cupid's curse

07 | THE MEN OF FIRE

THE MEN OF THE MORTAL REALM are peculiar creatures made of flesh and bone and the arrogance of a god. Yet it is not the thick swirling gold that find its hearth in their veins, but a crimson which burns with their ire and chills with their fear. They breathe and seethe and love and loathe, beautiful selfish creatures forged in the image of their forgotten deities, gifted with neither of the sharp, feral edges of fangs in that Janus-faced honey color, nor the crooked claws honed by the breath of Thanatos. Yet they dare to bite and tear the throats and backs of their very brothers, call it merciful and just, and in the night they kneel before their new gods, repent for their transgressions reeking of metal and betrayal, only to bite and tear once more come aurora.

But in the bustling city of Bologna, blood reigned with the blessing of night—spilled before the ancient moonstone eyes of The Goddess Nyx.

Hedone's eyes trail over the well-lit liquor store before her, crammed on the front wall of a festering apartment near the outskirts of the city. La Cantina di Bacco is plastered above the glass door entrance in a harsh neon green cursive. The cursed Chrysler remains parked by the cracked pavement as Kharis steps out, relieved to be free of the assault she had suffered through in that tyrant of an automobile, only to stagger back at the sight of the street which extended beyond the buzzing rows of fluorescent lights illuminating La Cantina di Bacco. The people have long retired in their boxy homes, rendering the sidewalks empty save for its sparse street lights that left more than half of the street for the suffocating shadows to veil and swallow.

"No worries, ladies. I just have some quick business to resolve with daddy dearest then we'll be out and on our spying way." Angelos assures them as he double checks the locks on his treasured Chrysler.

"And I am hoping that this business of yours will not be taking place at a lone liquore store in a sinister-looking street?" Kharis hisses, inching herself nearer to the fair-haired goddess.

"Don't get your hopes up then." He quips before he takes Kharis' by her trembling hand and ushers her into the shop with Hedone tailing them. The goddess' hands remain tucked inside the pockets of Angelos' borrowed windbreaker, fumbling with the packet of the leftover rotelle rosse that she and Kharis had bought from the street market earlier that day.

The Rye Family's gossip of a neighbor was an extraordinary eavesdropper it seems, not failing to hastily mention at the last minute that her conversation with the young man—who came around before their godly group of three—had been interrupted by a phone call, allowing the lady to overhear him speaking in his fast-paced, raging Italian with the caller. Something of a place called Piazza Maggiore had been repeatedly mentioned in the fairly short, yet heated phone conversation.

"Do you remember what he looked like?" The demigod had inquired, shared excitement puncturing his veins.

The lady had held out one bloated open palm which had Angelos narrowing his eyes at the portly woman before fishing for his wallet and thrusting a thick wad of minted bills into her eager hands.

"Mmm. . . blonde hair, blue eyes—oh, and his nose's busted quite horribly. It's a waste really, damaging such a pretty face." She had responded with a yellowing smile, eyeing the crisp stack of paper in swollen hands before hobbling back to her abode. Greedy are the mortals, her father once told the goddess, a true descendant of their creators.

It has been two plodding days since they arrived in the sun-dappled city of Bologna, sitting in coffee shop chairs and looking out restaurant windows in Piazza Maggiore. Helios-blessed, Kharis had declared the Italian junction—on the few times they had decided to call it a day after surveilling each of the stony inches of the piazza in search of the stranger—as they pedalled through its streets in rented bicycles, beholding its buildings garnished by Bologna's statement red brick roofs.