The Trials of Aphrodite: Righting the Wrongs

My Beauty's Gone! 911, 911!

The Trials of Aphrodite

♦ Chapter One ♦

My name is Aphrodite. I used to be a goddess. Key word: used.

I woke up sitting on a bush, which seemed kind of odd. Of course, I've had far more peculiar cases. But I certainly wasn't expecting this.

My first thought was: It's winter.

The bush I was occupying was capped with snow, and it was rather cold. I shivered and slid off, and my feet crunched through more snow. The sky was dark as obsidian. The streetlamps that lined the road were my only source of light. My teeth chattered, and the wind howled. Flurries of snowflakes fell to the ground, and the temperature was unbearable. I rubbed my arms as goosebumps began to appear.

I snapped my fingers to dispel the chilly feeling, but nothing happened. I stamped my foot in frustration. Where were my divine godly powers when I needed them?

All this snow wasn't helping to clear my thoughts. My vision was blurry, and the wind was tossing my hair to the side. I was practically blind. My breath steamed in the crisp, cold air.

My clothing was absurd. I wore plain jeans (which are NOT my style!), a white tank top, and a pair of faded black tennis shoes. Who would do this to me? Someone with no fashion sense, that's who! Honestly, who wears sneakers anymore?

Whoever chose my outfit was inconsiderate. I would freeze to death in this top, after dying of humiliation first!

I stumbled through the snow, my steps sluggish and unbalanced. This increased my worry. I was normally graceful, so this wasn't like me at all.

My hair was a rat's nest, to my disbelief. I never kept a strand out of place, and now I looked like a homeless person begging for scraps. I had a rash on my arm, which I couldn't stop itching. I had nicks and scratches all over my arms and legs. If I had seen myself in this state, I would have steered clear. Filth ruins beauty, after all.

I trudged through the snow and crashed into a mailbox.

"Ow! Ugh!"

I heaved myself to my feet and glared at the mailbox, enough hate in the stare to melt it. Sadly, the mailbox remained intact.

I blinked at the words engraved on the front: MCLEAN.

Of all mailboxes to smash into.

I raised my head and drank in my surroundings. A red Ferrari sat unmoving on a shoveled driveway, the windshield coated with more snow. I was beginning to despise snow.

I stared at a white mansion not too far away, critiquing the design. The decor was nice enough, but if they added a couple of Grecian columns . . .

I shook my head, silently cursing myself for straying off topic. This was the home of my daughter, Piper McLean. And her father, Tristan McLean. I wondered if the Fates were messing with me.

A cold feeling jolted down my spine, and not from the weather. My daughter. What would she think of me? Would she take me in?

I didn't seem to have a lot of options. I would either die of hypothermia and my toes would crack off from a nasty case of frostbite, or I would seek shelter from the girl who probably hates me.

I continued on at an annoyingly slow pace, going with my second choice.

I'm not sure what I expected when I rang the McLeans' doorbell.