This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(89)

He sighs with impatience. “Yes, fawning. It wasn’t an act of solidarity. I know that much.”

“No, you don’t,” I protest.

He cuts me off. “It was about you. You’re the lonely one in council, because you don’t have Ares to gaze at from your seat anymore, thinking the rest of us don’t notice. Don’t use me as a comfort just because you miss him.”

I flinch. “I won’t.”

Silence falls between us. My face stings with heat and a lump rises in my throat.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I didn’t mean that.”

I lift my chin. “Yes, you did.”

“I just don’t want you to pretend,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Even if it’s out of kindness.”

Across the courtyard, Auge drops Iris’ hand and turns on her heel, stalking away.

Everyone is arguing—and it’s not just us. This instability that tilts my realm sets all of us at odds, even me and Hephaestus, a couple only in name.

“I understand,” I say.

“Are you going back to Lemnos?” he asks.

I picture Artemis: her disdainful scowl and the knife edge of her voice.

She won’t stop me from doing what I need to do. I owe it to the world to put things right in my kingdom. For all of our sakes. “No,” I answer, and he nods.

He walks to the stables without a goodbye, and his chariot ascends swiftly. I glance back at Iris, who stares in Auge’s wake, and vow to fix this.

In the stables, I jump into my own chariot and issue my order to the waiting birds. “To Arcadia.”





26


In the forest, I follow the same trails I walked with Eros the day before. As I walk, I dim my radiance—no mortal eyes can look upon a god of Olympus and survive—and transform my dress. I make it simple and pretty but much plainer than anything I’d normally wear. No shining threads or intricate embroidery, just a soft, white tunic—one that falls only to my knees, not my ankles. That’s a malicious touch, I’ll admit: I look like a nymph of Artemis. I complete the transformation by twisting my hair into a single braid, though I don’t go as far as carrying a bow and arrow like one of her archers.

I find him in the same glade, kneeling by the stream. It must be where he rests while he hunts here. I don’t give myself time to linger, marching straight into the clearing.

I take him by surprise. He chokes slightly on the water he’s scooping into his mouth, letting it spill through his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t expect to meet anyone here.”

I smile, gracious and collected. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” I say. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He gets to his feet. “Were you looking for water?” he says. “Please, drink. I was stopping for only a moment.”

“You don’t need to go,” I say.

He hesitates. “Are you…” Then he shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“What is it?” I ask. “Do you recognize me?”

He’s trying not to stare, I can tell. A slight flush is climbing in his cheeks. He’s even more handsome than I remembered. “I thought I did,” he says. “But it’s not possible.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “Why couldn’t it be possible?”

He wavers. “Have you been in these woods before?”

I smile. “I have. You saw me, didn’t you?”

“Was that you?” he asks.

“It was.”

“I wondered if you were real,” he says, “or just a dream.”

The trees around us fall still. No branch trembles. It feels as though they’re gathered close, a watchful ring around us. Every Dryad holding her breath.

“Adonis,” I say, and his eyes dart to mine.

“You know my name?”

“I do.”

“Oh,” he says, and there’s a ring of anxiety in his voice.

“You think I might be a nymph,” I say. “And, in these woods, you must be afraid of Artemis.”

“You aren’t her,” he breathes.

“I’m not. I know you probably told yourself that her presence here is just a story. It isn’t. She does hunt these forests, and not just for animals.”

His eyes widen.

“But I’m not one of her followers,” I assure him. “You don’t have to worry about her.”

He breathes out. “Then…who are you?”

The power feels heady, an intoxicating rush. It comes back to me now, the days I used to spend before Hephaestus, before Ares, chance meetings and flirtations with river-gods or weather-gods, deities who dwelled in stars or summoned the rain, rustic gods of the mountains or the skies, each one a new possibility, fresh and tantalizing and full of hope.

Never a mortal man, though. This is something different. I tread carefully, not wanting to alarm him. “I belong to Aphrodite,” I tell him.

“I can believe that,” he says, then puts his hand to his mouth as though he’s worried he’s said something wrong.

“Why?” I ask.

“Well,” he says, and tugs at his earlobe, awkward and uncertain, though that only makes me want him more. “You—you’re very beautiful.”