Page 15 of The Night Belongs To Lovers

Visually disappointed that he would not meet the dancer he lusted after, the young man left the club; the clock showed 2:00 a.m.

Corey followed his prey out of the establishment, moving faster than any mortal eye could catch. While his dominion over darkness allowed for exceptional concealment, his uncanny speed was the only component of his vast power-set that produced near invisibility in all areas, lit or darkened. It was the closest he could get to an utterly imperceptible state. Even gods had limitations, though none would ever claim so. He did not quite have the speed of Mercury, but next to it.

Looking around Yonge St., Corey noticed it was relatively naked of travellers. Generally, he loved seeing the parade of humans in their garments of wildly differing fashions. Toronto, much like New York and London, held many eclectic sights. His favourites were always the alternative-looking characters, the mortals who went against the safe, popular trends of the majority. Especially the theatrical ones,like the goths, for they desired to emulate immortals in their dark, charming way.

Or at least emulate thevampiricinterpretation, for Corey had come to see that contemporary minds no longer cared much for the old gods in concept or religious belief. The ancient deities who drank the blood of their worshipers, secretly sustaining their immortality and godly might, had fallen out of favour long ago, pushed to the side to make way for invented monotheistic religions.

Corey lamented the plight of ancient immortals, reduced to existing in mythology and folktales, classified for centuries as vampires, nosferatu, and the strigoi, among many other disparaging epithets.

Unlike Olympius, Corey could move easily about in the day, though, as a night god, it was not his natural time. A truth he had learned quickly after his Becoming was that a god’s power became significantly hampered in the domain not linked to their blood. Most gods could move in both worlds and at any time as they never required sleep; some occasionally slept by choice to experience dreams or slumber away the centuries, bored or hiding from a world they no longer understood.

Immortality was not for wimps.

To this day, Corey still wondered why his Maker could not move about freely in the daylight without hiding in shadows and dark spots. He knew Olympius was full of well-kept secrets.

Though he rarely interacted with other immortals, Corey knew many gods took great offence to this supernatural slander ofvampirism, particularly Eos of the Dawn, or “Elodie,” her modern moniker, a child of the Titan Hyperion—and a complete bitch. Apollo, the Olympian god of the sun, was also highly affronted by the comparison.

Though deities of opposing realms, Corey and Apollo, a narcissist who also went by the names “Paulus” and “Paul,” were actually friends starting in ancient times, with the relationship always remaining platonic. Though, Apollo’s ego often tested the limits of their friendship.

Corey cared very little about the global perception of immortals, whether flawed fact or complete fiction. He was a god, period, and as the modern queer community was fond of saying, he owned hisauthentic self. No one else would define him.

Like many, Corey believed imitation was the sweetest form of flattery. He had never consideredturninga mortal, a term he hated, overused by contemporary fiction. Corey remembered very little of his Becoming; Olympius refused to reveal to him the process of transforming mortality into godhood. And he was not about to be guided by human films or book lore.

Or the worst humiliation: ask another god, like Apollo, how to make an immortal. That was simply not an option for Corey.

As far as mortals and gods were concerned, Corey stuck with the notion that worked best for him: they were two separate and immutable states of being.

And though Corey had never needed or wanted worshippers, it was nice to know that the gods were still relevant to historyand world culture, especially with the modern invention of “pop culture.” There, he had encountered many thrilling nods to his kind—the Classical, non-gothic versions.

He loved the entertaining Ray Harryhausen films, like the originalClash of the Titans, with those fabulous British thespians chewing the scenery, acting how they thought gods would. Or the delightful Percy Jackson series of novels. Nothing was ever wholly correct in their imaginative retellings, but he adored the playfulness of it all.

Corey had little interest in interacting with other immortals. The few he encountered over the millennia were like Olympius: arrogant, controlling, and untrustworthy. Even Apollo was best in small doses. Corey preferred his own company. It was as his Maker told him: immortals do well alone.

Though the Eternal of all realms co-existed throughout the ages, Corey used his exceptional talents to ensure they rarely noticed him. All gods were masters at masking their presence, but he had perfected the art. Speed and shadow were his bitches.

Still, the desire to meet and share experiences specifically with other night gods burned deep inside him. He wished to meet other offspring of the Titan Coeus besides Olympius if they existed. The possibility of meeting the offspring of the Titaness Phoebe also filled him with excitement.

His Maker’s impulsive, periodic reappearances plagued Corey; no god could conceal themselves from the one who initiated theirBecoming. He acknowledged and accepted that Olympius loved him profoundly—in his twisted way.

And Corey loved his Maker as much as he claimed to the contrary; he could not help himself. But was it a side-effect of the transformation to godhood or the influence of Olympius’ blood that flowed through him? Or was he genuinely in love with him by his own agency?

Did he still believe in their connection, that they wereFatedLovers, as both Olympius and Fortuna did? He still felt it; even thinking about it made him naturally lighter and happier. But was it real? Not that it mattered; Corey could never trust him. Olympius’ lies, impediments to personal freedom, and the destruction delivered to his doorstep time and again—!

No, the god wanted no more happy recollections fighting against maudlin and angry thoughts; all it did was negatively affect his emotions. Olympius was who he was.

Done ruminating on a bitter past, Corey returned his attention to the mortal. In the short time the god was distracted, lost in thoughts best forgotten, the prey had gotten quite a bit ahead of him. The man’s pace had quickened significantly from when he had left the strip club, like he was suddenly on alert, attempting to outrun something unnerving yet invisible. Corey thought it odd, wondering if the mortal sensed his presence as he followed him.

Corey smirked, amused by the thought that Church St., which they were now on, was most likely the culprit, as it could give anyyoung, gay virgin anxious chills, especially around the witching hour.

The god decided to stop playing cat and mouse, finding it had become rather tiresome and spoiled by his recurring thoughts of Olympius. It was time to refocus and initiate a new encounter with his admirer.

THE APPARITION

The Past

THEapparition had named its immaterial prison many things: The Void, The Abyss, The Endless Expanse of Nothingness. One time, in a fit of anger and frustration, cursing the dead, though still very much hated, progenitor of the Titans, he dubbed this placeUranus’ Anus.The bawdy humour involved was entirely intentional.

Not that naming the place gave the pitiful spirit any power over it. In this space between realms, time had no meaning;as there was no up or down, there was no now or then. The place had no substance, nothing for the apparition to attach itself to or utilize, let alone understand.

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