Free Aphrodite's War by Donna Milward

think I did it. I’m the only person staying here.”
    “Stupidity does not suit you, Strife,” Ares said. “Human females do
not possess that kind of strength.” He zipped up, almost as an
afterthought. “Tell these villagers it was in retaliation for Frank
Fleisher’s murders. Blame it on the gay community.”
    He strolled to the cadaver and nudged the broken neck with his toe,
causing the head to loll back and forth, as if denying its demise. Strife
struggled to swallow regurgitated coffee.
“Why do you think I decorated the ugly bitch instead of fucking her?”
    That explained why he’d changed his methods. Blame it on the
homosexuals and create more discrimination. Strife clamped her mouth
shut and nodded her understanding. Ares gave her a condescending
smile.
    “Do you require more instruction?”
“No, Master.”
Ares drew close enough that Strife smelled the wine on his breath and
perhaps…mustard gas. It burned her eyes and reeked of hatred.
    He stroked her cheek with a gentle touch that put her on edge. He
might be tempted to use Strife for his own cruel desires. “The new world
is ripe for the taking, Strife. Power beyond imagining can be ours. We
will crush Aphrodite and all other gods like insects under our boots.” He
brought her chin up so that she could meet the ebony pools of his eyes.
“Hurry,” he said. “Run and tell them what you have found.”
# # #
    Please be here. Please be here. Poetry hurried to the huge double
doors of Vulcan’s Forge, praying her mentor just happened to be around
on this sweltering afternoon, however unlikely. Often in the heat of the
summer months the shop stayed quiet. Her colleagues had better things
to do, like put crafted chainmail to use for mock battles. Some of them
travelled with their wares to flea markets and festivals. Poetry didn’t
have the resources for either. Living on a server’s income meant laboring
in the dank depths year round to make extra money. Not that she minded
the small sacrifice for her art. But today she needed to see the owner of
the smithy for reasons that had nothing to do with her work.
    She heaved on one handle, using her waning strength to pry the huge
door open. The outside heat combined with the stress of the mother-ofall-Mondays had stolen her energy. She let the door slam shut behind her
and waited while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The orange and blue
fire of the ovens lent the shop a hellish cast. No windows or cooling
systems brought mercy.
“Hugh?” The name reverberated over the roar of the furnaces. “Hugh,
are you here?” Poetry risked a few steps. “Hugh?”
    She knew this place well enough to find her way in the dark. She
eased past the benches of her peers, letting her gaze skip like a stone over
half-finished projects. To her right lay George’s greaves. He’d yet to
properly fit the bindings for his shins. On the table across from his,
Shawn’s molded pewter goblins waited for their seams to be filed away.
Farther behind the work stations, up a rickety set of stairs, a fluorescent
lamp shone like a beacon, drawing Poetry closer. Her heart fluttered.
Hugh’s office. She sucked in warm air and dragged herself toward it.
A clammy paw weighed down on her shoulder and she screamed as
she spun around.
    “Poetry? Aren’t you a little early today?”
She craned her neck to meet Hugh’s stare.
Sweat flicked off his red goatee as he spoke. This close he smelled
like clean sweat and leather. “What are you doing here?”
    “I…” Poetry hadn’t thought about what she’d tell him once she got
here. Didn’t know what to say now that his imposing visage peered down
at her. Words tumbled out in a frightened babble. “I have no place else to
go.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Poetry told Hugh everything. About Kevin, the trashed apartment, her
missing cat, the fight with Jenny and the eviction.
    Hugh took her upstairs where he fixed iced tea. He listened with his
bad leg propped on a chair and