumed Adrian needed to focus on
controlling the shoes; she didn’t dare disturb him.

But now she wanted answers.
Adrian placed the headgear on the coffee table before crumpling next
to her. “Shoes off,” he said, and frowned when they remained on his feet.
“Shoes, we’re done now. Off.”

Normally Poetry would question the wisdom of commanding
footwear. But having flown with them, the lack of response seemed odd
to her too.

Adrian groaned, leaning forward to untie them. Poetry winced in
sympathy at the painful grunts he emitted while removing the now
inanimate sandals. They seemed ordinary, dangling from his fists like
plain leather soles and straps.

But depleted magicks were not her concern.
“We’ll call Gary and Jenny,” she said, “after you tell me what
happened.”

“That’s just it. I don’t know what happened.” He shut his eyes and
rubbed his temples. Poetry felt bad for him, he must be wiped out. “I fell
asleep, and when I woke, Aphrodite popped through my TV and beamed
me to your suite like in an episode of Star Trek.”

He peered straight into her eyes and Poetry didn’t see any hints of
untruths. “When we got there, Kevin and my client were dead.”
She should have experienced some sort of sadness for her ex, but
couldn’t muster any.
Good, she thought. He deserved it. Now she could stop checking over
her shoulder and everything would go back to…Wait a minute…
“You mean Frank Fleisher? What was he doing there?”

Adrian shrugged. “Who knows? He was a racist and he didn’t like…
anybody.” His expression turned severe. “I think you dodged a bullet.
Literally.” A shiver rolled over Poetry’s skin.

The phone chirped. “Jenny again. I’d better get this, now that I can
actually give her some good news.”

“You do that.” Poetry extracted herself from the sofa. Her arms had
little strength left, but she’d muster some if it meant getting food in her
belly and not dealing with Jenny. “I’m starving. Got breakfast fixings?”

“Lots. Bacon would be great, if you don’t mind.” Adrian pushed a
button and placed the phone to his ear. “Hi, Jen.”
Poetry glanced back to see Adrian yank the phone to a safe distance as
Jenny’s squirrel-like scolding rattled through the receiver.
“Good morning to you too, Jenny.”
Poetry buried her head in the refrigerator before he volunteered her to
take the call.

More angry chittering from the other line.
“I found her. She’s alright.”

Poetry strained to listen over the banging of pots and pans as she
raided the cupboard.

“It’s a long story. We’re both going to need some time to rest and
process everything….” A long pause. “No, Poetry’s fine.” A short
interlude. “No, that isn’t necess… Jenny? You’re breaking up…”

Poetry heard the disconnect and Adrian’s weary muttering about
yappy people.

He joined her in the kitchen and headed for the coffee maker.
“That was quick. You handled that like a pro.”
“You think that got rid of her?”

“Absolutely. If there’s anything Jenny hates, it’s being cut off midrant.” Poetry mustered a grin. “Enjoy the silent treatment.”

The Melita burbled and the savory scent of cured pork drifted. Poetry
switched the burner to low and added pepper and seasoned salt to a bowl
of beaten eggs.

Adrian massaged her back and arms before digging around for plates.
It felt good, the whole domestic scene. They worked quietly and
efficiently, like it was a routine they’d enjoyed countless times. There
was only one thing missing.

“Where is Amir?”

“Freya promised to take care of him,” Adrian said. “Now that I think
of it…” He left the dishes on the counter and grasped the torque he still
wore.

With closed eyes and a muttered request Adrian resembled a praying
monk.
What was he doing?

Within a minute, Poetry heard a hiss and oxygen rushed from her
lungs. Her hair danced like grass in a gale force. The strange
phenomenon ended with a pop and the smell of broken halogen light
bulbs filled the air. Adrian hurried to the living room. Curious, Poetry
followed.

And let her mouth drop as she craned her neck. A gorgeous woman
dressed in animal skins waited.

“I am pleased to see you survived, human,” she said. Strange way to
say hello. “And you brought your lover home alive as well.” She spared
Poetry a nod.

Her snowy hair shone like moonlight. Her lightning eyes pierced the
murk of the coming dawn.
Poetry shut her mouth and swallowed her disbelief. Freya, I presume?
In one arm she held a weary-looking Ranjan. In her other hand, a
fluffy black cat.
Poetry forgot her awe. “Amir!”
At the sound of his name, the kitten leapt from his perch and raced to
Poetry’s feet. She scooped him up for cuddles.

“Amir, baby, I missed you so much.” His rumbling purr and plush fur
tickled her chin. She didn’t realize until now just how much she loved
him. How much she loved Amir and Adrian.

“Ranjan?” Adrian’s concern grabbed her attention. “Freya, what’s he
doing with you?”
Poetry glanced up to observe the tenderness in which the ivory deity
settled Adrian’s friend to the couch.

“His presence at the battle was unexpected. I fear he has witnessed
events no mortal should.” She parted the hair from Ranjan’s forehead.
The gentle gesture seemed uncharacteristic for the severity of her face.

“Back up a bit,” Adrian parked on the lacquered table across from
Ranjan, and looked him over. “What battle? What happened to Ran?”

“Aphrodite confronted Ares and died in the struggle.” Freya observed
Ranjan, affection and amazement evident in her gaze. “Strife made the
same sacrifice for this man.”

Ranjan peered up from his lap, but his expression remained empty.
“Sarah’s dead.”
Poetry quit petting Amir. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
Adrian ran his hand down his jaw. “Jesus, Ran.” He gripped Ranjan’s
shoulder and squeezed. “Me too.”
“I brought him to Asgard,” Freya said. “We healed his burns and
bones, but only time will soothe his heart.”
A hush fell. The sounds and smells of sizzling bacon and fresh
percolating coffee seemed inappropriate for the somber mood.
Freya waved her hand over Ranjan’s head. He collapsed like a toppled
tree and began snoring.

“He needs rest. It has been a long night.” Freya said, all softness
denied. “You must continue in secrecy. Never speak of your association
with our kind or the things you have seen.”

Adrian twisted to face Freya. “That’s going to be tough. There are two
dead bodies at Poetry’s place. Not to mention her disappearance. How do
we explain that?”

Good point.

“There will be no evidence. Hephaestus’ forge is charred rubble.”
Freya snapped her fingers, and a blue flame danced on her palm. “Arson.
Frank Fleisher is the perpetrator.

She peered sideways at Poetry. “He did not appreciate his lawyer
consorting with you. You are not Caucasian.”
Poetry’s face warmed with anger. She’d felt guilty for his death. Not
so much now.
Freya closed her hand to douse the fire. “Kevin Ferris had the
unfortunate luck to be there, vandalizing. No one shall mourn him.”
“Convenient,” Adrian said. “But it’s not that simple. We could still be
suspects. We have no alibi.”
He’s such a lawyer. But in this case, Poetry was grateful.

“You spent the entire evening at a bar called McNasty’s,” Freya said.
An unlikely grin warped her pale lips. “A red-haired biker who calls
himself ‘Thor’ is willing to testify to your bickering and groping each
other for hours. He remembers you well. Your constant racket disturbed
his game of pool. He wished you would find accommodations.”

“Whatever.” Poetry rolled her eyes. “It’s a cliché but it works.”
“Fine,” Adrian said, throwing his hands up with a sigh and a sidelong
glance. “I’ve heard dumber excuses. I’d better get Ran a blanket.”

When he left, Freya turned to Poetry and grasped hold of her cuffs.
The manacles dissolved into dust. The raw skin beneath the goddess’s
fingers healed.

Freya released her and Poetry placed Amir on a cushion to inspect her
clean wrists. No scarring. “Thanks!”
The titan tilted her head. “You must tend to your stove, lest your meal
burn.”
“Oh, right. But wait…Hugh.” Poetry had almost forgotten him. But
before she could voice her fears, the goddess held up her hand.

“I will take good care of him.” Something in the way Freya licked her
lips, the way she stroked her breasts suggested she’d make Hephaestus
forget all about them. “He won’t bother you anymore.”

Poetry nodded her gratitude and hurried to the oven. She grumbled
under her breath as she flipped the rigid contents in the pan with a
spatula.

Hope everyone likes their bacon crispy. Poetry snagged the mixing
bowl on her way back, but the goddess had departed without a sound.
Adrian brushed past her with a duvet. He covered Ranjan before
entering the kitchen. Poetry accompanied him.
“Interesting people you know.”
“Look who’s talking.” He had a right to be bitter. He’d nearly been
killed saving her, but his voice held humor, not spite.

I can’t believe he came for me. Warm and fuzzy didn’t begin to
describe her giddiness. But it was contaminated by anxiety. They weren’t
in the clear yet.

“So what do we tell our friends?” she asked.
“Exactly what Freya told us to; we argued all night and came here to
have incredible, mind-blowing sex.”
Poetry laughed. “Works for me.” Her mood shifted again when
Ranjan’s wheezing reminded her of his despair. “But what about him?”

Adrian stopped pouring. “Ran buzzed in after last call, babbling about
breaking up with Sarah.” He placed the carafe on the warmer. “When he
gets up we’ll fill him in, and help him as best we can. But don’t say
anything to Jen and Gary. They wouldn’t understand.”

Poetry dropped the well-done bacon on a paper towel and tipped the
scrambled mixture into the leftover grease. “I’ve probably lost my job.”
Oddly enough, the thought didn’t bother her. “And you lost your biggest
client.”

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t really care.”
“What do you mean, you don’t care?”

He dug around the fridge. “It was a long ride home, and I’ve been
thinking.” Adrian sidled closer to Poetry’s side and wrapped his free arm
around her.

“This last case did it for me. Defending creeps like Frank Fleisher
isn’t really what I signed up for.” Poetry stared into the sapphire
windows to his soul and saw resignation. He planted a delicious,
lingering kiss on her lips, and pressed his forehead to hers. “I don’t want
to do it anymore.”

Poetry wanted to jump for joy. This was great news. But…
“What will you do instead?”

Adrian released her and scrounged through various containers on a
wooden shelf next to her.
“I have a lot of money saved and invested-ah, here it is.” He retrieved
a ceramic sugar bowl. “You know what I’ve always wanted to do?

“What?”
“Flip houses and sell them.”

Poetry slid her fingers along the stone countertop. “If this is any
indication of your talents,” Adrian could succeed at this kind of thing.
She knew it. “Then I think it’s a fantastic idea.” She gave him an
encouraging kiss.

You know,” he said, curling a lock of her hair around his finger. “I
could use the help of a real artist.”
“Who?” Poetry stepped back. “Me?” His mouth widened in a grin. He
was serious.
“Just think about it.” He tasted her tongue lovingly and strolled away
to set the table. Poetry stirred eggs and thoughts.
Her future just changed for the better. This sunrise announced a new
beginning with a great guy. Not a psycho.
Lucky her.
EPILOGUE I

Freya absorbed the opulence of Olympus as she marched, it distracted
from her cramping stomach. She would never admit fear, even though
she would not be the only one to succumb to it.