This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(64)

Those same eyes that are looking into mine right now. Except they’re wrong. Deep blue instead of bronze-flecked midnight. And his hair is the same burnished gold as his leopards’ fur, rather than the bearlike black I love to run my fingers through. I pull myself up to sitting, the spell shattered, and drop the drinking-horn to the ground, the last rivulets of wine seeping into the earth.

This isn’t where I want to be. I must say it out loud because Dionysus tilts his head ruefully. “Disappointing,” he says.

I climb to my feet, some of the giddiness dissipating.

“Where do you want to be?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbows. “Back in Cyprus? Thrace? Or is it the volcano that calls you?”

I squint at him. His face is open, his eyes bright with curiosity. “What do you know about Thrace? Or the volcano?” The breeze is fresh against my heated cheeks, cooling my blood.

A smile plays across his face. “I notice things,” he says. “And when the wine is flowing, gods talk.”

I shake my head, trying to clear it. “What do they say?”

“That you’ve tamed a war-god.” He laughs. “But I could tell anyway, from the way he glares at me.”

It’s just as Ares said: however self-absorbed the gods may be, they love to sniff out secrets. Ours, it seems, is discovered. “And the volcano?” I ask again.

He stands, a graceful movement. “You aren’t the only one to visit the exile,” he says. “He makes such treasures in that forge of his, it’s irresistible to the rest of them.”

I recall the shield, the crown, the assorted ornaments and weaponry I saw stacked about his cavern, and I think of the covetous gods. Concern for Hephaestus wouldn’t draw them there, but the lure of his artistry would. And he would make them what they asked for, just as he always did, with no expectation of anything in return. “So the gods will defy Zeus when it suits them,” I sigh. I smooth my hands over my crumpled dress, straightening it out. I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Most of them,” he agrees. “I feel rather left out.”

His tone is innocent enough, but it raises a prickling across the back of my neck, cutting through the spell of intoxication. “What interest would you have in Hephaestus?” I ask.

Dionysus shrugs. “I’d like to see inside a volcano.” He smiles, the same beautiful smile as always, but something about it unsettles me.

“He’s an outcast from Olympus,” I say, sharpness edging my tone. “You’d be better staying away from him, if you want to rid yourself of that status.”

He makes a face. “I’m not an outcast. The gods like me.”

“Hera doesn’t.” I’m too addled by wine to find any tact. “She’ll never accept you. And Zeus doesn’t win every argument he has with her, you know. She’s resourceful. She’ll keep you out of our halls.”

He’s smiling. “Hera despises me, and Zeus despises Hephaestus. It seems like we have more in common than I thought. Not to mention, we’re brothers.”

“Half-brothers,” I correct him. “And you have very little in common, I promise you.”

His eyes gleam with starlight; his wine-flushed cheeks soft and smooth. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not.”

“Hephaestus has built a new existence.” I frown. “He doesn’t need any more chaos.”

Dionysus tips his head back and laughs. “You worry that I won’t be a good influence?”

“Dionysus,” I say, “you aren’t a good influence on anyone.”

He picks up the jug of wine that rests on a flat rock, along with his drinking-horn. “I just like to make people merry,” he says, pouring more. “It sounds like Hephaestus could do with some of that.”

The breeze drops, and the air is still and warm around me. My hair feels thick and heavy, clinging to the back of my neck. “Perhaps he could,” I say. The thought strikes me that if the other gods are visiting the volcano, word will get back to Zeus. When he hears how Hephaestus has turned his prison into a forge and sees the fruits of his son’s labor adorning the rest of them, he’ll be reminded of his skill. It might not be long before Zeus wants something for himself and decides to rescind his punishment. My spirits lift at the thought.

Dionysus holds the horn out to me, the rich sweetness of the wine spicing the air, but I shake my head and he shrugs. “Next time,” he says.

“Next time,” I agree. I make my way through the trees, stumbling every now and again on exposed roots and unexpected rocks. It’s hard to resist the temptations of this island. It calls to me, languorous and seductive. It’s the power of Dionysus, so similar to my own. He’s a playful god, drawn to excitement.

I need the forest to thin out, so that I can find my way to the stony shore and the vast sweep of the sea. There, I’ll plunge myself into the cold, salty water and restore my senses. Too long with Dionysus is enough to make anyone forget themselves entirely.



* * *



—

Mortals pray, songs drift to the heavens, and incense crumbles over the altars in Paphos. I listen to every dilemma of the heart and note every offering left at my statue’s feet. Then I spread my focus across the world, watching Eros as he wanders other lands armed with his unseen arrows, looking for more lovers who need my intervention, absorbing myself in their stories and their longings. I visit Sicily again—not the volcano but the sprawling forests—and look for Galatea. Unbound by Pygmalion, she runs through the trees with dogs at her feet and a bow in her hand, her hair streaming loose behind her. The very image of her goddess, Artemis, who is never far away. From a safe distance, I watch the two stop and kiss by a bubbling spring. Artemis is as prickly as a thorn bush and savage as a mountain lion. Better not to get too close. Even so, when I fly above them disguised as a dove, her hound’s ears prick up and it tenses, a rumbling in its throat.