cupid's curse

10 | THE INTRODUCTION

THE OUTLET STORE EMPLOYEE is gawking—perhaps a little too obviously. Hedone shifts her weight unto her other boot, watching Angelos as he skims through a pamphlet the girl assisting them had given him moments ago. The girl, SIENA, as the bold letters on the crest pinned to her uniform read, is watching him too; with her glossy lips ajar and moon eyes half hiding under a long curtain of lashes.

Every second or so, she would go on a muddled ramble about mobile phone models and Angelos would reply in close-lipped smiles and curt nods, Siena's heartbeat would ramble too whenever he does. The goddess hears it—the rapping against the human girl's chest. . .and Kharis' ooh's and ahh's in the background as the Grace crouches over touchscreen displays with her mad fingers.

Both are melodies that make Hedone, despite her dilemma, smile infinitely.

The mall's parking lot is hotter than when they had left it early in the day, the shadows which had veiled the city last night have long dispersed. Hedone swallows the thirst building at the back of her throat—she misses the ambrosia back at her father's house, she misses her father a hundredfold.

There would be no chatter about newfound novels from the small business across the street as he flipped through mounds of paperwork, and certainly no displaced throw pillows on his office sofa—the one Hedone would lounge on as she buzzed a mile a minute about dead kings, handsome thieves, and troubled heroines. To which her father would listen and smile, like his daughter did not see the sadness settle on his brows, like she did not know the life she seeks can only be spun through books of fiction.

Hedone wants to go back, sprawl herself on velvet couches and stick her nose in worlds far, far away. But she cannot tuck herself away in her father's safe haven, she had no excuse to. Not anymore.

So she grips the paper bag in her hands a little tighter, the click of boots against smoked granite unfaltering as they tail Angelos to the car. The pious sun seeps into her being, spine-tingling whispers against warm skin: I shed good rays for you today—enough to provide great views. Find him, find him, find him.

And she tried.

The Chrysler had belched and screeched, weaving through every crevice of the junction. Until the goddess' mind was muddled, until the faces of strangers blurred into oblivion, until the Chrysler's gas light blinked red and Angelos cursed before he wheeled them to a refilling station.

They pile out of the car and into the heat. Hedone leans against the side of the car, as she shrugs off the poorly chosen jacket on her shoulders, trying the arms around her waist like she had seen a few of the people loitering about at the streets do. Kharis complains about the mysterious fluid that's making her body all slick and sticky,

"You mean sweat?" Angelos chuckles, duo-colored eyes on the gas pump as it gushes out amber liquid and then on the shifting numbers on the machine beside him.

"What is that? Is it dangerous?" Kharis panics, the tone of her voice reaching new pitches.

The demigod roars in laughter.

The length of Hedone's hair keeps sticking to her arms and neck, the goddess ponders about cutting it short for a quick second—before she spots a vehicle parked to the far right of the station's drive.

A man loafs on the driver's seat with his silver head craning upwards, pink mouth slightly open, and eyes undeniably closed.

Hedone's heart wills her feet to walk closer. Had he passed out from the heat? Her belly churns and drops, hesitant hands fisting and banging against the windows until her sweaty palms are indented by the crescent moons of her nails.

"Hedone!" Angelos calls after her somewhere in the background.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

"Che cazzo è?!"

The goddess' balled up fist stops midway.

The man's pink mouth is frowning now, his whirlpool eyes open—sleep still pendulous on his lids, trying to weigh them down.

There is a crack on the driver's seat window and Lukas Rye rolls it down without a word.

"Oh gods, I am so sorry." Hedone relents, hands now covering her face, "I-I thought you were dead."

He should be dead, or at least old and marred by age, and yet here he is, beautiful and untested by time despite the sweat matting his hair. He thumbs through the too-light strands, a sigh on pink lips—dark like he had been eating cherries. His voice is light as it had been first the night before when he says: "It's you again."

"I really am sorry."

"And I really want to be left alone."

She bites her lip, "Are you angry at me?"

"I don't even know you."

The goddess extends a hand to shake—like her father had taught her: it's polite, he had said—"My name is Hedone—don't worry, I already know who you are."