Chanel Hastings & The Treasures of Aphrodite Book 1: The Magic Girdle

Chapter 12: A Pretty Stranger Gives Me A Pretty Strange Gift

OOTD: Same.

Makeup: Same.

Hairstyle: Same.

Fragrance: Same, same, same, it's all the same! (Sorry, I'm not really in a good mood).

Dear Diary,

Here's some life advice: if you're a demigod who's prone to having strange dreams, try not to fall asleep in public.

After the bus exited Manhattan and started its long journey, I found myself dozing off against the window. I mean, could you really blame me? I'd slept poorly last night, and just had the longest morning ever. With the awful last few hours I'd had, I felt like I'd at least earned a nap, even just as a little treat.

But after I nodded off, it didn't take long for a dream to start forming. I found myself back in the ancient setting that I'd visited in my last dream. But this time, instead of Aphrodite's chamber, my little ghost-like form was now floating in a garden area on top of a cliff. On a stone bench in front of rose-bush sat an older-looking woman, stroking the hair of a younger woman whose face was buried in her lap. The older woman had the same glowing complexion and sparkling eyes that I'd seen on Aphrodite and Peitho in my last vision, although the woman looked a lot more mature. Nearby, another maiden stood in a large golden chariot drawn by a group of gold-bridled horses, watching the scene as the rainbow ribbons in her hair flowed in the wind. Way into the distance came a group of three people: two women, and one mighty-looking man, with large muscles and thick, curly dark hair.

The older woman on the bench lifted the face of the person who's hair she was stroking, and I noticed that it was my mother, Aphrodite. Her eyes were full of tears, and her cheeks were red. Aphrodite lifted her hand, and revealed a wound near her wrist where glittering blood was flowing out.

"Oh, sweet Aphrodite," said the older woman. "Who has done such a thing to you?"

"Diomedes, son of Tydeus," Aphrodite spat. "I was trying to rescue Aeneas off from the battlefield and he struck my hand with a spear! Me! Where does a mortal get such audacity!?"

The older woman's face shifted with sympathy. "I am sorry, my little bird. Have patience and endure." She glanced at the three figures who were approaching, before turning back to Aphrodite. "It was Athena who encouraged Diomedes to strike you, my dear. The poor, foolish, man. He should better take care, lest he meet an opponent greater than he, and his wife awakens her household with grief over his death."

The woman reached down and ran her hands over Aphrodite's wounded hand. Aphrodite grimaced in pain, until suddenly, the blood began to dry up and the wound began to close. When the scar had completely healed, Aphrodite inspected her wrist carefully, flexing and twisting it all about.

Satisfied with her healing, Aphrodite looked back up at the older woman with appreciation. "Thank you, Dione, dear mother."

Dione smiled at her daughter, but the smile disappeared as soon as the three figures arrived on the scene. Now that they were closer, I noticed that the man and one of the women were wearing golden laurel crowns upon their heads. The woman was carrying a golden scepter tipped with a large, white lotus flower.

The other woman, who looked a little younger than the first, donned a helmet with large plumes. In her hands were a large dory and a golden shield, with the face of snake-headed creature protruding from it. On her shoulder sat a small brown owl, watching the scene carefully, still and unblinking. The owl's eyes scared me, but they weren't nearly as nerve-wracking as the eyes of the woman. Her eyes were a harsh, stormy grey; eyes that were full of judgement and wisdom, eyes that looked like they missed nothing...eyes that reminded me of Athena's children at camp.