Mythos 2: Mortal Retribution
Isabelle Spurrier
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2006 Isabelle Spurrier
An Authorized Excerpt

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Psyche looked around with growing anger. This beautiful place, her home, was no longer pleasing to her. Every object, every table and chair and objet d'art, caused the bitterness to well up inside her breast like a cancer. She had wept for her losses only a few minutes before.

Not now. Not any more.

Now she was angry.

Love cannot live where there is no trust. You have forfeited your claim upon me, Psyche.

"Have I?" she wondered aloud, a slight edge rising to her voice. "We'll just see about that!"

The knowledge of Aphrodite's manipulation of her affairs boiled within her belly until the gnawing knot of anguish receded. Her eyes fell upon the huge bed, swathed in gauzy draperies and still tousled from the night before.

The lamp trembled in her hand. As she jerked it away, a wave of the searing oil splashed from the lamp onto Eros' shoulder. He awakened with a roar of pain. His startled eyes flew upwards and took in Psyche and the lamp with one incredulous glance.

Eros rose from the bed. The look on his face struck fear into Psyche for the first time, the divine anger of a god flashing from his sapphire eyes so that she shrank away from him. He curled his lip and said softly, "There is not enough light for you to see by, Wife. Let me provide you with more."

Psyche winced. Oh, yes, she'd fallen readily enough into Aphrodite's plans. Her lovely eyes narrowed at the thought that followed -- and her sisters'.

She'd just have to deal with that.

* * *

Aphrodite was composed, languidly reclining on her favorite couch while her attendants brushed out her glorious hair. It was with a look of mild surprise that she glanced up when her son raged through the door.

"Eros?" She rose from the couch, staring at him in apparent fear. "What is the matter?"

Eros had instinctively come to his mother's house, searching for solace from his pain. He was an immortal, after all, and unused to any sort of physical discomfort.

Or grief.

"I am injured, Mother, through no fault of my own," the young god complained.

"Injured?" Her immortal eyes flashed with sudden ire. "Who <>dared to injure my son?"

"A mortal who betrayed my trust," Eros replied. His throat tightened as he made the statement.

"I will destroy this presumptuous mortal, then, and avenge your hurts!"

The god hastily intercepted that train of thought. "It is not needful, Mother; I have already punished the one responsible."

"Then come to me, my beloved boy, and let me tend your wounds," his mother cooed, sincerity radiating from every pore of her skin.

Eros went to her and laid his head upon her bosom, a few hot, bitter tears scalding against his lids as he did so. Over his head, the goddess smiled.

* * *

The forest god Pan moved quickly through the woods on the lower slopes of divine Olympus, his mind working busily. Who could he get to help him? Most of the immortals were not particularly fond of Eros, whose mischievous nature had managed to place all of them in some really embarrassing situations. Pan chuckled as he remembered Apollo's particular predilection for falling in love with mortal women who would not have him. It would probably be best that he did not approach the god of the sun for assistance.

Suddenly, the god stopped. He knew exactly who to recruit for help! A grin creased his saturnine face into an expression so maliciously gleeful that a young rabbit squeaked in sudden alarm. Pan laughed shortly and moved with new purpose for the edge of the gods' wood.

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