A ruler. A queen. Respected and beloved by her people, by Aeneas.
Amidst her fevered passion, her people had grown restless. So had he.
When the pyre was built, she climbed atop and lifted the sword he’d once presented to her while kneeling, the blade laid flat on both his palms. The flat no longer interested her. Only the point.
Her lips, mouthing final words no one would hear, stilled at the sight of him.
Another demigod, equally a trickster. Cupid.
His wings folding gracefully behind him, he glided to a halt atop her mountain of grief. Watched her, sorrow in his expression.
“Have you come to increase my devotion?” Her laugh was the screech of metal, cold and terrible. “It has already driven me to destruction. What more do you intend?”
“No, betrayed queen.” His voice was low, resonant with determination. “I come to free you.”
She tried to laugh again, but it emerged as a helpless sob instead. “I was poised to free myself.”
“Not like this,” he told her. “Not like this.”
The arrow he loosed into her breast then wasn’t sharp or hot. It was blunt and cold. Lead.
And for the first time since she’d caught sight of Aeneas aboard his ship, brown curls caressed by the breeze as he neared her shores, she was once more a blade. So much of one, she had no need of the sword still pointed toward her heart. Not anymore.
The thought of Aeneas brought only disgust, not lust. Not frenzied longing.
Cupid inclined his golden head. “Thus, we are both freed. You from a doomed love. I from the selfish dictates of my treacherous mother.”
With a flick of his wings, he gathered her up and deposited her at the base of the pyre.
“I must return to Psyche.” His hand reached to steady her, but she needed no assistance. “You know what you must do.”
She did. She did.
She would don the mantle of her reign once more, guarding her people from threats without and underneath. Human transgressors, and those who’d crawl from the depths of Tartarus through the gate that gaped within her city walls.
As Cupid become a gilded smudge on the horizon, Dido took a torch and set fire to her life with Aeneas.
26
MARCUS’S HOUSE KEY STILL WORKED. EVEN THOUGH IT felt like it shouldn’t.
Somehow, over the past months, April’s small in-law apartment had become his home instead. A place that was theirs, not just hers. A place he wouldn’t have to leave, not ever.
He’d let himself wallow in that fiction, until he almost forgot it was fiction.
When his front door opened, the frigid air-conditioning within hit him like a slap, and he shivered. Inside, the chill tightened his lungs, but he hadn’t taken a deep breath in almost twenty-four hours anyway.
April had shunted him aside—rightfully; of course rightfully—nearly a day ago, and he was still short of air. Still claustrophobic in a trap of his own making.
Nevertheless, he forced himself to walk inside and shut the door behind him. Lock it. Set the alarm, because his home was filled with valuables, even if he currently felt worthless.
His keys and wallet went on the console by the door, in a hammered bronze bowl. His shoes belonged in the entryway closet. His broken heart . . . well, he couldn’t organize that away.
He shoved his shaking hands in his pockets and contemplated the airy expanse of the first floor, all open floor plan and high ceilings and sunlit windows and impeccable furnishings. White walls and metallic accents and minimalist, low-slung furniture.
He’d never really felt at home anywhere before meeting April. Not even here.
His throat ached. He headed to the kitchen for a glassful of chilled sparkling water from the dispenser in the refrigerator door, his footsteps faintly echoing in the spartan space.
The cheap water bottle he’d bought at a gas station had warmed during the trip from Berkeley to Los Angeles, and he’d left it in the car. He didn’t need any unnecessary reminders of today, however inconsequential.
Every time he let his mind wander, April was crying again.
In another age, he’d have knelt before her then. Prostrated himself. Anything, anything that would serve to appease at least a small corner of his endless, ever-unfurling self-loathing.
He’d wept too, of course—but not until he’d left her home, because damned if he’d cry in front of her. Not like that. It would be inadvertent manipulation, because she cared about him. He knew it, even if he also knew he didn’t deserve it.
If she ever forgave him, if she ever took him back—and she’d do neither—he didn’t want her to do so out of pity. Never seeing her again would hurt less.
Probably. Maybe.
He sipped his water, the carbonation an irritant to his already-raw throat.
Beneath his palm, the polished concrete countertop was smooth and cold. Laying his phone on top of it, he idly scrolled through recent messages on his cell.
Texts from Alex about the optimal thickness of hot-water crusts for savory pies, as well as complaints about Lauren’s dampening disregard for both British baking shows and pegging. An obscenity-laden screed from Carah via DM, something to do with the upcoming awards season. An email from his father, which Marcus deleted without reading. A half dozen more emails from his agent, which he kept but didn’t open. A missed phone call from Summer.
The cast chat had been active the last few hours too. Active and on edge, probably because of the upcoming convention.
Carah: SURPRISE, SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKERS
Carah: Ron and R.J. officially backed out of Con of the Gates, citing a too-heavy workload
Carah: Too-heavy workload, my sweet ass
Alex: I’m assuming they mean the workload for their Star Fighters project, since they were nowhere to be found on OUR set this last season
Alex: Except in front of the cameras, naturally, for special features and interviews highlighting their genius and dedication
Maria: Well, they certainly weren’t working on our scripts
Ian: They were around plenty, whiners
Peter: More tuna hallucinations, poor Ian
Peter: It’s a shame everyone will miss Ron and R.J.’s session, The Art and Science of Failing Upwards As Cishet White Guys
Ian: Fuck you, Peter
Ian: You’re a has-been
Ian: and since you’ve never been on a successful show before, you have no idea how things work, especially off on your stupid little island
Alex: Is Tuna Rage a thing? Like ‘Roid Rage, only smellier and less articulate?
Maria: “Fuck you, Peter”?
Maria: Oh, Ian, I’m so sorry
Maria: I’m afraid Peter requires a certain level of
Maria: how should I put this
Maria: personal hygiene? yes, personal hygiene
Maria: when it comes to his lovers
Maria: I’m pretty sure anyone who smells like the Catch of the Day is disqualified, sadly
Carah: oooooooooooh
Carah: the rare and elusive piscine BURN!
Carah: FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT
Ian: That’s right, Maria
Ian: I suppose you WOULD know all about Peter’s requirements for sex
Summer: Stop right there, Ian
Maria: No, go on, I’d like to hear this
Alex: Ian, Peter might not have an IV tuna drip and muscles upon muscles, like some sort of steroid-induced pecs Inception, but he will fuck you up, my dude