This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(42)
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I hear that Ares is outside Sparta, helping their warriors defend the city from attack. It won’t take long, I’m sure; they’re renowned for their ferocity. The nights pass as I throw myself into my work in Cyprus, granting love to others. I visit Phaon’s widow, bringing polished shells to her small son, delighting in the smile that dimples his cheeks and lights up his eyes with a happiness that reminds me of his father. I watch over my temple and hear the prayers of the lovelorn and the hopeful, and I make broken hearts whole once more. I am distracted but not enough.
When I see the trailing flame of his horses in the sky, galloping from Sparta back to Thrace, my body is galvanized into action. I don’t harness my chariot; I leap from the mountain summit, shimmer into the shape of a dove and fly to the forbidding gates of his mansion on Mount Haemus.
He’s waiting on the black flagstones in the courtyard, as though he knew I was coming.
“I didn’t think you would,” he assures me. “But I hoped.”
“Just this once,” I tell him breathlessly.
I pull his mouth to mine and his hands are in my hair, pressing me to him like he can’t wait another second. In this moment, I realize every moment we weren’t touching felt like an agonizing eternity. Now I have him again, I need him closer. Much closer.
I’m not worried about betrayal: the wraithlike Keres stare right through me as though I don’t exist. If Eris wanted to share our secrets, there is no god willing to hear her except Ares himself. I don’t fear the watchful gaze of Helios: his rays quail and shrink from these grim towers, his light dwindling to no more than a pale trickle that barely illuminates the floating mists that wreathe these rocky peaks.
Ares breaks the kiss just long enough to pull me through the doors, into that austere hall again. His home is far from my bright and cheerful quarters on Olympus, but, in the arms of the War God, I wonder if its desolate magnificence isn’t more impressive than our glittering palace. If to be queen of this shadowed mansion for a night might not be better than all the glory that the heavens have to offer. In the heat of this moment, it feels like that’s true.
Later, I’ll wake in the darkness of his bedchamber to the haunted shriek of an owl. I’ll hear the cries of grief rising from the families of those he vanquished and I’ll vow that this time really will be the last.
12
When I slip out the next morning, the towers are dark against the snow-capped mountain peaks.
A couple of wilted leaves poke weakly through the stones of the courtyard, barely lifting their heads in the perpetual gloom. They quiver beneath my foot, and, when I raise it, a clutch of dark purple flowers bloom into life. I crouch down to look at them more closely. The outer petals open at the stroke of my finger, thin and silky, ghostly where the dim light glimmers through them. The color intensifies the closer it gets to the heart, the center of each a rich, blood-tinted shade of midnight. I pluck one and tuck it behind my ear. A piece of me left behind in Ares’ kingdom. A piece of him to take with me when I go.
I feel a prickling on the back of my neck; the unmistakable sensation that I’m being watched.
Straightening up, I see Eris swooping down to land on a dark turret, her hair streaming in the wind like writhing snakes. Even from here, there is something voracious in her attitude, a hunger as she glares at me. I know how passionately she wants me gone from this place.
I ripple my fingers at her in an airy wave.
She tilts her head as though she’s listening to something I can’t hear; whispers carried on the air.
Her eyes remain as cold and dark as the depths of a frozen sea, but, in a mockery of my gesture, she lifts her hand in return and gives me a smile. It’s as cruel and insincere as I’d expect, but there’s something unsettling in it too. Something I feel in the pit of my stomach.
Eris looks triumphant. And that can’t mean anything good.
* * *
—
I hear the commotion from my balcony. Charis is dabbing fragrance on my wrists and collarbones before the gods gather to feast. The languorous scent of roses and lilies is wafting from my skin when the clamor breaks out and we still, her wide eyes mirroring mine.
“What is it?” she asks.
“I don’t know, but it sounds bad. Stay here,” I tell her.
“No, I’ll come with you.”
I nod, and we hurry through my rooms, out onto the path. The sound of shouting isn’t so uncommon on our mountain summit, but what I hear now is something wilder and more wrathful than that.
Dark clouds gather above us; fat drops of rain begin to pelt down almost immediately. A warning growl rumbles, then thunder cracks right over our heads, making us jump. Lightning flashes, livid and white, pulsing against the gray.
Charis grips my hand as we hasten around the corner, almost at a run, into the main courtyard. It’s usually so pretty here: the tinkling fountain, chattering nymphs and sparkling sunshine.
In the pouring rain, under the bruised sky, Zeus has Hera by the hair. He yanks her toward him, his face snarling and transformed, then flings her to the ground.
I skid to a halt, my arm in front of Charis. Hera winces, pulling herself to sit; the struggle to keep her dignity is evident on her face, but Zeus is merciless. He grabs her hair again with one hand, the other grasping her chin, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh, and forces her to look up at him.