New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

Athena must’ve known it was the goddess of love from her disdainful silence alone.

The two had spoken as few words as possible since Athena had lost the Judgement of Paris to Aphrodite. What started as essentially a beauty contest between three goddesses—Hera, Aphrodite, and Athena—turned into a decade-long war where Paris, the person who judged the contest, ended up killed from a battle wound, his city turned to ash, and his prize for picking Aphrodite as fairest, Helen of Troy, returned to her former husband like borrowed property.

Aphrodite gestured toward her waist and then to Jaden.

“Your vagina’s broken? Well, I can’t have you running around out here in these streets in that state.” Athena allowed her to pass and muttered something about inevitability as Aphrodite stumbled by.

As I said before, many of us gods have softened with age, Athena included. She could temporarily set aside their differences to help a fellow goddess in need. Otherwise, you know how divine grudges used to be. They really could last for an eternity.

Jaden lingered at the door.

“I don’t know where you keep scrounging up all of these divine favors, but you’re under her protection now.” She swung the spear toward the hall. “Now, scooch. Before I change my mind.”

Athena even gives me pause. She is one of those robust-looking women with muscles that have muscles. Brainy, too. The kind of gym buddy who beats your every personal best in every weightlift and then expects you to spar intellectually in the style of the Socratic method over post-workout protein shakes.

I last saw her when she got kicked off Mount Olympus, but there is a large oil painting of her that Hephaestus installed in the great hall on Mount Olympus in her memory. I’d heard she’d leaned into the whole CrossFit craze, apparently even won several championships. That became evident when I had first seen her painting, which is just Athena in the minimum of clothing, flexing her stout frame. She is in conference with an owl while pouring what looks like a vase of olive oil on her rippling abs. Just rubbing oil on her muscles and chatting.

A beastly entity to have to scooch by. But even scarier to keep waiting.

Inside, the air felt the same to Jaden. Controlled. A part of him wondered what he was doing here again when he was supposed to be boarding a train.

“Jaden.”

Apollo’s voice landed like a chord resolving.

“Yes?” He had forgotten how striking the god was.

“Why did you leave me?”

“Because you were trapping me here.”

“Trapping you here,” Apollo repeated pensively. “Tell me, did you hate it?”

“Yes.”

That wasn’t true, at least not entirely. Jaden had felt his mouth go dry as soon as the word vaulted from his lips.

“Then why are you back?”

“I need your help.” Jaden glanced over to Aphrodite, who was slumped against the wall, massaging her temples. The rot on her skin seemed to pulse now. “Actually, she does. I found her wandering Vondelpark. I think something happened to her?”

Apollo’s eyes shifted to her. “Okay.”

“Are you going to help her?”

“Why does it matter to you? She’s here now, amongst her kind. And since you hated it here...”

The sadness in his voice was almost worse than anger. Even in his sorrow, he commanded the room with a voice full of rich melodies. Jaden almost felt obliged to apologize for leaving, so moved by the perfect tones, as if he had done something wrong.

“I didn’t hate it here,” Jaden found himself saying, “I hated that it was on your terms. And that I had to ask to leave.”

“I was protecting you.”

“You don’t get it. Freedom isn’t something I should have to request.”

Athena chuckled from the doorway. “You know, back in the day, we did what we wanted. And if mortals didn’t like it, they chalked it up to ira deorum.”

“What does that mean?” Jaden asked.

“It means get over it because choice and free will are overrated. You’ll realize that as your limited years fly by.”

Athena left, and the curtain of silence that dropped lasted long enough for Jaden to realize that coming back here was a mistake.

If either of them were paying attention, I know they might have noticed Aphrodite straighten. Not dramatically. Just enough. She slipped between them, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders. They would have felt a tantalizing warmth bloom between them, a whisper of a promise, a hint of a spell. There was no flash of magic, just certain memories, certain thoughts. In that state, love couldn’t command. But it could certainly remove resistance.

“Wrath of the gods,” Apollo said finally. “That’s what ira deorum really means.”

“Just because you were manipulating humans long enough to have words for it doesn’t mean it was legit. It just made it commonplace.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Apollo held up his hand. “I promise I won’t use my powers on you anymore.”

Jaden supposed that was the best apology you could pull out of a god. Besides, he had missed Apollo, even if he had tried to purged Apollo from his mind earlier. How could anyone resist that devious smile that lit up Apollo’s face? The one they shared to communicate that what they longed to express at this point involved touch. touch.

Aphrodite’s glow flickered at the edge of Jaden’s eyesight.

Then she collapsed. Not gracefully, not mythically. More like a desiccated skeleton clattering to the ground.

Apollo eased Aphrodite into a cushioned alcove beneath one of his hall’s high windows. For a moment, he knelt beside her.

Then his gaze moved to the bookcase. To the narrow seam between two volumes—barely visible unless you knew where to look. Apollo slid his fingers between two volumes and drew out a shard no larger than a coin.

Golden sparks dotted Jaden’s vision. He turned away instinctively, but the dazzling light no longer dizzied or blinded him. The brightness settled into him, steady, almost gentle.

Apollo weighed the shard between his fingers as it glowed red-gold and alive. He did not move immediately. Instead, he looked like he was measuring something.

When he pushed the ambrosia past Aphrodite’s lips, Jaden saw a change come gradually. The mottled decay along her arms retreats in slow waves. And the metallic sourness surrounding her thinned into something floral and warm.

“She’ll need time,” he said. “It’ll take her some time to recover from that level of withdrawal.”

They settled in a recessed nook on the other side of the hall.

“What’s wrong with her?” Jaden asked.

“Someone stole her girdle. Usually, we can manage without our divine accessories, but she also doesn’t have any ambrosia left. Without both, her domain collapses inward.”

To Jaden, the answer was clear. “Don’t you have extra ambrosia?”

Apollo’s mouth tilted faintly. “I have what I require.”

“That sounds like extra.”

“It isn’t.”

He let that sit before adding. “What I gave her was half of what I must consume to bring up the sun tomorrow. My father cut off ambrosia to those of us who chose not to remain on Olympus, and I left with what I could carry. Since then, it’s been a matter of calculation.”

“And if you run out?” Jaden asked.

“We don’t perish,” Apollo said. “We are not mortal. However, our reach shortens. Our powers thin.”

“How about we help her get her girdle back then?” Jaden asked. “Seems easier than watching her fade.”

He leaned his head against the wall. “That will not be so simple.”

“I get the vibe that you don’t want to help her.”

Apollo looked toward Aphrodite’s resting form. “She used to live here before Athena did. And she used her girdle to throw these nonstop orgies and gorged through her ambrosia on her quest for sexual transcendence. When hers ran dry, she borrowed from us.”

“So you kicked her out.”

“We asked her to leave.”

“And now?”

Apollo’s gaze returned to Jaden. “And now I’m reluctant to help because she’s paying the consequences for spending her rations enjoying epicurean orgasms. I wouldn’t be surprised if her girdle was stolen during one of her notorious sexcapades. We’ve all had to sacrifice, and I don’t see why I need to go out of my way to help her when she brought this on herself.”

“But you can help her,” Jaden said. “Even if she mismanaged herself.”

Apollo studied him.

“She’s part of your tribe,” Jaden continued. “I read The Iliad in high school. Weren’t you two on the same side during the Trojan War?”

Apollo released a low chuckle. “You recite epics as though they were minutes from a meeting. You don’t even know the half.”

He snapped his fingers and a miniature cosmos unfurled across the ceiling, threads of light stretching into constellations. He scanned them as though searching for traces of something. “We were something back then. I could split the horizon in two if I wanted. But people don’t believe in us like they used to. All we have now are these cheap parlor tricks as our divinity has become nothing in comparison—a sun reduced to candlelight.”

Jaden had seen what having nothing looked like, and Apollo’s situation wasn’t that, even though Apollo had, in fact, lost something. It seemed that humans and gods alike suffered the stings and bites of loss, but as with anything, Jaden supposed it was all relative.

“But you are right. Aphrodite and I have known war and love together,” Apollo said, his face twisted in thought.

Jaden leaned over and kissed him. “Then help her.”

Apollo’s hands framed Jaden’s face. “On one condition.”

“Yeah?”

“That you come with me to find the girdle.”

“Why?”

Apollo gave him a look. “You know why.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

A pause. “Why must I say what you already know?”

“Just say it,” Jaden said. “Or I can dip out of here and continue on my way.”

“I prefer you near me.”

Their next kiss was slower. Something unexpected cleared between them, and momentarily, there was no difference in divinity. They were two beings lost in the dance of desire, baring soul to soul. It made Jaden feel like the incandescent glow that usually surrounded Apollo enveloped them both, and Jaden loved the equality of that moment. And all those that followed as their hands strayed over each other’s bodies.

Afterward, breath still uneven, Jaden asked, “You good?”

“I am,” Apollo replied, arm hooked across Jaden’s chest.

“Same.”

“I gathered.” Apollo chuckled. His voice, however, dropped an octave as he switched topics. “You know, something has been puzzling me. How did you manage to leave my hall?”

Jaden hesitated.

“It just…happened. One moment I was in here, the next I could pass through.”

Apollo was not looking at him, but Jaden thought he felt the god tense. “I feared as much.”

“What do you mean?” Jaden asked.

“My wards have weakened,” Apollo said. “I had attributed it to the distance from Olympus, but there is something else. I have maintained the same ambrosia intake since I departed Olympus, but the same measure now produces less effect.”

“But I thought the food of the gods was supposed to maintain your divinity?”

“It should have.” Apollo looked up at the fading mini cosmos. “There was once a time when I could see everything so clearly and glimpse what fates were in store. But I think even the powers of ambrosia are fading, and all I do is peer into the murk.”

“Maybe Aphrodite is going through something similar,” Jaden said. “Maybe it just hit her faster.”

“Possibly,” Apollo said. “Or she could just be—”

A delicate hum drifted over. Something like a melodic whistle from a golden horn of innocence. Jaden realized it was “Let’s Stay Together” by Al Green.

She got to the chorus and tried to sing, “whether times are good or bad, happy or sad,” but her voice fractured into a violent coughing fit. Apollo told me it was a pale comparison to Aphrodite’s usually marvelous pitch that could linger over your name musically, drawing out your most sultry desires.

“Take it easy, all right?” Apollo said.

Jaden pulled his pants back on, suddenly aware of his own nakedness. Apollo, who got up to tend to Aphrodite, let it all hang out without hesitation.

“Perhaps less singing for now,” Apollo said as a final assessment.

Aphrodite winked.

“I don’t know if you heard, but we’re going to help you find your girdle,” Apollo said as he crossed to a shelf and dusted off an ornate, gold-rimmed mirror. “And if something has been stolen, there is only one god who knows where stolen things go.”

Jaden edged over to join them.

“Hermes,” Apollo commanded. “The god of thieves.”

The mirror shimmered, but that was about it. Eventually, the thing went back to reflecting their three faces crowded in front of the glass.

Apollo repeated himself. Nothing.

“Maybe it’s broken?” Jaden asked.

Apollo frowned. “No, it can’t seem to locate him. The service area only includes Olympus residents.”

Aphrodite pointed to the trumpet emblem etched at the base.

“Clever idea, Aphrodite. Pheme is bound to know where he is.”

Apollo tapped the sigil and gold filigree lit the rim.

The glass filled with a woman whose short, satiny strands of dark sepia locks whirled and twisted with natural chic about her oval face.

“Apollo, dear! Is it truly you? It’s been an eternity and a half. How are you? Tell me everything.” She leaned in closer as if she were in for a real treat, on the cusp of receiving a complete memoir that uncovered one’s darkest, guiltiest pleasure.

“We’re in something of a hurry,” Apollo said smoothly. “As you can see, Aphrodite’s not in the best of spirits. Someone stole her girdle.”

“Oh,” she said, leaning away, her face a bit crestfallen compared to the initial bubbly gush of expressions. “I had heard about that already.”

“Do you happen to hear who took it?”

“No, I’m afraid not, dear. Listen, Apollo, was that all? I’ve got loads and loads of calls to monitor, and not that I don’t enjoy seeing your shining face, I would hate to miss a juicy secret while we idly chitchat.”

“One more thing, I’m trying to get a hold of Hermes. He’s not picking up. Do you know where he’s camping out these days?”

She leaned back in. “Would you like to know a rumor I heard?”

“If it’s about where Hermes is, then yes.”

Jaden could see the tightness gather between Apollo’s brows.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me who that is.” Pheme pointed to Jaden then gingerly arranged her curls as if she needed to look perfect to receive a good scandal.

“That’s Jaden,” Apollo said with the air of hoping he could leave it at that.

“Jaden.” Her eyes flitted about as she searched her memory. “I don’t remember any Jadens on the divine roster. Is he a god?”

“I’m human,” Jaden said.

Pheme gasped. “A human! Are you two entangled? You do look a tinge brighter these days, Apollo. Aglow.”

Jaden looked to Apollo. Apollo looked to Jaden.

“We’re currently enjoying each other’s company,” Jaden said. Something about Pheme’s enthusiastic pause had a way of making him want to share more.

“Now, Pheme,” Apollo said, “what was the rumor?”

“How did you two meet?” Pheme countered, ignoring the question.

“Pheme. The rumor,” Apollo reminded.

“Oh, sorry, I seem to have forgotten it now.” She leaned backward, adopting her coolly reserved countenance again.

Aphrodite nudged Apollo.

“Okay,” Apollo said. “You’re welcome to grill me after we get Aphrodite’s girdle. Deal?”

There was a “yes!” somewhere in Pheme’s outburst of excitement.

“So, the Keres contacted me, and—”

“The sisters of violent death?” Apollo cut in. “You trust them?”

“Well, I am treating it as just a rumor, but you can’t deny when you hear it…there is a certain verisimilitude to what they told me that fits in with Hermes’s unexpected absence of late. As I was saying, the Keres threw a dinner party a while back for Hades and Persephone and some other key people in the Underworld family. It’s some annual goodbye feast they hold for Persephone before she goes off to spend spring and summer with her mother. Anyway, Hermes and Thanatos were also guests of honor at said dinner.” Now, this is where Pheme really seemed to dazzle like a supernova. “And one of the sisters called me to tell me some of the things they overheard Hermes say at the dinner. Apparently, Hermes has given up most of his former duties and has started running a funeral home with Thanatos!”

“Where exactly?”

“Somewhere in America. Virginia, I think? But I forget the name. Something with the word ‘divine’ in the name…Divine Heights? No, that’s not quite right.”

“Divine Rites?” Jaden ventured. “In Richmond?”

“Yes. Yes, exactly that,” Pheme said. “How did you know?”

“They’re the same people who cremated my mom,” Jaden said.

Well, this is where we part ways…

…at least for now.

Over the past seventeen chapters, you’ve met gods, monsters, and more than a few people making questionable decisions with extraordinary power.

The gods, unfortunately, continue making terrible decisions after this point.

If you’d like to witness the consequences—and see where Jaden, Dionysus, and the rest of the cast end up, The Art of Killing Gods releases July 14, 2026.

Either way, thanks for spending some of your time here!

P.S. Preorders are open: The Art of Killing Gods (Amazon)

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

The tigers were restless as they pulled my chariot. I could tell by the way they snarled and nipped at each other, particular about their space. It had been quite a while since I used them for a journey. Io, in particular, had a layer of fat around his middle that rolled up whenever his head moved.

“We there yet?” Pan asked from his cushioned corner. His arms were wrapped around a krater.

“Someone’s up,” I said.

I probably hadn’t done Jaden’s story justice, repeating parts of it for the second time as I caught Pan up on the missing bits. But he could have just said so instead of snoring.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Pan said. “I only closed my eyes, so I didn’t have to look down at the ocean from this high.”

His stubby little fingers tightened their hold on my large, silver vase.

“You didn’t have to come. I’m going to talk to Zeus to prevent a war, not party.”

Pan dipped his finger in the krater and sucked on the droplets of wine. “Why not do both? Celebrate the war that never happened.”

I sighed. “Can you not ruin the wine?”

“This wine?”

“Yes, that wine. It’s a gift.”

“A gift?”

“That’s what I said.”

“A gift to Zeus? The god who has everything?”

“It’s a gesture. We can’t turn up empty-handed and start making diplomatic demands. You know there are rules we all must live by. Sacrifices need to be made. Virgins offered—feasts thrown and so forth.”

“Yer about to eat like a king and you look like yer marching to execution.” Pan dipped his grubby little hands in the vase again and offered me a handful of the Asphodel Blanco.

I seized his forearm. “Get out of the damn wine!”

“Fine,” he said, shirking off me. “I was only trying to help.”

“I told you already, I’m not drinking anymore.”

“You?” His tone was far from supportive. It suggested a lack of faith in my ability to change.

I turned away from him, and the two of us rode across the rest of the Atlantic Ocean in silence. Pan lit a cigarette and brooded in the corner while I stared at the constellations of the stars reflected in the vast waters surrounding us. Maybe Pan and I had been friends for too long, but I was starting to feel like things between us were cemented, and he only wanted me to be the version he wanted me to be.

It wasn’t until the New York City skyline came into view that Pan dared to poke his head over the chariot’s edge.

We whirred past Rikers Island and whizzed right into Manhattan, sweeping onto the top of Zeus’s penthouse like a strong east wind. My tigers, Io and Callisto, padded to a stop on the roof just before Zeus’s head of security, Briareus, emerged from the shadows.

Pan wobbled out of the chariot with the krater and set it down to give Briareus a quick high five on one of his hundred hands.

“Everyone’s about to sit down soon to start if you two want to head down to the sixteenth-floor, park-side terrace,” Briareus said, several of his fifty heads piping up to deliver the message, one word per mouth. I often thought Briareus sounded drunk, but he’s actually just slow. Far better and faster in battle, apparently, at least according to all the stories Zeus had told me about them fighting alongside each other in the Titanomachy.

“Thanks,” I said. As I whisked down the monumental stairwell Hephaestus had carved from black marble, I wondered who the guest of honor was.

The high ceilings of each room, artistically decorated with rare paintings from the Muses, were supported on immaculate columns. From golden apartment to golden apartment, by way of silver-paneled corridor, I made my way to the heart of the party.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I said as I walked out onto the fabulous outdoor entertaining area that was pretty much an oasis of luxury.

“What?” Pan said as he maneuvered the krater out of the floor-to-ceiling French doors behind me to a thriving get-together of divine’s who’s who.

“The guest of honor is Jesus,” I said and pointed to a large cross adorned with snaps from the savior’s life.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“He’s the biggest wine snob you’ll ever meet,” I said. “Just because he can make it with a swish of a finger.”

“Oh,” Pan said. “Jealous much?”

“I am not—”

“Shh-shh. Here he comes.”

“Dionysus, many blessings onto you!” JC exclaimed as he clasped me into a welcoming hug. A couple of angels from his crew flanked me as Pan kind of just drifted away. With my wine.

“Same to you,” I said and freed myself from his grasp.

He leaned in and dropped his voice to that of a confessional tone. “I sense that something is troubling your heart. Is everything okay? You know I love listening to everyone’s problems. I’m like a sponge. I soak up all that bad news and pray on it because I know He will take care of it.”

“Yes, let us pray,” one of the angels said and bowed his haloed head. “Heavenly Father, we come to you with concerns. Concerns that only you can—”

“I’m fine,” I said, beating back the prayer warriors. “Really. But speaking of fathers, have you seen mine?”

“Right over there.” JC pointed to the outdoor fireplace by the bar, outfitted in that same dark marble from the sculptural staircase that connected the levels of the triplex. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me, amen?”

“Yeah, amen.” I escaped the most depressing triangle I’ve ever been trapped in. Those three were always in holy spirits. People only saw the perfect hair and beautiful brown skin, how he always smiled and always said the right kind of words in the right kind of voice, but I knew how JC could be. If you allowed him an opening, you were doomed. The moment he was born and first opened his mouth in Bethlehem all those years ago, I knew he was impossible.

Ganymede, a golden statue of youth, was solidly stationed behind the bar, rapidly dishing out drinks to the divines under his purview. As I walked by, I passed along a friendly wave. He returned a healthy smile. I had thrown some epic parties in my day, only with his help, of course. Ganymede had countless years of cupbearing experience under his belt and knew what drink you needed before you even realized you needed it.

With one such concoction in hand, Zeus was relishing in a deep laugh as I approached him, a sound that rumbled like thunder and shook the glasses of those circled around him. I recognized all the lesser-known Sumerian war deities, but there was one god I couldn’t immediately place.

“Hey,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”

“What say you?” Zeus asked. “Speak up for these ancient ears!”

“I’d like a word in private,” I said louder.

Zeus did that thing he always does where he momentarily considers a request and then essentially continues to carry on living his life instead. “Not right now.” He did, however, pull me into the circle. “This is my son, everybody. I birthed the little devil myself.”

The story was a bit more nuanced than that, but this wasn’t the time to call him out. He and his rowdy crew were only five in number but drinking enough for ten and making enough noise for fifteen. They were also probably blasted on blow. Those gathered raised their drinks in greeting. I had forgotten many of their names, and regardless, I was too busy trying to suss out who the distinguished god was to the right of Zeus.

“We were just going over old battle stories. Why don’t you regale us with tales of your past fights,” Zeus said and pushed me into the center.

“Soft hands struggling to open corked bottles does not make a battle story,” the mysterious fellow to the right of Zeus said. “Am I right, lads?”

“Easily confused,” I said. Although, my voice was drowned out as the ruffians stomped their feet a few times in agreement.

Then I finally placed him with his smug voice. It was no wonder I hadn’t discerned him at first. The last time I had run into him, he had been clad in armor, sulking underneath a chipped helm and breastplate, bound underneath creaking greaves and armbands. Now, sharp wouldn’t even come close to the word I would use. Murderous Ares positively radiated in the evening dusk in an expensive-looking three-piece suit, leather shoes, and a silk hat.

Business must be good.

I resisted the urge to say something snappy as I had no issue being the better person. At that point, I was trying to think of an old war story, anyway. While I have had a few skirmishes here and there, I have led most of my life with the notion that the world needs more wine, not war. Thankfully, I was spared my monologue about my expeditions by a servant who came up to those of us gathered for an announcement.

She addressed Zeus first. “Immortal cloud-gatherer?”

He casually trailed an arm over her shoulders. “Yes, how can I help you, beautiful?”

“Dinner is ready.”

“Splendid. Let us feast, everyone!” Zeus shouted. His voice cut across the air as if he were expelling thunderbolts through the sky of his mouth.

Divine beings found their way to their assigned chairs rather immediately because of it. I cozied up at the end of the table, across from Pan and, according to the name tag to my right, next to Demeter. Not someone who I’d choose as a best friend, but I wouldn’t mind as a neighbor. “I baked this fresh bread for you to go with your wine,” I could imagine her saying. “I hope you like it.” And, of course, it would be scrumptious. How could the goddess of the grain not be an incredible bakester?

Which made it all the more jarring when JC burst over, dripping with momentous news about a last-minute change in the seating arrangement. He ensconced himself in the chair next to me, and one of his angels rushed over to swap out Demeter’s name tag.

“Doesn’t the guest of honor sit next to Zeus?” I asked.

“As the guest of honor, I should have the honor of picking my own seat.”

Before I could make a counter about protocol, JC bulldozed me. “And I know you didn’t say it, but I had a feeling you wanted to get something off your heart. Not to mention, your father wanted me to sit next to Muhammad, and between you and me, I can’t stand the man. I know our relationship should sticketh closer than brotherhood, but he’s always saying” —and he switched to a mocking voice— “Peace be upon you, ‘Isa. Do you think you did a good job spreading God’s teachings during your time on Earth?” JC curled a strand of his silky hair behind his ear. “And I know what he’s really asking. It’s just like, I’m sorry, I don’t recall you performing any miracles during your time with our lovely human brothers and sisters. And you know what else I think?”

I didn’t even answer before he barreled forward.

“Now, I don’t wish to gossip, but I think he thinks he’s a better prophet than I am!”

I was acutely aware that Pan was already enjoying my pitiful struggle. I tried to get a word in, but JC had a way of cutting me off at every turn. That’s the problem when you’re used to being the savior—listening to everyone else’s problems and dying for their sins—you need an outlet for yourself on your nights off.

I could have sobbed into the breadbasket. This was my personal hell.

The only thing that saved me was the brief respite from conversation when JC turned to the person to his right to pull them into his holy saga.

That and the sound of Pan filling up my wine glass.

P.S. The Art of Killing Gods releases in full on July 14, 2026.

Preorders are open (don’t be shy, you’ve gotten this far already!): The Art of Killing Gods (Amazon)

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

When Triple A gathered in the living room, Apollo was met with an obstacle course. Toy soldiers from famous battles that Athena had influenced were strewn across the floor in dense battalions. The battle of Waterloo clashed with Marathon. A pocket of World War II was scattered under the coffee table. And everywhere—everywhere—boxes. Crates of war paraphernalia were stacked in corners and wedged with casual violence against Apollo’s instruments.

“Athena,” Apollo began as he hopscotched over history, dodging miniatures, “there’s an entire civilization collapsing on our floor.” He winced as he stepped on one of the Napoleonic infantrymen. Smoke curled up from the melting figurine, and the blue-coated soldier softened into a plastic sludge.

Apollo’s wicked grin was short-lived.

“And what the fuck is that?” he asked, pointing at the couch. “How long has that been here?”

A gray-green bloom spread across the upholstery.

“Is that…ambrosia?”

Apollo and I share the sentiment of enjoying the more beautiful things in life. He, music and light, me, wine and revelry. The both of us, our surroundings. We like for things to have a certain aesthetic. Perhaps we are a tinge vain and even a bit ridiculous, wanting everything around us to be exquisite. At the very least decent. We both saw the poetry in perfection. Only, it was easier for me to continue maximizing that experience, residing on Mount Olympus. While leaving the luxuries of this heaven-side retreat did have the benefit of getting away from all the drama, it did seem to equate to a life more…provincial.

Athena did not look up from whatever map she was studying. “Sometimes I feel like you’re more of an eighteenth-century dandy than a god. You are constantly nagging about things in this house.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t live like a raccoon.”

“We’re immortal. We outlast decay.”

“Not without ambrosia, we don’t.” Apollo tapped a finger toward the couch. “And this is embarrassing, showing Iris into this filth. Also wasteful. Do you have so much ambrosia you can afford to let it spoil?”

Athena finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “Calm your tits. It’s counterfeit. A dealer tried to pass it off, and I’m not so desperate to just shove anything down the gullet.”

Apollo blinked. “You have an ambrosia dealer?”

“You say that like you’ve never heard of a black market.”

“I’m saying it,” Apollo replied, voice silky with injury, “because some of us left Olympus with what we could carry and have been meticulously rationing ever since.”

“And when that runs out?”

Apollo did not answer.

Artemis, who had been scooping up toy soldiers here and there and putting them into a neat pile—making cleanup look like a ritual—brushed past Apollo and murmured, “I’ll talk to her.” Then gave him that look that meant don’t make this worse right now.

“We’re assembled, Iris,” Athena called, voice carrying like a spear thrown for distance.

Apollo winced. Hers was a carrying voice, and life wasn’t one long battlefield. There wasn’t a need to shout every sentence.

In comparison, Iris floated noiselessly through the house like some sort of gentle breeze and the soft suggestion of wings and color.

“Look at you,” Apollo said after she shimmered into the room like refracted light. “You look like you’re ready for the pride parade they have here in the canals.”

Her wings twitched sharply. “I’ve been walking and wearing rainbows long before mortals discovered flags.”

“Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers,” Apollo said.

“Annoying everyone, I see,” Athena added, delighted to poke.

The meeting at hand made Apollo overlook her jab.

I will mention that Iris isn’t usually one to take offense to anyone’s playful jokes. She is often lighthearted and equipped with the air of someone above it all. Always an absolute ball of laughs, even when she had dire news to deliver. But she’s tired nowadays. Ever since Hermes not only went on burnout but also lost the Talaria—his winged sandals, which he claimed he loved like a pair of brothers but thought it wise enough to gamble away in a bet—he could no longer bear some of the responsibility as a messenger of the gods. Which meant more work for her, and that was on top of Iris’s other job as Hera’s personal assistant. The extra stress on her no longer inspired a countenance that one used to describe as a basket full of bountiful rainbows.

“I bring a summons from Hera,” Iris said.

“But we’re on sabbatical from Dodecatheon affairs,” Athena said.

“It’s probably that much more important, then, if the queen is choosing to send the message anyway,” Iris replied.

“A meeting,” Artemis said. “About what?”

“All I was told,” Iris said, weary professionalism in every syllable, “is that it concerns Zeus. And that it’s urgent.”

Apollo rolled his eyes. “Is this another hunt for father’s latest indiscretion?”

Iris’s expression didn’t change, but her colors did feel a shade colder. “I’m only the messenger.”

“You were the last to see Dad and Hera,” Artemis said, turning to Athena, voice quieter. “Did you notice anything off?”

Iris did not wait for their decision. She lifted on a thin column of colorful light. Message delivered, consequences implied.

“The last time I saw them they were fine,” Athena said. “I mean, they were arguing—”

“But they’re always arguing,” Artemis and Athena said in unison. Then shared a brief smile.

Apollo arched an eyebrow at them.

Athena recovered first. “They’ve been living apart for decades,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

“He’s definitely having an affair then,” Apollo said.

Athena shrugged. “Well, probably. He’s been living in New York for the past century, so who knows what he gets up to over there. But it’s not my job to keep track of him.”

“He’s not living on Olympus anymore?” Apollo asked.

“Only for the past several decades, he hasn’t. It didn’t seem permanent.”

And isn’t that delicious? Zeus—who tightens the ambrosia spigot for gods who stray too far from his mountain—has been playing mortal in Manhattan for decades, with his own allotment untouched because who, exactly, is going to audit the thunderbolt?

“The simplest solution,” Athena said, “is to hear her out.”

“No,” Apollo said.

Athena looked at him evenly. “No?”

“This is Hera baiting people for information.” Apollo’s voice went polished, precise. “She’ll want names. Witnesses. A trail to follow to whomever is Father’s latest side piece. I’m not walking back into that. We’ve all seen this tired story play out before.”

“There is a lot of negative energy there when she’s after one of Dad’s conquests,” Artemis said. “Look, we left the Dodecatheon for a reason. Once you go back, then you’re sucked into all the schemes again.”

“I’m not going alone. I’m not explaining to Hera why you two didn’t show up.”

Apollo lifted a shoulder. “Then don’t. Stay here.”

“It’s not that simple.” Athena folded her arms. “When the queen of the gods calls you, you can’t ignore the summons.”

“Or what?” Apollo asked. “Tell me, strategist.”

“You tell me, oracle,” Athena’s eyes flashed gray. “You know very well that she would be willing to bring this to your doorstep one way or another.”

Artemis exhaled. “She might be right about that. When Hera is on the warpath, everyone’s wrapped up in it too.”

Apollo pushed up from the couch as if the moldy ambrosia had finally offended him into motion. “Their marriage is irrelevant to our lives.”

He moved toward the hall, expecting the familiar echo of Artemis’s boots behind him.

It did not come.

He paused—only a fraction—then continued without looking back.

When Apollo had told me about this exchange at the party, I, too, had agreed that this was just another affair.

It was not. It was positioning.

And positioning amongst gods rarely remains bloodless.

The woman lost her balance. As she fell, she reached out toward Jaden. Her clothes, blacker than coal, looked clean enough. But little signs told Jaden something was wrong. The infected and flaking skin that was dotted with sores. The clumps of wiry hair that fell to the ground as she went down. The ragged nails that slipped into his hand as he steadied her.

“Are you okay?” Jaden asked her.

She nodded and grabbed at her waist as if she were missing something.

“Did you drop something?”

She could only shake her head.

“Can you talk?”

Another shake. Jaden searched her ocean-colored eyes for answers, but they were trapped in some sort of internal maze.

He looked around, but people filtered passed them, going about their day in the thriving park. Nobody else seemed to notice them.

Jaden ushered her to the nearest bench.

“I lost my voice once,” he said as they sat down. “Took LSD with some new friends at a music festival. And I couldn’t remember how to talk for damn near twelve hours. Just completely forgot how words worked. It was wild. Made me realize how strange language is. Like…we’re all just making noises at each other and somehow everyone agrees what they mean.”

She rested her chin in her palms and blinked her eyes. Maybe losing her voice wasn’t like that at all.

“Are you hungry?” Jaden asked her.

She lulled her head to the side. Something about the angle of it said it depends.

He opened his backpack full of snacks for his day out and about the city. Water. Chips. Fruit.

She ignored everything until he lifted the peach which made her blue-green eyes light up.

The two of them sat there, enjoying their treats, watching people lap through the network of pavement and grass in front of their park bench. Some were on bikes, others on foot. But something about the people made the woman laugh. And Jaden almost choked on his food at her outburst, her random jolly equally disturbing yet amusing.

She laughed again when a couple passed, hands laced together, shoulders brushing.

Another laugh when two people stopped to kiss.

“Love’s funny,” he muttered.

He supposed love was something to laugh at. Sometimes, at least. Because love was crazy. It was an act of faith to fall in love—a gamble.

His chest tightened before he could stop it.

Apollo.

He hadn’t meant to think about him. That was the point of leaving and his day out and about. To override those memories with new ones.

As the woman continued to laugh, Jaden thought about all the men that had drifted into his life, and how they had all been brief encounters. Some were nice enough that love could have seeded. Eventually. But each came tethered to something else: dependence, addiction, need. More often than not, they passed through because they demanded more of him than he could give. His time was already spoken for with working and traveling. Surviving.

And before Apollo, the last person he had truly fallen in love with was his childhood best friend.

Years ago, that realization had hit Jaden in 5^th grade, when he was on the cusp of pouring into middle school. He had sensed a change invading his group of friends. Other kids in his class had paired off in more grown-up ways than the casual “I like you” that had permeated his peer group in earlier years. Words like “girlfriend” and “boyfriend” were thrown around, and Jaden heard stories of classmates kissing by the swings. Some even did a little more than that for those who wanted an adventurous head start, where games like hide-and-seek morphed into hide-n’-go-get-it.

Jaden had watched the comings and goings of his fellow eleven-year-olds with a sense of displacement. The standard template of boy gets girl didn’t apply to him. Getting girls didn’t interest him in that way. He couldn’t summon the same intensity of feeling for Sabrina (or any other girl) as he could for, say…Tank.

When Jaden thought about his best friend, he felt abnormal to have butterflies soar through his stomach. He should have felt lucky to be attracted to someone in his immediate world. Someone who shared the urge to collect as many Pokémon cards as possible and shoot just as many Nerf guns.

But Jaden knew that they differed in some fundamental way. When Tank asked Jaden who Jaden liked, Jaden could never be honest with him because Tank followed the path that all the other boys were loping down. One where they were happy to dry hump on girls in their changing playground games.

He’d caged love early. It was easier that way. What else was there to do with all that wanting that never quite found a place to land?

Beside him, the woman’s laughter unfurled again—a bright, almost manic note.

Jaden surprised himself by joining her. Maybe laughter was another way through the wreckage of his love life.

Their laughter met and swelled, almost to the point of hysteria. Momentarily, all his troubles in love and life evaporated. Something within him loosened, and Jaden felt as if he recognized the woman, like coming home after years and years away and finding someone still waiting there.

Briefly, during the peak of their laughter, she didn’t personify some syphilitic virus; her arms were unblemished and smooth, limbs that belonged to a beautiful woman.

Then the illusion fractured, the sores returned.

Jaden studied her. Something about her fluctuated.

“I think I know who can help you.”

There was something at once foolish yet exciting in the sudden realization that he would see Apollo again. Even though Jaden had tried to put the god out of his mind, something about this woman made Jaden swear Apollo still lay around the periphery of his thoughts, the way people say of a lost set of keys they know are in the house: it’s around here somewhere.

Jaden couldn’t recall the address. When he tried, the numbers dissolved. But his body kept turning, moving him in a certain direction. He knew he had something in tow that would bring him back to Apollo’s hall. A goddess.

At first, she walked beside Jaden. Twice she wandered into the bike path without looking. After the second time, he looped her arm through his. It wouldn’t be a good look if she, too, ended up getting hit by a cyclist.

After they passed underneath the archway to a brown brick building, Jaden recognized the area. He had taken a picture of a group of teenagers under those golden letters before: Het Amsterdams Lyceum. Casual friends had staggered against the building in one of those rare moments where the light, background, and subjects naturally did their job to arrange themselves into the perfect frame. He wouldn’t know until he processed the photo, but he had trusted the composition then. In much the same way, he trusted his feet now.

The woman quickly unlinked and hurried off to the canal that cut along the front of the building. Not to look up and admire the stately, almost art-deco vibe of what Jaden figured was a school, but to look down at the swan bobbing next to the water.

She reached out to the elegant creature.

The woman bent over the canal’s edge, and Jaden ran over to her, thinking he would have to pull the wild horse’s tail that was her hair to keep her from falling in. Gracefully, she stepped onto the water and casually hovered as the swan raised its beak to her ear.

They seemed to confer.

When she returned, she took Jaden’s hand with purpose and pointed to a canal-side house across from the weeping willow. The one he once saw from Apollo’s hall. She pushed him toward the front door.

“Didn’t I kill you already?” Athena asked after she answered his knock. The bitterness in her voice could have curdled milk.

“It’s a whole story. Honestly, I’m not sure I—”

Athena, not really a goddess for prattle, slammed the door in his face.

Jaden knocked again. “I need Apollo.”

“Get out of here before I kill you,” Athena threatened through the door. “Again.”

He pounded harder.

“I warned you,” she said, the door flying open as she came out spear first. “I’m going to—”

Before Athena could impale Jaden, a swish of black fabric cut between them. One moment the mute woman was behind him. The next, she was hovering in front of him.

Radiance strained around her, thin as silk pulled too tight.

“Aphrodite?” Athena asked, diverting the spear upward.

P.S. The Art of Killing Gods releases in full on July 14, 2026.

Preorders are open (don’t be shy, you’ve gotten this far already!): The Art of Killing Gods (Amazon)

Welcome to Mythic Matters!

This is a home for mythology and stories where ancient gods, monsters, and myths wander into modern life and discover they still have something to say.

You’re probably new here, so here are the best places to begin.

If You Want the Novel

The Art of Killing Gods follows a world where the Olympians still exist, but the age of temples and epic poems is over. Belief has become influence. Power has become systems. And Olympus…is beginning to crack.

→ Read All Chapters

If You Want a Mythic Thriller

You Are Not the Signal is a contemporary siren story where obedience travels through systems, screens, and sound. What begins as an investigation slowly becomes a battle over autonomy.

→ Browse Short Story Series

If You Want a Mythic Character Study

Stones in the Swamp reimagines Medusa in the modern world. A story about loneliness and what happens when monsters outlive the myths that created them.

→ Browse Short Story Series

If You Want Something Lighter

Mythology Reviews explores ancient myths as if they were customer experiences. Ya know, public attractions that desperately need better management.

→ Read the Reviews

If You Want a Complete Story in One Sitting

A good place to begin is When the Kindly Ones Remember, a haunting mythic story about the dead who refuse to be forgotten and the Kindly Ones who keep the world in balance.

→ Browse Standalone Stories

If You Fancy Some Poetry

Take a look at a few poems inspired by myth and the strange experience of being human.

→ Browse the poems

My Recommendation

Tell me you’re down for a longer journey, and I’ll point you to The Art of Killing Gods.

But if you’d rather sample the waters first, start with Stones in the Swamp or You Are Not the Signal.

Thanks for being here!

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

Mumbling lunatic. That’s what I usually am. And don’t get me started on the communiqués flying around upstairs. Those are nonstop too. Yet inside that forest cathedral, next to my forever spiritual guide, I had nothing to say.

However, as Pappo and I stood at the threshold, my own voice boomed from unseen rafters, narrating Jaden’s story back at me. It filled the apse like incense gone wrong. Just thick and all-around inescapable.

A sacred space ought to breathe, ya know? This one felt congested.

With a blink, I silenced it.

Naturally, it adapted.

The moment one channel closed, the cathedral found another. Since the expression of that story was no longer allowed, the holy digs made its stained-glass murals bloom into motion, each alcove housing a living confession. Crimson rain began as a polite drip in one panel, then became a torrent that gushed downward to create a sea as dark as wine, in which yours truly performed a perfect breaststroke. In another, I was casually spreading my seed on every possible surface.

In others, picking my nose. Pilfering. Eating to excess.

Not all of them were aspects I normally hid from myself and would be ashamed to show to anybody. There were some more domestic scenes, too, like me wrestling for mattress territory while my wife adopted a starfish pose to claim most of the bed. Or the birth of my children, their first cries caught in panes in gold.

Before I could inspect them all, the glass imploded into pieces, swirling and jumbling around the cathedral. A mixture of colors and light erupted into the air. The experiences from the murals leaked into my senses, and for what felt like a small eternity, I tried on the hat of insanity. It’s hard to fully explain what I experienced as I frolicked in this precursor state without the imposition of thoughts and language. But no one thing was experienced as it usually was. The timbre of the color yellow hummed behind my teeth while despair tasted metallic.

Afterward, I felt like a turbulent lake that had quieted itself after finally being left alone. My senses slowly reawakened, my body returned, and the storm of stained glass that once cut through the air now molded into a couple of miniature replicas of myself. Two artisanal Dionysuses, standing so close to one another that the more I looked at one, the more I realized the other was its opposite. One was golden and alight, which felt like the source of all that was good and honorable, while the other radiated something stickier. A certain kind of restlessness.

The evil twin.

Pappo, who solidified into his former shape, now that the lotus fruit was wearing off, swirled toward them.

I followed suit. The closer I got to those self-reflections, the more I wanted to inhibit them. Rather, I wanted power over them. I had a deep-seated feeling in the pit of my stomach that I had to consume them to regain their knowledge.

And that’s what I did. Perhaps I was operating on some primal, instinctual level to reclaim my essence, but to infuse the golden one was to become full energy and alight. My spine straightened and my thoughts returned as my systems came online. They were more ordered. Coherent. This must be what it was to feel full alignment with oneself.

Pappo beckoned for me to continue with the second.

But-of-course, you’ve never met my trickster twin, so it’s difficult to explain. He’s sort of a demonic-rat-trash god, and when I looked at him from the graveyard of my memories, I didn’t know if I wanted to exhume that corpse. Reintegrating him back into me would make things fearfully unpleasant.

For everyone.

I took a ceremonial bite. If only to convince Pappo that the ritual was complete.

The trickster grinned through it.

When Pappo withdrew, leaving the sanctum with that particular gait of having helped a friend in his hour of toil, the grin faded.

Look, I can’t deny that the sample was pleasurable in the most lip-licking, undulating, rollicking way. My entire body was taken over by a gratifying pulse. But I had already fulfilled all my wishes with the scoundrel. I had experienced all its pleasures at my command these lifetimes during the usual distractions with wine or parties or dancing. And that had been pretty great.

“So that’s it?” he asked with shifty eyes.

“I’ve exhausted your curriculum,” I told him.

“You’ll miss me.” He grinned again, but thinner.

I nodded. It wasn’t as if I turned my nose up at having every kind of pleasure fulfilled. It had been quite the ride being derailed from whatever boring track my life would have gone down. But I knew the rat-faced version of me was only good for cheap thrills. I could have my fantasy with his lifestyle, but afterward, it was always heartbreak. With him, instead of accepting the end, I invented another thing. Yes, this next thing was coming now! And then I would imagine that I had put off that heartbreak of ending something instead of realizing I was operating in the same infinite loop. That constant pleasure is a form of pain.

“Isn’t that a bit twisted?” the trickster Dionysus ground out, desperation seeping into his voice.

“I wouldn’t worry,” I replied, words still feeling a bit clunky in my mouth. “You’ve always been pretty good at figuring out how to entertain yourself.”

“Fuck you, you little fucker,” he shouted as I skipped out of the cathedral of my mind.

When I awoke in the clearing, the Lotus trees circling around me, I saw Pappo sitting in the center: eyes closed, back straight yet posture at ease, and hands resting on his knees.

“You survived,” he said as I sat up.

“I think so.” I glanced back to where the cathedral once was. “Was all of that real?”

“In what sense?”

“Was it all in my head? Or was there a sacred spiritual space that we actually entered?”

There were some strange places gods had access to. All the levels of Hades, Mt. Olympus, the dank cellar where the Moirai—the sisters of fate—spun, measured, and cut the thread of life. Sometimes, I wondered if those were all real places or if they were all inward experiences only we immortals could access.

“If it happened in your head, does it make it any less real?”

“What I do know,” I said, “is that you are never a microdose, Pappo.”

He smiled and nodded. “How do you feel?”

Nothing visually had, in fact, changed about me. I was reasonably sure about that. What I had achieved was a simple adjustment of how I operated within the world, from a wild yet frightened immortal shirking from the prospects of a divine war to a clearheaded, optimistic, and powerful god who really had his shit together, was taking full responsibility to stop this conflict, and, in general, knew how I’d grown from a souse. Unfortunately, where I was heading had not changed in any way: the marinating slurry of concrete, trash, and human sweat where Zeus called home—New York City.

However, I felt a lot better about heading there.

P.S. The Art of Killing Gods releases in full on July 14, 2026.

Preorders are open (geez, that feels surreal): The Art of Killing Gods (Amazon)

If you’d like to read the novel before publication and are interested in receiving an advance reader copy, leave a comment or reach out directly. I’d love to get it into your hands!

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

Jaden, Sabrina, and Tank crept out from behind the boarded-up house. The other hiding spots exhaled as kids from their group convened on the cracked pavement.

Everybody was accounted for and edged up the street, moving as a cluster. On the corner of the block, a familiar figure lay motionless on the ground. The man who was posted up against his car that morning, talking with some girls across from Jaden’s porch, now lay in an eerie stillness.

Jaden sensed an unnameable something—a sense of hunger, of menace—hovering above the body. But he couldn’t see anything except the corpse. And the sight of it churned his stomach. He tried not to stare for too long, but sometimes it’s hard not to stare at gross things. He was not sure why, but it was true.

Adults gathered on the periphery, some peeping out from the safety of their windows, others coming to pluck and usher away their kids. Even Tank and Sabrina scattered off to their own homes before giving a knowing wave to Jaden. Perhaps they sensed what he had forgotten, but the crowd remembered and parted when his mom rolled through.

If Jaden were to describe her, he would say she was like a great moving wall of rose bushes. But the kind with no fragrance and chock-full of thorns. Oh, and murderous bees buzzed around her petals.

However, for the first time in a long while, Mom was docile. She was quiet—channeling a perplexed pause that you may find in a speech when someone forgets a word.

Jaden looked at her. Who was this woman?

To his relief, the tenderness only lasted a moment.

“You better get on somewhere!” she yelled to those gathered.

Jaden watched the crowd recoil and thin out. If he squinted hard enough, he could also sense a faint silhouette flutter back from the dead body and retreat too. But he wasn’t sure what he could trust anymore.

“Jaden!”

He swiveled toward his mother.

“Get your ass over here!”

He got it over there.

They didn’t discuss the incident. They only held hands while Jaden listened to their feet shuffle on the pavement, his mom squeezing his palms the entire walk home. Steady but tender.

Most unusual.

The front door shut behind Jaden, and now he was alone, at home, with his mom.

She gave him an enormous, rib-breaking hug. It was a glimpse of the person she used to be—the one who didn’t twist her words into verbal projectiles. Nearly smothering him, she asked, “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Jaden said. But that was his mistake.

She released him abruptly and faced the other way. “Boy, you think you slick or something?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

She turned. “You know exactly what I mean.” Jaden was struck by the speed of the dark confusion that shrouded her eyes. “I told you to stay by them fences. What the hell were you doing down the street?”

“I’m sorry,” Jaden said. “I made some new friends and forgot the rules.”

“You forgot?” She shot back. “You better not forget again.”

“Yes, Mommy Lady,” Jaden said, hoping to appease her. Saying those two words was often the best way to survive. Then again, so was doing what he was told.

“Don’t you ‘Mommy Lady’ me. You’re grounded for two weeks.”

And from there, Jaden spent fourteen summer days locked inside. Every time Mom left for work, she would say, “And remember, Jaden. I’ll find out if you leave this house. You know that, right?”

“Yes, Mom.”

Good. Now I left a list of chores for you to do.”

The first few days inside were definitely the hardest. The grizzly image of a dead body still lay freshly constructed in his mind. The haunting scene had erased all the other strange occurrences from that day—the bullets ricocheting off his skin, the fleeting sight of a phantom-like figure circling the corpse. Those things had happened, didn’t they? He was sure they had, but nobody else had acknowledged them.

Possibly, the only good to come out of his chores was that they offered him a welcome distraction. One of his favorite things to do was to wipe down the woodwork. He loved wiping it down. The grim around the doorknobs surrounded to warm water and a little bit of elbow grease. Most things did, if you rubbed long enough.

Even memories.

As he cleaned, the other kids played. In Davis Court, friendships were made outside, no matter how musty the heat of a Virginia summer was. Besides, some adult always shooed them out and said not to come back till sundown. And not a minute past either. Hence, boys and girls alike stripped down to the bare minimum, played basketball, rode their bikes, and shot off bottle rockets they had mysteriously acquired in the street.

Once his playground, the outside world became a distant scene beyond the window, a muted television of neighborhood games and laughter. None of his new friends dared to visit Jaden during his imprisonment. Except for the one time Tank ventured to knock on the living room window.

Jaden eagerly hoisted the window open.

“Is your moms home?” Tank asked, looking back every so often to view the street. Even he only had the courage to check in from a distance.

“No.” Jaden propped against the sill. “Coast is clear. You can come in if you want.”

“I’ll stay out here,” Tank said. Something about him seemed different. His shoulders held higher than usual and his eyes never stayed in one place. “But you okay in there?”

“I’m bored,” Jaden groaned. “There’s nothing to do but clean.”

“You’re lucky you’re in there. You don’t have to worry about the stuff out here.” Tank moved his hand away and showed Jaden how he had been hit by a rock. It wasn’t serious—the wound already clotted over—but there was enough blood to crust over on the side of Tank’s face, which made something ignite in Jaden.

“What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter. But I’m going to get them back with my brother. Don’t you worry.”

“Why?”

Tank stood up a little straighter. “Because if I don’t, they’ll stay talking shit.” It sounded like something Tank had heard before. Something he was supposed to say. “It’s a respect thing. You wouldn’t get it since you’re not from around here.”

Jaden got the feeling that Tank was merely continuing some tension that had been started before him instead of squashing the beef. He knew because even though he didn’t get it, whatever it was, he saw most of it play out from his apartment window. Some of the kids from the area battled with another group from a different part of the neighborhood. The border between the two halves of Davis Court was Grammercy Avenue, and Jaden never understood why the kids down bottom came up looking for trouble up top. Or vice versa.

He didn’t think the kids knew either.

Years later, Jaden would understand Davis Court well enough. He would know who ran which corners and the names of the crews without anyone sitting him down to explain them.

What he never learned was his mother.

Why some days she arrived like a storm and other days like a warning.

He wanted to ask her about a lot of things, but each question was now frozen in time. Because that was the problem with death: it didn’t care about everything you had been planning to do. Only what was, he realized, as he escorted his suitcase and his mother’s ashes out of Apollo’s hall.

With each step away, the memory of the house thinned. Like a dream you’re certain was important but cannot reconstruct by lunchtime.

He would have thought it strange had he been aware of it. But that was the beauty of the security system Hephaestus had installed on all our residences amongst mortals. It’s a safety feature. As you know, Earth has become a breeding ground for freaks, and we gods need our discretion.

However, Jaden did know that he was free. And it was time to move on. How could he have spent so much time there? And all for some god who was more like a child. The very thing that made Apollo so appealing—his divinity—made Jaden realize that Apollo never had to surrender. Things always had to be on Apollo’s terms. And what was falling in love if not a process of mutual surrender?

As Jaden bought tickets to take the afternoon train to Paris, giving him one last day to properly explore Amsterdam, he purged his memory of his divine fling. He was skilled at erasing. The memories he no longer wanted to catalog were like Polaroids left in the sun too long, edges curling, colors bleeding.

So, Jaden’s anecdote of a day in Amsterdam, thoughtfully condensed, as told by three pictures that would replace his time with Apollo:

On a boat tour throughout the city’s inner canals, Jaden saw how beautiful yet buzzing the center was. Everything was in a constant state of motion, with people on bikes, boats sluicing through the waterways, and groups of tourists edging around the narrow streets and clambering for space on the narrower sidewalks. Amid the steady flux, he took a picture of two lovers posted on the edge of one of the canals, the couple enjoying a bottle of wine and the space of each other while the city bustled around them.

After the boat ride, he made his way out of the canal belt and eventually uncovered Museumplein. The public space was where some of the city’s more famous museums met on a well-kept, grassy square. While he certainly admired the Van Gogh or Rembrandt paintings, Jaden could only spend a limited amount of time in a museum. A couple of hours—max. What image stood out the most was a family of three distributed across one bike. A father with a kid snuggled in both the front and the back cruised along the bike lane that cut underneath the Rijksmuseum. The family glided past effortlessly, stating that Dutch people were practically born on bikes.

After his museum fatigue, Jaden meandered over to Vondelpark. At first, he thought himself in the true heart of the city with its open-air theater, people clumped together on groups of blankets to enjoy the company of friends, and cafes and restaurants nestled around the urban park. But he soon realized that this was not the heart but the lungs. Acres of grass and paths filtered hundreds, if not thousands, of people through the city at any given moment. Bikes floated along the paths. Joggers ran and put their athletic bodies on display. It crackled with activity, but it was the golden letters on the stately wrought-iron gate that warranted a picture. They were embossed in his memory as the portal left open to this hive of humanity.

Standing behind the threshold, waiting for him, was a woman with a familiar air.

She would tell anyone who asked that she was simply wandering. But the moment he stepped into the park, something in her stirred, a faint disturbance in the old currents she had been born from.

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

“Okay, let’s take a moment together,” Pappo said. “That story means something to you, doesn’t it?”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Well, we’re supposed to be here in preparation to take the lotus fruit into us, and you jumped right into the story.”

“It’s entertaining. And it’s a habit, I guess.” I missed Pan all of a sudden, but only by a pinch. The little beast had such rapt attention for this tale while Pappo held my ramblings at arm’s length. What my mentor was actually asking was, “Are you done?” All with this patient smile and quiet confidence that signaled that there was no doubt in his mind that eventually I would stop talking and understand this was supposed to be a more inward moment.

Right. So, silence.

Well…this fucking sucks.

I’ve always found that having a glass of wine in my hand smooths these moments. Some stage business. Finding a way to organize one’s hands was half the battle. Come to think of it, why would I give up wine?

You know, I wonder if I left the front door open.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen my wife. I miss Ariadne. She’s cool. Too bad I haven’t seen her in years.

My scalp itches, and the ground is hard. I should have worn something softer.

At the very least, I probably do need to cut back on all the partying.

And on and on the commentary marched. It was sweet relief when Pappo finally spoke up an eternity later. Like the song of distant champagne corks beckoning me to a party. I was beginning to worry that our silent stillness in preparation for taking the lotus fruit would be like a couple of years endured among Trappist monks.

“Dionysus,” he said, “how are you holding up over there?”

I’m fairly certain he didn’t expect me to say, “All right.” Thus, my fashionable confession instead: “Well, you know.”

That “you know” signaled there was a lot unspoken, obviously: creeping alcoholism, psychotic friendships, collapse-of-divine-structure anxiety, solitary despair, boredom, rage—it’s just…that’s so much.

And they shouldn’t cluster like that!

A polite smile from Pappo.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I elaborated. “Interminable assaults going on upstairs. Chatter, chatter, chatter. Caught up in my own story.”

“Is it making you stronger or weaker to do that?”

“To do what?”

“To get caught up. To get lost in your own mind.”

I shook my head. “It makes me…I don’t know.”

“Then contemplate it.”

I concentrated.

“It makes me feel manic. Like I can’t stop. Sometimes it feels like my whole life is devoted to keeping my mind busy. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve been alone, not doing anything. Everything is one big distraction.”

“From what?”

I shrugged. “From myself, maybe?”

“And why do you want to run away from yourself?” he asked. “What’s so bad about it?”

“C’mon, Pappo, you know it’s uncomfortable for me.”

“What is?”

“Solitude.”

“Why?”

“Because when I’m alone, there’s nothing to do! If I’m left alone with myself, all I want to do is get away from myself. I’m always wanting to get away from who I am. That’s why I go to parties. That’s why I get into shenanigans with Pan and chase nymphs. Or anything that I do. Get drunk. Whatever. I don’t want to be with myself.”

I wallowed in that admittance for a moment. It was akin to staring at a flock of my own middle fingers.

“Let me deliver you from this worry and guilt,” Pappo said. “You are an extraordinary phenomenon of nature. A god—divinity incarnate. As noble as say, trees, clouds, or the arrangement of the stars. And there is nothing wrong with you, even though you may think that. You are addicted to thoughts, my little compulsive thinker. All you have to do is stop thinking so much.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“No clue,” he said with this hearty laugh. “But I do know where to start looking, at least.”

Pappo peeled back the skins of the pods in his hands and passed over some of the bare lotus fruit. “This will help us on our journey. It’s a new strand I’ve been growing that projects your mind into the world. I haven’t tested it out yet.”

His warning label didn’t stop us from knocking the fleshy pods together, as we had done before, years ago, except with chalices of wine. Because no matter what was ahead, having him by my side always emboldened me, even though the paths we now walked were different.

In reality, Pappo looked like a humble man, but he was a dragon in spirit. It was all in his energy—this immense power where he held no doubt that I would change. And by the mere fact that I showed up, I was ready.

As soon as I ate of the honey-sweet fruit, I no longer felt burdened by the weight of everything. It all spit out of me: the nonstop revelry, the looming war, and, above all else, the constant churning of thoughts. For one bright, impossible moment, there was nothing upstairs at all. I was a tabula rasa. I wanted to stay in that state of mental spaciousness, floating and forgetting everything.

But as this tranquility gently cradled my consciousness, a forest cathedral sprouted from the ground. Its ascension marked the resurgence of commentary, a phoenix birthed from the ashes of something forgotten.

Clumps of the earth began a wondrous dance around the sacred building, threading themselves in mid-air and morphing into an elegant velvet rope that cordoned off the shrine’s entrance.

Tiny beings, iridescent under the forest’s dappled sunlight, descended from the apparently thriving, hidden lotus tree community. They huddled around us and spoke to us. The lyrical melody of their speech was foreign yet strangely soothing. In all innocence, I followed the darling little druids’ high and sweet notes to stand in line before their earthen structure.

After all, if you’re going to join a cult, might as well get into a good one. And a waiting list was always a good sign. I opened my mouth to ask Pappo something but found I couldn’t speak. I tried to touch my lips but couldn’t remember my body being around anymore. I had no hands, no feet. No sense of physical self aside from a pair of floating eyes.

Pappo was shrouded in some form of dense light. A nice light that felt like hanging out with people you love, like warming your hands by a fire. Jolly and cheery, you know?

After we finally floated in, I honestly expected the leader of the cult to burn some weird oils, administer a concoction and, of course, mutter some fucking chants. Then the spiritual orgies would begin. This was, after all, my mind.

Inside, there was just empty space. And a voice warbling through it. Familiar.

Mine.

Over the last few months, this story has slowly been making its way into the world one chapter at a time.

Now it finally has a face!

Huge thanks to Nosheen for creating a cover that genuinely feels like it came from inside the story itself. She somehow captured the exact tension I wanted at the center of the book: mythology, power, and collapse.

Check it out:

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

“Look at all the colors,” Apollo said when he conjured himself back into the prison cell.

He manifested in front of his wall of instruments, light still clinging to him from his morning labor. He gestured toward the sunrise palette he had painted on the sky. It was difficult not to like a man who noticed color or even spoke to that internal experience.

It was significantly more difficult to like a man who controlled your exits.

“Are you locking me in here?” Jaden stared at him, defiant.

“Of course not,” Apollo laughed softly. “I’m only taking some precautions to protect you. Anyway, I went heavier on the amber and vermillion for you this morning since I know those are your favorite colors.”

Apollo leaned in for a kiss. Jaden leaned backward.

“Protection from what?”

“I thought that was evident. Not all of us gods are friendly, Jaden. Some are territorial and jealous. And some would take what is mine simply to prove they can.”

There it was.

Mine.

“Take me from you?” Jaden asked. “You make me sound like I’m your possession.”

Apollo’s expression shifted. Just slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I meant safe.” His voice gentled. “I meant that I don’t intend to lose you.”

“And when was I supposed to leave?”

“You are always free to leave. All you have to do is ask.”

“If I ask? Maybe this is hard for you to understand as a god, but you don’t get to decide what I do. I am my own—”

Suddenly Artemis walked over. First of all, she came out of nowhere, appearing in front of Apollo’s collection of lyres, which was infuriating. But second, as soon as she did, Apollo sealed Jaden’s lips, froze him in place, and slid him out of the way with a casual swish of the hand.

“You’re needed in the official meeting room,” Artemis said.

“What for?”

“It’s Iris. She wants to talk to all of us. Said it was an emergency.”

“Do you know what it’s about?”

Artemis shrugged. “It’s a message from Hera, but she won’t say what it is until we’re all gathered.”

Apollo sighed. “I guess it can’t be helped.”

Her eyes flicked—once—toward Jaden. “What do you want to do with him? Athena made her stance pretty clear the last time.”

“Since when do you care about what Athena wants?”

Artemis turned away. “All I’m saying is she has a point, Lolo. Things change when humans are around. They make us act differently somehow.”

“I’ll leave him here for now,” Apollo said. “He’s not going anywhere.”

The twins faded from the room as they continued to talk about Jaden as if he were furniture, debating why anyone would choose to be human since it was such a dense experience of reality.

How strange that only last night (was it last night?) that Jaden lived for those moments when he found himself lying next to Apollo and could lean against his shoulder or wrap one of his legs over his. All to feel the brilliance that hummed beneath the god’s skin. Just skin. Which was hard to look away from as Apollo glowed—softly, luminously.

Yet whenever another god entered the room, something shifted. The brilliance narrowed. A sudden dimness settled between Jaden and Apollo, and it became too easy to disappear into Apollo’s shadow.

Immobilized, Jaden’s entire body felt like flesh turned concrete; he couldn’t move a finger or blink an eye. Even breathing felt restricted.

He retreated inward. Not into panic. At least not yet. He dropped below it.

There was a place he knew how to reach. A banked center that was a quiet pocket beneath everything else. He had found it before, insulated from slammed doors and sirens and hands and shouting. When the world grew sharp, he stepped there and waited.

Apollo’s divinity did not follow.

It pressed at him, certainly. Jaden felt it along the surface of himself like sunlight on closed eyelids. But it could not reach where he had gone.

I could tell you why.

I won’t—not yet.

But Apollo couldn’t have, even if he’d felt Jaden’s resistance.

Inside that depth, something answered as a pulse gathered slowly. Sensation returned in increments. First, a tremor in Jaden’s wrist. Then a flicker behind his eyes. His lungs remembered their rhythm.

Jaden’s fingers tingled and his jaw unclenched. The weight of the divine command thinned enough for him to slip past its rules. When his stone skin dissolved back into flesh, he did not dwell on the miracle of it. He had never tolerated the horror-movie fool who paused their escape to study the mechanics of their cage. Now it was his turn to yell at himself to grab his things and keep it moving.

Jaden told his body to move. It obeyed.

He crossed the room in three strides. The luggage first. Then the urn.

For a hot second, he remembered wanting to stand over the canal and shake her into the water. Not now. He tucked the urn into his backpack. Whatever he felt about her, her remains were still his.

The camera last. Always the camera.

He rolled the advance lever out of habit. The click steadied him. Mechanical. Real. And he lifted the Minolta to his eye.

Jaden had noticed that every time either twin appeared or disappeared, it was always in front of the wall lined with Apollo’s instruments. The lyres, the violins, the flutes, all arranged in meticulous rows. There was nothing unusual about the wall. At least nothing his eyes could detect. Nothing through the lens either.

Except the light meter. The thing had died years ago, but there the needle was, clear as day in the viewfinder, moving and measuring the amount of light coming into the lens. The wall was saturated with it.

Jaden stepped closer. He extended his hand where the meter surged, and his fingers met resistance. Something thin. He brushed against a slightly greasy texture, like shea butter worked into skin. The faint scent of earth and sun-warmed oil rose into the air.

Familiar sensations, things he hadn’t come across since he was a kid, reminded him of mothballed memories. Over the years, Jaden had lodged certain things in the permanent past, packed them at the bottom of the box. He hadn’t been trying to hide them so much as those memories were obscured beneath all the things that came later.

Jaden pressed harder. And heat traveled through his palm, not burning or painful, but something alive.

He closed his eyes, and he was six again. Snow packed into his coat sleeves, socks soaked through after making snow angels. He’d come inside, teeth shattering, and climbed into the oven after turning the knob as far is it would go. The heat had gathered around him then too. Gentle at first. Then thick. Enveloping. Something lush and heavy that made him grin.

Until the oven door flew open.

“What’s wrong with you, huh?” his mouther had shouted. “You crazy?”

Just as the heat had dissipated when she yanked him out, the warmth from the wall withdrew.

Abrupt.

And just as he had been pulled out of the oven, so too was he pulled from the hall.

***

It’s time to reverse this chariot for a moment. We both need some questions answered, don’t you think? Let’s forget about Amsterdam for a second, and we will travel back in time to Davis Court instead. I’ll be watching from the sidelines with my last sips of wine, of course, and we will see what we see.

To the east and west, highways curved like concrete arms, sealing the neighborhood in its embrace. To the north, train tracks hissed and shrieked at all hours, slicing the air with metallic insistence. The last distinct boundary was an eight-block stretch of vacant lots to the south—mostly derelict brick houses and a stubborn convenience store—with a cemetery as its terminating vista.

Davis Cart once blended into Richmond, but now it was carved out of the city.

Jaden lived on a block dominated by identical two-story apartments relentlessly repeated in groups of five units. Iron fences separated each cluster, and those fences became law. He was only allowed to skate between two specific posts that marked off the units where he lived.

Other kids roamed where they pleased. He often watched them from the front porch with envy as they rode bikes or jumped rope.

One day, the world came to him. A group of his classmates barreled through his patch of sidewalk, and one of them smacked him on the back.

“Tag—you’re it!” yelled Tank.

Jaden recognized Tank as one of his few peers that didn’t make fun of him or tease him. The spirit of the moment grabbed hold of Jaden. And he pushed off and chased. Laughter and hollering ricocheted off the pavement while he was part of the gleaming pack of new playmates.

Until he got to the iron fence.

He stopped. It sure felt like every head turned at once.

“You coming?” Tank called.

“He won’t do it,” a girl said, emerging from the cluster. Jaden also knew Sabrina from his class, but for different reasons. She was the most vocal of his new teasers. Today, she looked different. More feral somehow, with her hair wild from running and a sharp gap between her teeth that could spit out insults. “He’s a momma’s boy. Gotta do what Mommy Lady says.”

They all shared a snicker.

“No, I don’t.” Jaden clenched his fist.

Sabrina crossed her arms. “Prove it, den.”

The problem was that a cord of nerves tightened in his stomach each time he moved toward to the fence. Every inch closer made the cord work its way down and bind his feet, thick as rope.

They didn’t have to face his mom.

But more laughter was on the other side. Acceptance in this new group made him desperate. And, at least, something was happening.

He looked back at his front door and estimated he had a small window before his mom would check on him again. She had been silhouetted in the doorway only a handful of minutes ago, admonishing him to wear his knee pads in her classic posture. It all started with her neck and trickled down to her hips, her limbs like creased cardboard, ready to unleash maternal wrath if he dared cross any lines. And Mom had a knack for finding something she disapproved of in the simplest things.

I’ll be back in ten minutes, Jaden bargained with himself.

And what a glorious ten minutes they were as he and the mob of kids stampeded further down the street. They buzzed toward the rough-hewn corridor of houses with broken and boarded up windows, the vacant lots peppered like bruises on the broken limbs of Davis Court.

Jaden felt light.

Fast.

Chosen.

It was exhilarating to burst after the kids on roller skates. They screamed and scattered at sharp angles, hid behind trees, or darted up crumbling steps to avoid his hands.

Actually. It wasn’t ten minutes.

Eight minutes passed. Right before Jaden was going to skate home, but not without finally tagging Sabrina—definitely with an extra shove—a flat pop snapped the air. Another followed, then the sound multiplied as it bounced between buildings, everywhere at once.

Something struck the tree beside them with a sharp thwack.

Bark jumped.

Jaden half-turned toward it. He went down hard instead.

Tank had yanked his legs from under him, veins surging across his massive-looking arms like vines.

“Crawl! Behind the house!” Tank yelled as another pop made brick grit spit from the side of an abandoned house.

Nothing made sense as the three wormed around to the back of the lot. Jaden felt a sharp, slicing burn across his forearm, quick and violent.

He crawled anyway, curling up when brick met his spine.

He stayed low and held his head like the others. Each distant pop folded into the memory of another day, another gun. The day his father was shot. The noise of both days pressed in, and Jaden dropped below them, landing in that narrow interior place that did not echo. The gunfire thinned there, muffled, as if heard through water.

Those five minutes stretched like an hour.

“It’s over,” Tank said at last.

“Dang boy, you almost got shot!” Sabrina pointed out and laughed as Jaden uncovered his head and looked around.

“Be nice, Sabrina,” Tank said. “He ain’t been caught up in no shootout before.”

Her high little laugh didn’t fool Jaden anyway. Underneath her giggle, they both knew that they lived in a place where death didn’t creep but lived openly on the streets. At nine, Sabrina simply wasn’t in shock about that fact any longer.

“C’mon,” she said, helping Jaden get to his feet.

We’re going to be friends now.

It wasn’t spoken. It was in the way Sabrina brushed off some of the dirt from Jaden’s clothes and gave him the once-over to confirm that he was okay. It was in Tank scanning the street before they moved, coupled with the reliability of his size. His height alone made Jaden feel that Tank was a small tree stuffed into kid form. But still just as sturdy and steady.

Jaden decided against telling either one of them that he did get shot. He reasoned the bullets had been rocks even though rocks didn’t go through your skin. And wounds from rocks definitely weren’t supposed to suture themselves up. But one’s imagination could run wild during the chaos of taking cover.

There was something different about Jaden, and something was certainly coming toward his life to which he was certainly oblivious. We’ll give him some time with his newfound friends.

Then she will come for him. Oh, how she’ll come.

P.S. I’ll be opening a small number of early reader spots soon for people interested in reading the full novel ahead of release. More on that soon!

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

I wasn’t happy about it. Waking up in a disorderly den, that is.

In another context, my palace was the pinnacle of taste. It was everything a gentleman’s lodging should be: stylishly furnished, spacious, gold-trimmed, and with that elegant look that only comes from people not actually living in the space. I have several bedrooms, endless bathrooms, a courtyard, a vineyard, and a cellar that holds over two million bottles. Usually, each room is tidy and perfect.

Now, the smell of cigarettes and wine wafted through the halls. Priceless tapestries were torn, the floors had been redecorated with dents and scratches, and the bodies of heroes and gods alike littered every conceivable cushion, half-naked.

Sprawled out on the floor, at the foot of my bed, was Pan, snoring loudly. I would have gotten up and kicked his little hoof but realized not one, but two nymphs were nestled on top of my arms, one per side. To my left was an unknown lass who had a nice figure. She classed up the standard of my surroundings quite a bit. I had half a mind to go back to sleep and continue a blissful morning snuggle, but to my right was...Polydora.

I can’t recall ever dressing in such a hushed hurry in my immortal life. As a rule, I’m what you call a slowpoke. I’m careful. I want to linger over the shirt and see that the trousers sit just right. But this morning, I shoved on my things any which way, grabbed a bottle of white from my nightstand’s emergency stash, booked it out of my place, turned around to put the wine back, completed a fabulous half-turn toward sobriety, reconsidered being wineless, reclaimed the bottle, and left.

All within two minutes.

The stale mayhem inside my abode was tomorrow’s problem, even though my mind was set on reminding me of the night’s events. How anxious I was at the prospect of war. How Pan appeared and plastered over that anxiety by inviting over more and more people to rouse the spirits, including Clytie—who I only then realized was the unknown lass in my bed.

By the end, Pan convinced me to tell everyone about Jaden and Apollo, and I had the whole viewing party leaning into the tale instead of the season premiere of Gladiator Resurrection. The remembrance of the night hit me like a dull wine. One that lacks a bit of freshness, no worthwhile finish on the palate.

This was all Pan’s fault, I noted, as I wandered and opened my morning bottle. I wanted a quiet night home, while he made it a personal vendetta of his to make the night one long scream from start to finish. He kept me trapped in this notorious form of nonstop revelry, proving to be a trying experience for even the toughest.

I sipped and reflected.

It was not until I got to Silenus’s forest that I noticed my feet had led me out of Olympus. On autopilot, I had stepped down on tufts of clouds turned steps, which carried me off to the grove that Silenus, my foster father and mentor, had spruced up and called home.

“You’re up early,” Silenus said.

He was already seated cross-legged in the clearing when I arrived, framed by a quiet ring of lotus trees. The morning light filtered through their leaves and patterned his shoulders.

“I know. It’s pretty gross,” I said. “But I needed some fresh air.”

“Nature’s panacea.” Silenus patted the ground next to his shaggy legs. “Come sit.”

I lowered myself to the earth and, without thinking, offered him the bottle.

To my surprise, he took it. “The Midas D’or. I remember this one. It was an arid year. We even had to pull the weeds so the vines could keep enough water.” He breathed in the open bottle. “Fresh basil. A little bit of pumice, maybe? Ash too.” He handed back the wine without drinking. “How is it?”

“You could take a sip and see for yourself.” I leaned in conspiratorially. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“No, thank you.” The old geezer said it lightly.

If one didn’t know any better, one might think he secretly chaired an anti-wine movement or a league for the suppression of grapes.

“C’mon. You used to say that ‘the man who does not enjoy drinking wine is mad.’”

“I did.” Silenus gave me one of those knowing smiles that reached both ends of his broad, flat face. Actually, he was good at smiling and nodding these days. Those understanding expressions. “And it is still true. I embrace my madness now.”

I tipped the bottle and poured some out on the ground. “For you.”

“Many thanks.” His ears fluttered forward. While mainly human, he had some endearing, horse-like attributes.

“I think I’ve lost track of things these past several centuries. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve paid you a visit, Pappo.”

I only called him that because he felt less like a satyr and more like something priestly.

“Well, you’re here now, and that makes me happy.” There was no accusation in his tone. Not even nostalgia really. Just the truth.

“Anyway,” I added quickly, deflecting before sentiment could settle too deeply, “you look like you’ve lost some weight since the last time I saw you, old man.”

“It’s amazing how much of that was from all that wine.” He grabbed his stomach where the familiar curve once lived and laughed and laughed and laughed. He was still old and balding, but he looked more refined with a thinner, rolled-out look.

Pappo had discovered that wine was a food well in advance of civilization. He’d taught me everything I knew about viticulture, fermentation, and how to properly drink, being that he was a minor god of drunkenness and winemaking. To see him now—vegetarian, teetotaler, utterly devoted to reading—felt like watching a river decide to flow backward.

He rested his hands on his knees, “And how are things on Shangri-La?”

I caught him up to speed on everything. Jaden and Apollo. Pan and the parties. The prospect of gods clawing their divine flesh off each other’s bones. I ended with the following: “I’ve been drinking since I was little to endure the divine politics, but as much as I love wine, tossing back glass after glass to cope is starting to feel synonymous with warding off a plague of locusts with a mere fly swatter.”

“That bad, eh?” He rose slowly, dusted off his legs, and pressed one furry ear against the base of the nearest lotus tree.

“Yes,” I swirled the bottle. “Something is shifting. I can feel it.”

“War?” he asked, head still parallel to the ground.

“Poseidon didn’t use the word,” I continued, “but he didn’t have to. He’s been meeting with the Titans. And Hera’s been holding quiet meetings with gods who no longer reside on Olympus. I’ll tell you more about that later. But yes. It feels like the major players are gearing up for something and nobody’s naming it.”

“Hmm.” Silenus moved tree to tree, ear against bark, pausing as if waiting for a confession. “I thought everyone learned their lesson last time during the Titanomachy.”

The War of the Titans—the Titanomachy, if you prefer the dramatic title—was a brutal battle that dragged on for ten ugly years. Zeus, his brothers and sisters, a vast number of minor deities, and the cyclopes on one side against Zeus’s father, Cronus. His father, of course, was backed by the other gods and goddesses, the Titans. While the whole production ran before my time, Zeus, during the few times he was around in my youth, raised my siblings and me on those stories of his glory days. He spoke about battles renting the skies with a sense of pride. Rehashing the time when the land was drenched in divine blood put a light in the eyes of Ares or Athena, but I came away from hearing those stories with a sense of, no, take that away immediately. That’s dreadful.

“What are you listening for?” I asked.

“The ripest one. I can hear it if I listen enough.” He finally stopped at a squat trunk, knocked three times at its base, and the tree shivered. A branch lowered itself obediently and offered fruit into his hands.

Pappo returned and settled beside me again, prying the pod open with steady fingers.

“Tell me plainly,” he said. “What do you actually know?”

I took a long sip of wine. “Poseidon is circling old alliances. That much is certain. To build them against whom? He didn’t say. My guess is Zeus. If there were ever a moment to test the throne, it would be now. The Dodecatheon feels fractured. And ambrosia…” I hesitated. “Ambrosia isn’t flowing the way it used to.”

That made him pause too.

“Some of us have had to make do without it for some time now.”

The further you are from the Dodecatheon, the twelve major gods and goddesses who reign over everything, the further you are from the source of power. My mentor looked aged because he had gone off into the woods, let go of his ties to Olympus, and forsaken divine possessions. While his laughs came easy, the lines in his skin creased more easily.

“And if war were to come against Zeus, who would you side with?”

“How could you ask me that? I can’t think about taking sides.”

Pappo broke open the pod. “And what if you can’t just peep in the window? What if you get pulled into the house?”

“I won’t.”

“Because?”

“Because—” Having finished most of the bottle of wine, I felt that I was now able to deal with life’s problems “—Because I’m going to stop it. Whatever it is. Coup. Revolt. Posturing. I’m going to prevent it from becoming war.”

“You?”

“Yes, me,” I said a little frigidly. “Why are you surprised?”

“I’m not surprised. Maybe…concerned.”

“About what?”

“That you’re stuck in a bit of a loop.”

Pappo met my eyes as he spoke plainly.

“The other satyrs stop by from time to time, and I hear about some of your escapades together,” he continued. “They make the stories out to be all frivolous and fun, but I know there’s a cost to running in those circles. I was once in them. I’m sure you remember that I was the drunkest person in your retinue. So drunk that I spent half my time either propped up by satyrs or slung over donkeys. I was a hollowed shell of a god—not present for much of my life. My concern is how will you find a way to stop a war if you’re not even participating in your own experience?”

“I am participating,” I wanted to retort, but I found it difficult to lie to Pappo.

The honorable Papposilenus taught me to stand up straight, you know? That I was mighty, I was strong. He was the closest thing to a father to me. From an infant until now, he’s always looked out for me. And he always would until the end of his immortality.

War changed things. And someone like Pappo, without ambrosia, wouldn’t survive divine carnage. Maybe it was the thought of ever losing him. Maybe I was tired of all the hedonism, but I meant what I said: “I will prevent this war, but I need your help to give up wine.”

Of course, like any good addict worth their addiction, it was easy to sacrifice my substance right after a fix.

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

When Apollo slipped out of bed in the early morning hours to chauffer the sun, Jaden couldn’t go back to sleep. “Don’t leave.” He reached for Apollo’s velvety, toasty skin.

But Jaden could already feel the smoldering warmth dissipating as Apollo crossed the hall.

“I have to,” Apollo said. “Even us gods have responsibilities.”

Jaden watched Apollo reach for something in his bookcase, except his hand slid into a seam between two books. A space between the space. Before Jaden could see what Apollo pulled out, a flare of light caused Jaden to shield his eyes.

“What was that?” Jaden asked after the intensity stopped pressing on his vision.

“Nothing you have to worry about.” Apollo returned to the bed to give Jaden a kiss.

Sensual. Lingering.

The meeting of the lips reminded Jaden of all the pleasures he had enjoyed with Apollo the night before: warmth, skin, the kind of ecstasy that blurred everything else.

“What you can worry about is enjoying this B-side.” Apollo walked over to his instruments and snapped his fingers. Music permeated the room as they played him a song on their own accord.

Then in a swirl of light, Apollo disappeared.

Jaden lay awake and thought about him constantly, feeling like he was thirteen again. He had never been in such an all-consuming dynamic with anyone. He usually forged out into the world independently, pushing himself to move forward. He had no time for friends, as his assignments for the magazine demanded relentless travel. No time for love, as he was too busy positioning others before his lens to let anyone come close. And no time for family, he noted, as he stared at the black snap lid of the plastic urn nestled beside his suitcase.

He did warn himself that he was getting in too deep, too fast, but the way he felt around Apollo felt so damn good. After all, Jaden liked him a lot.

I think a little more than a lot. You would think Jaden would have employed that mortal trick of counting days. He was only supposed to spend seven of them in Amsterdam. His initial plan was to continue and take the train to Paris, practically floating into the French borders, high, after tossing back a space cake before boarding at Amsterdam Centraal. While not in France two weeks later, he was still high, although, as we both know, from a different drug.

Ironic that I should know his schedule. Usually, it is us gods who get lost in the passage of time, our days feeling both fleeting and endless: the world transforming around us while we remain fixed, seasons falling away like water over a cataract.

For Jaden, the days became a fluid, slippery thing, and he lost hold of its strings. His time spent with the god was filled with sex and music.

As Jaden listened to the song Apollo left him, “Still Water (Peace)” by the Four Tops, he was brought back to his childhood. His father always had a song playing when Jaden was a little kid. Jaden remembered crates of records on the floor and a bunch of big speakers set up everywhere. While his father was doing, Jaden was listening. Sometimes, music felt like the only way Jaden could remember his father, and hearing certain songs, especially anything from Motown, made him slip back to those days with his dad as if music was some sort of time-weaving spell.

As the early daylight painted dull breakfast colors on the sky, Jaden got out of bed, drawn to the large windows overlooking the canal in the back garden. From his vantage point, he watched the city slowly come alive—the rare boat with its early risers and the rhythmic dance of stand-up paddleboarders who punctuated the tranquil water; they paddled, rested, paddled, rested. Eventually, they slipped out of sight, leaving Jaden to focus on the static objects in his view.

Uniform red brick buildings on the opposite bank peered through Weeping Willows, whose dangling limbs looked as if they were dipping their fingers in the water for a temperature check.

A sudden thought jarred him: he could just scatter his mother’s ashes in this canal and end this prolonged farewell. For years, Jaden had managed to postpone seeing her, always promising himself he’d visit once his work was done. But there was always another assignment, another excuse not to visit. He just couldn’t deal with his mom right then. And it became easier to work and avoid contact with her than to show up and battle with someone who lacquered deep-brooding anger over everything she interacted with. When the hospital called, Jaden didn’t have an excuse anymore not to visit because the nurse on the line had told him his mother had died.

She died. Just like that.

He ran his fingers along the plate engraved with her name on the container’s side. This was all that he had left of her. Her remains in a temporary urn while he was left to sift through all that was left in her wake. There was so much unresolved between them, yet she had exited. Just up and got off the ride. How was that fair?

“Would it be fair,” Jaden asked her ashes, “if I shook you out in the canal? Would you care?”

The truth of her departure revealed that the problem with death was the problem of the living. Perhaps it was the bumpiness of anger he felt about how things ended that he decided to pick up her remains and dump them outside.

Only then did it dawn on him that there was no exit. Jaden hadn’t left the house since he had arrived. When he thought about when he had woken up in Apollo’s bed for the first time, that memory felt like mere minutes ago yet also stretched back for days.

Every time he thought about the door, picturing where the threshold was, it slipped away from his thoughts as if he were waterproof to his own senses.

Of course, Jaden realized as he set down the ashes and traded them for his camera. He shifted the camera to look around the room, but everything in the viewfinder looked as it did to his naked eye.

No door. No way out.

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

“Shouldn’t you be getting back to the ocean?” I asked. “Your skin is turning quite dry and scaly.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad yet.” Polydora brushed off some of her crumbling epidermis.

“Even so,” I said, rushing her out of my room. I had been searching for some excuse to get rid of her ever since I woke up next to her that morning. “I’ve heard about Oceanids who spend too much time away from their waters and end up with skin as tough as dried beef. Trust me, it’s an upsetting image.”

“But what about the rest of the story?” She seized the door frame and very nearly filled the entire thing. “I want to hear it. It sounds romantic.”

I pushed against her. She filled the doorway in a way that made the palace feel smaller. “I could write it down for you instead.”

There was some give to her body. “You’ll write me?”

“Sure,” I said, and barely managed to maneuver her through the doors and out my palace before my strength gave out. It was one of those times that try a god’s soul.

Behind me, I heard Pan’s hooves echo on the marble floor. “She ain’t too shabby, eh?”

“I don’t want to hear it from you.” I served him a frosty look. “This is all your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Yes, your fault. You abandoned me with her last night, and now she’s infatuated with me. All over me like a bad rash.”

“Well, you did lead her on,” Pan said. “Maybe you should lay off the sauce at these gigs. Could save you a lot of headaches.”

I could have massacred the little monster. “I only went to that party so you could pursue her!”

“Polydora?” Pan snorted. “Why, I couldn’t betray what has grown between Clytie and me. When our eyes met last night, I realized that what I had imagined being my love for Polydora was only a moment’s madness. The whole night, it was just Clytie and me. We gabbed. We danced. We got sozzled. Oh, Didi, she’s a crown jewel surrounded by lesser gems.” I watched him pirouette on his hooves, lovestruck. “I absolutely worship her. She’s a true goddess—”

I walked away.

Except Pan trailed after me, tugging at my robes. “You do believe in love at first sight, don’t cha, Didi?”

“No. And don’t call me that. I am not in the mood for any of this. I want to sit on my favorite divan by myself, relax and enjoy a nice glass of wine, with no one bothering me. In a quiet room. By myself.”

All at once, I felt it. The rundown, vampiric state of not having time to recharge for years.

“But you can’t do that. You made plans already.”

“What?” I asked. When?”

“Last night, when you were three goblets past wise, you swore to everyone you’d host a viewing party for the season premiere of Gladiator Resurrection.”

“No,” I said, even though I watched Pan nod. Unfortunately, I recalled the night in a hazy sort of way. The trail of people I had invited to my place for the after party, the constant snogging with Polydora at the after-after party.

“It will just have to be canceled.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can and I will.” I was feeling fairly godly and sovereign.

“But it’s too late to cancel. Guests will be rolling through in a jiffy. What are you going to do, shoo ‘em off?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Pan questioned, bewildered.

“Yes!”

Pan stomped one hoof down. “Where’s yer sense of xenia? Surely you don’t want to snub Zeus by turning away guests.”

“Oh, come on. Many of the Olympians no longer live here, including Zeus, who spends more time camping out in his god cave in New York. I doubt he cares about hospitality on Mount Olympus anymore. Half the residences are boarded up like a second-rate hotel.”

The two of us thrashed the issue out some more, and the battle sapped what little energy I had recovered from hitting eject on Polydora.

I collapsed onto the floor. “I can’t do this, Pan. I am not the god I once was. These all-night vigils are starting to wear on me. I don’t know if I can go on any longer. Aren’t you starting to feel a bit…unhinged?”

“Listen, all ya gotta do is reframe the situation. Imagine the frenzied delight. Think of all the grub piled high.” Pan hopped around me, making me feel a bit woozy. “And the music beyond belief. Gods sweating, goddesses twirling. The sparks flying in dark corners!”

With every clap of his hooves against the floor, I felt more and more beads of sweat roll down my neck.

When did it get so unbearably hot?

Pan swirled around me faster and faster until I could see nothing more but blurred lines. If I could have thrown up, I would have, but my body had been trained to resist the consequences of a good party since birth.

Pan’s laughter only heightened the feeling that his unbridled force of nature was closing in on me.

The madness of it all.

The panic.

Then everything went dark.

I awoke sequestered in my library sometime later, sprawled out on a long, low, leopard-print sofa.

Waiting beside me was a bottle of my dearest champagne: Château Elysium.

I made quick work of uncorking it, pouring myself a glass, and reveling in the aromas of bread crust. I enjoyed a touch of something like cooked apples as I let the bubbles rest in my mouth. That was true carnal ecstasy and delight, the poetry in this bottle.

“Sweet, sweet, Pan,” I said aloud. “Thank you, my horned friend.”

He could be thoughtful, honoring the quiet, low-key night I needed. With a withdrawal from the party scene and exquisite wine in hand, I started to revive like a watered flower.

During my second sip, I noticed Bromie, one of my maenads, fussing over the army of rugs in the room. She was brushing out the fibers with concentrated effort, eyes trapped open. I had seen the whole lot of beloved women perform some strange rites in my day: tearing both cattle and humans alike to pieces, suckling wolf cubs from their teats, and adorning themselves with snakes to channel dark ladies who enfolded people in their makeshift tentacles. But never before had I seen them fret and frenzy about the palace with such gusto, going to work like sweet, darling fairies—straightening, sweeping, polishing.

Before I could accost her with my questions on the matter, the palace’s bells went off. I parried Bromie’s newfound servitude before she could get up.

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I’ll get it.”

My glass, the bottle, and I escorted ourselves to the front entrance.

“Hephaestus, what are you doing here?” I asked.

The god of the forge looked at me with polite yet slightly condescending puzzlement behind his metal-rimmed glasses. “Hardly the tone I expect to hear from a host. Wasn’t it just last night you were saying this would be the party of the decade?”

“Oh, no. I told Pan I wasn’t going to do this. When I see that little deviant, I’m going to kill him!” I took a gulp of champagne to prevent myself from morphing into a demon. It did nothing for the desire to take Pan by his beastly neck, shake him till he frothed, pull him inside out, and make him swallow himself.

Hephaestus shuffled with me in the corridors of my own home as I shouted Pan’s name.

“How do I look?” he asked, oblivious to my plight.

He did not want to know the true answer to that. Kind-hearted as Hephaestus was, he made me feel embarrassed, as one always does when left alone with someone so gnarled. In a particular light and maybe with a chosen filter, Hephaestus was not hideous.

And despite my objections to this party, I still had a duty as host. Part of that responsibility meant I couldn’t tell old friends to shove off because I was tired. Or that with everything so exquisitely decorated and everyone so impossibly beautiful on Mount Olympus, seeing the one exception was almost an offense to the eyesight.

“I love the fact that I’ve never seen something like that on you before,” I said tactfully, always the gentleman.

For added measure, I passed him the bottle and told him to enjoy the sacred drink while I left the two of them behind.

It was a sacrifice I was willing to make.

In any case, I had to rush forward to bugle Pan’s name from room to room. “Pan, where are you, you unfortunate little mutt? I know you’re lurking around here somewhere.”

I checked the kitchens, the wine cellar, and the ballroom, but he was nowhere to be found.

When I made my way back to the entrance hall, hundreds of guests instantly fruited, but maenads and satyrs had already gone to work as innocent hosts who lubed up the crowd with welcome drinks and ambrosia bites. I wished Pan hadn’t served my cache of ambrosia for the guests, being supplies were thinning and Zeus hadn’t clarified when the divine food would be replenished. But I brushed aside that thorn as I realized how well-oiled this party machine was without my direction.

As I stepped back and admired the coordinated effort, I savored the last drops of the wine in my glass. There were rich and ripe fruit notes, but then wham, I got this stark acidity that cut through the profile and made the champagne fresh. The snappy stimulant invigorated me, despite my ire. That’s what I love about Château Elysium: it’s much too fun to drink and makes life nothing but pure joy. I still wanted to wring Pan’s neck, but give credit where it was due. Somewhere between the blackouts and the bacchanals, he’d learned the craft.

Everything was cheer, charm, and goodwill.

For all about five seconds. Because even the power of Château Elysium has its limits. The conversation I had with Poseidon at the Titan party finally came to mind. Initially, I dreaded that I had said something moronic to him during my frenzy, but it was actually what Poseidon had let slip to me.

The god of the sea was shoring up for war.

P.S. I’ve been quietly building a small group of early readers for the full book. If you meant to reach out earlier, you still can!

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

Jaden’s world solidified from the nebulous edges of…a dream? His eyes, heavy with the remnants of sleep, caught sight of his suitcase leaning against the nightstand. Vacation. He remembered that much. Free from the shackles of needing to be somewhere. He could sink back into the soft sheets, burrowing in a comfortable bed.

Then he saw the urn.

It rested beside his luggage, small and stubbornly real, and the heaviness of the world cocooned around him again. Those were his mother’s ashes.

To fulfill her wish to see Greece, Jaden had her cremated and put together an itinerary to travel around Europe for six weeks. The first stop was Amsterdam. The last stop was the island of Crete, one of Greece’s largest islands, where he would spread her remains.

Right after they had moved to Davis Court, Jaden remembered his mother buying cigarettes at a rundown convenience store four blocks away from their new apartment. At the register, a yellowed travel magazine featured the white (turned sepia) sand shores and beautiful crystal waters of Balos Beach. She ran her chipped fingernails across the cover while waiting for her change. Her eyes lit up, and she left that shop almost imperceptibly. Beaches always had that effect on her.

“We should go there,” Jaden said.

“Who are you to say such things?” she asked, hateful. “Just look at you. You black, you poor, you ugly, and you not a man. Just a little boy. What you got going for you?”

Before Jaden could answer, his mother gave him one. “Exactly. You just nothing at all.”

Standing in the line behind him, he recognized some of his new classmates. The horde of them, laughing and grinning. Everyone except one, the biggest guy in the group.

Most of them would later go on to taunt Jaden in school about how his mom could be like that, mouth full of talons instead of teeth. And how the only thing he could do in the face of her anger was to agree with her and pacify her with the likes of, “Yes, Mommy Lady.” That part killed them, with all the smugness of nasty nine-year-olds.

When he got older, he learned to protect himself by avoiding his mom altogether. No Christmases or Thanksgivings. No phone calls or texts. Yet now she was here with him anyway.

Only smaller.

Her ashes would never tell him that she was proud of him, that he had succeeded despite her unpredictable anger. But he was determined to show her that he was, in fact, something.

Getting run over by a cyclist hadn’t been part of that plan, however. He lay in bed and replayed the previous day like sifting through photographs in a dark room.

He couldn’t have met three Greek gods. He couldn’t have been turned into a cat by one and nearly killed by another. Twice. It had to be dream residue. Like some kind of underexposure. If you didn’t leave the photographic paper in the developing solution long enough, the image came out looking faint. He couldn’t have had those experiences because he had gotten off the plane in Amsterdam, taken a picture in the center, and then went...

...where?

The answer clicked into place like a well-timed shutter.

Here.

His hotel room. Where his 35mm camera stared back at him from atop the nightstand, and a comforting wave washed over him.

Jaden held on to his reasonable, rational version of events. Until he saw Apollo on the far end of the room, trails of light following Apollo’s fingers as he wrote something. Not on paper but into the air itself. The incandescence was a gentle nudge that if this were all a dream, Jaden’s entire life must be one, and regardless, he was still living it.

Why shouldn’t gods be real, was the better question. Why shouldn’t the room burn with the golden sparks from one of them tinkering at something?

Jaden watched him.

You could learn a lot from someone if you studied them, especially when they thought nobody was looking. There was something very competent about Apollo—possibly even arrogant—that pulled at Jaden. He was completely in the throes of his craft, and Jaden found that level of concentration attractive. The living script shimmered:

On the first day that I saw you

Your quiet soul shined bright

Then I pulled you into my world

I don’t know how you will survive

Gods and goddesses have wicked schemes

We pursue them to new extremes

But you’ll rise above the challenge

Even though—

“Even though…even though,” Apollo repeated out loud, filling in words that didn’t fit quite right, only to dissolve entire lines with a jab of his finger.

Jaden reached for his camera. The black enamel body fit into his hands, and the chromed parts that his fingers pressed and twisted were smoothed and welcome fixtures that had been a part of his life for years. His Minolta SRT 101 had proved its loyalty time and again.

Jaden peered through the viewfinder, framing Apollo, studying the fuzzy wisps of light surrounding the ethereal being. Slowly, Jaden turned the manual focus ring. The god sharpened into clarity—the curve of his shoulder, skin almost alight, and the long blond hair that swished as he hummed out the lyrics. Only through the mechanical eye did the world settle.

The camera had always revealed the truth of things to him. And Apollo hadn’t been some strange conjuring from Jaden’s imagination.

Jaden’s fingers longed to crank the film forward, to press the shutter button. To capture a god who embodied the quote from Chuck Close, who described the creative process in two perfect sentences: Inspiration is for amateurs; the rest of us just show up and get to work.

But the frame ignited. Flames licked the edges of the room. The wall of instruments blackened. And light bent inward.

It mesmerized Jaden, called to him. He swore he could almost hear the fire whisper to him, songlike, and something inside Jaden opened in answer, as if mental windows were thrown open, after years of neglect, to welcome the heat from the hot sun.

Jaden’s voice interwove with Apollo’s: “Even though you’ll lose your mind.”

“Beautiful.” Apollo finished the verse, his back still turned. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

The fire vanished the moment Jaden lowered the lens.

“I’m alright. All things considered,” Jaden said. “I still don’t even know where I am.”

“My sanctuary,” Apollo said. “In Amsterdam.”

“And will I?” Jaden twitched his cheek. The vague feeling of still having whiskers prickled across his face.

“Will you what?”

“Lose my mind.”

Apollo crossed the room and sat beside Jaden. “Probably. Your kind always does in the end.”

That wasn’t comforting. But the nearness of Apollo aroused a simmering pressure throughout Jaden’s body. His eyes betrayed him as he snuck in glances of the god’s physique: the cut of his chest, the strength coiled in his arms. And when Apollo looked back at him with his enigmatic eyes, Jaden wondered if Apollo knew how feverish the god’s effect was on him while Apollo appeared at ease in his room.

Room was the wrong word for this place. Gallery maybe. Or hall? As Jaden allowed his eyes a brief break from soaking in the god, he settled on one large hall full of natural light, musical instruments, and canopies of plush cushions. Books towered in deliberate stacks everywhere else, bursting from every corner, crammed in every available nook.

Everything radiated outward from a central wooden slab.

“That’s no ordinary camera you have, is it?” Apollo asked, his voice a mesmerizing hum in the quiet room.

“How did you know?”

“Just a feeling.” Apollo’s finger traced the outline of the 35mm camera, and for a fleeting second, Jaden felt a curious connection between them—the human, the god, and the conduit that bound them together. “Then again, you’re no ordinary person.”

Jaden almost laughed at that.

He had built an entire life on invisibility. Not an extraordinary person. But he was a great photographer. He always figured what made him so great was that he could come off as a prop in the background, not noticeable, important, or all that valuable compared to his subject.

“You’re the god,” Jaden said as he broke away from Apollo’s gaze to regain some measure of control. “You tell me.”

Apollo reclined onto the cushions, considering. “I will share with you a truth. Despite our divinity, there are things even we gods do not understand, particularly when a force far greater intends for it to remain a mystery. Even after thousands of years, I can find myself caught off guard. Intrigued. In this, I still feel the thrill of being alive. And you, Jaden,” his eyes sparkled with anticipation, “you are full of surprises.”

His instincts cautioned him to be careful. And yet, Jaden did not sense deceit when he allowed his gaze to wander back to Apollo. He did, however, observe something strange in Apollo’s eyes. They were made of something golden and elusive. Like flecks of soft gold, melting.

“I’d imagine you’ve had plenty of things happen to you that you couldn’t explain?”

“You could say that.”

Apollo’s lips curled into a smile. “Tell me about them.”

The conversation felt surreal as Jaden ranked some of the more bizarre occurrences of his twenty-five years on the planet. Being turned into a cat might rank third. The old number three was that time his mother chased off a corpse-eater from their neighborhood once. Then there was that time his father was shot, and light danced out of his eyes. But the strangest occurrence was when Jaden and his best friend, Tank, found this camera. Because it seemed to attract the impossible ever since.

Never before had Jaden told someone all of this, but something about Apollo compelled him to share.

With each passing story, Apollo edged closer to Jaden. “Fascinating. By your accounts, I can’t be your first encounter with the divine then.”

“So, it’s all real, huh?” Jaden said. “Gods?”

“Of course.”

“What’s it like? Being a god?”

Apollo paused. “Do you dream?”

“I don’t always remember them, but yeah.”

“It’s like living inside a dream. A dream where you’re able to dream the exact adventure you’ve always wanted to dream.”

“But what about after that? What happens after you’ve had all your fun?” Jaden asked. “Don’t you get bored?”

“Something tells me things won’t be boring with you around.”

Jaden felt an unmistakable pull as Apollo leaned forward. For a moment, Jaden waited for the kiss. He wanted the kiss.

“Your wounds are fully healed,” Apollo said as he brushed his fingers along Jaden’s neck. “I thought I almost lost you when I shot you with that arrow. There’s more strength in you than my sister realizes.”

Jaden pulled Apollo closer to seize the kiss he wanted for himself. Who was this version of himself? So bold and hungry. He was convinced that nobody else wanted Apollo as physically as he did, and no one ever would.

Jaden opened his eyes as their lips met, and he blushed.

Not because he felt he was violating some unwritten rule to making out by opening his eyes. What made him feel the heat of embarrassment was the thrilling realization that Apollo wanted to kiss him too. Like light meeting mirror.

This cannot—had better not—be a dream, Jaden thought as he pressed his eyes shut again.

That feeling ended a few weeks later.

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

Generally speaking, Titan parties are the worst. The performances: bland. The crowds—restless. Everyone stays up late to find the one thing that’s supposed to make the entire endeavor worthwhile. You really need to drink to power through the stuffy get-togethers. All those gathered try to make the jubilee work for them, and they all fail.

By the end, everyone becomes a dense, almost viscous swamp of desperation. The grounds outside the hall are full of vom. Yes, gods heave too. And it’s perfectly rancid. You can’t get a chariot out of there fast enough. While you wait, the very venue itself feels feral. Every divine being has that hungry look in their eyes as they latch on to someone to club and drag home. Those shindigs are truly a goddamn nightmare.

I detest them, I realized as I woke up with a start the following morning. For a while, I subdued the feeling that I was forgetting something as I gazed up at the live murals Hephaestus had charmed onto my ceiling when he redesigned the residences on Mount Olympus. This morning’s scene featured rolling waves with dolphins twirling out of the water.

The blue tones soothed me until I was reminded of a chat I had with Poseidon at some point last night. I turned over, trying to recall what awful thing had come out of my mouth. I had that feeling that I had said something inappropriate.

When the lump of bedding stirred next to me, that dread multiplied by a hundred. I felt that same jarring feeling mortals must have when they hear their alarm in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I peeled back the silk covers.

“S’matter?” asked Polydora, stretching.

“What are you doing in my bed?”

“Good morning, handsome! There you are. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, I did. What are you doing in my bed?”

“We had an afterparty at your place.”

“Yes,” I said, recalling a particularly delicious nightcap. Or three. “But what are you doing in my bed?”

Polydora smiled at my words and stroked my beard. “What a rascal you are, mentioning this bed nonstop. You don’t recall that devious mind you had all night?”

“No, I—”

Then she serenely rolled over me, rehashing all the sexual positions we had contorted ourselves into.

It was then that I surmised that I was dreaming. A nightmare of sorts but a dream all the same. “This isn’t happening,” I said to myself. This was clearly a me issue. I pulled the sheet back up and gently covered her face to rectify the situation.

And with good timing too. The moment my hands left the sheets, Pan zipped into the room with my morningly glass of wine. “Drag yer ass outta bed, sunshine!”

As much as I wanted this all to be a prank, my hand did move under the sheets to cover Polydora’s mouth, which continued to recount the intricate details of my genitals.

“What a riot, yeah?” Pan said as he uncorked a bottle. “I mean, not as wild as some of our rad sprees when we were younger, but people were guzzling wine from serving bowls filled to the brim. We did the night justice, I reckon.”

“We did?”

“No rules, no reins. Just chaos in all its naked glory.”

“Right,” I said. “And what happened exactly?”

“You flipped the damned thing inside out. All thanks to that crazy stick of yours. What was it…seven taps by the end?”

“Seven times!” The last I remembered was five. And even that was fuzzy.

“Yeah, seven. Can you imagine? Well, yeah, you were there. It was debauchery raised to an art form. Rumor has it that it will be the front-page story of The Golden Trumpet.”

Polydora licked my fingers as if she were channeling some measure of last night’s sin into today.

“Stop that!”

“Stop what?” Pan asked as he turned around from the serving tray, two glasses of wine prepped.

“The wine,” I improvised. “I’d rather not have that just yet.”

“Lay off it. You resist every morning with all this talk about how you hate how much we party, and you’re going to swear off wine because you’ve done something crazy again that you regret, but I know it’s all talk. I see you when you’re in the moment. You enjoy the revelry. The drinking, the dancing, the frenzy of it all. It all means too much for you to give it up.”

“Fine,” I said, changing my tactic to get rid of him. “But not that bottle. Get the Hyacinth Hope.”

In a flash, he was gone.

“You need to get out of here before Pan returns,” I said to the covered mass that was Polydora.

“What?” She emerged from the bedding. “Why?”

“You’re the girl of his dreams. He’s the one I was trying to tell you about at the party. He’ll be absolutely crushed if he finds out that we’ve…you know.” I did not want to give power to the word; thus I gestured vaguely. Honestly, I don’t know how the fuck this could have happened.

“But you’re the one who couldn’t keep your hands off me. I don’t think I heard one mention of your little friend last night. At least, no mention other than this little friend.” Polydora’s hand shot out toward my crotch. In all my hangovers, never have I moved so quickly. I popped right out from underneath those sheets.

“Will you just get out of my bed?”

“Why are you so obsessed with this bed?” Polydora countered querulously, apparently fed up with discussions about sleeping quarters.

I had no words. There was something about her obstinance that sapped all of my willpower.

“You are a funny one,” she said finally. “First, you hit on me in that roundabout away, and then you practically scoop me up into your room. And now you’re trying to palm me off to your friend.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” I pleaded.

“It’s okay. I’m not angry. I think the whole night was rather sweet. But it’s time that I take control of this situation. It’s clear to me that you want someone to look after you even though you have a strange way of expressing it. It’s probably because of all that wine you’ve been drinking.” She looked me up and down in a possessive kind of way. “Don’t worry, I will be able to fix you. It’s true you’ve led a bit of a wasted life up till now, but you are immortal, and I see a lot of potential in you. All those rumors of you being an insane drunk aren’t half as bad as they’re told.”

“No, there really isn’t any good in me at all,” I said, shrinking back. “And you’re not getting it.”

“Oh yes. Yes, I am. You simply need someone to guide you. Now get back in this bed that you love so much.”

Pan has this manner of shimmering into rooms. There I was, upright and stark naked, thinking of how to hoist this nymph out of my room, who now sprawled across my entire bed, when suddenly, I looked up, and there Pan was, full of radiant splendor. He moves from point to point with as little fuss and production as a falling leaf.

Luckily, his eyes were firmly attached to the label on the bottle as he recited:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

More rich, more smooth, and more divine than this,

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

While every sip brings warmth and joy and bliss

“Ain’t that sweet,” Pan said. “This your handiwork?”

Being the god of theater, one of my lesser-known roles, afforded me the luxury of a strong sense of prose. Well, recognizing when prose was strong. I may have retrofitted parts of Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18,” but he wouldn’t have been much without me. I told Pan that I created the composition as I submerged Polydora under the silks. Again.

“That reminds me,” Pan said as I sat on the bed to conceal the lump behind me. “Since you’re one of those creative types, how ‘bout sprucing up this poem I’ve scribbled?”

Polydora’s hand slid out from the covers and squeezed my bare ass.

“Leave me alone!”

Pan looked up from pouring, hurt. “I know ya get your horns in a twist in the mornings, but there’s no need to be rude.”

“I mean…leave me alone with it. The poem. I’ll work my magic.”

His face lit up. “Ahh, that’s gold. I want to end the poem with a proposal. If you can get it back to me in a few days, I can pass it along.”

“Pan,” I couldn’t help saying. “Aren’t you moving things ahead rather quickly?”

He shook his head. “Sure, we haven’t dated or anything yet, but who needs those silly rituals? Plus, she told me last night she has a thing for me.”

“Really?” For some odd reason, I felt a pinch of jealousy. Who was this nymph to play us both for fools?

“Yeah, I tried looking for you to tell you that the most extraordinary thing happened to me, but I couldn’t find you. What happened to you last night?”

“Me?” I asked.

Pan glanced around the room in such an exaggerated fashion that he didn’t really look at all. “Who else do you think I’m talking to?”

An arid laugh rose from my throat. “Yes, of course. Me. Well...I was”—I took the glass of wine from Pan and thanked him—“waiting with Polydora for you to start your performance.”

“I almost forgot ‘bout that,” Pan said. “How did things go with her?”

“Things kind of…escalated.”

“Escalated?”

“Yes, escalated.” I couldn’t very well lie to him. He was too near and dear to my precious memories to feed him falsehoods. “This is completely shameful, but I slept with Polydora.”

Pan searched the floor. I swear it almost looked like one of his horns drooped.

It undid me completely.

“But she’s a whole lot of nymph,” I added. “It could very well be that there’s plenty of room for her to be fond of you, too!”

“Polydora?” Pan asked.

I nodded and unearthed her. With the scar on her face, she arose like some sort of creature from the depths of my bed, giving me a bit of a fright.

“Oh—yeah. Forgot about ya,” Pan said gruffly. He blinked once, then seemed to gather himself. “Here’s the deal. While warming up my flute, this dazzler struts in. Clytie. She is the most beautiful nymph in the world. There is none like her. None. When our eyes met, I swear the air altered. She drew me in like a siren. And the two of us were alone in a world of music and good times.”

“What?” I said, looking on in horror between the two of them.

“Oh, Didi, you are a funny one!” Polydora stretched toward me. “Making up your silly stories to rope me in.”

“Our Didi sure knows how to tell them,” Pan said, mimicking Polydora’s new, sinister nickname. “He was just gabbing about that wild story about the human Artemis turned into a cat and Apollo accidentally killed.”

“Yes!” she cried, springing up from my bed, luxuriant with enthusiasm. “He went on and on about Jaden last night at the party. Why don’t you finish telling us the story?”

Pan passed her a glass. From where he conjured up the thing, I did not know. All I could do was sigh and gulp down my own.

Right away, the wine had a vibrant zing. Lemons and limes, maybe some grapefruit. The fresh and energetic taste was the perfect thing I needed to zap me into proper form.

Sometimes if you can’t beat them, you pour another glass.

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

“Which one is he?” Apollo hoisted up a Calico by its neck. No, the eyes weren’t quite right. There was a specific look that humans had when they turned into animals. This furtive awareness.

“Maybe this one?” He floated upward to inspect a black and white cat nestled in the branches of an alder tree.

No. Too unbothered.

“Are you going to help me?”

“Nah,” Artemis said. “Just leave him be. That mortal is lucky enough that he’s not in the Underworld right now. You’ve helped him enough already.”

“His name is Jaden,” Apollo said, stepping over one of the springs that channeled throughout Artemis’s room, flowing with crystal-blue water. “And what was the point of helping me save him if you just imprison him as a feline?”

“The world could use one less man.” Artemis returned to picking the last iris she needed from the soft meadows where her sterile hardwood floors used to be.

“But he’s different,” Apollo said. “There’s something unique about him that I can’t explain. You know, I tried reading his soul while piecing him back together after the accident, but something prevented me from seeing who he is.”

“Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It’s not like we have a steady supply of ambrosia to tap into our full powers these days.”

“It wasn’t that,” Apollo said. “Something is protecting him.”

“Then let it and let him be. We left Mount Olympus to stop interfering with mortals. Besides, they only complicate things.”

“You’re starting to sound like Athena.”

“Well, she has a point.” Artemis’s voice softened. “Look, can’t we enjoy our time here without them?”

Jaden watched the two of them maneuver about the forest room. He tried to listen to the language they spoke. The sounds were familiar to his ears, which rotated and flitted in positions he never thought possible, but he had difficulty placing the meaning behind the words. Or their importance. How could he fret over human noises while large birds flew above the thick copse of trees filling the room—owls and falcons and long-necked cormorants whose business was with the sea, not in a city.

He slunk low across the mossy floor, every muscle tuned, every instinct humming, as he kept the forest’s creatures in his line of sight. He had always watched the world this way. Framing. Waiting. First with his camera lens, now as a cat. In the dark recesses of his mind, he knew exactly what he would do once one of the critters flitted by him.

“You know that you always do this, right?” Artemis said. “And it always ends in heartache.”

“Heartache? That’s dramatic.”

“Yes, brother of mine. It is drama. Drama and heartache. That’s what humans are. They’re weak, and they die, and they’ll disappoint you with all the ways they’re not like us. I thought you had learned all that already. Need I remind you of how long it took you to get over Hyacinth? You were morose for at least a century.”

“It was a decade,” Apollo corrected. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about him. Can you just tell me which one is Jaden?”

Artemis fashioned the irises she had collected into a wreath, the petals arranging themselves around her head and reaching out to their neighbor. As they gathered and braided into her hair, she served her brother a playful smile. “Why should I?”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Apollo abandoned his investigation of a particularly shock-orange tabby.

“I’m looking out for you if that’s what you mean,” Artemis said. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

The twins have always shared their blind spots as much as their strengths. What one of them senses, the other feels. What one cannot see, neither can one fully name. They don’t deliberate, yet somehow arrive at conclusions together. I guess from some sort of instinct rather than reason.

Which I think makes sense given how they were born.

You remember what Hera put the twins’ mother through, right? Kicked Leto off Olympus and barred every scrap of land from giving her shelter while she was in labor with the twins. All because Hera found out Zeus had gotten Leto pregnant. Leto wandered until she reached Delos, a floating island that belonged nowhere and therefore slipped through the cracks. And when she finally gave birth, Artemis came first. Practically leaped into the world. And instead of resting like a newborn ought, she turned right around and helped deliver her brother.

They haven’t been ordinary duplicates since.

“I’ll play you for him in a hunt.” Apollo whistled, and his bow materialized and fell into his hands. “I’ll even let you name the stakes.”

Apollo knew that deep in Artemis’s ichor, it was instinct to howl with the wolves, run with the deer. She was the goddess of the hunt. How could she resist pursuing the wild?

With a thrill, she reached for her bow. Unlike Apollo, who kept his stashed out of sight, Artemis always had hers with her. She wore her bow the way most others wore clothes. “First to strike the Ceryneian Thrush wins. You win, I’ll tell you which one is Jaden. But if I win, you give up pursuing mortals. Forever.”

“What? I’m not at all like you, content to live alone in a castle full of cats.”

“Those are my terms,” Artemis said, unbothered.

The forest held its breath.

“All right,” Apollo said. He knew full well that Artemis wouldn’t relent, and it would take an eternity to sift through her brood of felines.

In one fluid motion, she nocked an arrow, the silver limbs more of an extension of herself. She scanned her domain for the flashes of the small bird’s golden bill and its bronze-colored talons. The only way to capture it was before it took flight, as the bird darted fast enough to outfly even her arrows.

An arrow pierced through one of the rows of cypress trees. Apollo watched his sister shoot too early. Birds squawked and crowed as they fluttered into the air. The commotion of the birds resettling released a lingering, pine-like scent.

Suddenly a flash of gold whizzed by the twins. The thrush flew so fast that it resembled trails of light zipping around the room, difficult to decipher where it made its next hiding place.

“Too quick.” Any other animal would have been dead on impact. Apollo would never tell her, but she was the better archer. However, he was the superior musician. He knocked his arrow and closed his eyes while the bow’s tension flowed into his body.

He listened to the room. He heard the deep, guttural calls from the gulp of cormorants and listened past their porcine grunts. He ignored the falcon’s shrieks, its “kak-kak-kak.” But right behind him, a little to his left, he mapped the call he sought, beginning with a long whistle. The high-pitched and fast trills that followed reminded him of some sort of woodwind instrument.

Jaden, somewhere in the depths of his catness, felt the tightening of a weave. A bird perched a mere whisker’s length in front of him, its round head faced away. His heart thrummed when the bird hopped down into the leaf litter. Every nerve aligned toward one inevitable act. The delicious snack’s tail cocked in such a way that invited—insisted—that Jaden pounce. As the bird foraged, it sang.

Jaden lunged forward.

Apollo turned. He waited for the harmonic series to reset. His death dealer shot forth as soon as the base note floated to his ears. It saddened him to take the life of such a gifted creature. He nearly shed a tear as the Ceryneian Thrush’s beautiful scales were cut short. A dull thump as the arrow found its target. But sacrifices were a necessary part of life.

When he opened his eyes, he saw not a bird but a cat. No ordinary Felis catus, either, but one with a certain kind of secret intelligence quickly fading from its eyes.

P.S. I’ll be putting together a small group of advance readers for the full book soon. People who want to read it early and leave an honest review when it’s released.

If that sounds like you, just shoot me a message and I’ll add you to the list!

I’m serializing the first part of my novel The Art of Killing Gods, Book One of The Broken Pantheon.

Seventeen chapters. One per week. No paywall.

The full novel releases on July 14, 2026 (preorder here!).

The prologue awaits below → Go on…step into the pantheon.

A Note Before You Enter the Pantheon

This is not a dusty retelling.

The Olympians still exist in the 21st century, but they are not what they were in the epic poems. Belief has eroded, systems have calcified, and the divine have adjusted to market conditions.

At the center of this story is a question:

When gods begin to lose control, who decides what replaces them?

A Note on Content:

Also, nothing here exists for spectacle. Everything exists because systems don’t collapse gently. With that being said, this story includes:

• Violence

• Grief and generational trauma

• Coercion and divine manipulation

• Power struggles that feel uncomfortably familiar

Take your time. Even immortals need breath.

Prologue: On the Matter of Twelve

Recorded but Not Heeded

They warned us, of course. There is always, always a warning. A scrap of verse. A whisper from a Fury? A footnote, perhaps, in a ledger no one bothers to read until the world is already burning.

Something about twelve. And a mortal who refused to behave as mortals should.

We laughed. Because we always laugh.

When you have been immortal long enough, even warnings begin to feel like theater. Something staged for the benefit of lesser beings.

It wasn’t.

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

The Record Continues

You’ve reached the end of the free chapters.

The gods, unfortunately, continue making terrible decisions after this point.

If you’d like to witness the consequences, The Art of Killing Gods releases July 14, 2026.

⚡ Preorder the Novel

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

The solemn sea palaces were no comparison to Mount Olympus’s cloud-capped spires. It wasn’t so much their underwater aesthetic—they were as lavishly appointed with marble and gold and dotted with precious jewels—but something about the atmosphere was off.

Goddesses and gods, heroines and heroes just sort of…milled about? Dulled by those around them, the partygoers had an air of perseverance, waiting to jump ship as soon as something better came along.

I could tell by the way they kept scanning their general vicinity for the chance of a better conversation elsewhere.

“Another glass, sir?” a cupbearer asked me as I looked on at the scene in horror. Even the serving staff had those pitiful smiles that never quite seemed to reach their eyes.

“No, thanks,” I replied. “I’m the god of the grape harvest. I can’t be seen drinking that armpit wine.”

I waved the cupbearer back, raised my thyrsus, and tapped it to the floor. Two clicks from my fennel staff and the ivy vines that roped around my trusty party accessory fluttered to life. A call to arms as the same two beats were echoed back to me from my followers. Each person in my entourage had their own thyrsus, some covered in ribbons, others with grapes.

Let’s see, there were the maenads, my female followers who wore chic costumes that incorporated the likes of fawn skins or bull helmets. People sometimes referred to them as the “raving ones,” but I saw them as fellow ecstatic souls who knew how to have a damn good time. There was Pan, of course, and his entire crew of Paniskoi, mini replicas of the lovable little violator who were subsumed into my squad. Also, there were various nature spirits, nymphs, satyrs, and the like, with the satyrs, in particular, being known to race through parties with their horse-like ears and tails in a manner some could find brutish and disruptive, but I saw as a required quality for efficiently serving wine.

Speaking of, one such satyr appeared from the throngs of the retinue and had filled Pan’s cup and mine to the brim with wine from our private collection. I had trained them long ago to respond to the beats. Every time, such coordination brought a smile to my lips. Oh, how organized revelry could be! Those precious darlings even served us a sparkling wine before the feast because they knew it was fresh and fun and really only the right thing to do.

“I notice when I come to these Titan shindigs that my body tries to fall asleep,” I confessed, strolling with Pan through the lethargic crowd. “Suddenly I’m more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my entire—”

I stopped.

Pan had stiffened. “There she is.”

“Who?”

“Polydora,” he bleated.

“Oh, right.” I had nearly forgotten the purpose of mingling in this sea of monotony. “Why don’t you go talk to her?”

“I can’t.”

I glanced around. “Are you busy just now?”

“No…I-I’m…nervous.”

The way love could change the god of the wild was stupefying to contemplate. This dismal creature before me, who spoke in hushed tones and practically hid behind his wine glass, was the same god I had seen in wilder, more reckless days rip apart villages that stood in the path of a rightful party procession. Crops were trampled, homes looted, all while he and his crew had a swell time riding their high spirits but causing a nightmarish mess.

“I have an idea.” I took a sip of my wine. Fruit-forward. Firm effervescence. Definitely the Hydra Sec we had bottled last season. “I’ll go talk to her while you gather the Paniskoi.”

“And then what’s the next act in this circus?”

“What you do best.” I grabbed one of his horns and twirled about him merrily. “Woo her while you play the flute and your boys do their hooved dancing. Not to mention, you need the practice for the Summit opening ceremonies if you intend to outshine Apollo this year.”

The plan didn’t seem to strike Pan.

“Don’t you like the idea?” I asked a trifle testily.

“It’s just that we always do that and leap headfirst into the frenzy. Why don’t we take it slow this time? Class it up. Put my best hoof forward and all that.”

“My dear old soul, if she’s the one, she’ll accept you. The real you. Now, I’ll send the satyrs to fill people’s glasses with proper drink and the maenads to get people grooving.”

“Fuck it. Fine,” he said and sampled a quick rustic tune on his flute that he always had on his person.

“Very good.” I clicked my thyrsus, this time three taps, and my retinue dispersed.

They filled the cups and plucked off dance partners while I made my way through the crowd to make my way to Polydora, whose eyes were fixed on the buffet.

Actually, come to think of it, I had met her at her father’s thousandth birthday hundreds and hundreds of years ago, but she was a different Oceanid back then. Nowadays, something about Polydora made almost anybody else in the same room seem malnourished and trivial by comparison.

At first, I was going to dive right in. Unfortunately, my wits failed me at the exact moment I turned toward her and truly saw how nasty that scar was that had cleaved her face in two.

I awkwardly stood there, empty plate in hand.

Grotesquely mesmerized.

“You’re quiet,” she said after I hovered around her a bit.

Made me jump. I had been intensely wondering how long Pan would take to start so that I wouldn’t have to stand there and think of something clever to say.

“Eh? Oh, umm, yes. I was just thinking…”

“About what?”

“If I wanted any salmon.” It was the first thing that surfaced.

“Go for it,” she said. “If you don’t like it, I’ll eat it.”

I took a strained forkful of the fish and wondered what to say next.

“Fruit salad?” Polydora offered.

“Sure.”

“Serving of broccoli?”

“Uhh, no thanks.”

She helped herself to some olives. I found some potato salad which I had overlooked in my flustered state. Then I said, “I wanted to say,” right as she said, “Have you tried,” and there was a collision.

I chivalrously circled my wine glass in the air to convey that she had the floor, and she started again: “Have you tried the Brussels sprouts?”

“Not yet.”

She loaded a healthy serving on my plate. “With a suspicion of sage?”

“Why not.”

“Slice of bread?”

“No, thank you.”

“Something to drink?”

“I’ve got that covered.”

There was another loud silence as she took more olives. She seemed to like olives.

And as I was plainly avoiding the thing I’d come to say, it became clear to me that the talking turns wouldn’t leave the topic of victuals without me pushing forward. Seeing how devoted she was to food and all. It was too ridiculous that a pair of divines in our position should stand around scarfing down salmon and olives in each other’s orbit without any real conversation.

Thank the gods for wine. A healthy gulp of my fruity offering later, and the ideas slid right out. I decided to continue the conversation by paving the way for Pan. You know, without actually mentioning him. That way, I could prepare the nymph’s fragile heart for the fact that as surprising as it may seem, there was someone who loved her from afar. Sometimes I feel like wine tapped into some future version of myself who had already gone through the motions, so I already knew his lines, and knowing what to say was already half the battle.

“It might sound silly, but there’s somebody who is dangerously in love with you.” I took another swig. I was starting to brim with sparkling charm and wit. “A friend of mine, that is.”

“A friend of yours?”

“Yes, a very dear friend.”

I didn’t hear her laugh so much as I could—swear to Zeus—almost hear a couple of her ribs part from their moorings under the strain of a giggle.

“Why doesn’t he tell me himself?”

“I said the same thing, but that’s the sort of god he is. Kind of shrinking in these scenarios while having an excess of character in others. Hasn’t got the nerve and thinks you’re the most wonderful girl he’s ever seen. Even likened you to a goddess.”

Polydora leaned forward. “How very interesting.”

I nodded. “Very. He’s not a bad chap, either. Sometimes he can be an ass, but he’s got all the good bits there too.”

Polydora finally broke out into laughter. “How funny you are!”

She had a piercing laugh that shattered right through me. Before I could inquire what she meant, the crowd shuffled backward, parting the room as the main hall opened. Oh good, that little rascal had finally started the show. And with such pomp and style emerging from the entrance like that.

I almost screamed his name, groupie that I was.

But it wasn’t Pan at all. Out strolled Oceanus and his sister-wife, Tethys, fashionably late to their own party. Normally, I would not have cared to watch such a dull procession being that Oceanus was never good at sustaining a performance. His grim face was always set in a way that conveyed he was persevering. In much the same way he had sat out the Titanomachy, the war between the Titans and the Olympians, he seemed to sit out life. And sticking around afterward for the roll call of the titan couple’s thousands and thousands of children, various river gods and Oceanids, would be a snoozefest. I just—that’s so much time spent solely heralding. There must be a way to consolidate.

Luckily, the crowd was already starting to get loose enough to find even that kind of procession fun, thanks to my retinue. The rites of a good party had started, and I felt we were all cresting toward something divine, assuming Pan would finally get this show on the road.

I was midway through imagining how else I might make his appearance even more of an orgasmic experience for those of us gathered when a flash of gold broke my concentration. Trailing out after Oceanus was Poseidon. In fact, the god of the sea upstaged both Oceanus and Tethys, his golden trident gleaming as he was paraded out on his ornate chariot. His hippocampi came close to trampling those that didn’t move out of the sea-horses’ way.

While Poseidon swished his trident about, creating dozens of water spirals that zoomed and whirled, some combining to create geometric patterns and artful symbols, his wife, Amphitrite, coordinated a series of tricks with their armada of dolphins. Her jewel-encrusted bracelets rolled up and down her arms as she pointed about, directing the creatures into various formations and flips. The power couple looked dazzling. I admit, I even got caught up in the performance and started cheering.

When they finished, I turned to Polydora to ask, “Why is Poseidon here? He never comes to these things.”

Except not one word seemed to register with Polydora. All I heard was her lips smacking and sucking as she tried to press the weight of a kiss on me.

I tossed my food and fled.

Within the safety of the dance floor, I couldn’t recall the last time I had a nastier shock.

I downed my glass of wine to regroup. Only to turn and find that Polydora had given chase! I tried everything: hiding in plain sight within various crowds, lurking behind the Doric columns, and even camping out in the bathing chambers. But there she was at every turn with a sort of hideous coolness.

In my caged condish, there was only one thing I could do. The last thing I remembered of the night was tapping my thyrsus to the ground.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

Then five.

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

Jaden woke up feeling as if all the water had been siphoned from his body. Then someone had replaced it with venom.

He catalogued the sensation without panic. Dry mouth. Heavy limbs. A skull-splitting ache that pulsed behind his eyes. He pushed it to his mind’s back burner because there were more immediate problems...

He had no idea where he was.

For a stretch of his childhood, home had been wherever he and his mother ended up for the night. Borrowed couches if they were lucky. Often the backseat of their car with the windows cracked just enough. He’d learned how to wake up without expecting familiarity.

Still, he’d hoped those years were behind him. That adulthood meant waking with context.

When he tried to stand, a wave of red mist flooded his vision, dropping him back on the edge of the couch. He looked around the large, unkempt room that contained him and the musty aroma of neglect. The floors were covered in a thick layer of dust, and around the dated armchairs and worn chaise lounge, really stuffed in any free spaces, was every kind of musical instrument imaginable. One instrument looked like a horn grafted onto some sort of cello.

Despite himself, the instruments made Jaden feel slightly less endangered. Artists collected like this. Hoarders of sound and potential. It meant someone here cared about making things, not just breaking them.

He searched his memory. The canal houses surfaced in his mind. Golden light. Then nothing.

Movement at the doorway made him look up.

“Not again,” a statuesque woman said. “And who are you?”

Her irritability was as real as the eyebrows she furrowed together. It didn’t help that they were paired with an expression that said she didn’t think much of Jaden, and he doubted that he would improve his standing by introducing himself.

“I’m Jaden,” he said. “You?”

“Athena,” she replied, crisp and precise.

“Like the goddess?”

“Nope,” Athena said. “Nope. Nope. Nope. I am not doing this again. Apollo? Artemis? Can you both come downstairs for a moment?”

Jaden felt an icy pit underneath the sweet notes she floated up to the two names in the house. He tried to pretend that he did not notice.

What he couldn’t ignore, however, was Apollo. When he walked into the room, Jaden found himself stealing little glances at him, trying to sit up straighter and smooth out the wrinkles in his clothes. Generally trying to make sure that he didn’t look like a hot mess in front of one of those faces that was not so much sexy as sickeningly sexy. The defined jawline, the structural symmetry. It all demanded attention.

A stampede of about a hundred and five felines of varying sizes and colors descended the stairs and filled the room in a rush.

“Great.” Athena rolled her eyes. “Your sister brought her whole entourage.”

Trailing after the last cat was Artemis, a cup of tea in hand.

Jaden noticed something of a fawn in her bashful grace and shy eyes. If he were to photograph her, she would be most at home with trees framing the sides of her face and a fine morning dew at her feet.

“We’re holding an emergency roommate meeting,” Athena said.

“Okay.” Apollo crossed his arms. “We’re all here. What’s wrong?”

“We can’t do it here,” Athena snapped. “Official meeting room.”

“What’s the official meeting room?” Artemis asked, anchoring her hands around her mug while one of the many cats purred at her feet.

Athena had an intensity of expression that gave Jaden the impression that she was refraining, with great difficulty, from biting not just Jaden’s head off, but all of those gathered.

“You look weird. What’s wrong?” Artemis asked.

“Just get in the kitchen.” Athena pointed with a muscled arm. “I want everyone to go in there. It’s procedural.”

Artemis shrugged and followed her brother while Athena slid the stained-glass doors shut behind them.

Even without Apollo telling me about their little powwow, I have lived with Athena before. When she uses that word, procedural, it means the decision is already made.

“We agreed that the house rule was no more humans,” Athena said. “Every time you bring one in, we start falling into old habits like we need all these sacrifices in our names. Worship and commands. And it just escalates into a whole dependency.”

“It’s only until he recovers. I hit him with my bike,” Apollo said. “And I couldn’t just leave him.”

“There’s always some exception with you.” Athena crossed her arms. “Sometimes I think you intentionally hurt people just so you can help them. As if you get some sort of sick satisfaction from mending the damage you caused yourself.”

Apollo gasped. “I would never!”

“Yeah, well, observable behavior. Being both a prophet and a healer, it’s not out of the realm of possibility,” she muttered.

“That’s actively insulting. Some of us enjoy using our powers for the greater good, helping others out of the kindness of our hearts.”

“And some of us enjoy the privacy of our home. I should be able to walk around in nothing but the aura of my divinity without the side-effect of turning some random mortal into a bonfire because you’ve broken the rules and brought home yet another stray.”

“Please, Athena. You want to talk about house rules? Fine, let’s talk about house rules. I didn’t want to bring this up, but I don’t think we have all been pulling our weight around here.”

“What are you implying?” Athena asked through gritted teeth.

“I think we both know who is mysteriously away every time it’s her turn on the chore chart.”

“I do my chores,” Athena said evenly.

“You haven’t touched a broom in a decade,” Apollo protested. “It’s unhygienic.”

“Unhygienic? We’re gods. We don’t need to sweep.”

Apollo crossed his arms. “It’s uncivilized.”

Athena gestured toward Artemis, trying to get her support. “Are you going to say anything, or are you always on his side? If he wants to relapse into old habits, he should do it somewhere else. That same rule breaking is why you kicked out Aphrodite. Why doesn’t it apply to him?”

Artemis glanced at her brother, but the goddess of the hunt did not speak.

I’ve lived with her long enough too, to know what that silence usually means. Artemis dislikes choosing sides, especially when both are technically wrong. To her, the problem with living with gods has never been the house rules. It’s the gods themselves. We both know how Athena becomes a nagging neighbor when she feels order slipping. And Apollo—well. He has always relished pointing out her deep, deep contradictions.

Athena’s jaw tightened when Artemis stayed quiet. She has never tolerated neutrality well.

“Okay. You two want to keep playing these games?”

“You two want to keep playing these games,” Apollo mocked her. He couldn’t resist.

An eyelid flickered. “That’s it. We are not doing this again!” Athena tore open the kitchen doors. The cats scattered.

Power aligned around the angry goddess like soldiers taking position.

Jaden tried to stand. His legs failed.

Behind Athena, something passed between the twins. A look too fast to name.

Jaden’s world lurched. He felt himself slip, almost like a hand yanked from a glove. His body collapsed to the floor. Then the room stretched around him, too large, too loud. The smells alone were overwhelming.

“Am I dead?” Jaden asked. Or so he thought. What came out of his mouth was a series of meows instead.

“No more humans around here,” Athena said, already turning away from the crumpled body.

Jaden pressed a paw to his former hand.

As fur met skin, a memory came without warning: his mother’s fingers cold in his own.

He had waited for something then, too. A squeeze. Some sort of sign. And, for a moment, it appeared she would smile for a change and pat him on the shoulder.

Good boy, Jaden. Thank you for trying to stand by me, and I’m sorry for all that I put you through. Pat, pat, pat.

Under the morgue’s fluorescent lights, his dead mother had done no such thing.

She was, of course, off. This whole world, Jaden had surmised early on, was one big on-and-off switch. Now you see it, now you don’t. One moment his mother was alive, the next, she wasn’t. And Jaden knew she had been tired. He knew that being—the “on” side of the switch—required so much effort of her. Therefore, he was not surprised that she took her life and sank into death.

That did not mean that he didn’t cry, that he did not worry about what life would be like without her, or that he did not think about all the memories they had shared. She was, after all, the last remaining link to his childhood. To his father. What her death did mean, though, was that fundamentally, deep, deep down…he thought he would feel sad, even relieved; all he felt was anger.

You left me. That was what burned.

As a cat, instinct rose—to hiss and claw. But each attempt to rebel was met with being herded into the collective. He was shuffled along with the rest of the felines, and the quiet, seething knowledge that something else had ended, and nothing had bothered to ask him if he was ready.

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

“Get your hooves off my ottoman,” I said, snapping my fingers at Pan and rousing him from his slumber.

He muttered something as he came to, unfurled his hircine legs, and stomped them on the floor. His hair was already everywhere. Pan was passed out somewhere in my palace several times a week, and I usually cleaned up after him. Still, I managed to find strands of his shaggy fur embedded in either the couch, the carpet, or my clothes. The last thing I needed was for him to smear all his woodland dirt over my upscale furniture.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“Geez, someone’s grouchy,” he repeated, with a touch of rebuke.

“I’m not grouchy. I’m hungover. And we have to stop drinking this much every time we have a party.” I plopped down on the couch next to him, nursing my temples.

Pan gave me a grave, sympathetic face as if he knew that despite my best wishes, that would never happen.

“By the gods, what even happened last night? And why is my couch wet? I swear to Zeus, if you pissed on my couch, I’m going to—”

Before I could finish, Pan was on his feet, and he seemed to flicker. A blurred dash of his horns whirred by my line of sight. I heard him rummage about in the kitchen, and then he returned as swiftly as he left with a wine glass balanced on his index finger.

“Just toss this back,” he said as if request and demand had met halfway.

“Is that the—”

“The ‘86 Fury Noir? Damn skippy.”

“I need to eat something,” I said, waving away the temptation. “We drank plenty last night.”

“You don’t need to eat. You need a stiff drink. I hate to tell ya, but you ain’t so much fun unless you drink.”

“Well, that’s rude.”

“Centuries of field research,” he said. “When you’re hungover, you always get a bit fussy until you have some wine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Pan echoed, nudging the glass under my nose.

Smoky, cedary notes layered with rich, ripe fruits and a hint of leather crawled up and camped out in my nostrils.

I do not deny that my body greatly desired the drink.

Damn that Pan, I thought as I took the glass. He didn’t need to know, but things did immediately improve after I had a couple of sips. The lighting in the room seemed less aggressive—cozier somehow. My headache subsided. And seeing that scoundrel brought a wry smile to my lips. Generally speaking, hope flourished once more after I tasted the velvety texture on my palate and smacked my lips at the long finish.

“For the record, yer couch is covered in water, not piss,” Pan added and tucked himself in beside me.

“Water? From what?”

“From whom,” he corrected, in that strangled kind of tone that came out more as a bleat. “And it’s from Polydora.”

“Polydora,” I repeated. “That Oceanid?”

I looked at the poor goat-god as his cheeks flushed, and he nodded eagerly. I already knew where this was heading.

“I worship her. I worship the very current she treads on. She is a true goddess.”

It was remarkable how quickly his language cleaned itself up whenever he fell in love. And ever since I have known Pan, he has been perpetually falling in love. But it didn’t seem possible that he had fallen for Polydora. Sure, she was his type in that she was a nymph, but she wasn’t by nature particularly gregarious. Pan needed someone who would complement him on the party circuit. Someone who took an interest in him and his low-brow buffoonery. Not to mention that unfortunate accident with the cruise liner where it looked like she got a propeller dragged across her face.

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same girl? There are like thousands of these ocean nymphs. I’m referring to Polydora, the one with the scar on her face.”

“Yeah, that’s the one we’re talking about.”

“And she strikes you as a true goddess?”

“She does.”

“Zeus bless you.”

He seemed perturbed. “You don’t think she’s the most wonderful girl you’ve ever seen?”

“Sure,” I said, if only to soothe him, all the while privately pondering who would want to dally with the discount rack of divinity. Lesser goddesses who would probably need to crowdfund for their continued eternity.

“Then you’ll help me,” Pan said, unable to stop himself from smiling.

“Help you with what?”

“My problem.”

“What problem?”

“Why, to snag Polydora! During last night’s party, she kept taking the form of water before I could woo her with my charm. But I found out she’ll be at Oceanus’s celebration tonight.”

There was no mistaking it. Pan was obviously all for her. No surprise there, considering he was at peak horniness during the spring. The change in weather seemed to act on him like magic.

“Sorry, but I’ve got a prior engagement already. Pretty important, too.”

It’s not that I didn’t want to help Pan. It’s just that these things always ended the same way for him.

“What engagement?”

“Well—I—”

“See, you don’t have any commitments! And even if you did, you need to weasel out of them. It’s party time, and you’re my wingman.”

Some of the other gods, no doubt, find Pan to be a bit rough around the edges. For the record, I have found his fur to be surprisingly silky, however insidiously it lodged itself everywhere. Anyhow, despite Pan’s element of irreducible rascality, from the first time we partied together, I came to see him as a confidant and friend.

“Oh, all right. But we will need to bring our own wine. Those Titan parties are a drag. A bit too old school.”

“More wine,” Pan agreed. “And you can finish telling me that story along the way.”

“What story?”

“The one you were telling me last night after everyone left the party. About that human? The one Apollo told you about.”

I hesitated.

“You’re the first I’m properly telling it to,” I said. “I haven’t decided what I think about it yet.”

“Even better.”

Normally, by morning, other people’s secrets taste like nothing. This one still had a shape to it.

“Well, as you know, with humans,” I said as we readied our entourage, “they tend to die.”

New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:

Jaden had been carrying his mother for two days.

Not all of her. Just what was left after the fire and the paperwork and the quiet, efficient way the funeral home reduced people to manageable portions. The ashes sat in a sealed travel container inside his backpack, wedged between a folded jacket and his camera.

The train slowed, stopped, and sighed open.

Amsterdam Centraal Station exhaled him into noise, and Jaden followed the current of bodies onto the platform. He stood there for a second too long, disoriented by the vast arch of steel ribs and glass panes overhead. Sunlight diffused into pale bands that made the air feel structured, measured. The station was alive with momentum, and everything moved with purpose. Commuters folded into lanes, tourists stalled and recalibrated.

Jaden adjusted the straps of his backpack and made his way to the station’s exit as English announcements stacked after Dutch ones. The gates stood in a row, each with a ticket scanner and waist-high glass barriers. People tapped, the gates parted, people flowed through. Efficient. Impersonal. Exactly the kind of system he needed today—no conversation needed.

He tapped his ticket against the yellow scanner.

The scanner beeped. Green light.

Except the gate didn’t open.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat and went to the next barrier.

“Sorry,” Jaden muttered, already stepping aside, heat rising in his face. He checked the ticket. It was still valid.

The next person scanned their ticket, and the gate opened obediently for them.

Jaden tried again, angling the ticket differently. This time the scanner hesitated, then beeped as if it had finally made up its mind. The light flashed green with more confidence than before.

The gate remained stubbornly shut.

“Of course,” Jaden said.

A station employee approached, a woman in a navy jacket with a name tag he couldn’t pronounce. She gestured toward the barrier and spoke in Dutch. “Werkt het niet?”

Jaden blinked at her, then held up his ticket.

She switched to English without missing a beat. “Is it not working?”

“It says it is,” Jaden replied and passed the ticket to her. “But it’s…not.”

She gave him the practiced smile of someone whose job came with years of dealing with travelers who didn’t know how anything worked. When she leaned in and scanned the ticket herself, the scanner chirped. Green. She glanced at the gate, then at the scanner, then back at the still gate like she expected it to apologize.

“That is strange,” she said.

She opened the access panel and did something Jaden couldn’t see. The gate flickered and powered down. As it powered back up, the glass panels shivered and reset.

She tried again, slower this time, as if careful handling might coax cooperation.

Still wouldn’t open.

She straightened and looked at Jaden properly for the first time.

There was nothing remarkable about him. He knew that he must’ve looked like the hundreds of other men passing through the station. Sure, maybe he had tired eyes and shoulders hunched from lack of sleep on the transatlantic flight. He met her gaze, waiting for the questions he expected in a moment like this.

Where are you going?

Why are you here?

What’s in the bag?

She didn’t ask.

Instead, she exhaled, sharp and uncertain, and gestured toward a narrow service gate at the far end of the row.

“Just go through there,” she said. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Jaden asked.

“Yes.” There was something in her voice that sounded like relief.

He didn’t see a reason to argue.

The service gate opened manually, squealing slightly in protest, and Jaden stepped through. On the other side, the rest of the station resumed its rhythm like nothing had happened. The woman had already turned away, watching other passengers pass cleanly through the same gate, pursing her lips as if daring it to misbehave again.

Jaden didn’t linger on it. Approval without access was something he’d seen before.

Outside, Amsterdam was gray and bright at the same time. The air smelled like water and metal and something fried. Jaden stopped near the train station’s entrance, taking in the rush of people shuffling past, the trams clanging their way through intersections. Different languages he didn’t speak braided around him in quick, confident syllables.

He set his backpack down and unzipped it just enough to check.

The container was still there.

“I told you I’d bring you here,” he said under his breath.

He didn’t linger over the words. Didn’t need to. He slid the zipper the rest of the way open and pulled the camera free almost without thought. The strap settled around his neck with old familiarity, the weight grounded him.

When he was nine, Jaden had vowed to take his mother on a trip someday. She had laughed at him for it, the sound brittle with disbelief. On the plane ride over, he’d savored the thought of fulfilling that boyish pledge—a warm pat on the back, a “well done” echoing from his younger self to the man he had become.

But as he walked past the trams, his suitcase dutifully rattling behind him, the truth made something heavy settle in his chest: technically, he was too late.

Still, he could imagine his mom here, balking at the city’s unfamiliar rhythm. As if carved from living stone, her stoic gaze would ask him a total of one question: “How long we gon’ stay here?”

And he wouldn’t know how to answer. Not because he lacked the words, but because they hadn’t practiced speaking to each other in years, their last conversation a dusty, forgotten relic, a token of the silence they had let grow between them.

The city distracted him before he could dive into all the conversations that never happened. On his way to his hotel, Amsterdam eased toward the evening, the clouds breaking to spill a golden light over a row of those stately, iconic canal homes.

Jaden was instantly smitten.

They looked so prim and proper that it made something in him itch; he almost wanted to shrink the houses down and keep them on a shelf somewhere. Just so he could look at them up close and ask what they were trying so hard to prove.

His camera, faithful co-conspirator, was ready. He lifted it and focused his lens on a woman standing alone on her balcony, one hand resting lightly along the iron railing that ended in a carved flourish—some old decorative detail shaped vaguely like an owl’s face. She gazed coolly at the world below her perch, as though she were weighing it.

Each snapshot pulled him into the moment. His heartbeat matched the click of the shutter, the small alchemy of film. For a moment, he was not just a man carrying ashes; he was Jaden, the observer, the chronicler, the artist with the ability to stop time.

Through a lens, the world behaved. It framed itself and stayed where he put it.

Chasing a better angle, he stepped onto a strip of red pavement, what looked like an extended sidewalk.

The cyclist appeared as if summoned from thin air.

There was a flash of gold at the edge of his vision and then—

Nothing. Darkness.

I heard all this later, of course.

Apollo told it badly. He skipped over the hesitation thinking, I wouldn’t catch the fraction of a second where he should have kept riding and didn’t. Instead, he jumped straight to the spectacle afterward: the pop, like from those vintage camera flashbulbs, and how the god of light, his celestial VanMoof bicycle, and Jaden vanished from the street.

Once, in a time now shadowed by centuries, the old Apollo would have easily left Jaden to suffer. The god’s tempestuous youth was littered with death—warriors felled by his plagues, beasts vanquished by his bow. Not to mention all those tragic love affairs. But those days were now mere echoes in his immortality.

I mean, you’ve seen firsthand how many of us gods have softened over the ages, as my father likes to point out, rather yell unrestrainedly at us, during our rare family gatherings. To him, erosion is a moral failure.

But times change. Even for us.

And these days, Apollo says his prophecies arrive less like technicolor revelations and more like a misstep. Like reaching for the last stair only to find air.

He felt that, apparently.

Not in the collision.

Not in the body sprawled unconscious on the bike lane.

In the pause before it.

Apollo claims curiosity made him turn back. That something about the young man tugged at him. Even banged up, Jaden had a certain kind of gravity, a smoldering presence beneath his pecan-brown skin that resisted immediate categorization.

When Apollo dropped by our party, ambrosia staining his confession and this story spilling out of him in uneven bursts, he admitted something else.

It had been a long time since a mortal surprised him.

What unsettled me wasn’t that Apollo intervened. It was that something had stalled before he did. The ticket scanned. The gate approved.

And yet the world hesitated.

Spend enough centuries amongst gods and you learn to recognize moments like that. It is never the thunder that matters so much as the air right before the lightning strikes.

Every day I watch him enjoy his freedom. Every day I rehearse the same impossible tenderness: my fingers trace the angle of his jaw, the grit of his goatee against my chin, the lie of a kiss like a pardon.

And every day, I fail.

He comes back from work at 6:15 p.m. like always. And the ledger opens itself inside me. It’s not a book so much a pressure, a click behind my eyes. Something that craves numbers. It marks the time, the count of scuffmarks on his shoes. Yet it wonders why he never slows when he crosses the pale stain in the concrete where I ended.

I tell it not to be dramatic. It has a habit of that.

The garage smells like old water and dust. Seventies concrete, all spirals and blind turns, built to confuse you into forgetting where you were meant to go. I used to lose my car in here. Now the geometry lives inside me.

Every ramp, every drop.

Somewhere down the street, a saxophone is playing. Thin, stubborn notes drift through the air like they’re looking for a body to borrow. A voice with no mouth. Oh, how I understand the dilemma.

I lean in to kiss him. Why? The rehearsal demands it. My lips graze the corner where his cheek meets his mouth. The gesture almost lands.

He inhales sharply and turns. For a second, I think he sees me—really sees me. My ribs cinch around a breath I don’t have. But his gaze skids off me and lands instead on the stairwell door. He laughs under his breath, a brittle kind of exhale.

“Get a grip,” he mutters.

He passes through me without knowing it and moves toward the stairs. Upward. Toward his car. Of course he still parks at the top.

I follow. Because I always have. He is, after all, the only one who still remembers my name.

His scent still reaches me. Peppercorn and soap. It pulls a memory loose: a hotel room with the blinds half-closed, afternoon light striping the bed as I lay in his shirt. His hand is heavy at my waist as we agree, together, that this doesn’t have to be complicated.

The garage feels different today. Almost like the air is heavier. Heat presses down in the stairwell and gathers against the concrete. I can even hear a low hum in the metal railing, vibrating as I approach it.

We climb.

Suddenly his steps quicken. He glances back once. Then again. Something tightens in me. A pull, sharp and uninvited, like a nerve remembering its use. The saxophone fades as we rise, replaced by the hollow echo of his breathing.

Seven levels. Six. Five.

The top level opens to sky. A flat, pale blue. Too pale, I think. It mirrors the last color I saw before the shove, when the world tilted and I learned the difference between falling and being erased.

He breaks into a jog toward his car.

There. The edge. The spot! My spine remembers before my mind does—the sudden weightlessness beneath my feet, the way my threat had still been warm on my tongue. I’ll tell her. I’ll tell your wife. I’m done being your secret.

He rushes past the edge where the concrete still remembers me. No hesitation. No flinch. Not even the courtesy of a ritual. Does he remember me at all? Or was I only ever meant to last as long as I was warm enough to touch and light enough to discard?

Relief hits his face before the pain does. He fumbles his keys, drops them, and curses under his breath. It is the first time I have seen him unravel. He snatches them up again and reaches for the door handle.

The metal burns him.

He yanks his hand back with a sound that isn’t quite language, staring at his palm as if it betrayed him. Blisters rise fast on his palm, angry and wet. The car ticks softly as heat ripples along its body, and something inside me answers, counting in the same rhythm.

“No,” he says. Not only to me but to the world. To the idea that this could be happening. It’s been nearly a year, and every day my rules have been simple. I follow, I watch, I want.

But I do not touch.

I reach for him anyway. I want my nails to dig into the column of his throat. I have been a ghost with good manners, after all.

The air resists me and I snarl. Nothing. Again. The failure settles back to me, worn smooth by repetition.

But when I pull back this time, he gasps. His knees buckle. While he stutters for breath in the tight air between us, I notice—distantly—that the heat pressing around us is not from the sun.

His mouth opens. At first, no sound comes out. Then something thin and cracked escapes him.

I say his name.

It lands.

He stumbles back, but I am not blocking his path. I am not chasing him. I am simply there, close enough that the air around me shimmers, close enough that the heat has a shape around me.

“You’re dead,” he finally manages to say. It comes out flat. Practiced. A sentence he’s clearly used to.

I tilt my head.

“You pushed me,” I say.

He laughs once. “You fell.”

I take a step forward. The concrete sighs beneath me.

“You put your hands on my back,” I say. “You checked for witnesses. You waited for the sound.”

“No,” he says, backing away. “That’s not—”

“You went home,” I continue. “You showered. You slept.”

Each word lands like another degree of heat. I feel it then, the shift. The ledger inside me tightens, numbers aligning, columns closing as something older turns its attention my way. I have the sense that this has happened before. Not here and not to me, but in places older than concrete.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean—”

“You meant to keep your life,” I say. “And you did.”

He retreats without looking, one hand raised. As if that might stop me, like he can still negotiate. His heel scuffs the concrete near the edge.

“Please,” he says. The word slips out before he can stop it. “This isn’t real.”

I don’t want his blood because I crave something else.

Rather, we do: his knowing.

I step closer.

He takes another step back. His calf strikes the railing and heat sizzles through his clothing. Surprise snaps whatever balance he had left as he jerks backward.

Over the railing he goes. No scream. The sound when he hits is final, the kind of impact that does not echo. Below, somewhere beyond the garage, the saxophone keeps playing. Soft. Alive.

Enough, something ancient seems to say.

And inside me, something settles. The air cools and the ledger closes. However, I still feel them. Their weight, their attention.

We do not linger for grief.

We do not stay for forgiveness.

We remain because the world requires remembering.

And now—now I am not alone anymore.

I know, I know. I’ve been quiet for a few months.

But I haven’t been gone, just heads down.

I’ve been working on something closely connected to this Substack, and I’ll finally be sharing more about it at the end of the month. Think long-form and mythic, but I’ll say no more for now.

For the moment, I’m glad to be back with this story. It grew out of a question that wouldn’t leave me alone -> what does it look like when a Fury awakens? Not all at once, but gradually…and painfully.

If you’ve read my series The Stones in the Swamp—especially the part where Medusa encounters the Gorgonettes—this lives in a similar neighborhood. A different figure, but the same fascination with old gods trying to remember who they are in the present tense.

Thank you for staying. Talk soon.

kthxbaiii!

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