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 amongst Trappist monks.

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

I’m fairly certain he didn’t expect me to say, “Alright.” 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 simply 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 palette.

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 simply 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 carefully 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 spent too much time away from their waters and end up with skin 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. Her voice went up. “You’ll write me?”

“Sure,” I said, and barely managed to maneuver her out 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 headache.”

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, simply 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 began to recollect 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 godcave in New York. I doubt he cares about hospitality on Mt. 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 teat, 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 carefully 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 Mt. 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 lubricated 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 hall grounds 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 Mt. Olympus. This morning’s scene featured rolling waves with dolphins twirling out of the water.

The hues of blue pacified 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 at an unexpected place, at an unexpected 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 by 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 artform. 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 pawn 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 shrinkingly. “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 that used to be where her sterile hardwood floors once were.

“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 Mt. 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 simply 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 were flying 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 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 leapt 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 within the ichor that flowed in Artemis’s veins, it was instinctual for her 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.

“Alright,” 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 knocked 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 about in such a way that it could 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 opened his ears to the sounds of the environment. He heard the deep, guttural calls from the gulp of cormorants and picked 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 unleashed 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 beautiful musical scales produced by the Ceryneian Thrush 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 July 2026.

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

A Note Before You Enter the Pantheon

This is not a 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 calicified, 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:

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:

Prologue: A Note Before You Enter the Pantheon

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 (Coming May 24, 2026!)

Serialization Schedule

New chapters every Sunday at 11:30 AM EST.

Part I concludes June 21, 2026.

If you’d like the rest of the record delivered as it surfaces, subscribe for free. ⚡

Subscribe now

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

The solemn sea palaces were no comparison to Mt. 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 snuck in glances of 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 simply 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 visibly. “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 took a glimpse 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 succession. 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 up the cups and plucked off dance partners while I parted through the crowds 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 shirking from talking about what I came to speak to her about, 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 lubricated 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 starting 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 on 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, stalking the party from behind the cover of 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 all 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 up 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, 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 threw her hands in the air. “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. Besides, 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 simply 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 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. 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 in a tone somewhere between a request and a demand.

“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.

Smokey, 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 palette and smacked my lips at the long finish.

“For the record, yer couch is covered in water, not piss,” Pan added and tucked himself next to 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 anxiously 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. As an aside, I have found his fur to be surprisingly silky, however insidious its manner of lodging itself everywhere. Anyhow, despite Pan’s element of irreducible rascality, from the first time we partied together, I have come to see him as a confidant and friend.

“Oh, alright. 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 Central 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 quietly.

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. He passed the ticket to her. “But it’s…not.”

She smiled 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 fully 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 pitched slightly forward, but that was from the 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 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 carefully 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 the camera inside came free almost without thought. The strap settled around his neck as naturally as a breath, and the familiar weight grounded him, a quiet reassurance against his chest.

At the age of 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.

However, while he ambled past the trams, his suitcase dutifully rattling behind him, the truth made something heavy settle in the cavern of 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 the dark reservoirs of all the conversations that never happened. On his way to his hotel, Amsterdam eased toward the evening, the clouds breaking to spill a golden bath of 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 zeroed 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 fully into the moment, his heartbeat aligned with each click of the shutter, the 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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March ten paces due north
Left, right, left—and so on and so forth.
You’ll trip on the bones of goals long denied
Each broken skull a silent mark
Each fading star a dream that died.

March ten paces to the west
Through marshes of loss, where old loves rest
The mire grips, the roots have torn
Hide the heartbeat in your chest
From every bond that curdled to scorn.

March ten paces to the east
And arm yourself against these beasts
They spawn, they sharpen, raise their swords
You block, deflect, and bend the strikes
Expectations marching in their hordes.

March ten paces to the south
Descend into the ruin’s mouth
Broken keepsakes line the floor
Their dust recalls what time conceals
Mistakes reborn to haunt once more.

So I stand in the center, the safest of all
Laughing at whispers the dead still recall
The air is still, the borders defined
No burdens, no battles, no shackled past
Stay here with me, it’s safe, it’s fine.

Somewhere between the relationships that faded to gray, the ghosts of old choices, and the tangle of expectations that multiply like Hydra heads, I found myself writing this poem.

It came from this phase of life I’m in where it’s almost too easy to look around at everything that has piled up—dreams that have fizzled, relationships that have soured, mistakes that have lingered—and think: maybe I’ll just stay here, ya know? Just build a nest out of the wreckage and call it home.

But of course, that’s the trap. Stagnation feels safe until I realize it’s just another kind of prison.

This poem is me staring at all the borders I could build around myself and asking…what happens if I don’t move?

P.S. I’m not sure what story I’m writing next, so it’ll be a surprise for all of us. That’s the nice (read: nail-biting) part about creativity sometimes. Not knowing.

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Forgot where we began? That’s dangerous. Go back to part 1:

“You sure you don’t want to stay?” Malik asked.

“You’re not still thinking about that app, are you?”

“I know it’s dumb,” Malik said. “But I would just feel a lot better if you stayed.”

Katie softened. “Look, will it make you feel better if you walk me to Matt’s place? He lives about ten minutes away. I’ll be there for the rest of the night, safe and sound.”

“Yeah, but if I get serial killer vibes, I’m dragging you out by your ankles.”

“Hot,” Katie said. “Deal.”

As they stepped out, Katie made a show of cautiously edging down each step with the utmost care, arms out for balance like a tightrope walker. Malik reveled in that small chuckle, needed the exhale. The heaviness in his limbs didn’t vanish, but it loosened enough to keep going.

Outside, the sky was painted with the bruised haze of a city aglow. Streetlights hummed. And the night had calmed to that strange in-between quiet when everyone was already where they were meant to be, but before last call would empty them back into the streets.

Malik glanced down at the app while Katie wasn’t looking. The loading indicator hadn’t changed. But Malik could’ve sworn it was watching him. Spinning like breath, holding its place. What was it waiting for, he wondered.

At the corner, the pedestrian signal turned red before they reached it.

“You coming or what?” Katie called over her shoulder, already crossing the empty street.

Malik had lived in a city for too long to wait either. But the weight in his gut had returned. Thick. Low in his stomach.

He stepped into the crosswalk.

Then—

He saw it. A back sedan with headlights off, moving too fast. “Katie!” he shouted.

She turned. Only it was too late. Then, her world went sideways.

A phone ding. Screech. Thud.

Katie hit the pavement hard. Malik’s shove had almost flung her to the far curb. When she opened her eyes, the car was already veering around the corner. She scrambled to her feet and tried to clock the plates, but they were gone.

She turned.

Malik was crumpled. Still. Too still.

Her scream ripped from her throat like wet paper—shredded, uneven, barely holding shape. Another tried to claw its way out but retreated down her throat as her hands fumbled for her phone.

She dialed 911, voice wild and fractured, spilling out fragments to the dispatcher as her heart hammered against her ribs.

Then it all began to happen without her. The flashing lights, the boots on asphalt, the voices saying things she couldn’t comprehend.

The paramedics loaded Malik into the ambulance. At some point, there were hands on her shoulders, a police officer crouching to meet her eyes. He asked for her name, if she was okay, and if she knew the make of the car.

She could only point. Her mouth formed words she wasn’t sure she spoke.

The officer nodded gently. “We’ll get the rest at the hospital.”

Her phone vibrated. She didn’t want to look.

But she did.

A simple notification slid across the screen: Complete.

I watched as Malik’s blood cooled on the asphalt, watched as Katie stood frozen, blinking into the kind of silence that remakes people. The type of night that splits a life into before and after.

Not because I enjoyed it. Not exactly. But because I’ve always been drawn to the moments after the hinge points.

You probably want to know the truth, don’t you?

Well, I told you already: I am not Death. He comes swiftly, silently, his work brief while mine is not. And I am not one of the Fates. I do not spin the thread or snip it. Although I do know the moment when it starts to fray, when all the detours collapse into one road, and there’s no turning back.

When the choice is made.

I do not kill. I merely arrive too early…and sometimes stay too long. To be honest with you, I’m not meant to linger for the aftermath. But I do. I always do. Because not everyone dies on their completion date. Some live on. And that, I’ve found, is often the heavier sentence. They ask the same questions I do: Could it have gone differently? Was there another door? A softer turn? Like them, I can never stop obsessing about the almosts, the could-have-beens. It’s a sickness, really—the ache for what won’t be.

But still, I remain.

A witness to the flailing.

And god of the fall.

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Forgot where we began? That’s dangerous. Go back to part 1:

He clambered after her. But Katie—somehow—landed upright.

Not a mark, not a broken bone. He screamed anyway. Like shouting ow before a stubbed toe that never came. At the very least, it helped to expel the image that had formed in his mind: a smashed and bruised body at a haphazard angle.

“Holy shit,” Katie breathed, patting herself down. Disbelief spread nakedly on her face. Surely, there was at least a scratch. A bruise. Something.

But there wasn’t. As if fate, so fickle and feisty, always left something visible. I leaned in, the way you do when something teeters.

A small smile tugged at the left corner of Katie’s mouth. Then she burst out laughing.

“I don’t think we should go out,” Malik said. “This is all starting to feel like an omen.”

“Did Miss Cleo teach you that at psychic camp?”

“You know what,” Malik said, his face going a little stiff, “the universe will whisper things to you before it will hold you down and start to shout them. We can go out tomorrow if you want to, but let’s just stay inside tonight. We can listen to our own music, and we don’t have to get all feral just to get a drink or to fight our way into the bathroom.”

“Fine,” Katie relented.

Malik made sure to hold her hand as they went back up as a pair, despite Katie muttering something about being treated like a grandma.

Back inside, he checked the app again. Still spinning. He didn’t know if that should make him feel relieved or cursed.

“You do know that some stupid app doesn’t know when we’re going to die, right?” Her voice was cool and clinical. And factual, Malik realized. She was right; this was just a stupid app.

He popped another bottle, and the two had a laugh about it, the story already softening into this distant myth that they would bring up in the future in increasingly hyperbolic terms. “Remember when you almost died in my stairwell but landed it like Cirque du Soleil? Remember when you were immortal until brunch? Remember?”

They poured.

They laughed.

They danced.

At some point, Katie spun too hard and clipped the coffee table. Malik overfilled their glasses. And their laughter stretched just a beat too long. Katie could feel it, that itchy, buzzing tension at the back of her mind, knocking to be let out.

She slipped away from club living room and opened the window. The nighttime air hit her like a slap and a balm. Below, the city murmured: rattling trams, distant arguments, the low thrum of nightlife. She let her face hang in the breeze like laundry that wouldn’t dry and stayed there, still, waiting for the wind to carry something out of her. What, exactly, she could not name.

“Honestly,” she muttered to herself, leaning out far—dangerously far,” if I die tomorrow, at least I won’t have to pick over all the stuff my dad left behind.”

“Katie, what the hell are you doing?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m unkillable, at least for tonight, right?” Inch by inch, she flailed more of her torso out of the window, feet acting as anchors, hands splayed against the brick exterior.

One more shimmy and she might have slipped right into the dark like it was nothing. Malik lunged. Grabbed hold of her waist this time. She resisted, kicked him. Maybe on accident. Maybe not. He didn’t care. He yanked her back inside anyway.

They crashed into the side table, and the photo frame resting on it flung to the ground. Glass cracked beneath them.

Malik sat up, cradling the photo of him and his brother. The edge of the frame was splintered, the memory bruised. “What is wrong with you?” he snapped. “You broke my picture frame.”

“You haven’t spoken to him in years.” Katie pulled herself up, breathless and distant. “I’m surprised you even have that picture out.”

“Doesn’t mean you get to break shit.” Malik shot back, rubbing his chest where Katie’s foot had landed.

“I will buy you a new frame, okay? Jesus. I didn’t expect you to get so worked up over it,” she said, standing up too fast. “You won’t read any of the letters he sends from jail, yet you’re breaking down over some photo?”

Malik stared at her. He felt like his eyes were throwing off sparks. His voice came in low, quiet. “We weren’t always strangers.”

Katie blinked. And something in her recalibrated.

“I’m sorry,” she said, collapsing on the couch and propping up the sides of her head with her palms. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just—”

“You just what? You think you’re allowed to act out just because you’re not dealing with your own problems? C’mon.”

They sat in silence for a long time.

“There’s no excuse. Really, I’m sorry,” Katie said finally. “But your brother—he’s alive, Malik. And he is reaching out. And we don’t get forever with people.”

“I know,” Malik said. “I’ll read the letter, I promise. I know what that means, especially coming from you. I get it. I just don’t want to get my hopes up, you know? The last few times he reached out, it was only to ask for money. And it’s nice to think… maybe this time it’s something else. It’s nice living in that space between what I think it says and what it actually says.”

Another pause birthed between them.

“You want to talk about your dad?”

Her head dropped lower into her hands. “Not really, no.”

“Fine, as you like to say.” Malik put the broken frame back on the table and stumbled over to her on the couch. “But we need to discuss this side quest guy. You two are texting way too much to be not dating.”

“Ugh. Probably.” She rubbed her temples. “I think we have landed in full-blown situationship territory. We matched on one of the apps and started texting. And we’ve said yes to a happy hour, sometimes two, every week. It’s been a fun distraction. Light. We laugh, we drink, we have great sex. And the tradition kind of stuck for the past several weeks. Well, until this week.”

Katie leaned back, hoping the couch might swallow her whole. “My dad’s birthday was on Tuesday, and I didn’t want to explain all of that to him. I feel like he would know something was wrong or off. I don’t want to lie to the guy, so…I have been avoiding him instead.” She looked up at the ceiling. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“It’s okay,” Malik said, his anger slipping off him like a coat. “You’re just damaged goods like the rest of us.”

“I’m tired of being a mess, though. You know I haven’t cried since my dad died? And I don’t know what to do about this whole SQ thing. He’s a good guy. Like, genuinely. He’s the first man in a while who actually seems to want a relationship. Everyone else I’ve come across has Peter Pan syndrome or commitment allergies. And here I am, ghosting the one great thing I’ve found lately. All because I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m never going to see my dad again. And SQ—his name is Matt—deserves better than the version of me that is…stuck in all of this. Whatever this is.”

“You’re not stuck,” Malik said, taking hold of her hand. “You just haven’t picked a direction yet. And you don’t have to right now. But even when you’re a little bent at the edges, Matt would still be lucky to be caught in your orbit.”

“Katie turned to look at Malik, startled. “Thanks. You always say the thing that makes me hate myself a little less.”

“I just say what I’d want to hear.” He offered his arms. “Now come here.”

They hugged, not the playful, one-armed thing they usually did. This was full-bodied. And for a moment, they just were.

When they released each other, Katie grabbed her phone off the coffee table. “I think I need to start fixing some of this mess. That’s what you do in your thirties, right? I’m gonna go to Matt’s.”

“Oh.” Malik felt his stomach drop. “I thought maybe you’d stay. We could rewatch The Devil Wears Prada and get in all our practice quoting Meryl.”

“If you magically become straight and want to sleep with me, sure. But otherwise, this whole night kind of made me…weirdly horny.”

Malik laughed, but it sounded hollow to his own ears. He started tidying up—grabbing wine glasses, rearranging couch cushions—small chores to ward off a rising hysteria. This image of a body, twisted in a heap, made its way into his head again.

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Forgot where we began? That’s dangerous. Go back to part 1:

Katie looked up at Malik as her name faded in. “How does it know my name? I didn’t sign up.”

Malik shrugged. “Same thing happened to me too. I didn’t register or anything either.”

“Please don’t tell me this is some kind of malware stealing all our data,” Katie said. “I’m too busy to be a victim of identity theft.”

They both peered at her screen as if the app might explain its intrusion into their lives. However, the same completion date faded in at the bottom, accompanied by the same slow, spinning indicator.

“You know,” she said, watching the little circle swirl, “I should be glad that this is glitching. But not gonna to lie, I was expecting more. A lot more.”

As if summoned by her disappointment, her phone dinged, and they both jumped. The wine, of course, survived.

A text from someone named “SQ.”

“Who’s that?” Malik asked.

She waved him away with her glass. “This guy I met last month. He’s been texting me a lot recently.”

“You’ve been dating someone for a month, and you’re just now telling me?”

“Okay, calm your tits,” Katie said. “We are not dating. SQ stands for side quest. The only time we link up is when we want to get a little freaky.” She set her phone on the table. “Anyway, I’m here with you.”

“At least one of us is getting some,” Malik said.

“Don’t start. You could build a nation-state of men thirsting for you, but God forbid you swipe like the rest of us digital peasants.”

“There just have got to be other ways of meeting people besides these damn apps. I’m so sick of Grindr. The first thing some random guy wants—and by that, I mean some headless torso—is pics. They’re not even saying hello anymore.” Malik got up to escort the bottle over to the coffee table and flopped onto the couch. “What happened to the art of bumping into someone in real life, like at a museum? And he wears glasses, is sweet, and is about six foot a million. There’s conversation. Imagination. Flirting!”

“Alright, Jane Austen.” Katie put her hand over her glass to block Malik from filling it up. “Why don’t we go out then?”

Malik looked at her and sighed. “The gay bar is just a whole other set of problems.”

“You can’t have it both ways.”

He grumbled, “You win this round. But I’m only going out if we can be in bed by ten-ish.”

“A, it’s already nine-thirty. B, Rich’s doesn’t even open for another half hour. Midnight is the only real acceptable time.”

“Ten thirty,” Malik countered.

“Gross,” Katie sneered. “We’re coming back at eleven. And that’s only if we find someone for you. So, you better hit the ground starving and slaying.”

“Alright, alright. But I need to warm up my legs. I can’t just show up on the dance floor and scream on all fours like I could in my twenties.”

Katie’s phone dinged a couple of times, and she glanced at the lit screen. “SQ again.” She set it to vibrate and flipped it over. “We’ll deal with him later. First, the tunes.”

That was Malik’s cue to put on Robyn’s Dancing on My Own. And their fate was sealed. Because once those two got up to reenact all the dance moves from the music video, there was no other option but to go out and put on a show for others.

As Malik locked the door behind them, Katie’s phone buzzed. “Girl, SQ is blowing up your phone.”

No response.

When a sassy rebuttal didn’t sling back his way, he turned and found Katie staring at her screen, eyebrows running into one another.

“Everything okay?”

She turned the phone around to show him. The completion date had finally loaded: tomorrow.

“Crazy, huh?” Katie’s voice seemed far away. Blunted. Like it had taken a step back from her own body.

He, too, thought he would feel some kind of rush if the app actually worked—a jolt of awe from having orbited and made contact with some kind of secret knowledge. But this? This was sobering.

Quiet.

He started to ask if she wanted to stay in. At least, he meant to. Before the words came out, Katie turned and took the first step. But her footing was off.

She pitched forward.

Malik lunged, grabbed, and missed. Katie tumbled fast. The stairwell wood was so unforgiving, so rigid and unmalleable compared to her body.

It was bad. It looked bad as she plummeted forward.

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Death and I work well together. He’s punctual, which I respect, and doesn’t linger, which I envy. Not that it’s a contest, but I do show up earlier than him. Earlier, and—I’ll admit—stay longer, even though it’s not required of me.

When I was still young in my divinity, Death told me the secret to surviving the slow drip, drip of our eternity: last in, first out. He told me not to get involved.

I tried. Oh, how I tried.

But I’ve never been good at being aloof like him. I never learned how to look away. Especially from mortals. They make such compelling mistakes. They flail so beautifully on their way down.

Like Katie. Trudging up a stairwell with a tote bag full of wine and just enough grief to make a bad decision feel like self-care.

“My god, my glutes burn,” she muttered as she reached the top. The wine clinked—a cheerful yet dangerous sound. Offerings, if you like. Not to me, of course. They rarely drink to me.

Malik opened the door with the half-resigned, half-affectionate look of someone who’s already lost the argument.

“I told you I wasn’t drinking anymore,” he said, bracing one arm in the doorway like a barrier. Were he a bigger man—and unequipped with such disarming facial features like those dimples and that semi-formed smile—he might have pulled it off. As it stood, he would let her in. He always did.

“Oh, stop.” She ducked underneath his arm with the same finesse of a child slipping past bedtime. “You say that every weekend like it’s a seasonal trend.”

I wasn’t invited to their evening. Still, I entered the apartment with her.

“I am trying to be sober.” Malik closed the door and leaned against it, groaning. “And do things like make good decisions and wake up early.”

“Or, okay, hear me out.” She twirled once, bottles jangling like sleigh bells. “We can still make good decisions. Just…later. Let’s say we wake up as we please. I’m not sure about you, but we’re already off to a great start with that gem of an idea. And then, once we bless the morning with coffee and hydration, we stroll over to Hash House and get that sage-fucking-fried chicken on a bed of waffles and hot honey. Brunch is noble, right? How is that not a good decision?”

Malik pretended like he didn’t already smell the salty-sweet combo blooming in his mouth. He folded his arms as he meandered after her to the kitchen. “I thought you were committed to this dry month with me?”

“Fine.” Katie set the bottles on the counter with a harder clink than she intended. “Let’s watch a movie and be in bed by ten. And then tomorrow we can go do whatever it is morning people do. Since you’re so enamored with this subculture.”

“You mean go on that run we said we were going on?”

“Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “That.”

Letting Katie down wobbled inside Malik like an overfilled cup that threatened to spill at every moment. He didn’t like to disappoint people, especially not the ones already disappointed by life. Especially not Katie.

She paused, eyes catching on an envelope at the top of a pile of mail on the kitchen island. “Oh shit. You read this?”

Malik knew what it was without looking: the letter from his brother. “No. But I opened it, surprisingly. I just need to be in the right mood to read it.”

Katie picked it up carefully. Her chipped red nail polish—more ghost than color actually—caught the kitchen light, and for a flicker of a second, she noticed it too. The small ruins of upkeep. She used to make time for topcoats and touch-ups. Now, she just tried not to unravel. It was always easier to talk about someone else’s ghosts than to sit with her own. “And what do you need for that again? Incense and chanting?”

“Don’t get cute.” Malik plucked the letter from her hands. He stashed it in one of the kitchen drawers, pressing his body against it as if the weight of his frame could seal off the brother he hadn’t talked to in years. At the very least, muffle his words. “Honestly, if I’m going to open that, I’m gonna need that drink.”

Katie’s eyes lit up.

“But just one. And smile,” Malik added, sweeping a lock of her black hair out of her face. “This is not an orphanage.”

Katie radiated. Like a supernova, in fact, as she fetched the wine glasses.

Malik watched a flicker of relief settle across her body. She poured them each a full glass, humming as she did. She probably would have done the sober pact if Malik insisted, but he didn’t. Besides, it felt good to be the reason why she laughed tonight, a warm fire for the two of them to share.

One drink became two from the jump since she poured them to the brim. Two easily became three after Malik admitted he still wasn’t ready to read the letter. And the bottle kept the rhythm like a metronome of forgetting. Each pour became a small erasure.

As for me, I watched from the corner, where shadows are most comfortable.

I raised my glass to them.

Nobody raised a glass back.

“You want to see something fucked up?” Malik asked somewhere between the third and fourth, hoping Katie had forgotten about the letter altogether.

“Eww, no. You always find the darkest corners of the internet.” She squinted and shivered. “Like that video you showed me of that one guy bashing another guy to death with a hammer. I still have nightmares about that.”

“This isn’t like that. It’s some new app all the kids are on. Moros? Here, check it out.” He launched the app on his phone.

He had said the name aloud as if it were just another brand. I suppose I should be flattered. I’ve never had temples. Nor sacrifices. Not even a decent hymn. But now I’ve got a user interface? A black screen unfurled before us, Malik’s name rising in white on top like a soul bobbing to the surface.

“Okay,” Katie said. “What’s so wild about that?”

Malik pointed to the only other text on the screen, at the bottom: completion date. Next to it was a loading indicator. “Apparently, it’s supposed to tell you when you’re going to die. But mine has been endlessly loading.”

Katie scrunched her nose. “What? No way. Let me try.” She had the app up and running within thirty seconds, holding her glass as if it were armor and the phone as if it were harmless.

That’s what mesmerized me. The way she tapped her screen with the kind of ease mortals reserve for small decisions. No ceremony. Just a gesture. But even small keys turn. Even quiet doors open. She didn’t know it yet, but she had invited something in.

And I—I was already inside.

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The next story is almost ready. Almost.

I was this close to publishing it yesterday, but some stories demand a little more time to stretch their wings, adjust their hem, and decide which emotional cliff they want to push you off.

It’ll be up this Sunday. And I think it’ll be worth the wait!!

Here’s a preview:

In the meantime, while I put the finishing touches on that fun little tale, let’s talk about something equally alluring and dangerous: Sirens.

What is a siren? That depends who you ask. And when.

Homer: A disembodied voice that doesn’t haunt you with beauty or sex appeal, but with the promise of knowledge. In The Odyssey, they whisper:

“We know all that happens on this fertile earth.”

These sirens offer omniscience. And that’s the real trap.

Ovid: Gives them form → half-bird, half-woman.

At one point in Metamorphoses, Ovid pauses the action to pose a question, not to a character, but directly to the Sirens themselves (and by extension, to us):

“Why do you have feet and feathers of a bird, while still possessing faces of young virgin girls?”

Then, like any good myth-maker, he answers it.

The Sirens, he tells us, were once the handmaidens of Proserpina (the Roman equivalent of Persephone). When she was taken to the Underworld, they begged the gods for wings to search for her across sea and land.

Ovid didn’t see them as monsters so much as he branded them as friends who refused to stop looking. Their loyalty gave them feathers. Their grief shaped them.

And isn’t that how it always goes anyway?

Medieval era and beyond: Took that grief, plucked the feathers, and traded them for fish tails. Now we got a mermaid-siren mashup going on.

“Sirens are sea-girls, who deceive sailors with the outstanding beauty of their appearance and the sweetness of their song, and are most like human beings from the head to the navel, with the body of a maiden, but have scaly fishes’ tails, with which they always lurk in the sea.”

—Liber Monstrorum (Latin for “Book of Monsters”)

At this point, we’ve crossed into full-blown temptress territory.

Their song? A warning.

Their beauty? A threat.

The message? When women seek power, or pleasure, or even speak too sweetly—they’re a danger to men.

Best to fear them (& prolly punish ‘em).

So next time someone calls you a siren, ask them which era. Are you offering forbidden wisdom? Grieving a lost friend? Or just trying to lure one more ship onto the rocks?

Anyway, see you this Sunday for The God Who Stayed.

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