I’ve made a huge mistake.
…
All right, fine. I’ve made many mistakes, of all shapes and sizes. This one is worse than most because I could have avoided it. I shouldn’t have taken Zeus’ soul as a trophy; I should have sent it to the Underworld, or better yet, destroyed it when I had the chance.
I should have acted as the monster everyone believes me to be.
But I wanted to prove them wrong. I wanted to be better, to be good. I was too proud to be a monster. And now my pride might have ruined everything: life, death, eternity itself. Because goodness, much like fairness, was not what they needed. They needed a monster able to stand up to other monsters, a monster willing to annihilate them.
They needed me.
While I thought I needed no one.
I was wrong, of course. And now none of us will get what we need. However, we might still get what we want.
Chapter 1
The Deal
Psyche stood on the balustrade of her prison overlooking the clouds.
There were always clouds below the gilded palace. She had no idea what lay beneath them, never mind how the palace remained in the sky in the first place. Such oddities no longer concerned her, for she knew well how easily the gods were able to subvert the immutable laws of reality that mortals had to abide by.
The sun was about to set. There would be no moon tonight, and Psyche could already see a few stars, the only company she had in the moments caught between light and darkness. She knew every constellation like the back of her hand and often fantasised if she were a goddess, she would go visit every single one of those stars. Not just out of curiosity but because they were very, very far away – exactly where she wanted to be.
It’d been almost five years – one thousand eight hundred and one days to be exact – since the beginning of her captivity. No, that wasn’t true. It’d been almost five years since her family left her to die on a mountaintop as an offering to a monster, and Zephyrus, the west wind, had carried her here. But she’d been a captive long before that happened. Psyche reckoned she’d been a captive since birth, restrained by circumstances, geography, culture, anatomy and gender. All humans were to some extent, but unlike most, she did not take her captivity easily. She had something many lacked: a mind of her own, and along with it, a will that would not allow itself to be restrained by anything. Or so she thought. The truth was, after years of isolation and torment at the hands of spiteful humans and capricious gods, her will was not what it used to be.
She’d tried to escape, of course, many times and in many desperate ways. She’d jumped out of windows and balconies, but the wind would always carry her back. She’d tried to starve herself, to open her veins, she’d even tried to set herself on fire once, but no amount of starvation would kill her, no blade would cut her, and no flame would catch on her inside the palace. It seemed the greatest restriction all mortals faced, their own mortality, was precisely the one she lacked. She’d laugh at the irony, except it wasn’t that she couldn’t die. She’d died many times – just not by her own hand. No, Psyche didn’t laugh, nor did she dread or wish for death; she only feared the wait.
Get it over with, she said to the sun sinking slowly on the horizon.
Eros came mostly at night. He preferred to torment her in the dark. Not because he was shy or ugly, quite the contrary. The god of love was gorgeous, and he craved being looked at. He’d sculpted his features after Adonis, the most beautiful of mortals and a favourite of his mother, Aphrodite. But while Adonis’ beauty, tempered with innocence and humility, shone beyond aesthetics, viciousness had tainted Eros’ good looks, giving him a cruel sort of beauty. It suited him, since the reason he preferred the dark was because he saw perfectly in it, and Psyche didn’t. He loved to keep her guessing about what he’d do next, dreading and sometimes wishing for his next move. He’d play with her senses in every way a malicious god could until she couldn’t trust them anymore.
He didn’t visit every night, though. Lately he rarely even showed up, in fact. And because he’d come the previous night, there was a good chance he’d leave her alone on this one. Then again, he also liked to break his patterns, change his behaviour, so she had no choice but to always expect his arrival, to be on guard for it.
To always be waiting.
She touched a burn on her breast and wondered, What will it be tonight? The belt, the chains, the rope…? Maybe the razors or maybe just his words. It could be anything, really, or any combination of things. The god of love never ran out of ways to hurt her. He’d been particularly vicious the previous night. She hoped that he would leave her alone for a few days, at least until her skin was fully healed. Eros never healed her completely. It was the only agency he’d left her: to heal alone so she would remember him during his absence. Every day she’d convince herself she would survive another night – and she did, for what choice did she have? – but sometimes in the moments right before dark, her resolution faltered, and the longer she waited, the harder it became to endure the wait.
Memories of the indignities he’d put her through and all the ways he’d mistreated her ran through her mind while she waited, making her angry enough to scream. Psyche held on to the anger so she wouldn’t break. But she was tired… She was so tired of holding on to anything.
In a moment of weakness, she jumped from the parapet onto the balcony and ran into the room, snatching up a candle from the candelabra along the way. She held the candle firmly in both hands as she knelt by the absurdly enormous four-poster bed that marked the centre of her perverted universe and began to cry. Psyche didn’t cry often, for she knew how much Eros would relish those tears, but right then she didn’t care. She had no one to talk to, nowhere to go. She didn’t even dream anymore. She used to dream every night when she was a child, but Morpheus had no foothold in Eros’ realm. Or perhaps he’d just abandoned her, like everyone else had. Her sobs turned to curses; curses turned to prayers. She knew she shouldn’t pray, just like she knew she shouldn’t cry. Prayers never helped, and worse, he could be listening. But she just had to say something, to express the unarticulated pain stuck in her throat before it suffocated her.
Psyche kept praying until after the last ray of sunlight had long vanished from the sky, and still she waited, gripping that waning candle as if it alone could keep the darkness at bay.
He probably won’t come tonight, she finally allowed herself to believe. But as she was about to release a deep exhale of relief, she felt a presence. The anger flared again, this time at herself. She should have known better. Eros would never give her peace. Not while she breathed. And certainly not while she still hoped for a better life than the one chosen for her by the oracle at Delphi.
Psyche spared another glance at the dying flame in her hands and braced herself for whatever was to come next.
“I heard your prayers,” a warm voice whispered behind her ear.
Psyche spun on her knees, tried to stand, lost her balance and half fell, half sat on the bed, bewildered. The man standing before her was tall and slim, dressed in black, with sleek hair to match, pointed ears, bluish skin, bright eyes and sharp canines displayed in a wicked smile. Not a mortal; that was obvious. But all gods she’d met preferred to look human – or at least nonthreatening to humans – while pretty much everything about this creature looked predatory.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asked, more than a bit disconcerted, for he certainly wasn’t Eros. The god of love would never pick such an untrustworthy disguise to play with her.
“I am Loki.” He spoke as if she should recognise the name.
“Loki what?”
He blinked, taken aback by the question. “Just Loki,” he said slightly less haughtily.
“Never heard of you.”
He seemed disappointed. “Oh, well… I don’t suppose you hear much of anything in this place.” He scowled at the walls, then gave her a roguish grin. “I have heard of you, and that’s what matters.”
In Psyche’s experience, what mattered to a god differed greatly from what mattered to her.
She pointed the candle at him as if it were a dagger. “Why are you here?” She’d also very much like to know how he got there, for if he’d found a way in, perhaps she could use it as a way out, but chances were, she would not have the opportunity to use that knowledge depending on the why.
“I’m here to help you.” His eyes burned blue as he spoke.
She almost laughed. Help, indeed. “You are a god.” She uttered the word with loathing. “And gods don’t help. At most, they facilitate our lives in order to promote their own agendas.”
He tilted his head a fraction, pondering her assessment. “That’s one way to put it. Another would be to appreciate the offer and take what you can from it.”
“What do you want?” she insisted, too tired to argue semantics.
The god obviously didn’t like being addressed in such a fashion. His nonchalant stance and tone shifted to one of defensive impatience. “My motives should be of no concern to you when you are the one benefiting from my actions, mortal.”
“A god’s actions are always selfish, their benefits short lived, and they always have too high a price,” she said.
He pressed his lips in annoyance and leaned forward with narrowed eyes, inspecting her as her mother would a piece of embroidery for mistakes. “Such cynicism. Can’t a god do something nice?”
“For a mortal? Tsk. That would be a first.”
He blew out the candle. She cursed and rolled over the covers to the other side of the bed. When she looked back, he was nowhere to be seen. She could still smell him, though: an aroma of wet ash and lemongrass mixed with the lingering scent of beeswax and burned-out wick from the candle.
“You’ll find I’m not like the other gods,” his voice purred all around her.
No, she thought. That he wasn’t. This god had to be a lot more powerful than most to be there uninvited and unchallenged.
Psyche ran to the balcony and the starlight, hoping Zephyrus was around to witness her predicament. Not that he’d ever done anything about it, mind. She reckoned he, too, enjoyed seeing her suffer.
Moments later Loki came strolling from the room, still smirking, head shaking, long coat billowing in the summer breeze. It was always summer in Eros’ palace, the only thing she liked about the place. But right then, even that was of little comfort, for she knew well what gods like Loki did to mortals like her.
He stopped a few inches away, confident and amused. She had nowhere to go, so she didn’t move. Her heart fluttered painfully inside her chest, but her breathing and posture remained steady. She could control that much at least.
“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you,” he said with a smile that almost looked sincere.
“You said you want to help me. How are you going to do that, exactly? And what’s in it for you?” She kept her eyes on his when she spoke, her voice steadier than she felt, the questions a desperate attempt to buy more time to think of an escape.
“Your lover caused me a great deal of nuisance. I intend to return the favour,” he said, leaning in for a kiss – or a bite. She really couldn’t tell which.
“Right…” Psyche lowered her head, looking away. For a moment, swayed by the vertigo caused by his gaze, she’d almost considered the possibility that perhaps this dark deity could actually help her somehow. Now she saw her fate unfolding, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. “You want to fuck me to get back at him.”
Loki cupped her chin, forcing her to face him again. “Precisely.”
“It’s pointless. I have no power over Eros. I’m just his pet.”
“A very special pet.”
“When he finds out, do you think he’s going to be mad at you?”
His lips brushed hers. “I certainly hope so.”
“You say you want to help me, but you’ll be punishing me for his actions instead, and then he’ll punish me for yours!” It was impossible to keep the desolation from her tone.
Loki frowned. “I’m offering you the best night of your life. And after I’m done with you, he won’t want you anymore. You’ll be free.” He pondered his statement. “Likely dead in your pantheon’s Underworld, but still: free. That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what you prayed for.”
It was one of the many things she’d prayed for in her despair. It shouldn’t count.
Anger welled up in her again. “Have you no mercy or compassion in your soul?” she asked without thinking. The answer was obvious.
“My soul” – he grinned as if the idea amused him – “is geared towards survival and self-interest.”
“And vengeance, apparently.”
“Yes,” he hissed.
She slapped him. “And arrogance, ignorance, and narrow-minded spitefulness! The best night of my life? Do you realise what an arsehole you sound like? How offensive that is to me? Do you honestly believe mortals are so easily pleased? That I am so easily pleased? You gods are all so self-centred and clueless. You’ll never understand the human heart. Had I an ounce of your power, I would make you understand.”
Stars, it felt good to hit him, to shout in his face and just let it all out. But of course, there would be consequences. Psyche bit her cheek but kept her head high, prepared to face them.
His demeanour changed from menacing to bemused. The momentary affront giving way to a spark of delight. He squinted at her, as if actually seeing her for the first time. “Would you now?” he asked with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Yes!” she spat, still furious.
He moved to her side, massaging his cheek absently. “I’ll amend my offer, then. You will carry out my vengeance for me.”
“Huh?”
“You want control, mortal, but all you do is cry, curse, and complain. That will get you nowhere. Gods don’t think like mortals, you see. And they really don’t care that much for them, either. There’s nothing you can do to us but annoy us with prayers, and by doing so, you give us the key to your heart’s greatest desires. Foolish mortal.” He spoke slowly, threateningly, and she almost jumped when he poked her on the forehead and said, “You don’t understand how pathetic you are to us or how hard we restrain ourselves from making your short, wretched lives even more miserable.”
Psyche swallowed the lump of dread and outrage stuck in her throat. He was right. So was she, but he had all the power, which meant his rightness prevailed over hers. Arguing with gods, she realised, was like fighting the wind. Utterly pointless.
“And how am I to carry out your vengeance, then?” Psyche asked, curious despite herself.
There was that mischievous glint again. “First, you need to take control of your situation.”
“I’m listening.”
“In order to do that, you need to use Eros’ talent against him.”
She guffawed mirthlessly. “Love? You want me to love him?”
“No, I want you to make him fall in love with you.”
“According to his definition of love, he already is,” she scoffed. No, Psyche decided, gods clearly didn’t understand the hearts of mortals, nor those of their own kind either.
Loki sighed ostentatiously. “There are as many definitions of love as there are gods and goddesses of love in the Universe. Don’t look so surprised. Yes, there are many others. I’m not lying.”
It didn’t sound like it. Then again, it was always hard to tell with his kind.
“Eros’ definition of love is based on lust and possession because he knows no other. Show him something different. Seduce him. Make him care for you, and he’ll be at your mercy.”
“All right,” she said for the sake of argument. “How do I do that?”
Loki moved a lock of her hair away from her face. “You’re lovely, but you’re not lovable. There’s too much anger, too much wilfulness and defiance in you. You need to learn to be meek and endearing; otherwise, all you’ll ever get from him is pain.”
The god talked as if both tasks were easy. Psyche, meek? Loki might as well try to convince Zeus to be chaste!
“Once you learn that,” he continued, “I’ll teach you how to break a god’s heart. Then I’ll help you escape your cage.”
“And in exchange?” Psyche asked, keeping her affront to herself.
“I’ll have my revenge.”
“And…?” She saw the way he still looked at her. She’d seen it in the eyes of many men, mortal and immortal alike.
He smiled flirtatiously. “The pleasure of your company while you learn.”
She really did not trust this rakish god. There were too many contradictions in his speech and manner, too much wickedness and derision, yet she couldn’t help but be captivated by him. This troubled her more than anything else. Perhaps he was one of those other gods of love he mentioned. A rival of Eros. And she wanted nothing to do with those. “What is your talent?”
“Mischief,” he replied proudly.
“Ah… of course it is.” She shook her head ruefully. All gods were prone to mischief. If that was really his actual talent, perhaps she was better off with another Eros. There would be no favourable resolution for her out of this.
“Well, god of mischief, you won’t take offence if I don’t believe you’ll be content with just my company.”
The smile turned into a grin. “I know I’ll get my reward eventually. When you’re ready.”
She turned to face him, arms spread out. “I’m ready now, and I don’t like having debts or company. Meekness is beyond any of my abilities, so have your revenge. Come on, take what you want. But I warn you, there’s not much left to take. My breath, virtue, free will, even my skin has already been taken many times,” she said in a hopeless attempt to discourage him.
His eyes and lips narrowed to slits. “How about I promise I’ll take you only when you ask me to.”
Psyche raised an eyebrow, surprised and unsure of how to respond. Gods were bound by their promises – Olympian ones, at least. This stranger was indeed a much more dangerous and cunning deity than Eros, or maybe even Zeus, and she knew she shouldn’t indulge him in his game. Except, after so long of being desperate for an intelligent conversation, this uncanny exchange already counted as one of the best nights of her life, and the idea of seeing him again excited her. Still, she would never allow herself to be a god’s pet again, let alone ask for it.
“Very well,” she said, crossing her arms defiantly. “Teach me how to bend gods to my will so I won’t have to ask.”
The god of mischief grinned. “Deal.”
