Free Aphrodite's War by Donna Milward Page B

could have kissed him. Instead she said, “Deal,” and shook his
hand.
What a load off her mind. She could buy groceries this week. Yay.
    It occurred to Poetry that she hadn’t eaten since the morning, and she
groaned inwardly. She just had to think of food. Her stomach clenched
and hunger gnawed like a beast in her belly.
    “Great,” Hugh said, cracking his knuckles. “It’s settled. I’ll drive you
to the bank, and we’ll settle the paperwork over burgers. My treat.
You’ve had a pretty long day.”
    “Wow, you’re a mindreader.” Gratitude overwhelmed Poetry. She
fluttered her hands to cool her blushing cheeks. She didn’t want to cry
again, even if they were tears of joy. “You’re a great friend, Hugh. I can’t
tell you how much this means to me.”
    Hugh grunted into his chest. “Don’t mention it.” This time he didn’t
return Poetry’s smile. “To anyone. I don’t need anybody thinking I’ve
gone soft.”
# # #
    Strife had to give Ares credit. The war god understood how to stir a
hornet’s nest like no one else, past or present. Time and time again he
proved how the mob ruled.
    It seemed the population of the rural town had tripled. Grey’s entire
police force, all two of them, were joined by a forensics team. Extra
RCMP from other counties came in just to control the media. It wasn’t a
paparazzo’s dream, but enough flashbulbs created a menace that left
Strife seeing yellow dots behind her eyelids.
    It didn’t take much for Strife to slip away from the crime scene. She
deflected attention away from herself as she always did, expounding on
the horrors instead. She pretended to be too distraught to continue.
Part two of the plan involved riling the masses into frenzy.
    Strife bathed in the energy of the crowd. Her power grew with the
fear, rumors, and speculation. From the minute she’d run screaming into
the bar about the murder, chaos had taken hold.
    I truly missed this, she thought. Just like old times on Mediterranean
battlefields, she could almost smell the blood. But instead of passing
apples of discord, she slung Apple Jack from a thermos.
    “You folks look like you could use a drink,” she said to a middle-aged
couple. They’d parked in front of their pick-up with lawn chairs,
watching the hotel with unabashed interest.
The man glanced up at her, swallowed the rest of the beer in his mug
and held it out to Strife. “Very kind of you.”
“My pleasure.” Strife poured tainted bourbon into his coffee cup and
held the thermos out for his wife.
“Hey, I know you,” the man said. “You’re Max’s new girl, right?”
“That would be me. I’m…” What name should she give? No one had
bothered asking her. Not Max, not the old hag in the hotel.
Her ability to influence humans had improved to the point where they
did her bidding with blind trust. Interesting.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” she said, trying hard to look
sympathetic as she poured.
The woman’s eyes welled. “Poor Delores. She didn’t deserve to die
like that. Is it true she was gang-raped and decapitated?”
    Strife fought the urge to laugh and struggled to maintain a somber
expression. Humans had a unique way of twisting messages for morbid
entertainment value. “Yes. It was horrible.” She stroked the smooth, cool
surface of the thermos. “I think the killers were trying to send a
message.”
Both people responded with sharp intakes of breath. Strife heard that
musical reaction each time she spread gossip.
“A message?” the man asked.
The distraught woman put a hand to her chest. “Who would do such a
thing?”
    “You know those homosexuals that Frank Fleisher shot on his
property?” Strife felt their mounting anger like a swelling river. “I think
this was payback.”
“Those bastards!” The man’s hands shook as he gulped another
mouthful of Strife’s potion.
    “I know,” Strife said. “We simply can’t let them get away with this.”
“Goddamn right,” the