Page 47 of The Night Belongs To Lovers

“As always, you speak in riddles. It is—it’s fucking annoying, is what it is!” He hated sounding like a mortal, using their base vernacular and contractions, but it somehow suited his irritation and frustration at that moment.

Olympius heard faint giggling in response to his outrage, followed by two words:I know.

“Fine!” Though he had little faith that he could do anything to undo two millennia’s worth of hurtful accusations, abandonment, and disloyalty, Olympius reached out with his incredible senses; he quickly located his progeny by his link to the magical blood. What awaited him in the alley he saw in his mind did not look promising.

Olympius sneered when he saw an image of his beloved leaning over a corpse in sorrow and rage.Oh, that mortal. Well, a dead body left out in the open and easily discovered is rarely a good omen.

The god set off into the night sky and, in seconds, was at his warrior-god’s side.

Olympius spoke calmly and detachedly, as if entirely unfazed by what he saw before him. “This is yet another act of violence committed by a mortal upon a mortal,” he stated matter-of-factly. “A bloody, ugly thing, veritably, and one we have witnessed countless times before. What is it to us? Who is this mortal to you that you should lament over his corpse, Coriolanus?”

Corey ignored his Maker’s jealous outburst and lack of empathy and meticulously examined Christian’s lifeless form in search of any clues that could lead to the identity of his killer.

Despite the presence of blood at the scene, it was clear that Christian’s fluids were the only ones spilled. Corey tasted the blood to see if it could provide helpful information, but unfortunately, it lacked the vitality to produce anything of value—disjointed memories at best.

“His mind is gone, beloved. Even I cannot glean anything of substance from it—fractured, fading memories at best. Darkness descends quickly. I see—a murderous wind? Glowing eyes? Disorder and clutter. And a—a kiss.”

Olympius’ voice quieted when he spoke his last sentence. The hurt was evident in his tone. He wondered how he had not seen this act, regardless of brevity, earlier in his surveillance.

“I am not blind, Coriolanus. I see his face. So you will show affection to a pale shade of me, a carnival mirror-version! Is he one of my Roman father’s descendants? Did you seek him out? Have you done this with others like him? This is sick. Do you hate me so much?”

Olympius turned his gaze away from the gruesome spectacle of death and from the god who was now a stranger to him. He began walking away, down the alley. His mind was numb, and his feet felt heavy, making it impossible to focus on flying up into the vastness of the night sky. Yet he sought refuge in the cold embrace of the darkness.

He prepared to call the shadows around the buildings to create a portal to transport him away from this scene of hopelessness and heartache.

Consumed with an overwhelming sense of despair, Olympius wanted to fade into nothingness—to become nothingness.

“It’s not like that!” Corey cried, rising to his feet. “I never meant to be cruel. Please—please, don’t go!” His voice trembled as he spoke.

Olympius paused his march without turning around as the air thickened with tension. “I cannot look at you. Speak your mind, and then let me be on my way. You have cut too deep this time. I shall never trouble you again. Believe that!” His words were blunt and mordant.

“I’ve never chosen a prey that looked like him before, Olympius,” Corey exclaimed. “Never! Not for companionship, not for sustenance. It was just—I felt guided to him. This entire night started out feeling so auspicious. That’s the only word to describe it. The club, that man, your presence here.

“Now I start to wonder, does this all not seem too coincidental? Fortuna told me tonight would be momentous. I knew not what she meant, but now—I wonder what all this means. Did you not mention the Wheel of Destiny earlier?”

“Fortuna plays games with us. She also spoke to me tonight, filling my head with fantastical nonsense. The Fates play games with us. For all I know, the bloody Olympians are fucking with us. I cannot do this anymore. I cannot, I—”

And then the ancient night god saw it: the moon brooch. Though partially covered in gunk from the alley, the enchanted pin sparkled in the moonlight. But when Olympius looked closer, he saw blood coated the pin, not just dirt and grime—mortal blood.

Christian’s blood.

“What are you looking at?’” Corey asked, curious what could distract Olympius enough to stop him mid-speech. “What’s that? Wait, isn’t that your brooch? Why aren’t you wearing it?”

Though he only briefly gazed at the object, the realization of a dark and sinister act hit Corey like a freight train as soon as he smelled the blood on it and knew it belonged to Christian.

“His throat! That—that is the murder weapon! Oh no—you didn’t. You wouldn’t. Not again, Olympius. Not again!”

Due to the bloody brooch, Corey believed that Olympius, in his never-ending pursuit of control and revenge, had taken the life of yet another individual who had brought a fleeting moment of contentment into his otherwise lonesome, solitary existence.

The weight of this knowledge bore down heavily on Corey as he struggled to come to terms with the magnitude of what he saw as Olympius’ wickedness and insurmountable jealousy.

“No—I—no—I did not!” Olympius stuttered. “You must believe me, I—”

But Corey tuned his Maker out, for he could not listen to more lies. All he saw was red: rage, resentment, and contempt. He wanted to punish Olympius for his transgression but knew he would accomplish nothing through force.

“You’re sick, Olympius. I curse the day I ever met you. I’d have been better off staying dead!”

OLYMPIUS

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