Goddess of Light (33 page)

“Of course,” Pamela lied. Again. Artemis couldn't be told to do much of anything. It was just a good thing that the goddess had excellent, if exceedingly extravagant, taste.

“So what is your handsome tripod doing besides standing around looking male?”

“He's not mine. And he's working with the architects on the bathhouse. It's really pretty interesting to find out about—” A knock on her door interrupted her. “Hang on, someone's at the door.”

“Pamela?” Apollo's deep voice carried easily through the door. “I need your help.”

“Uh, V, I gotta go.”

“Okay—call me later. And remember, don't overanalyze everything, but be careful.”

Pamela grunted a bye and closed the little flip phone before she cracked the door. One look at Apollo, and the door widened, along with her eyes. He was naked from his waist up. His hair was a wild curling mass, and his chin and cheeks were covered with blood.

“Oh my god! What did you do?”

“I shaved,” he said. “And I'm bleeding!”

“Get in here,” she pulled him into the room and closed the door. Under the splotches of blood that speckled his face his skin was pale. She shook her head at him and pointed at a chair. “Sit down before you fall down. You don't look so good.”

Apollo dropped into the chair. He touched one of the blood drops, looked at his reddened finger, and swallowed convulsively.

“It's my blood,” he said.

Pamela frowned at him. “Of course it is. It looks like you nicked the shit out of yourself shaving.” She headed into the bathroom to get a wet washcloth, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Haven't you ever shaved before?”

He shook his head woodenly. “No.”

She came back in the room with the wet washcloth, remembering now that she had noticed how smooth and stubble-free his face had been the morning they'd woken up together.

“You've really
never
shaved before?”

He looked up at her. “I never had to. My face never grew a beard.”

She bent in front of him and examined his face, touching him gently on the cheek. “It's really not so bad. You only cut yourself a few times. It's just that the face bleeds easily.”

“I didn't know,” he said, looking even paler.

She straightened. “Is bleeding something else you haven't done before?”

“No,” he said, then frowned, “I mean yes. Bleeding is something I have never done before.”

Pamela opened her mouth and then closed it. He was a god. Gods didn't die, so it was only logical that they didn't bleed, either. She didn't know what the hell to say. Before she could formulate an intelligent response, two knocks beat against the door, followed by the faint sound of her name.

“Hang on,” she told Apollo. “Who is it?” she asked through the door.

“Me!” the word was a whimper.

“Artemis?” Pamela said, opening the door.

Dressed in her short tunic once more, the goddess swept into the room, looking like an ancient Greek tragedy come to life with one hand dramatically stretched out before her, the other clutching her throat.

“Pamela! Something is terribly wrong with—” She caught sight of her brother sitting in the chair, face speckled with blood, and her hand went from her throat to her mouth.

Pamela slammed the door shut and grabbed the goddess's elbow.

“Do. Not. Scream,” she said slowly and distinctly.

“Oh! Oh!” Artemis wobbled, and Pamela guided her to the bed where she collapsed, still staring with huge glassy eyes at her brother. “Is he dying?” she gasped.

“Oh, good Lord. Of course not. He just cut himself shaving.” Pamela rubbed her right temple, feeling the twinge that signaled the beginning of a pounding headache.

“Apollo?” Artemis asked in a shaky voice.

“I am not good with the . . .” He made a shaving motion.

“Razor,” Pamela said. “No, you're not good with the razor.” She walked over to him and bent down again. “This might sting a little.” She touched the wet washcloth to the nicks. Apollo's only movement was a hitched breath. His sister watched in horror.

“He's bleeding,” Artemis exclaimed.

“Yeah, that's what happens when you cut yourself with a razor. You bleed.” She rolled her eyes at the goddess before turning back to Apollo. “Okay, now you need to take some tissue and press little pieces of it against these cuts. Pretty soon they'll coagulate and stop bleeding, and you'll be good as new.”

“Tissue?” Apollo said.

“Coagulate?” Artemis squeaked.

“Never mind. I'll do it.” Pamela sighed, went into the bathroom, grabbed a couple of Kleenexes and came back to crouch beside Apollo's chair. The twins watched her with amazed expressions as she tore tiny round pieces of the tissue and pressed one each against his shaving nicks. “There,” she said, straightening up and assessing her work. “That should stop the bleeding soon. By the time you put your shirt on and comb your hair, you should be able to take them off without the cuts opening up again.”

“Opening up again?” he asked.

“Apollo, aren't you the God of Healing or whatever? How can this be so shocking to you?” Pamela was exasperated. She didn't know whether she wanted to hug him or shake him.

Abruptly, the god stood. “You are quite right. I . . . I feel rather foolish. I will get dressed and join you soon.” He made a very hasty exit.

“That was not very nice,” Artemis said.

Pamela put her hands on her hips and turned to the goddess. “Oh, look who's suddenly concerned about not very nice. Might I remind you that you've made it clear that you consider me no more than the little mortal experiment gone wrong? I seem to distinctly remember that you said something about being supremely tired of being shackled to me as your excuse for zapping me with some kind of sex magic so I'd like your brother.”

Artemis cringed back from her. “You're hurting my head.”

“Good!”

“Again, that's not very nice. Especially in light of the fact that I think I might be dying.”

“And why would you think that?”

“Just look at me! Something is terribly wrong. My eyes are all red and there are horrid puffy bruises under them. My stomach feels very, very ill. And I think my head may burst open at any moment!” she said, falling back dramatically on Pamela's pillows.

“Please. There's nothing wrong with you except that you're hung-over,” Pamela said, trying not to laugh.

“Will it kill me?” Artemis asked, sitting straight up and then grimacing and holding her head.

“No. But I'd lay off the mimosas and champagne today.”

The goddess blanched. “Do not even mention those drinks.”

Pamela couldn't help smiling at her. “I'll bet you're thirsty.”

“Absolutely parched. How did you know? Have you had this sickness yourself?”

Pamela went over to the minibar refrigerator and took out a bottle of water, cracked the seal, and handed it to Artemis. “More times than I'm willing to admit. You drank too much alcohol yesterday. Your body—your temporarily mortal body—is telling you that's not a good idea.” She watched as Artemis guzzled the bottle of water. “Wait, don't drink it all. You'll need something to take the Tylenol with,” she said, rummaging through her purse until she came up with her little emergency travel pill box, and picked through the Benadryl and Xanax until she found two Tylenol. “Here, take these and have a bland breakfast—maybe some toast or muffins.” Noting Artemis' blank look she said, “Oh, all right. I'll show you what to eat. But make sure you have some coffee and some more water. You'll feel better soon.”

“Will I look better? I can not believe the wretched sight that greeted me in the mirror.”

Pamela studied the goddess's face as she had her brother's before her. She was, of course, still amazingly beautiful, but this morning Artemis definitely looked haggard. “Come on in the bathroom and let me see what I can do about those dark circles.” She paused and gave Artemis an appraising look. “Wait. I'll make a deal with you. I'll do something about your face, if you promise to be nice to Eddie again today.”

At the mention of the author's name Artemis' face changed. It seemed to soften, and her cheeks flushed a delicate pink.

“Oh. My. God! You really like him,” Pamela said.

“He . . . he reminds me of someone,” Artemis whispered.

“You like him because he reminds you of someone? Who?”

The goddess's eyes flashed, and she looked more like her usual haughty self. “It is my concern not yours who Eddie reminds me of, and I do not like him simply because of that. He recognized me. He is a mortal from a modern world that no longer honors the gods and goddesses, yet he knows me and worships me. That pleases me.”

“Huh,” Pamela said.

She motioned for Artemis to sit on the bathroom counter while she looked through her makeup bag for her concealer. For a while she worked silently on the goddess's face, covering the dark circles under her eyes and brushing some bronzing powder over her face to help bring back some of her natural color. Then, just because Artemis was so damn beautiful, she highlighted her eyes with some shimmery shadow. It was like touching up a painting that had already been completed by a master, she thought.

“Hippolytus,” Artemis murmured.

“What's that?” Pamela said.

“Hippolytus wasn't a what—he was a who. Eddie reminds me of him.”

“Was he an author, too?” Pamela asked, adding just a touch of blush to the goddess's high cheekbones.

“No. He was a warrior. Son of Theseus. He was tall, strong, and almost as beautiful as a god. Eddie's body does not remind me of my Hippolytus. It is in his devotion that I find the similarity.”

“You talk about Hippolytus in the past tense. Is he dead?”

“Yes,” Artemis said shortly. “Killed mistakenly because of his devotion to me. I was the only woman he could ever love.”

“I'm sorry,” Pamela said.

Artemis met the mortal woman's gaze. She was surprised to recognize understanding there. “You've lost a love, too.”

“He didn't die physically. It was just that I found out that the man I believed in didn't actually exist.”

Artemis nodded thoughtfully. “In a way, that would be even more difficult to bear. At least Hippolytus no longer walks the ancient earth. It would be a painful burden to see him and to know that he is only the shell of what I believed him to be.”

“You do understand,” Pamela said.

“Yes.” Artemis smiled sadly. Then she turned and looked in the mirror and her smiled widened and became authentically happy. “You have performed a miracle!”

Pamela laughed. “Absolutely. It's called Borghese, Mac, and a little Chanel added in for good measure. The modern woman's miracle workers.”

“Thank you, Pamela,” she said sincerely.

“You are welcome, Artemis.” She looked at her own still-rumpled reflection. “Now I'm going to have to perform a similar miracle on myself. And I'm going to have to hurry.”

Artemis slid from the counter. “I will tell Eddie I detained you. He will not be upset at having some time alone with me before you join us.”

“Artemis,” Pamela called. With her hand on the doorknob the goddess turned to look at her. “May I ask you one question? Even if it is a little personal?”

The goddess shrugged one smooth shoulder. “You deserve a boon for the miracle you worked. I have no powers with which to thank you, so I will gladly answer your question.”

“I admit I don't know my mythology very well, but everything I remember ever reading about you, about Artemis, said that you are a virgin goddess, totally untouched by any man or god. I was just wondering if it's true.”

For a moment Artemis looked shocked, then perplexed, and then she began to laugh.

“Well, I didn't mean it to be funny,” Pamela muttered, a little embarrassed by the goddess's reaction to her question.

“It is the storytelling of men at which I laugh, not you. They branded me as the virgin goddess because I refused to shackle myself to one mate. I take love where I will. I decide who and where and when. My real pleasure comes from my freedom. My favorite lover is the forest, my oldest companions my handmaiden nymphs. But I can assure you that I am no virgin.” She left the room, and her musical laugher floated after her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

PAMELA was surprised to realize that Apollo was avoiding her. She was also surprised to realize how much his avoidance bothered her. She still caught him looking at her, but the moment she tried to meet his gaze, he turned from her and became very busy with whatever workman was near. He even avoided her during their lunch break. She sat with Eddie and Artemis and watched them flirt outrageously while she gobbled down one of the excellent gourmet sandwiches Eddie's genius cook made for everyone. Apollo had only paused long enough to grab a sandwich and send her a brief, distracted smile before he rejoined the architect over near the site where workers had already begun staking out the ground for the bathhouse.

Not that she wasn't busy herself. Today they were choosing the flooring, and it had turned out to be a major event. At first Eddie had wanted a horrid reproduction of the tacky fake stone flooring that was so nauseatingly abundant at The Forum. Thankfully, from her perch atop the dais where she stood regally, holding a bow in her hand instead of yesterday's vase, Artemis shook her head and said a quick, “Oh, no, Eddie. It is dreadful.” And that was that. The laminated fake stone was instantly vetoed. Then Pamela had told the three representatives from the natural stone manufacturers to bring forward samples of their best marbles. And the deluge began. Eddie had been instantly enthralled with the different colors and varieties of the stone, and he kept moving from one outrageous sample to another, becoming more and more infatuated with each one and insisting that they choose a different color scheme for each room.