Page 12 of The Night Belongs To Lovers

But he never reappeared on stage or moved about the floor, at least visibly, and no club employee knew his whereabouts. Or, for that matter, who the dancer that had everyone talking was, not to any significant degree. Beguiling management to provide him access to their performance space even though it was not Amateur Night had been easy. He did not even possess an Adult Entertainer Licence.

Being a god came with many advantages.

Corey could have picked a different time and date to perform; his schedule was extremely flexible. But the goddess Fortuna had come to him in a vision, showing him that tonight would be serendipitous. He learned long ago not to question the goddess’ power. She sometimes visited him in waking dreams, profferingwisdom and guidance, having done so for countless centuries. This latest appearance was a pleasant reminder she still watched over him, though she never appeared to him in the flesh.

Corey knew why he warranted such favour from the goddess of fortune: it had to do with Olympius.

Fortuna believed he and his Maker were special, that their souls were connected. Their love, though complicated, was meant to be—Fated, with a capital “F.” Though the goddess never pushed, never manipulated. In Corey’s view, that behaviour was Olympius’ calling card, which made things too messy for them to be together, even if all that metaphysical stuff was true. He knew mortals in this era would say theyhad issues.

As the second performance for each dancer this night was their “sperm attack,” a masturbatory act ending in a delectable cumshot, Corey had needed to abstain. Incapable of producing semen, his performance would have finished without a bang, so to speak, and he never did anything half-assed.

Psychically enthralling dozens of emotionally charged men into thinking he had cum did cross his mind. Though not an impossible feat, it would have been taxing, so Corey inevitably decided not to attempt something potentially draining. In his need to replenish energy, he did not want to risk being overwhelmed by hunger when feeding later on the prey. Something not so easily held in check was a ravenous god!

Corey’s intent was not to kill tonight.

OLYMPIUS

The Past

TAKINGto the air, Olympius cut through the star-filled sky, travelling at unparalleled speeds towards Rome, to a particular domus he had visited many times. The structure housed a small, sequestered atrium where Veturia sat alone before a shrine, beseeching divine intervention.

Upon reaching his destination, Olympius took great pleasure in seeing how distraught the mortal woman looked as she knelt before her candlelight vigil, extolling her reverence to a dark god. One she worshipped in secret, awayfrom the prying eyes of the Roman nobility—citizens who publicly professed their preference for gifts and favours from the gods of love, war, and bounty. But just like Veturia, they called out to Olympius in whispers fueled by all-consuming, directed hate; these were dark nightly entreatments for private vengeance.

The god noted the woman’s beautiful stola, a long, sleeveless, pleated robe made from the finest silk, dyed green and embroidered with peacocks. It bore traces of moisture from Veturia’s countless tears of regret and shame. Tears cried as she prayed for a miracle only gods could grant: power over life and death.

Merging his godly form with the chamber’s shadows, Olympius sailed silently across the white marble floor to where Veturia worshipped in statue-like restraint. No emotion escaped her body except the fervour of her chanting, those pleas to her dark god to save her son.

Dispelling the darkness to reveal the solid perfection of his godhood, Olympius spoke in a booming voice. “You desire an audience, mortal? My patience is thin for triviality. Be quick and careful with your words!”

Veturia halted her praying and came towards Olympius. She bent down and kissed his feet with the passion of a lover, a devout disciple. She raised her head to lament her plight. Her wailing could have woken the dead.

Coriolanus may not have needed my help returning to living flesh after all.The god softly laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Please, oh great god of the night and stars. Aufidius will surely kill my son if he has not already met with a sword in the stomach. Please, my dark god, save his life. I beg of you. I made a terrible mistake. I would gladly trade all of Rome for his safety.”

“I would not bargain with what you do not possess, mortal,” Olympius sneered. “You have your strengths, woman, such as your cunning tongue, but you waste them all on frivolous matters and politics you do not comprehend. Save your son? I have done so, but he is mine now—my son—or whatever else I wish him to be in his new life, whatever role I desire from him. And I do desire him.”

The god smiled wickedly, pondering the many lascivious activities he would do with the son Veturia could no longer claim as hers. Olympius took in the distress on the woman’s face; her dull, wet eyes betrayed her delicious pain, her delectable torment.

“That is the price I demand to answer your supplication. Will you pay with your obedience and forgo your son, or will you deny your god? Be quick and careful with your words, mortal!”

Veturia hung her head in lamentation and assented.

The god knew there was never another choice, for a mother’s love is an all-consuming pyre despite being as twisted and perverse as Veturia’s. Her offspring was her creation, her joy, and her anger. Her earthly plans for control and power made flesh—male flesh, a potent element in the mortal world. She had turned nothingness into substance, gave life to lust and passion, a yearning deep inside her needing and receiving human form—and called himson.

And now he belonged to her dark god.

In his mortal life, Olympius had never known a mother’s love. Death took even queens in Alkebulan too early, especially in childbirth. And his Roman father was a bastard usurper who knew no love save for the adoration of battle.

The great uprising had occurred after Olympius’ sixteenth birthday when his father was overthrown by those finally tired of foreign tyranny. Though the spawn of a Roman, Olympius was the son of the late Queen Adiam and the only living soul who carried the royal blood of the matriarchal line. With reticence, the people placed him on the throne upon his father’s beheading and the ousting of the Romans and Greeks who resided in the kingdom. He had been crowned under his mortal name.

Olympiuswas the appellation assigned to him by Coeus upon his Becoming. Despite its nefarious origins, it was a Greek name he had grown to like—so much more than the Roman one given to him by his hated mortal father.

His rule over the kingdom, however, was short-lived.

Despite his advisors’ pestering and match-making attempts, Olympius remained unmarried during his short reign. He had no interest in female flesh—a future problem for royal succession but one that never got the chance to darken his doorstep.

Before his ascension to godhood, love was a stranger to Olympius; it was an unexplored, alien concept.

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