Aphrodite's War (8 page)

He strolled to the cadaver and nudged the broken neck with his toe,
causing the head to loll back and forth, as if denying its demise. Strife
struggled to swallow regurgitated coffee.

“Why do you think I decorated the ugly bitch instead of fucking her?”

That explained why he’d changed his methods. Blame it on the
homosexuals and create more discrimination. Strife clamped her mouth
shut and nodded her understanding. Ares gave her a condescending
smile.

“Do you require more instruction?”
“No, Master.”

Ares drew close enough that Strife smelled the wine on his breath and
perhaps…mustard gas. It burned her eyes and reeked of hatred.

He stroked her cheek with a gentle touch that put her on edge. He
might be tempted to use Strife for his own cruel desires. “The new world
is ripe for the taking, Strife. Power beyond imagining can be ours. We
will crush Aphrodite and all other gods like insects under our boots.” He
brought her chin up so that she could meet the ebony pools of his eyes.

“Hurry,” he said. “Run and tell them what you have found.”
# # #

Please be here. Please be here. Poetry hurried to the huge double
doors of Vulcan’s Forge, praying her mentor just happened to be around
on this sweltering afternoon, however unlikely. Often in the heat of the
summer months the shop stayed quiet. Her colleagues had better things
to do, like put crafted chainmail to use for mock battles. Some of them
travelled with their wares to flea markets and festivals. Poetry didn’t
have the resources for either. Living on a server’s income meant laboring
in the dank depths year round to make extra money. Not that she minded
the small sacrifice for her art. But today she needed to see the owner of
the smithy for reasons that had nothing to do with her work.

She heaved on one handle, using her waning strength to pry the huge
door open. The outside heat combined with the stress of the mother-ofall-Mondays had stolen her energy. She let the door slam shut behind her
and waited while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The orange and blue
fire of the ovens lent the shop a hellish cast. No windows or cooling
systems brought mercy.

“Hugh?” The name reverberated over the roar of the furnaces. “Hugh,
are you here?” Poetry risked a few steps. “Hugh?”

She knew this place well enough to find her way in the dark. She
eased past the benches of her peers, letting her gaze skip like a stone over
half-finished projects. To her right lay George’s greaves. He’d yet to
properly fit the bindings for his shins. On the table across from his,
Shawn’s molded pewter goblins waited for their seams to be filed away.
Farther behind the work stations, up a rickety set of stairs, a fluorescent
lamp shone like a beacon, drawing Poetry closer. Her heart fluttered.

Hugh’s office. She sucked in warm air and dragged herself toward it.
A clammy paw weighed down on her shoulder and she screamed as
she spun around.

“Poetry? Aren’t you a little early today?”
She craned her neck to meet Hugh’s stare.

Sweat flicked off his red goatee as he spoke. This close he smelled
like clean sweat and leather. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” Poetry hadn’t thought about what she’d tell him once she got
here. Didn’t know what to say now that his imposing visage peered down
at her. Words tumbled out in a frightened babble. “I have no place else to
go.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Poetry told Hugh everything. About Kevin, the trashed apartment, her
missing cat, the fight with Jenny and the eviction.

Hugh took her upstairs where he fixed iced tea. He listened with his
bad leg propped on a chair and arms folded while she tried to stop
sobbing.

“Damn,” he said over and over. “Damn.”
Poetry calmed long enough to sip at the sweet beverage that soothed
on such a hot day.

“What am I going to do?” She didn’t expect an answer. Hugh wasn’t
much for words, let alone advice. It didn’t matter. Just having a sounding
board made her problems a little easier to bear.

“I can’t live with my parents. Even if I never see Amir again and cat
allergies aren’t an issue, I can’t live with them. They won’t ever let me
hear the end of this. They treat me like a child.”

Hugh ran a burly mitt over the ginger stubble on his skull. The sound
cut through the quiet like the whisper of sandpaper. “I know a place you
can stay,” he said finally. Poetry clasped both hands together. Her mentor
always had great ideas. Maybe he knew a way out of her predicament.
Hugh shut her enthusiasm down with one finger of condition. “But it’s
only temporary.”

Poetry snuffled. She had to be stronger than this, her hopes were
dangling. She peered up at Hugh’s stern gaze, knowing how pathetic she
must look with her puffy eyes and dripping nose.

“It’s pretty small too,” he said.
“I don’t have a lot of options.”

Hugh hesitated for precious seconds. “Grab your stuff and follow
me.”

He limped to a large closet door near the back of the common room,
or at least Poetry had always assumed it was a closet. But when Hugh
unlocked it, she saw a set of stairs she didn’t know existed.

“Where do these go?”
Hugh smiled wide, soot creating streaks at the corners of his eyes and
mouth like ripples. “You’re the only other person who knows about this.”

The wooden steps groaned under Poetry’s feet as she climbed behind
Hugh. They were warped, making her unsure of her balance. She waited
in the dark, taking note of clicks and clunks as Hugh unlocked the door
at the top.

It creaked open and a ray of sunlight bathed the narrow stairwell in
pale yellow.

“When I first came to Edmonton this was home,” Hugh said, the
lopsided thud of his heavy boots nearly drowned out his words. “It was
simple, warm, and cheap.”

Poetry gawked. The whitewashed trim and moldings along with the
decrepit appliances gave away the age of the décor. Poetry experienced a
strange timelessness, like she’d walked into the sixties.

Hugh flicked a switch and the overhead light fixture sputtered before
providing a better view of the grunge. And the peeling paint. And the
dried husks of dead insects on the windowsills.

Drop cloths covered the furniture, but Poetry imagined the table,
couch, and chairs to be every bit as ancient as the rest of the place. At
least they wouldn’t be dusty.

“It’s very…” She struggled for the appropriate word while stifling a
sneeze. “Nice.”
“It isn’t much, but it’s all yours if you want it.”

A smile crept up Poetry’s face. Although tiny, it had a kitchen area, a
living room, bathroom and bedroom. And she could spend as many hours
as she wanted in the forge below. What more would she need? “What’s
the rent on this?”

“For you?” Hugh grinned back. It wasn’t something the smithy did
often. “Seven hundred.”

Poetry let her jaw drop. Seven hundred dollars a month? She wouldn’t
get a better deal anywhere in the city. One bedroom apartments never
went for less than nine hundred in Edmonton. She and Jenny had been
splitting twelve hundred. Unfurnished.

“Yeah, I can afford that,” she said, trying to sound casual. Her heart
thumped faster. So far, so good, but she wasn’t in the clear yet. “What
about damage deposit?”

Hugh appeared to consider a price. He stood licking his teeth with his
mouth closed for so long, Poetry wondered if he’d forgotten the subject.
Please let it be cheap, Poetry thought. I can’t afford much.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll waive the damage deposit if you take
it as is. And you can move in now.”
She could have kissed him. Instead she said, “Deal,” and shook his
hand.
What a load off her mind. She could buy groceries this week. Yay.

It occurred to Poetry that she hadn’t eaten since the morning, and she
groaned inwardly. She just had to think of food. Her stomach clenched
and hunger gnawed like a beast in her belly.

“Great,” Hugh said, cracking his knuckles. “It’s settled. I’ll drive you
to the bank, and we’ll settle the paperwork over burgers. My treat.
You’ve had a pretty long day.”

“Wow, you’re a mindreader.” Gratitude overwhelmed Poetry. She
fluttered her hands to cool her blushing cheeks. She didn’t want to cry
again, even if they were tears of joy. “You’re a great friend, Hugh. I can’t
tell you how much this means to me.”

Hugh grunted into his chest. “Don’t mention it.” This time he didn’t
return Poetry’s smile. “To anyone. I don’t need anybody thinking I’ve
gone soft.”

# # #

Strife had to give Ares credit. The war god understood how to stir a
hornet’s nest like no one else, past or present. Time and time again he
proved how the mob ruled.

It seemed the population of the rural town had tripled. Grey’s entire
police force, all two of them, were joined by a forensics team. Extra
RCMP from other counties came in just to control the media. It wasn’t a
paparazzo’s dream, but enough flashbulbs created a menace that left
Strife seeing yellow dots behind her eyelids.

It didn’t take much for Strife to slip away from the crime scene. She
deflected attention away from herself as she always did, expounding on
the horrors instead. She pretended to be too distraught to continue.

Part two of the plan involved riling the masses into frenzy.

Strife bathed in the energy of the crowd. Her power grew with the
fear, rumors, and speculation. From the minute she’d run screaming into
the bar about the murder, chaos had taken hold.

I truly missed this, she thought. Just like old times on Mediterranean
battlefields, she could almost smell the blood. But instead of passing
apples of discord, she slung Apple Jack from a thermos.

“You folks look like you could use a drink,” she said to a middle-aged
couple. They’d parked in front of their pick-up with lawn chairs,
watching the hotel with unabashed interest.

The man glanced up at her, swallowed the rest of the beer in his mug
and held it out to Strife. “Very kind of you.”
“My pleasure.” Strife poured tainted bourbon into his coffee cup and
held the thermos out for his wife.
“Hey, I know you,” the man said. “You’re Max’s new girl, right?”
“That would be me. I’m…” What name should she give? No one had
bothered asking her. Not Max, not the old hag in the hotel.
Her ability to influence humans had improved to the point where they
did her bidding with blind trust. Interesting.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” she said, trying hard to look
sympathetic as she poured.
The woman’s eyes welled. “Poor Delores. She didn’t deserve to die
like that. Is it true she was gang-raped and decapitated?”

Strife fought the urge to laugh and struggled to maintain a somber
expression. Humans had a unique way of twisting messages for morbid
entertainment value. “Yes. It was horrible.” She stroked the smooth, cool
surface of the thermos. “I think the killers were trying to send a
message.”

Both people responded with sharp intakes of breath. Strife heard that
musical reaction each time she spread gossip.
“A message?” the man asked.
The distraught woman put a hand to her chest. “Who would do such a
thing?”

“You know those homosexuals that Frank Fleisher shot on his
property?” Strife felt their mounting anger like a swelling river. “I think
this was payback.”

“Those bastards!” The man’s hands shook as he gulped another
mouthful of Strife’s potion.

“I know,” Strife said. “We simply can’t let them get away with this.”
“Goddamn right,” the man said. “We have to do something.”

“People have been saying that all day,” Strife said, trying to hide her
excitement. “But sitting on watch will do nothing to change the situation.
We need to take action.”

“It’s a good idea, but what should we do?” the woman asked.

Strife topped off their drinks as fury elevated under their skins. She
could almost hear the blood racing hot through their veins. This was
more fun than drugging club kids. “I think you should discuss this with
your neighbors. Get a plan together. We can’t let this go unanswered,
right?” Strife smiled as the couple agreed with shaking fists and mottled
faces.

“You’re damn right, sweetheart!” The man’s face had become ruddy
with indignation and alcohol.
“Very good,” Strife said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to refill my
thermos.”
She had to mix more Apple Jack and pass it around until everyone
came under the influence.

Strife glanced at the late afternoon sky. She had to hurry if she wanted
to accomplish all of her chemistry before nightfall. The residents of Grey
weren’t the only ones who would taste her talents tonight.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Poetry ascended the stairs of her new home. Each step grew heavier
with fatigue and loneliness. She missed the smell of Ichiban already.
Nothing felt familiar anymore. Truth be told, she dreaded sleeping here
tonight. She’d never lived alone before, not even during her artistry
course in New York.

And she was all alone. She still had no idea what had become of Amir.
Jenny wouldn’t return her calls and Adrian didn’t have her number. Hugh
had gone home for the evening after taking her money and handing over
a set of keys.

The door protested as she trudged inside. “Home sweet home.” Her
words bounced back to her along with a violent sneeze.
It wasn’t quite twilight yet, but she turned on the lights to chase away
shadows.
“Well, it’s mine now. I guess I should make myself comfortable,”
she said to the stove.
Great. Now I’m talking to appliances. I’m so lame.

She tugged on the slipcovers protecting the end table, lamp, dining
set, and finally the relatively newer brown sofa. She’d only seen pictures
of these textured monstrosities in photos. It seemed that everyone had
owned one of them in the seventies. God only knew why.

She entered the bedroom and found a quaint dresser and ordinary
double bed with a stained mattress that probably should have been
thrown out.

Those lumps must be the size of rats, she thought, and instantly
regretted it. Knowing the province of Alberta had a militant rat patrol
didn’t dismiss the image.