This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(29)

My head snaps back toward him, startled that he’s not only answered a question but is elaborating on it. His eyes are on me and I can feel the heat of the bonfire again, the intensity of the rites, the blood and the song. “I must have startled one—it was so fast. It reared up and struck me, right here.” He taps just above his knee, and, obediently, my eyes follow his fingers to his thigh. “It had no fear,” he says. “It sank its teeth right into my flesh.”

I swallow, my throat unaccountably dry. This is the most that Ares has ever spoken to me, in all the centuries we’ve shared on Olympus. I shouldn’t want to hear more, but curiosity tugs at me and I can’t help but ask, “What did you do to it?”

“Nothing.” There’s a kind of music in his voice; not the harmonies I hear when the Graces speak but a sound more raw and primal. It’s the clashing of cymbals, a savage joy, the songs of war and fury that send a shiver up my spine. “It pulled back and hissed at me, angry that I didn’t fall or run. It didn’t care who I was, god or mortal, only that it wanted me dead.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I can see why you like them, then.”

He laughs, grudgingly, as though it’s not a sound he’s used to making. I never imagined that he could. Despite myself, I feel a tiny thrill of warmth—who would have guessed I could elicit any kind of joyous response from the War God? “It was ready for battle,” he says. “It had the right spirit. So I put it on my armor, as a reminder.”

I see it as vivid as a dream. Ares, alone at the side of a broad river, the flat green water winding its way through a valley flanked by rugged mountains, meeting a creature spitting with rage and aggression, and finding himself charmed by its attack.

The image dissolves like mist in the dawn light, and it’s Phaon who rises up in its place. The horror on his face as he died. The coldness in Ares’ voice as he ordered me away; the audacity with which he tried to forbid me from taking revenge. It feels like plunging into a freezing pool, an icy shock that jolts me awake. How can I stand and joke with the god who did this?

“Very fitting,” I say, and his head jerks up at the chill in my voice. I see a flicker in his eyes—is he startled by my sharpness? Something twists inside me, vicious as his snake, and poison rises in my throat. “Indiscriminate cruelty, no regard for life. That seems right for you.”

I hear the brisk slap of sandals on tiles, and Apollo appears between the scroll-topped columns, hurrying lightly down the wide marble steps to the courtyard, his hair rippling in the breeze. “Aphrodite!” he cries genially. Then he notices Ares. “And you,” he adds.

Ares stands up in one fast movement. He slides his helmet back over his head, his face obscured once more, and strides off toward the palace.

“As friendly as ever,” Apollo murmurs.

“That’s right.” I curl my fingers into my palms. There’s a shaking in my center that I can’t explain. The resurgence of my anger, churning in my blood.

He looks at me curiously. “Were you talking to him?”

I shrug. “As much as anyone can ever talk to Ares. Or would want to.”

His gaze is keen, probing my face for more. “What is it?” I ask. “Were you looking for me?”

“Zeus is wondering where you are,” he says. “You’re late.”

“Don’t waste any more of my time, then,” I say, smiling so that he doesn’t know if I’m serious or not. I follow him up the steps and he pushes open the tall bronze doors to the throne room. I see the gods seated at the long table, each one in their golden throne.

“You’re here,” says Zeus, beckoning me to the table. “At last.”

As I sit, I notice one throne is empty. “We can’t start yet anyway—Hephaestus isn’t here.”

Hera waves my protest away. “Never mind Hephaestus,” she says. “Do we really need any report of what blacksmiths are up to?”

“Hera’s right,” Zeus says, and my blood begins to boil. I hate their dismissive attitude toward their son. He’s crafted the chairs we sit on right now, the ornate thrones behind us, and they take his kindness and his patience as their due, never expressing the tiniest fragment of gratitude.

My eyes alight on Ares, already seated, his armor glittering in the low evening sun that streams through the windows, his jaw set and stern. He’s the one who shouldn’t be invited.

“Ares, you were about to speak,” Zeus says.

Iris slides a cup of nectar to me, her wings brushing my shoulder as she passes by.

“The Thracians are moving south,” Ares says. “Armed and ready.”

“Another war?” I ask.

He nods.

“And how much of a slaughter should we anticipate?” I ask, a sharp edge to my question. It’s not just the memory of his most recent war that stings. It’s that we came close to a conversation out there in the courtyard. I made him laugh when I should have walked away.

“A significant one,” he drawls. “They’re proficient in battle, and bloodthirsty. They sacrificed a dozen bulls to secure my favor before they left.”

My breath hitches in my throat.

Zeus shrugs. “Will you grant it?”

“I’ll be with them,” he answers.

“Well,” I say, gathering my composure, “on Cyprus, they’re preparing to hold a festival in my honor. Since it’s a celebration of love, we can expect in nine moons’ time a host of babies to be born. Perhaps that will go some way toward countering all these needless deaths.”