The sphinx prowled forward, tensing, but this arena had rules, and he was to be allowed his chance to prepare. Seeing her move at a speed that should have closed the distance in seconds, while remaining at bay, it nearly left him unable to speak. She was big, she was powerful.
“Hearken to my voice, O blessed one. Gird me.”
His god gave him two gifts.
A staff, bronze, topped with a pine cone, and a horn of drink.
For a moment, he feared that his mentor had been very, very right. But the arena had given him the time he was due, just like it had granted the sphinx time to change into her true form. Now she closed the twenty feet in a matter of five steps.
He drank, and he nearly choked.
Blood, laced with alcohol strong and pure enough to burn the sinuses, not wine.
He took as much of the drink as he could into his mouth, then forced it all down in one gulp that felt like a softball going down his throat.
A moment later, he saw red.
It felt like seconds passed. It felt, at the same time, like hours had passed. Mad visions of flashing claws and violence, real and hallucinated, they struck him one after another, not necessarily in succession.
When he came to, he was panting. Blood dribbled from his nose and ear, claw marks etched his chest, his arms, and his legs.
The Sphinx was injured too. She sat back, licked a wound at her shoulder. Her blood dripped, thick and heavy, from his pinecone scepter.
There was still blood in the horn, not yet spilled. Four-fifths of the contents remained.
“Don’t,” the sphinx said. “If you drink that, you’ll probably die.”
“If I don’t drink it, I’ll probably die.”
“Short of finding immortality, you’ll die someday. I might kill you here, but that’s not in my best interest. I swore to myself, long ago, that I’d put my survival first. To those ends, I’d like to offer a deal.”
“A deal?”
“I won’t contest your demesne any further.”
“In exchange for?”
“A meeting. There are some young ladies you should meet.”
■
He was quiet as he entered Sandra’s wing of the demesne. Some nymphs were scattered here and there. Five were working in concert to comb through Hildr’s fur with bone combs that took two hands to hold, the teeth spaced far apart. He couldn’t tell if the troll was enjoying the attention or just barely tolerating it. Trolls were hard to read.
Sandra sat in a windowsill. Demesne to her left, window to her right, the view of Toronto, outside his personal realm and temple. A nymph sat on the floor beneath the window, more catlike than human in how she seemed to mold herself against the wall and floor, eminently comfortable in any position. Her hands reached up to caress and massage Sandra’s left foot. Sandra barely reacted, except to shift the position of her foot from time to time, to give the nymph a better angle. She turned the page of her book.
She was hard to read too. Did she enjoy things more than she let on, or was she caught in a state of perpetual tolerance?
He’d told himself he’d attend the meeting, and went in with plans to reject this arranged marriage. She’d surprised him. He couldn’t bring himself to say no, but his god wouldn’t encourage his saying yes, either. He’d tried to pose things so Sandra would be inclined to say no in his place.
Now she was here.
Torches burned throughout his demesne, their light suggesting how pleased Dionysus was with him. They’d burned lower since her arrival, but they still burned.
On a level, he wasn’t really sure how to interact with her.
He’d interacted with initiates. Any practitioner that helped someone awaken and see past the veil took on a risk, but for a priest, well, a great deal could be gained, too. Thus far, there hadn’t been any disasters. Dionysus was fairly pleased.
The thing about initiates, however, was that they could be dismissed, the job could be finished, and the disciple could be asked to leave Toronto. Sent to one city or another, to try and establish a presence for their god there.
There were others he dealt with, as victims, as pawns, but he mostly kept to himself.
Sandra… he wasn’t sure how to categorize her. He wanted her to leave, he wanted her to stay. He couldn’t commit to either without feeling like he was betraying something.
The Sphinx wanted her here to stay, apparently. The meeting had been arranged for a reason.
That was ominous, and as he dwelt on the idea, he felt it settle into a kind of concern.
Was she supposed to neuter him, in terms of the power he could bring to bear?
A trap? His god had already suggested the true nature of the Duchamp line in a dream. All girls. Was there something his god hadn’t revealed? It would have to be something that appealed to Dionysus’ nature on some level.
He didn’t like the way that knowledge sat with him.
“Other foot, other foot,” the nymph murmured.
Sandra shifted position, offering her right foot to the nymph for a footrub. In the doing, she saw her husband.
She rolled her eyes, pausing for a second to see if he had anything to say before she resumed reading. There was a light smile on her face as she returned her attention to her text.
Tolerance, but good natured, not because she was simply enduring.
The doubts didn’t disappear, but they didn’t sit as heavily as before. This wasn’t love at first sight, infatuation, or even falling in love, careening head over heels into love’s grip.
He did think, however, that there could come a day -not tomorrow, not in a week, a month, or maybe even a year- when he did love her.
One look, and she’d managed to find a place in the mind his god had warped, a mind that had a very hard time dealing with people. She’d made him thirteen again, before he’d ever stepped foot into this world of gods and monsters, and she’d become one of the first girls he’d ever looked at. She was one of the teenage girls he’d admired from afar when he’d been undersized, underweight, and awkward. She, like they had, made him feel equal parts uneasy and heroic with just a moment’s eye contact and a smile. But the idea of something happening as a result still felt very far away.
Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine something strong could be forged from that beginning of a connection, but at least something could come of it, perhaps.
“Wine and cheese?” he finally asked, aware that he was only emphasizing how long he’d been looking by announcing his continued presence. “Some grapes on the side?”
“That would be lovely,” Sandra said. She finished reading her sentence before looking up. “Thank you.”
“What kind of wine do you drink?”
“Anything white.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Hildr huffed. Sandra laughed.
“And a shoulder of pork,” he said, loud enough for the troll to hear, already turning away, her laugh ringing in his ears.