After that, Aphrodite resorted to stronger measures to bring me back in line whenever I pushed back against her.
Even with all the years of love and resentment that slid right into hate, the truth is that she’s been the one constant in my life. Foil or guiding light, she’s always been there. It never really occurred to me that one day she wouldn’t be.
That one day mine would be the hand that brought her demise.
It takes me forty minutes to make it to her building. Though my mother spends most of her time in the area around Dodona Tower, she actually lives in the outskirts of the theater district. I’ve never been able to figure out if she actually likes the theater or if she just likes being a patron and muse to performers. Either way, it was her dragging me out to shows that eventually led to me finding the Bacchae.
She lives in a town house rather than one of the many skyscrapers that litter Olympus. It even has a small, fenced yard, and that’s how I enter the property, letting myself in through the gate that borders the back alley. There should be security people watching over the space—at my insistence—but it seems she’s dismissed them again. She hates having an entourage of armed people, and so she slips them off every chance she gets. It used to frustrate me to unspeakable levels.
Now, it works in my favor.
I pause in the yard. In the spring, it’s an explosion of color and flowers, all perfectly curated and picture-ready. I never understood that. Aphrodite entertains endlessly, but she rarely does it in her home. She barely posts pictures of this space, either. It’s almost as if all this beauty is just for her, but I can’t think about that now.
I use my key to unlock the back door and slip inside without announcing myself. It’s Sunday, so she should be home. Aphrodite ascribes to no church, and she likes lazy Sundays where she’s not on display to the public.
Except the house feels strangely empty.
I wander from room to room, hating the cascade of memories each one brings. This was my childhood home, and if that childhood was often devoid of softness and safety, it wasn’t all bad. I pause in the doorway to my old room. It’s a relic from the past, exactly the way I left it when I moved out at eighteen, desperate to put some space between myself and my mother. A king-sized bed, ridiculously high-thread-count sheets, exactly one pillow occupying the great expanse of mattress.
Despite myself, I step into the room and look around. There are no posters on the walls, but I do have two framed paintings that my mother gifted me during a particularly angsty stage. Their artist’s moniker is Death, which felt particularly apt at the time, and they show close-ups of battered hands drenched in color, giving the impression of violence just committed.
My desk holds a scattering of papers and pictures and random bullshit that teenagers accumulate. Notes from Helen. Old school assignments that I never got around to tossing. Notebooks filled with comments and insight gained during my first fledgling attempts at surveillance.
I open my closet and eye the gun safe tucked within. That’s something I’d wager most teenagers don’t accumulate. I crouch down and key in the combination more through force of habit than anything else. While I keep various weapons and poisons in my penthouse, using the stash Aphrodite keeps under her roof is better for this scenario. My mother won’t feel a thing; she’ll just get sleepy and then know nothing at all.
I can’t think about the fact that it’s the same poison I intended to use on Psyche.
There are a lot of things I can’t think about right now.
I open the safe and frown. “What the fuck?”
One of the guns is missing. I hover my hand over the empty space. It was here two weeks ago when Aphrodite required my presence for dinner. Where the fuck is it now?
The small hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Something’s very wrong. I’ve let my emotions get the best of me, and they’ve clouded the one thing I should be thinking about. Or, rather, the question I should be asking.
Where the fuck is Aphrodite?
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I push to my feet. I fish it out, see Helen’s name, and reject the call. I’ll talk to her later. Except my phone starts vibrating before I can put it back in my pocket. Helen again. I frown and answer. “I’m busy.”
“Eros, I think Psyche is in trouble. Or maybe your mother is. I’m honestly not really sure, but something’s going on and you need to know about it.”
The feeling of dread weighing me down only gets worse. “Slow down and explain properly.”
She takes a large breath as if she’s been running. “Like an hour ago, Psyche called me and said she needed Aphrodite’s number to keep you from doing something you couldn’t take back. Which…I thought she was going to… Gods, I don’t even know what I thought, but MuseWatch just reported seeing Psyche in the university gardens in one post and Aphrodite driving toward the university district, looking dressed to kill. I’m so sorry I took so long to put two and two together, but I think they’re meeting, probably soon.”