Page 22 of The Night Belongs To Lovers

The apparition focused on being present in the now and swiftly righted itself. It tried to move and act like it had a physical body—to see and hear—and discovered it could. What about speech? The apparition opened its mouth to speak, but nothing emerged. Perhaps it could not make sounds in this ghostly form—a puzzle for another time.

For now, it understood it was here for one purpose: to enact revenge.

The vengeful spirit took stock of its surroundings. It was in an exquisite antechamber filled with frescos and tapestries depicting gods, great battles, and virgin maidens. Fragrant florals were everywhere, and masterfully made imported Grecian rugs lay upon marble floors; this was a domus owned by a wealthy man, one of influence in mortal affairs.

None of these human trappings interested the apparition. This place had no meaning to it and held no memory. Why was it here?

The apparition, hearing a muffled cry of pain, turned toward the far end of the large room and saw a mortal man upon a bed, his arm and leg twisted at inhuman angles. A woman, regal looking, adornedwith gold and jewels, tended to him, face stained with tears. There were no slave attendants or guards in sight.

The apparition could hear the sounds of war from all directions.

What has transpired here?The apparition was still confused as to its purpose in this place. And so, thinking like it was still a Titan, it endeavoured to read the minds of the mortals—and quickly found it could and with ease!So, The Fates have allowed access to godly abilities on this material plane—at least some.

Feeling inspired and moved to action, the apparition tore through the memories of Aufidius and Veturia without temperance or tenderness, like a beast clawing at its dinner. Having no defence against the invisible attack, the two mortals screamed in agony as something they could not comprehend savaged their fragile minds. And when it was done, satisfied with its yield, the apparition released its victims; it now understood why it was here, in this very room.

So he spared your traitorous lives, did he? I will use such folly to my advantage.

Now, the apparition would start to claim revenge on its progeny, the disobedient child who thought he could murder his Maker, steal their power, and escape without consequence. But The Fates were just, always ensuring balance. Cursed or not, the apparition desired retribution, deserved it, and desperately wanted to escape the loathsome emptiness that imprisoned its tortured consciousness.

Its mission was to destroytrue love, that insufferable bond between Olympius and Coriolanus. That was its only way to claim both freedom and revenge.

Remembering what the Secundus goddess had said and its self-teaching, the apparition attempted to shape its form to be what it had never been successful at becoming before. It wanted more than merely playing with different intangible configurations.

For this realm, it desired solidity.

So with gargantuan effort, the apparition exerted its will over its spiritual form, demanding it to become flesh and blood—or a passable, usable facsimile.

Though not an immediate transformation, the apparition’s continuous efforts eventually paid off when the immaterial became substance—and powerful matter, too. It was not a god, definitely not a Titan, but more than mortal. Though naked as a newborn babe, it felt powerful, strong enough to inflict considerable damage, even death.

But could it push further to accomplish more?

In its mind, the apparition conjured an image of the betrayer as it remembered him: beautiful and cunning. It willed itself to become a doppelganger of Olympius. And not just with flesh but in material finery.

Be him, I say! Look as he does now in all ways and be so perfect in the deception to fool even his precious Coriolanus.

The Fates’ magic granted its desire. Spirit that had become flesh now morphed into the spitting image of Olympius in magnificent raiment; the attire conjured mimicked the one currently worn by the god, though the apparition had no knowledge of this.

Fueled by vindictiveness, intense hatred, and the information gained from its psychic probing, the apparition concocted a plan. And it would begin with the death of Coriolanus’ mother.

With stealth and agility reminiscent of the Hidden Ones—elite Egyptian assassins once fiercely loyal to the Titan of darkness—the apparition, in the guise of Olympius, pounced upon the unsuspecting, still-shaken woman. Striking like a cobra, it grabbed Veturia by the neck, effortlessly lifted her off the ground, and hurled her across the chamber, where she collided with a statue of Mars, the god of war.

Veturia slammed hard against the unyielding marble, which remained in place without a scratch, for frail mortal skin and bone were nothing to its structural formidableness.

A visibly panicked Aufidius attempted to rise, but whether to help Veturia or flee, the false Olympius did not know, but it was all for naught. The Volscian quickly fell back upon the linen sheets in agony, his broken limbs enacting a torturous punishment for his attempt to move them.

With new corporeal eyes ablaze with righteous anger, the false Olympius strode across the room toward a barely conscious Veturia, ignoring the mortal man writhing in pain, screaming for his guards. The Roman domina had collapsed on the floor at the statue’s base, bloody and bruised, her elegant robes torn.

Faster than the speed of a lynx, the false Olympius lunged at Veturia’s unmoving body; its razor-sharp claws dug into mortal flesh as it clutched her delicate throat and lifted her to meet its hatefulgaze. Staring into terrified eyes filled with blood from broken vessels, it began to choke the life from the woman.

Veturia’s face quickly turned purple from lack of air. Her small hands were wholly incapable of breaking her attacker’s grip. In her agony, she managed to spit out three words with tremendous effort, though her constricted throat garbled her speech.

“Night—Lord—mmm—ercy.”

What! How does she know my child’s face? Olympius—Lord of the Night?! The audacity! To steal not just my power but my domain and create worshippers! Vile, impudent wretch!

Reeling from the unexpected, detestable revelation, a piece of the woman’s history not gleaned from her thoughts earlier, the false Olympius seethed with hate, desiring satisfaction.

Looking down upon its free left arm, it aimed to make the limb intangible. As the flesh became spirit again, the power seemed to flow more effortlessly, each use easier than the last. It moved the spectral limb into the mortal woman’s chest, placing a ghostly hand around Veturia’s heart, cradling the organ like a hungry beggar would to a delectable pomegranate.

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