Page 43 of Invoking Ruin

“Hello, Atê.”

Chapter eleven

Dionysus (Sandro)

I’m not sure of much these last few days, but I’m sure whoever Vita really is, she’s the most infuriating goddess I’ll ever meet.

I watch her dash off, a lyre clutched in her hands, green skirt swaying. My eyes linger on her hips, remembering how incredible they feel wrapped around mine.

She and I simply fit together. That’s about all I know about her, which I know is the way she planned it. She dances around every direct question with guile and obfuscation. For every redirection, she has an excuse, a promise to give me the real answers later.

With each passing moment, I’m less sure that “later” is going to come.

I should turn around, leave Athens, find my own way to the information I seek. Staying with Vita can’t be good for me. For all I know, she’s the reason I can’t remember anything in the first place. At the very least, she’s not interested in seeing me remember.

Who am I, exactly?

The question haunts me, much like the strange woman’s laughter in my dreams. They’re both so close, linked together in a way that hovers just beyond my reach. If only I could pull those answers in, remember myself.

I only know who I’m not.

I’m not Sandro. I’m not mortal. I’m as godly as she is.

I’m just as powerful.

If I leave her, will I be able to find my own answers? Or will I wander the earth, searching in shadows forever?

The doubt is enough to keep me where I am for a moment, maybe two.

Then, I follow her.

She told me to go find some wine bar to wait in, but I’m not going to sit by until she comes for me, nice and still like some meek little lamb.

Not to mention, I don’t have any money for wine, and none of the powers I’ve displayed so far indicate I can manipulate someone like Vita can.

Maybe she’s some kind of goddess of manipulation.

No, that’s not it. Deimos called her Ruin. It wasn’t her name, so it must be her dominion. With her powers, it only makes sense. I’m not familiar with a Goddess of Ruin, though. I should have paid more attention in school.

Of course, my memories of school aren’t real, are they? I probably never went at all.

I should remember her, though. Not from some book, but from my former life.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s better if I don’t.

She’s some few hundred feet ahead of me on the streets. Her green dress and shining dark hair make her easy to spot.

Or perhaps it’s just her presence, a bright splotch of color in a dull world.

Is it only her godliness making her shine? Or is it something more personal?

“Were we together like this before?”

“Yes. Once.”

“Must have been quite the night.”

She can’t mean that much to me if I only took her once. If it had been worth it, I’d have had her again, and again.

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