At first, my gaze is lowered and all I notice are the black combat boots he’s wearing. I lift my head slowly. My eyes are blanketed by black and muscle. He’s a statue. Solid. Bold. I stare at his face; his pristine blue eyes penetrate my gaze. There’s vagueness in his eyes, yet at the same time coldness.
He may appear to be god-like and magnificent, but I can see right through him. Pain ripples through his features as he examines my face. Then he closes his eyes, exhales, and clenches his jaw. When he opens his eyes there’s a spark of anger in them. “I’ve been waiting for you for five-thousand years. You will come to me.” There’s finality and harshness is his deep, velvety voice. “Willing or not.”
“Ha!” I burst out. “That’s what you think.”
He steps closer, hovering above me. I pretend to be brave and stand firm, my knees lock in place, a fierce look in my eye, but inside every vital organ in my body is vibrating and then my heart stops beating. My heart is a convenient store. It’s closing time. Better lock up for the night.
He cups the right side of my face and gently brushes his thumb over my cheek bone. I expect his touch to be filled with warmth, but it’s not, it’s cold, so cold that I feel the capillaries in my face freezing over. He tilts his head to the side and leans closer, inches away from my face. His blue eyes sear into mine as he exhales. I taste his cool breath, a mixture of mint and honey. “No,” he says hushed. Part of me wants to move. The other part of me is screaming inside to stay here and let him touch me in places I’ve never been touched. Then I focus on his full, pink lips and I want him to kiss me in places I’ve never been kissed. And there is also a miniscule part of me that wants to kick him in the shin and make a mad dash for the opposite side of the field. But for some reason I can’t. He’s a warlock. His intense gaze has me under a spell. I close my eyes as my heart races. My organ pounds so loud I feel it throbbing in my ears. Hades shifts and his lips are inches away from my ear. “It’s not what I think. It’s what I know.” His voice is so low I can barely hear him. I close my eyes, convincing myself that I could listen to his voice for the rest of my life.
The wind picks up and a breeze trickles down my flimsy shirt and I feel the sun as the heat sizzles on my skin. I open my eyes, hoping to glimpse into his sea of blue eyes. But he’s gone.
I close my eyes again and behind my eyelids I can see a light flickering on and off, on and off. For a while I forgot I was dreaming again and I know that mom said she was going to wake me up in an hour. Opening my eyes, the white ceiling blurs as I blink rapidly. Mom waltzes into my room. “Get up,” she says gleefully. “Time to get ready.”
I sit up sluggishly. “Oh joy. I’m just so excited about my party.” I hope she can sense the sarcasm in my voice.
She doesn’t.
“Wonderful!” She clasps her hands together. I toss the covers off me and stand as mom thumbs through the outfits in my closet. “You should hurry up and get ready,” she tells me, strutting to the door. “People are already arriving.”
I groan. “What peo
ple?” I shouldn’t have asked. I know when mom throws a party that usually means all of Mount Olympus will be here.
Through the years, most of the God’s that dwelled on Mount Olympus migrated to different parts of the world. When you have forever to live out your life, there are so many places to see and people to meet. If you liked mingling with mortals, that is.
Unlike my father, a lot of the God’s looked down upon the mortals. I agree that we’re in a completely different class than them but, I’ve never looked down on them. Speaking of my father. “Zeus isn’t coming, is he?”
“Of course not,” mom muses. “Hera is here with the boys.”
I fall back on my bed and smother my face with a pillow. I scream loudly several times and remove the pillow to see mom with her hands on her hips, a stern look on her face. “Persephone, was that necessary?”
“Was it necessary for you to invite Ares and Hephaestus?”
“What’s wrong with you? You know I can’t invite Hera and not invite her boys.”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “Are you forgetting what happened at my last party because of them?”
At my last seventeenth birthday, mom threw me a Hawaiian themed party and Ares ruined it. He always wanted to fight or pick fights. Ares is moodier than a teenage girl during that time of the month and it never takes much to set him off. I don’t remember what led him and Hephaestus to fight, but I do remember Ares tackling his brother, knocking one of the tiki torches over, and setting the whole table of food on fire.
Mom is standing in the doorway. “Hera promised me they would behave this year.”
“Fine,” I grumble, getting to my feet.
Mom smiles. “Come down when you’re ready.”
I smile back, walking over to my closet as she makes her exit.
I select a yellow flowered sundress. Then I make a mental note, telling myself to push all of my thoughts involving Hades to the side. Right now, I’m going to put on a happy face and pretend like I’m enjoying this party.
Descending down the stairs, the lower portion of our house is a flooded river of bodies. The chatter is so loud is makes the walls vibrate. Mom invited so many people that the guests can barely move. I watch Iris as the ivory skin around her violet eyes crinkles. She’s wedged in between Apollo and Poseidon, trying to squeeze through them to get to the food table on the opposite side of the room.
Strips of purple crepe paper hang down from the wooden beams on the ceiling and tiny twinkling lights flash, bordering the walls. A massive banner is plastered above the fireplace that reads; Happy Birthday, Persephone.” On the last step, I search the faces in the crowd for mom. Then all of sudden, I stumble back, catching myself by gripping the solid oak rails as Dionysius’s bulging belly rams into my hip. “Whoa!” I straighten myself out, catching my balance.
He turns to face me, a wide smile on his lips and a twinkle in his brown eyes. “Oh, Persephoonnee!” he slurs. Dionysius wobbles closer and breathes heavily. His breath smells musty and sweet, like fermented grapes. He’s drunk. He raises his right hand, clutching a half-empty green bottle of wine. “Care for a drink, birrrthday girrrl,” he mumbles.
“No thanks,” I say politely. I’ve never been much of a drinker.
He brings the bottle to his lips. “Great. More for me.”