Aphrodite's War (20 page)

“Nice try. But you’ll have to do better.” He hurled a computer monitor
from the desk.
She scuttled to one side and the equipment slammed into the wall.
Glass and plastic showered Strife. She ducked and shielded her face.

The rumblings of wood rolling against tile alerted Strife and she stood
in time to avoid decapitation. Hermes pinned her with the oak desk,
grinding it into her hips with bone-crushing intent. Hot agony raced up
Strife’s spine and Hermes increased the pressure, grunting with the effort
like a wild beast.

She struggled, both hands prying at the solid edge in vain. Her thumb
brushed her purse, and Strife wriggled her fingers inside, searching for
anything that might assist her. They closed over a vial. She popped the
top and dashed the contents in Hermes’s eyes.

Talcum clouded the air, instantly filling the small space with delicate
sweetness, blinding them both. The painful tension ceased. Hermes
bellowed in anguish. Strife collapsed to the floor, retching with the soapy
taste of perfume in her mouth.

From the corner of her watering vision, Strife saw Hermes lurch
toward the entrance. You will not get away this time.

She gave chase, determined to finish him.
But he’d almost made it to the door. She had to do something.

Hermes made a critical error in judgment, shuffling left of the exit.
Strife once again leapt on the service counter.
A cooler filled with lilies and orchids sat to her right.
With all her inhuman strength, she peeled it from the wall. A metallic
groan filled the room as the gargantuan refrigerator sailed through the air.

Hermes’s failed attempt to catch it bore him to the ground with a
sloppy crash peppered with a chorus of breaking glass and singing
shelves.

Yellow, orange, and purple petals fluttered throughout the store like
confetti. Floral scents combined with baby powder made the room reek
like women’s deodorant.

The abrupt quiet brought serenity to chaos. The only sound: the
panting of a dying man.
She must hurry. The noise would bring curious humans, and she
couldn’t be caught. Not with her objective so close at hand.
She eased to the floor, her sandals transforming glass to powder.

“That was too easy,” She strutted over to stare at Hermes’s ruined
face. Shards embedded various pockets of flesh, including his left eye. “I
expected better from a demi-god.”

Hermes glared contemptuously through milky tears, trying in vain to
spit blood at Strife. His thoughts dimmed.

“Yes, it’s too bad,” she said, “but if it is any consolation…” She
extended her hands to the multicolored carnage. “This is the prettiest
death I’ve ever seen.”

Strife backed away from the growing pool of blood and cocked her
head to examine the damage. Hermes’s bones and inner organs were
crushed, she knew. But as much as she wanted Hermes to experience an
excruciatingly slow and miserable demise, she couldn’t permit it.

Both his parents were original denizens of Eden, angels who claimed
godhood on Earth.
Grievous as his injuries were, the possibility Hermes could survive
had occurred to her.

She stepped down on his Adam’s apple, putting her full weight on it.
Sickening popping and crunching music filled her ears as more bodily
fluids gushed from Hermes’s mouth.

A pleasurable sigh eased through Strife’s lips when her foot came to
rest on the back of Hermes’s throat. The light faded from his eyes, his
spirit dissipated.

Tension drained from Strife’s body. She could not remember the last
time she’d been so satisfied. And hungry. Murder gave her an appetite.

She straightened her clothes and checked for stains. Strife wiped talc
from her face and clothes, combed it from her hair with her hands. Good
thing she’d worn a paisley print blouse. The pink and red swirls would
hide her sins, as would the black capris. She found a cloth to wipe blood
spatter from her legs and shoes.

She’d only been here minutes, but Strife hastened. Time to get out.

She exited the store as calmly as she could manage and returned to
Kyoto, sniffing her collar for tell-tale hints. Fortunately, she smelled like
a fresh shower of hygiene products.

When Strife approached the table, Ranjan and Adrian were engrossed
in conversation.

“I mean, I know it’s just a car, but I worked so hard to get it. I loved
that Bentley,” Adrian said. “I am going to kick that guy’s ass so hard
he’ll beg for jail time just to get away from me.”

“I get that,” Ranjan said. “Just don’t do anything that might
jeopardize your… Hi, Sarah.” He sidled over to make room for her. “Sit
here.”

“Thanks.” She pushed aside the menu and took a generous gulp of
green tea. Its soothing heat and fresh flavor flooded her dry throat.
The server with the dark blue kimono approached.
“Did you want to look at the specials?” Ranjan asked. “Or do you
know what you want?”
“I’ll have the tuna sashimi.” She salivated, fantasizing about the
silken sensation of raw fish grazing her teeth.

This would be the nearest thing to tasting Hermes blood she would
get, and she intended to partake with pleasure. She brought her teacup to
her lips to hide her relish.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Poetry moaned. The echo it caused disturbed her, but she didn’t open
her eyes. Her head hurt too much. She wasn’t up to stabbing rays of
sunshine in her brain.

As consciousness returned, so did her instincts. Something was
wrong.
Instead of the clammy heat of her apartment, a bone-chilling dankness
embraced her. No noise of traffic, no dull roar of furnaces below.

She licked cracked lips and tasted mud. Not good. Every shift of her
body resounded in her ears. Water dripped, she couldn’t tell where. It
seemed to be all around.

Poetry dreaded the discovery that would no doubt greet her once she
risked a peek at her surroundings. But she had to know…
Panic engulfed her. She couldn’t see.
Despite protesting muscles she rushed to her feet. Her screams
reverberated back the sound of new horrors.
Bats.

They slapped her face and caught in her hair, squealing their united
indignation and digging what must be hundreds of tiny claws into her
scalp. Poetry danced to dislodge them and ran blindly in the dark.

The decision nearly popped her arms from their sockets. A cry of
anguish and agony ripped from her throat and ricocheted into space. She
dropped to her knees, barking as they connected with solid rock and
jagged pebbles.

Poetry’s head swam. Her empty stomach lurched. Tendons ached and
now her legs were shredded and sore. And she was still blind.
Her heavy hands reached to rub her throbbing shoulders. Why did her
arms feel like they weighed a ton?
The answer came with the rasp of metal on metal. No way. It can’t
be. She explored her limbs and discovered the truth.

Poetry smelled standard, every-day iron. Her touch found solid cuffs
encircling her wrists. Shackles. The links were huge, almost the size of
her thumb.

She groped to their source and found a stone wall. Gouges and crags
scratched her palms.
Her misery complete, Poetry collapsed to the ground and wailed until
she couldn’t stand despair ringing in her ears.

Memories patched together. She’d been sleeping. The shadow in her
room, someone she knew. Everything happened so fast, she couldn’t be
sure what she remembered.

The only thing she understood was that she crouched on a dirt floor
covered in, she took a whiff, bat shit, and she couldn’t see or move.
She’d been kidnapped and locked away in a cave.

Damp air, seeping moisture, flying rodents, and utter darkness…It
must be a cave.

Poetry didn’t know if Edmonton had anything like that, and her worry
grew. Where the hell was she? Did anyone even know she’d gone
missing?

Loneliness eroded her strength. Tears welled hot in her eyes and
spilled down her cheeks. No one would find her. Not her parents, not her
co-workers. Her boss would probably think she just no-showed and quit.
She couldn’t count on Jenny to get her head out from her ass long
enough to think about someone else. And Adrian had written her off as a
sexual conquest.

For reasons Poetry couldn’t explain, the last thought hurt the worst. If
there ever existed a time when she needed a smart, compassionate
warrior-type hero, it would be now.

She dismissed the guy who’d seduced and left her. In his place, Poetry
wished for the brave man who’d fearlessly confronted Kevin, then
searched her apartment with a broomstick. She envisioned the slender
Norwegian, dressed not in the garb of a Viking, but in the blue robes of a
Kendokka.

But he’d never come for her. He didn’t want her anymore.
Grief tightened her chest. “Adrian.” Poetry listened to the echo of her
desperate whisper, and surrendered to her sorrow.
# # #

Adrian dragged himself inside and disengaged his home security
system. What a gong show of a day. Ranjan had dropped him off,
something about showing that Sarah girl the University of Alberta
campus.

Poor guy had it bad. Adrian had resisted the urge to tell Ran he should
wipe the drool from his chin and stop making eyes like a love-sick
moron. It was too funny. Worse than Gary.

They’d invited him to tag along, but between lack of sleep, the
trashing of his Bentley, and several hits of sake Adrian wanted shut-eye
more than ever.

Light poured in through the balcony windows. Afternoon sun toasted
the apartment, making him feel even lazier.

He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks, flopped down on the
sofa, and checked the time. Two o’clock. Adrian groaned. Kendo practice
didn’t start until nine, but he didn’t have the strength to kira-kaeshi or do
any other drills, never mind kiai.

Charging across the dojo, striking motodachi opponents while yelling
at the top of his lungs sounded like more work than he could handle
tonight. Besides, his shinai needed maintenance.

Not a bad idea, he thought, rolling to stand again. Adrian liked oiling
and waxing the bamboo sword. It recharged him and brought on a sense
of pride for his sport.

He grabbed it from his bedroom closet, the safest place for the
weapon, and tripped over something round and metallic.

He bent and retrieved the forgotten torque Poetry made for him. Now
he winced as he remembered chucking it when he awoke this morning.
She’d obviously worked really hard on it, judging from the intricate
braid. How long did it take to weave metal wire into a rope? He eyed the
stones, rubbing the suddenly tingling burns on his collar bone.

Guess he’d had a reaction to these rocks. But he wouldn’t tell Poetry.
He brought it to the coffee table and sighed. If she ever spoke to him
again.

After firing off an apologetic e-mail to his sensei, Adrian assembled
his tools. He gathered paper towel, a pocket knife, sandpaper, light
mineral oil, and a white candle. He prepared a cup of green tea before
settling to the task.

Adrian unwound the himo. The string loosened and he pulled two
loops free. He removed the leather nakayuki, sakugawa, and tsuka,
leaving only four staves.

He separated the set, careful not to lose the top plug or the crucial
metal square that connected them from the other end.
Pausing for a sip of hot grassy brew, he checked for chips on the
blades.

After filing and sanding each stave, the rest of the job went quickly.
He doused the paper towel with oil, coating each piece of bamboo until
they glistened. Adrian ran the candle down all edges, ensuring smooth
motion between staves.

Adrian realigned all four blades, the notches on the bottom fitting
with the thumbprint sized tin plate. The tsuka sleeve slid on, then the
plug at the point. Nakayuki and sakugawa came next, along with the
himo.

He checked his kitchen clock. Two forty-five. It wasn’t out of the
ordinary for Adrian to get lost in the ritual, but it took him longer than
usual to scrape the dents out. Normally he’d do this in twenty minutes.

With his loops and winding done, Adrian inspected his work. The
staves clicked to his satisfaction and the himo twanged like a ukulele
string. Perfect.

Sipping his tea, Adrian pondered what to do next. He probably could
make practice, now that he’d had a chance to relax. He leaned back on
the couch, letting the leftover strain fall away. Maybe he could make
practice after all. After a nap. Adrian shut his heavy eyelids.

# # #

‘Message from Opticon’ blared from the kitchen, harshing Kevin’s
rainbow haze and amping him up. Poetry’s ringtone. He didn’t miss it.
He fucking hated that song. He couldn’t wait to bash it into oblivion.

He’d caught a lift from Ares and his Batmobile, so Kevin could make
her pay again.
She deserved it. That’ll teach her for getting him arrested. Bitch had
cost him a lot in the last week. Gonna get even this time.

He stomped across the room to the shitty table and chairs where he
found the buzzing phone. He slammed it to the floor and crushed it with
his heel.

“Shut the fuck up!” What was the bitch gonna do without her precious
Koodo? Now she had no cell, no computer, no nothing. If he had his way,
she’d get another eviction too. Kevin wouldn’t be happy until she’d lost
everything. Then maybe he’d take her back.

Two sounds interrupted his thoughts. First, the slow stroll of big-assed
boots coming from the bathroom. The second clicking Kevin knew
better, having been on the business end of a gun a few times.

Kevin glanced up to see some skinny, wrinkled fuck pointing it at
him.
“And who might you be?” The old man asked, drawling out the first
word.
“I don’t gotta tell you, Gramps.” The dope made Kevin brave. “Who
the fuck are you?”
“None of your goddamn business.” Geezer wasn’t backing down.
Good. I could use a half decent scrap. Even if he had a revolver,
Kevin could take him. He coughed up a chortle. This was gonna be fun.
Kevin feinted left, then right. Gramps couldn’t keep up, his aim
waggled back and forth.