Goddess of Light (25 page)

 

 

BACCHUS' smile was sly as he stepped from the mouth of the hallway and approached the door that held the Olympic portal. This was going to be laughably easy. As always, Apollo was too self-assured and arrogant. He hadn't noticed that Bacchus had been following him since he'd met the mortal woman at the wine bar. Actually, Apollo had not noticed anything except the modern mortal with whom he was quite obviously thoroughly obsessed. Apollo had played the unsung hero, manipulating the slot machine and gifting the mortal with the means to purchase the object of her whim. He could hardly wait until the woman witnessed how helpless and pathetic the golden god would become without his powers. Bacchus was looking forward to seeing the God of Light's arrogance extinguished, even if it was only for the span of five days.

Bacchus strode through the portal. Just as he had anticipated, the Great Hall of Olympus was empty. And if he knew the golden twins, they would make certain that the hall stayed empty so that Apollo's little tryst with the mortal would go unnoticed by the other immortals. How convenient. He almost laughed aloud, but with an effort controlled himself. There would be time aplenty to gloat afterwards; now he needed to concentrate.

The Wine God faced the portal and lifted his arms over his head, calling forth the intoxicating power of his realm, and beginning the ritualistic spell.

 

Bacchus paused to stifle the glee he felt at using the reference to the God of Light in his spell. Refocusing on the business at hand, Bacchus completed the words of his trap.

 

Bacchus flung his hands towards the portal, and for an instant it shimmered in liquid light the color of chilled rosé wine. Then the blush tint faded, and all appeared to be normal once again.

“Step one completed,” Bacchus murmured to himself. “Step two awaits.”

The God of the Vine uttered a soft command. His body disappeared, and then re-formed in the rear garden of Apollo's temple. He peered around a well-manicured bush. Just as he had anticipated, the grounds were deserted. Usually, bright nymphs clustered around their favorite god's temple, vying for Apollo's attention.

“The adoration of nymphs must not be convenient when entertaining a modern mortal,” Bacchus said under his breath. “So much the better for me.”

For a large god, Bacchus moved with surprising stealth. He entered through one of the rear doors of the temple and made his way silently down the marble hall until he came to a cavernous room in which a dozen of Artemis' virgin handmaidens were tittering and laughing as they arranged food and pitchers of wine on platters. Yes, he was in time. He waited, impatient for the handmaiden who seemed to be in charge of the wine to turn her head as she replied to a giggling question from one of her friends, and then with a swift, sure movement, he flicked his fingers at the pitchers of wine, whispering,

 

The wine glowed briefly with an unnatural, pale pink light. Unseen by anyone, Bacchus backed out of the room and melted into the night. Now all that was left for him to do was to wait and watch . . . wait and watch . . .

Bacchus' self-satisfied laughter echoed eerily through the empty gardens.

 

 

ARTEMIS rushed into the room, and her handmaidens respectfully silenced their chatter.

“They have arrived.”

Excited whispers ceased with one motion of the goddess's hand.

“Tonight by serving my brother you serve me.” The handmaidens bowed their heads. “Play your parts well.”

“Yes, Goddess,” their sweet voices intoned.

“Take them wine,” Artemis commanded, and two of the handmaidens hurried to do her bidding. After they left, the goddess drifted over to the platters laden with delicacies. She glanced at her attentive handmaidens and said mischievously, “Shall I aid the God of Light in achieving his desire?”

Her maidens giggled and nodded. Artemis spread her hands over her brother's feast.

 

Power showered from the goddess's hands to settle over the food. There it glowed for a moment before settling back into the appearance of normalcy.

“Serve them and then leave them alone. Privacy is what Apollo will wish for tonight.”

Feeling very satisfied, Artemis left her brother's temple and walked slowly in the direction of the Great Hall. It would be deserted; she had made certain of that. Aphrodite and Eros had returned earlier from their weekend foray in the Kingdom of Las Vegas, and they were resting in their temples. Artemis herself had made it clear to the nymphs still fluttering about Las Vegas that it was time they returned to Olympus, and with a few sharp words she had sent them scattering back to the forests and glens where they belonged. Silly creatures. The rest of the Twelve Immortals were making themselves scarce. Artemis had begun a rumor that Hera and Zeus were fighting again. Neither mortal nor god wished to get in the middle of that. So she would wait for her brother in the empty hall and hope that before dawn she would feel the bond between herself and the mortal dissolve. She'd certainly done all that she could. The rest was up to Apollo.

 

 

“THIS is absolutely spectacular.” Pamela gazed around her in awe. “I can't believe that plain little door was hiding all of this.”

“Does it please you?”

“Please me? Are you kidding? This place is magnificent!” Pamela tilted her head back, trying to see to the top of the domed ceiling on which she could just make out some kind of fabulous fresco, but the dizziness that had struck her earlier caused her to stumble back. Phoebus' strong arm was there to catch her.

“Maybe you should sit down,” he said, guiding her over to one of two exquisitely upholstered chaise lounges that rested on either side of a marble table.

She sank down on the chaise and rubbed her forehead. “I must have gotten too much sun today. My head feels woozy.”

As if on cue, two young women entered the room. They were wearing short, diaphanous tunics made of white silk trimmed with silver thread embroidered in the shapes of forest creatures. One was carrying a tray that held a golden pitcher and two golden goblets. The women smiled shyly at Phoebus and Pamela.

“Wine?” they asked in perfect unison.

“Of course,” Apollo said.

With graceful movements that were lovely to watch, the waitresses served them.

“Your feast is prepared,” one girl said melodically.

“Shall we serve you now?” the other asked.

“Yes,” Apollo said.

The two women curtsied deeply and hurried out the way they had come.

“But we haven't even ordered,” Pamela said. She had a terrible headache, and she felt disorientated and slightly uneasy.

“I specified what we required for the feast earlier.” He thought for a moment. “I think you would call it preordering.” When Pamela's perplexed expression changed into a frown, he added, “I hope you don't mind. I wanted to surprise you with Greek delicacies.”

“Surprise Greek delicacies? That sounds intriguing. Almost as intriguing as this restaurant,” she rubbed her hand down the side of the chaise. “Silk velvet—my personal favorite upholstery fabric.” As if the familiar touch of the velvet was grounding, the thick feeling in her head began to clear. Her fingers lingered on the beautiful fabric. “Silk velvet always reminds me of water; it's so slick and soft. I adore it.”

“I am glad you approve,” Apollo said, relieved that she seemed to be recovering from the power he had sprinkled over her.

Pamela looked around the dimly lit room. Not only were they the only patrons, but their table was the only one set up in the whole place. It was obviously a big space, but unlike the rest of Caesars Palace and The Forum, someone with taste and style had decorated it. Which meant that it wasn't loaded from floor to ceiling with gaudy pseudo-Roman opulence. The flooring was incredible. It appeared to have been fashioned from a single sheet of marble, even though she knew that was not possible.

“This flooring is amazing. It looks like fine Carrara marble, but I've never seen Carrara with veins of gold going through it like this has.” Her eyes traveled from the floor to the walls, and they widened. “They've used the same marble for the walls and the columns. And I really like the minimalist style. The decorator was right on here; the marble is too beautiful to cover with a bunch of paintings. The single tapestry adds the perfect touch,” she gestured at a large hanging that covered most of the wall in front of them. It was of a naked man. A gorgeous, young, naked man. She squinted, trying to see it better in the dim lighting. He was standing beside a chariot, and he was holding a harp in his hand.

“He looks familiar,” Pamela said.

“Probably because you're wearing his likeness around your neck,” Apollo said quickly.

She touched the gold coin and smiled. “That's right, you did say that the name of this restaurant is Mount Olympus. I guess this must be Apollo again. You know, I really can see a resemblance between you and him, especially how he looks in that tapestry. It's kind of weird.”

“Coincidence,” Apollo said nonchalantly. “Shall we drink?” He handed her one of the goblets and then raised his own. “To feeling lucky.”

Pamela grinned and patted the sparkling purse that rested by her side. “To feeling lucky.” She sipped. “This wine is delicious! I usually don't like white.” She looked into her goblet. “But this isn't exactly white.” The color of the wine was as unusual as its taste. If Pamela had been asked to describe it for one of those wine-tasting magazines, she would have said that it was light and crisp on the pallet, like the scent of pears or melons, and the color of sunlight. “What is it, a Pinot Gris?”

Apollo shrugged. “I'm not certain. I asked them to serve us the house's finest.” And about that, he was telling the truth. Artemis had planned the dinner, along with the wine. Apollo took another long drink. He would have to ask Artemis about the wine—it was delicious as well as unusual. It was chilled, but as he drank he could feel it fill his body with warmth that seemed to radiate from his core. He looked at Pamela. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had quit inspecting the design of the room. She was smiling softly at him. Her lips were gently parted. They looked full and inviting.

“I did not like being away from you this evening,” he said.

“I missed you, too.”

“How will I bear being apart from you for the next five days?”

“Five days?” That would make it the weekend again when he returned to Vegas. Wasn't she planning on flying back to Colorado then? This job was only supposed to take a week. Five days without him . . . Her thoughts were suddenly sluggish and disjointed . . . The time seemed at once interminable and unimportant. She didn't want him to leave, she knew that, but he was here now, almost close enough to touch. How could any man be so handsome? She had to force herself to stay on her chaise, when what she really wanted to do was to join him on his . . . to pull off his shirt . . . and begin licking her way down his body.

“Yes, I . . .” he faltered. What was it he and Artemis had decided to tell Pamela about his “trip”? He was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything except her lips.

The stream of maidens carrying food-filled platters interrupted his impulse to push aside the table and devour her mouth.

On golden plates Apollo and Pamela were served food of the gods.

“The finest grape leaves, stuffed with morsels of meat and cheese,” one of Artemis' handmaidens proclaimed in a soft, hypnotic voice as Pamela bit into the fragrant bundle.

“Lamb, from a beast raised on honey and milk,” another maiden murmured.

Apollo tasted the meat, then smiled, eating with relish. His sister was usually not at all domestic, but tonight she had outdone herself.

“Cheese from goats that nymphs care for as if they were beloved children.”

“Olives and figs picked from Mount Olympus by the smooth, knowing hands of Aphrodite's priestesses.”

They were undoubtedly the best waitresses Pamela had ever had. She wanted to ask Phoebus how he had managed this evening. He must have reserved the entire restaurant for their private use, which meant—amongst other things—that he must be an incredibly successful doctor. And he looked so young! She meant to ask him exactly how old he was, when was his birthday, and where had he been born—not that it really mattered. She was just curious. She should also ask him about . . . about . . . about . . . what? She couldn't concentrate . . .

. . . Because the food was so completely, absorbingly delicious. The taste filled her senses. It was more than food. It reminded her of summer sunlight and heat and desire . . . her eyes lifted from her plate to find Phoebus watching her with a sapphire intensity that made her breath catch.

“We leave you alone; for the night we retire . . .” the handmaidens sang. And as they faded from the room their sweet voices whispered an almost inaudible prayer: “. . . Intoxicate . . . arouse . . . flame their desire . . . fog inhibitions . . . set them afire.”