Goddess of Light (41 page)

“Oh, Eddie!” she said, touching her glass against his and blinking quickly to clear the sudden tears that filled her eyes. “You have dazzled me.”

“It has been my very great pleasure to do so,” he said, his eyes suspiciously bright, too. Then he cleared his throat and motioned for the waiter to bring menus.

They were served a spectacular dinner against the backdrop of singing fountains and a desert sky that slowly faded from blue to purple. Alone on their balcony, the night felt filled with magic and mystery. Though they were in the heart of Vegas on a bustling Friday night, they had privacy and pageantry. To Pamela it was as if they had been granted a special box seat from the gods of the city. And, who knew? They might have been. Odder things had certainly happened.

When the last of many sets of fountain songs ended, Eddie glanced at his watch. Grimly, he lifted his bulk from the chair and stood facing the table.

“It is nearing the hour of eight. We have shared wine and food, friendship and music.” His kind eyes looked from Pamela to Apollo before they came to rest on Artemis. “Now, I am sad to say, I must bid you farewell. I told you earlier that I had a surprise for you.” His gaze remained on Artemis' beautiful face. “Especially for you, my Goddess.” He gestured around them. “Part of the surprise was this setting and this dinner. The other part is that I would like to formally announce that I have decided upon the subject of my next epic trilogy. This morning my editor agreed with my proposal for the three books. They will tell the story of a warrior who is sent on a seemingly unattainable quest by his dying people to win the heart of a goddess who, in turn, will promise to return to his people, live by his side, and save their world. The cover of each hardback book will hold an image that will be sacred throughout the hero's journey, the image of his goddess. That image will be none other than the one our Matthew has been sketching of you.” He ended his speech with a flourish, bowing to the woman he had proclaimed his goddess.

Artemis didn't speak. Instead, she stood and walked slowly to Eddie.

“Thank you, my warrior.”

Gracefully, Artemis sank into a low curtsy. When she raised her supple body and linked her arm through his, Pamela could see that her cheeks were wet. The author took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at her face; then, in a familiar gesture, Eddie patted her hand where it rested on his wide arm.

“Come then, and let us finish our journey.”

Silently, the four of them retraced their path through the restaurant and out to the Bellagio's foyer. This time the Chichuly masterpiece didn't draw Pamela's eyes. Her heart felt too heavy; she couldn't look up. The only thing she could think to do was to keep holding Apollo's hand and keep believing that this wouldn't be the last time she touched him. It was through his hand that she felt the instant hum of tension when their limo pulled up to the circle drive, reminding her of her promise.

“Eddie, do you mind if Phoebus and I walk? You know how he is about cars,” she said, wondering, in an abstract kind of detached way, at how normal her voice sounded. Like her heart wasn't breaking. Like her life wasn't dissolving with the setting sun.

“Of course! We shall meet you in front of Caesars Palace. It will give all of us time to say our private good-byes.” The author managed a strained smile before he ducked into the limo.

 

 

IN his palace on Mount Olympus, Bacchus sat on his throne. He closed his eyes and focused his will. Sweat beaded his wide brow. His cheeks were florid with strain. Between his flaccid lips a line of white foam moved in and out with his breathing.

He increased his concentration. He would not panic. He would not despair. It would be found.

He had felt it these past days. The portal's closing had weakened it, but he knew it was still there. All he had to do was to find it—then she would be his again. Bacchus raised his thick hands, holding his palms outward as if he was feeling the air in front of his dais. And something tickled against his skin. With all of his immortal might, his hands closed, and his mind grasped the faint sliver of the bond.

He had found it! He had found her . . .

Like a fisherman pulling in a rare catch, Bacchus clutched the thread of the mortal's soul to him, tightening and strengthening their connection until he could see her clearly in his mind. She was at work, little more than a slave, really, doomed to a life of drudgery as she carried drinks to men with groping hands, and then ducked into dark corners to raise a glass to her own lips.

Bacchus tugged harder at the bond, and the mortal woman drained the glass of fiery liquor.

Yes . . . drink me in . . . take me . . . let me ease your pain . . .
his mind whispered to her through their bond, and he felt her sway, as if she, too, physically felt their connection.

That was how she had come to him, and that was how he had bound her, through her need for drink. It obsessed her, consumed her . . . it only followed logically that he could obsess and consume her. He had really done nothing wrong. He had simply granted the mortal woman her heart's desire. The delicious irony of it made him want to shriek with glee. He would use the mortal bound to him through her heart's desire to destroy that which had been bound to the golden Artemis, and in doing so, he would force both twins to feel a taste of the pain that losing his kingdom caused him.

The agony of the separation still raged within him. They thought they had beaten him. It was Apollo's fault. He and his golden sister. But would Zeus punish them? Of course not. They were his darlings, his favorites. It was insufferable.

The abuse heaped upon him must be redressed. This time there would be no reprieve. No mistakes would be made.

Bacchus channeled his power into the mortal. He drank in her soul, laughing at how freely she gave herself over to him. Through her, his spirit reentered the mortal world, spreading like a deadly, invisible fog from Caesars Palace. He searched . . . searched . . . and then with a triumphant shout he found what he sought. Perfect. They were so unaware—so caught up in their own little dramas they would not sense his presence.

Satisfied, he again concentrated his powers on the all-too-willing mortal. He was within her, coursing through her veins and filling her mind with his dark urgings.

Yes, you are doing so well!
He coaxed as she left her workstation carrying only her keys.
Quickly now, time grows short. Let me tell you exactly what you must do . . .

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

WITHOUT speaking, Apollo and Pamela walked slowly, hand in hand, along the sidewalk that framed the Bellagio fountains. At the moment, the water was quiet and dark, but the walkway around it was crowded with bright, chattering mortals, and the adjacent street was filled with swiftly moving cars. Apollo thought that their brazen honking and squealing was much more distracting than the glittering acropolis of buildings that lined the opposite side of the street. He ignored the ever-present pain that radiated from his hand up through his arm. It was unimportant—something that would soon end. And it was of little consequence when compared with the heaviness in his heart.

It was almost time for the sun to set. This wasn't his world, but he was eternally linked to the light in the sky. He could feel it as it awakened the morning, and he always knew exactly when it slipped beneath the horizon. His time was short.

He should stay. He could. It would be a simple thing. With the reopening of the portal his powers would return to him. He could fog Pamela's mind and then insert the suggestion that she had asked him to stay . . . Like an evil sprite, his mind spoke other possibilities to his heart . . . He could take her with him. Gods had been stealing away their mortal lovers for eons. Mount Olympus was a place filled with incredible wonders and limitless beauty. Surely she could be happy there. Surely she loved him enough to forgive him.

And then how would he be any different than her husband? If he had learned anything from Pamela, it was that love can not be dictated, demanded or imprisoned. He couldn't chain her to him; he could only love her.

Was it just a week ago that he had believed he had conquered love? How naïve he had been. Mortal or immortal, love made no distinctions for rank or privilege. Love was a matter of the soul, incorporeal and not subject to the whims of man or god.

Apollo slowed and then guided Pamela to a nearby bench as the noisy group they had been walking behind came to a sudden halt. Like milling cattle, they shuffled impatiently and called loudly to one another.

“It's the street; they're waiting for the light,” Pamela said, sitting beside him and staring out at the dark water. She sounded almost normal, except that, like a dimmed lamp, the usual animation had faded from her face, leaving her pale and subdued. “The group's too big—it's backed up and it'll probably take two light changes for all of them to cross the street.” Her sad eyes looked up at him. “After spending the week in the desert all these people make me feel kind of claustrophobic. Do we have time to sit for a minute and let them go ahead?”

“Yes,” he said, putting his arm around her. She rested her head against his shoulder and snuggled into his side. “We don't have to be there the exact instant the portal reappears. We have time.”

“How much time?”

“Not much. I do not want to anger Zeus any more by seeming to disregard his command to appear before him.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“The truth.” He kissed her forehead. “That I found my soul mate in the modern world, and that my heart's desire is not to be parted from her.”

“I hope you're granted your heart's desire as easily as I was granted mine.” She lifted her face to his. As he kissed her, she breathed in his scent. His closeness soothed her. When he touched her, she could make herself believe that what he said so often was the truth—that all really would be well. Reluctantly, he ended their kiss, and her stomach tightened uncomfortably.

“It appears the crowd has moved on,” Apollo said.

Pamela glanced down the suddenly empty sidewalk. “Looks like there must have been a big rush to get somewhere. It's a little weird.” She felt a trickle of something lift the fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. Her intuition was telling her to stay there, seated on the bench beside Apollo. But before she could say anything, he was already standing up. With a thick feeling of resignation, she realized that she just didn't want him to go—that was all there was to her so-called intuition.

Distracted, the god shrugged off the strangeness of the deserted walkway. “We should go, too,” Apollo said. He pulled her to her feet beside him. Keeping his arm securely around her, they walked slowly to stand alone on the curb while they waited for the light to change from red to green. It wasn't good-bye yet, he told himself. He would keep her close to him all the way through Caesars Palace and would not relinquish her until the portal was before him. Then their separation would only be temporary. Apollo murmured his next thoughts aloud to her. “My father will relent. He has been love's victim too many times not to grant our request.”

“Love's victim or lust's victim?” Pamela asked.

He smiled down at her. “For my father, love and lust set the same banquet table, and Zeus enjoys the feast.”

Pamela gave an unladylike, sarcastic snort. He laughed, hugging her against him. He couldn't lose her. She tilted her head up to him, and as he bent to kiss her again, the fountain sprang into life. They froze, staring at each other, and then Pamela's face blazed with happiness.

“Perfect!” she said through her laughter. “It couldn't be more perfect.”

Once again, Faith Hill seemed to sing only for them.

“It is the best of omens! All will be well,” Apollo said joyously. He turned and watched the dancing water.

Almost as if the music compelled him, the god walked to the railing. There was something in the air—something in which he sensed an immortal's hand. It had to be an omen sent from Zeus. Glancing over his shoulder, he grinned happily, motioning for Pamela to join him.

She smiled and nodded, but stayed where she was—just for another moment. Apollo was gazing at the sparkling waters as they geysered into the air in time to the magical song. He was so magnificent, this remarkable god who somehow was the other half of her soul. And suddenly, fiercely she believed that he would make everything right. The God of Light was her soul mate, and he would find a way to return to her.

 

Pamela lifted her foot to take a step forward, and a flash of movement caught at the corner of her eye. Frowning, she turned her head in time to see the car, but not in time to get out of its path as it leapt the curb and rammed into her body.

Filled with new hope, Apollo was smiling at the shooting water when he heard the first terrible screech. Insulated as he was by water and song, the sound seemed far away. Confused, he turned to see what was keeping Pamela. In wordless horror he watched as the metal beast struck her body.

“Pamela!”
he screamed. The impact hurtled her to the busy street and directly into the oncoming traffic. Brakes squealed, and drivers veered, smashing into other cars as they tried unsuccessfully to avoid hitting her. Apollo surged forward. Dodging cars and people, he followed her bloody path to where she had finally come to rest in a crumpled heap in the center median.

Shrieking his agony, Apollo dropped to his knees beside her and pulled her broken body into his arms. His flashing, tear-filled eyes stared at the ball of light that still hovered low in the sky.