Good Things

(Five Years Previous to Main Events)

In Afghanistan, it was a great mercy when night fell. This war-ravaged country with its ancient hills and age old customs had the most beautiful sunsets. Yet it was the blanket of night that allowed for the most artistry.

The stunning moon let the mountains cast shadows over wavy fields of grass. Any precious water in the region could be kindled into twinkling, ethereal ripples. Old villages with collections of square mud buildings straight out of some long lost text were quiet and watchful.

Hoping to avoid destruction.

Scott was there to kill people. Specifically, the people there who wanted to kill him. To weed out the ones with the hateful eyes and murderous intentions. Remove their ability to control the region and be a threat.

There was no point sugarcoating a salty-sweat drenched, dust-caked quest for blood. He’d already experienced being face down with a dry throat, surrounded by clouds of smoke and showers of metal.

He’d grown accustomed to the pops and cracks that signaled incoming danger. The noises that meant a very possible, very real death. He’d fired his weapon along with his platoon, contributing to the racket of war. Eventually, the doom-laden vibrations would go away.

Scott, so far, had lived.

His patrol brought him past a poppy field. Here was the source of heroin and morphine: the opiate that could infect cities with crime and ruin, or provide hospitals with a means of pain relief. There was the occasional addict laying in waste as they patrolled compounds.

The very profitable drug trade, however you look at it.

Not like he hadn’t seen a heroin addict before in his own country. Nights out in town were filled with strung-out lost souls, wasting away in the shadows. Outside of the cozy pubs and stylish wine bars. On the cold, wet streets of a relatively wealthy country.

England.

Don’t give them any money. They will only spend it on more drugs. That’s what everybody says.

One night, near Piccadilly station in Manchester, Scott leaned over a homeless man and gave him a bottle of water, a cup of coffee, and a cheese and onion pasty. He dropped a couple of pound coins into the bloke’s little plastic cup.

Least he could have something to eat. A hot drink. He’s not all alone.

The scrawny lad stirred and his dirty fingers grasped the crinkly white paper around the pasty.

“There you go, mate, look after yourself. You’re too young to be wasting away like this.”

Scott smiled and carried on to the train station. It broke his heart. He’d always had a soft spot for troubled kids.

The young men and boys trying to kill me are deeply disturbed, easily manipulated, troubled kids.

Now, walking past an opium field, he thought of that scraggly teenager and hoped he’d eaten the pasty. Drank the coffee. Pocketed the water, and realised how much more precious it was than the drugs. How the world should value things like water and love above profit and power.

But that wasn’t something he could dwell on once the sounds of impending doom arrived. For now, things were quiet.

His boots trod the dirt path, his gaze scanning for any sign of IEDs. Perspiration dripped down his face and stung his eyes. Scott thought of the morphine auto-injector he carried in his pocket. He squinted, unable to escape the intensity of the air around him.

While his shock-proof glasses shielded his eyes and his helmet technically provided shade, his head still cooked inside it. It was like the burning sun had ways of slipping into every nook and cranny.

He couldn’t wait for sunset, and night’s descent. Freedom from the scorching sun. Scott was beginning to understand the simple pleasure of sitting in the shade.

He’d begun to crave it.

This would be his last tour. His dad had died a couple of years ago, and Mum long before that. He’d decided to go into teaching at a local school.

When his folks were alive, he would have lunch with them, sitting on a bench in St. Ann’s Square. He remembered walking past St. Ann’s Church, with its reddish brown stone structure and the stained glass windows. How different the ground was there in town. Scattered rain puddles would collect in the random depressions of the grey slates.

In front of the church, there were a couple of curved wood and metal benches where it was possible to sit and have a sandwich.

“I will meet my future wife here. This is it where I’ll meet her.” The romantic fantasy of a little boy.

And just before he passed, his dad had patted his hand and said, “You go on, lad. You go to St. Ann’s Square and meet your lady. I know you will… I know you will…”

At the time, it was too painful to consider. Scott just wanted to escape into his call to be a warrior. To prove to himself he had what it took. To make the spirits of his parents proud. He’d almost forgotten his romantic side in the pain of his unbearable loss.

The day he’d walked away from the hospital after his father died, he’d felt some foreign touch on his arm. Like someone had firmly stroked him with the tip of their finger. Written on him. Yet Scott was too distracted by grief to pay attention or remember.

His platoon was nearly finished with their patrol. As they set about heading in the other direction, all Scott could think of was how those benches in front of St. Ann’s church seemed like heaven.

He absently rubbed the top of his arm and looked to the side, bemused by the sensation. It felt like powdery dust had been smeared on his flesh.

Something he hadn’t noticed before. What the hell is that? he thought, still trying to rub the side of his arm.

Then a shrill noise made him look at the sky. The pitch of it struck him like a blow. It was more of a living shriek.

Like an animal.

Then there was a pounding sound. The ferocity of his heartbeat competed with the pulsating noise.

A helicopter?

But it was wings.

Some sort of eagle, owl or falcon? he thought.

The mad scream hit the air again and he started looking around.

“Did you hear that?’

Scott couldn’t catch his breath. The other members of his platoon didn’t appear to be reacting. They continued in their quiet progress while he was captured by a menace only he could sense. Scott was being singled out.

Trapped.

Scott feared he was going to be one of those who cracked. One who lost it under all the pressure and heat, crumbled under the weight of fear. That he was now a liability to the others.

I’ll get through this. I’ll get through. I’ll make it through to another night. I’ll get to St. Ann’s Square, clear-headed and intact. I will. I. Will.

The wings made a deep whooshing sound followed by the barbaric wail. The plumes of smoke got far too close. Then everyone else reacted. They threw themselves to the ground.

Someone or something was pulling him. It was like he was being split. Something was trying to rip him from himself. An agonizing tearing savaged his core.

The demon clawed at him. Scott screamed and roared back.

He didn’t manage to get to his morphine injector.

He hated the sound of the helicopter blades. It was too similar to the beating wings, those awful expanses of doom.

Dozing in and out, the cooking heat turned to air conditioning. Air conditioning turned to cool, outdoor air. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Could neither see nor feel his limbs.

There was the beep-beep-beep of medical machines.

The white and grey air in front of him had hazy moving shapes. There was pressure in his veins. Morphine? The world before him kept flickering. Scott wasn’t sure what part of it he was in.

The light from whatever window beside him was getting dimmer.

It’s nighttime. Finally. I’ve got to get to St. Ann’s Square…if I can just get in front of the church.

And then, he could see it. The rain-wet stones, moon-cast shadows, street lights…

And the great night sky above the church in the very centre of the city.

(Five Years On)

It was getting closer and closer to Summer Solstice, and the evening’s late sunsets were bewitching. Like the darkest, most dangerous night masquerading with the innocence of day.

The dingy corners and alleys in Manchester never bothered Amanda. Her heart held an unwavering faith in the power of love. Kindness and love always took precedence inside her. Wherever she went, even in the rougher parts of town, Amanda could envision love taking place there.

But romantic love was her favorite.

Romance, kisses, binding ceremonies that signified a gateway to a life of loving someone. Knowing them.

There was something wrong with her. A sense of loss that had stunned her five years ago, and had stuck with her since. And there was no precise reason why.

Hence why she was on her back in her therapist’s office, trying to explain it again. The voice of her counselor came through, questioning her.

“Amanda, do you ever feel you are placing too much importance on your notions and fantasies that there is no one out there for you to love in the way you feel that you need to? You work with couples, help them arrange their perfect weddings. Do you think you place romantic love up on a pedestal? Don’t you feel that the fact that you never knew your mother and that your father was a war hero who died in the service is what troubles you? Or do you feel it’s something else?’

Amanda shifted on the couch, closing her eyes. There were birds as well as traffic outside the window. “I love what I do. I’ve become good enough at it that I can choose who I work with. I don’t accept couples who would marry out of convenience or money. My dad’s sister did the very best she could with me. I’ve always had a romantic nature. I was always…anxious to love someone. But I am happy with me. This isn’t some thing where I don’t love myself enough. I mean…”

She sighed. The therapist crossed his legs and coughed.

“Amanda… These sessions have to work for you. And I must tell you.” He cleared his throat. “You are a very beautiful, very successful woman. You would have no troubles finding a relationship. Tell me how you feel about love.”

Amanda opened her eyes and rocked her head from side to side. The skylight in the office made her feel exposed. She wished it was night. Sighing through her nose and splaying her fingers on the furniture’s cloth, she began again,

“I feel that love is taken for granted. That it deserves almost…worship in its own right. I mean, all the evil and all the violence in the world is a result of people who begin to value violence and bloodshed, who value money and power over the sheer, satisfying beauty of mutual love. I think it is a sin not to love.”

Her therapist was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Do you think that you sin? Or are blasphemous for not loving?”

“I…devote myself to making the days of others special. But I can’t get past the fact that I can’t…I haven’t managed to love anyone. Not the way I should. Not the way I was meant to. But I can’t force myself to accept the offers of someone just because. But at the same time…”

This was the worst moment. The awful moment when the tears burned her eyes and she fought for coherent thought.

I am a weak woman full of fantasies and notions that don’t fit in the real world. And I can’t handle it. I’m a dippy, needy cow. I want to be professional and strong. Not like…not like this. Not broken in a way I can’t describe.

But no therapist could get those words out of her.

She swallowed her tears and said in a trembling voice, “Look, for five years I just haven’t been right. I wish I’d known my mother. I wish my dad was still around. I want a husband and a family, but that just isn’t going to happen. Because I won’t accept just anyone. But I know I’ve got to move past it and accept that it might happen on its own. If I stop feeling like this.”

But it won’t. I know it won’t. Something is wrong. Something went wrong. But I don’t know what or who or where or why. And I can’t say that. It’s crazy.

“Amanda, I think our time is up now. I’ll see you next week.”

“Right.”

The ticking clock that had been in the background, unnoticed beside the birds and cars, had stopped.

Later, arriving back at Oxford Road Station where she could walk to her flat, she looked up at the still light sky, despite the fact that it was nine in the evening. The light irritated her. She longed for the oblivion of night.

With a cup of tea in hand, Amanda sat down and went through her meetings for next week. The things she would have to arrange for her clients. She’d have to visit St. Ann’s in town again.

Satisfied that all was in order, she took a sip of her hot drink.

I shouldn’t do this really. It’s like torture. But I can’t not think of him.

Amanda had a habit of cataloguing the specific details of her lover, even though there was never a full picture in her mind. Just flashes and sensations.

The exact way he would hold her hand. The pressure of his fingertips. The texture of his palm. The spot where his shoulder met his neck.

Their wedding day. Not a grand affair, but a simple one. Intimate and binding. That would have been her choice.

There were handsome men who pursued her. Men clever enough to see past her exterior. To see that she was a committing type. They pushed her. But no amount of looks or cleverness lured her beyond a certain point.

The feeling wasn’t there. They didn’t have his face. Their skin wasn’t the right temperature. The tenor of their voice wasn’t right. The rhythm of their breath was all wrong.

It was in this stream of thought that Amanda began to prepare for bed. By the time she got there, the sun had finally set.

“Thank goodness…” she said, slipping into her sheets and placing her hand over her mouth.

Amanda had begun to perspire in her sheets, turning her body in an attempt to get comfortable. She’d finally settled on her back, when a noise quickened her pulse.

There was the sound of fabric rustling. A smell of smoky incense. It made her think of exotic, older places. Hot earth and inky skies. For a moment, her bed was the warmest summery ground.

It was reminiscent of a summer holiday in Greece, where her auntie had taken her one year.

The warmth on her back was soothing. Drifting off, the sights and sounds outside and within her head began to blur.

Amanda turned her head and groaned. The heat of the ground materialized into a cloak. In her mind’s eye, blue-black cloth slid around her and held her still. Amanda opened her eyes.

Standing over her was a woman. The lady’s ebony hair blended with the midnight cloak that surrounded her.

“Well, well, well. No wonder I could feel your appreciation. It isn’t exactly worship, but I felt your admiration. Strong it was too. Sleep, dear one. And may the sweetest dreams comfort you.”

Then Amanda, immobile, watched the woman’s aquiline nose turn away. Her olive skin glowed, haloed by the moonlight outside the window. The lady addressed someone not in Amanda’s line of sight.

“Morpheus, leader of the Oneiroi, come. See what you can do here.”

A man appeared at the lady’s side. Young, with the swarthy handsome features of an Italian or Greek. The type popular with sunshine-starved British girls. Yet inside, Amanda began to panic. He looked down at her with interest.

What are they going to do to me? What’s this?

Fear welled up inside her, crowding her chest with paralyzing heaviness.

The midnight cloaked lady disappeared. Morpheus’ brows lowered over the black opal eyes continuing to study her. Waves of sedation washed over her. Her veins felt as though they were humming, buzzing with a substance other than blood. She was able see him, watch him.

I don’t know if I’m asleep or awake.

At this, the one called Morpheus’ mouth curved up like he’d heard her thought. His voice came through. Focused on her. Like a practiced hypnotist. Some sort of master of meditation.

Something way beyond any therapist she’d ever spoken to.

“You are, for the moment, awake. What a beauty you are. And you’ve lived here all your life. I wonder…where is your mother?”

The Oneiroi leader was in her head, gathering every scrap of emotion and thought, scrutinizing every memory. For a moment, it made her feel uncomfortably vulnerable. He spoke again.

“Ah, I see. Don’t worry. I can’t touch you, and I fear the repercussions if I play too much. But I can certainly show you things. Do you want to see?”

Amanda wasn’t sure if she did. At any rate, she could neither speak nor move.

“Of course you do. Watch me.”

And he began to change. His olive features shifted to a paler complexion. His hair was no longer black but a very short-cropped light brown. Yet even in the dark, she could see his natural colors were burned by a harsh sun. He was straight-backed, strong.

A soldier’s stance.

Only her eyes could move. In the moonlight, she saw where his shoulder met his neck. Her gaze looked to his palms. She knew their texture. The precise pressure of his touch. The scent of his skin. She knew those things, yet now could not sense them.

It’s him! Oh my goodness, it’s him…

Morpheus’ voice even changed when he spoke again.

“It’s me, darlin’. I wish we could have met. You’re so gorgeous.” His words were full of wonder. He sounded local. What got her the most, however, was that his voice was the correct tone.

She ached to have him closer. When he sat down, still staring at her, Amanda’s heart rate and breathing stayed the same. Unable to move, it was like being barred from any excitement.

Yet he held her in his spell. Everything was falling into place. There was nothing unnatural about him being here in her bedroom.

He ate her with his eyes. Then he lifted one hand up and reached back to the side of his neck. He’s touching where his neck meets his shoulder.

Soon as his hand touched his own skin, his eyes appeared to shine. As though he wanted to weep. As though he’d just been struck or pushed away. Denied something.

He removed his hand and faced his palms towards her. Anticipating his touch, powerless to react, Amanda watched his hands move closer and closer to her face.

The details of his skin and the lines crossing his fingers were so familiar. His gaze looked to her and then looked to the top of his arm. There, she could make out a faded gold smear. Some strange mark. He smiled at her.

If this is a dream, I’ll take it. Anything to be united with him. I can see him, I can finally see him!

Then his hands stopped millimeters away from her face. His fingertips lingered over her forehead. Her vision was obscured by the top of his palms. Breathing was slow, she wanted to inhale deeply and acquaint herself with his smell.

Yet only the chilled air of her room, already known to her senses, met her nostrils.

His hands moved. There was no feeling, no fragrance. Only the tormented sight of him. His brows furrowed and lids closed. He turned as though she’d spurned him.

How can I react to you? I can’t bloody move.

Then the expression shifted, and the corners of his mouth curved up. His eyes, in their ceaseless intensity, confounded her. Amanda wasn’t sure whether he was being playful or dangerous.

Now, the lighting began to toy with his skin tone. It marred the way he looked. He didn’t appear tangible. Natural sunburned flesh gave way to a gauzy grey. His features dulled.

Now her heart ached with his absence, even though he was still before her eyes.

He gazed in her direction, but it was like he couldn’t see her. Like he was trapped behind a veil.

And she was trapped on the other side.

Then Amanda sat up. Control over her own breath and blood flow returned. She looked around the room, finding nothing and no one there.

Unease remained with her. Like she wasn’t alone. It appeared that both her house and heart were haunted.

It was times like these Amanda wished she had her mother. Someone who understood her nature and who could reveal the secrets behind her dreams.

Nyx stalked through the city. Ever ready for specific attention, ever seeking worship. She’d felt the pull of the woman’s attention. It was heady and focused.

No ordinary woman, but a demigoddess. Yet completely unaware who she belonged to. THAT Goddess’s daughter? Lonely?

But then, powerful Nyx knew too well love and desire’s fickle nature. She knew of loneliness. The one she’d desired did not return her affections with the necessary intensity. He wouldn’t bow to her.

Great Poseidon.

The bastard.

She moved further to the city centre, taking a mortal form, and moved into the area known as St. Ann’s Square.

Her opaque eyes spotted the church in the distance. The sound of her fingernails scraping on the stone of an old shop met the murky air.

This was a shade. The ghost of a fallen mortal. He sat upon a wooden bench, staring at the church. Nyx approached slowly. So transfixed was the shade in his prayer, he did not notice her.

Will you speak with me?

She moved closer. Approaching the courtyard where the benches were, Nyx stepped off of the cobbled road and onto the pavement surrounding the church. Her boots clicked on the old stone slates.

Two trees rustled in front of the church, though there was no midsummer breeze. They were acknowledging the presence of an ancient deity.

The shade’s grey face turned in her direction. Despite the curved wooden back of the bench, the shade sat straight up. The ghost faced the church. His hands folded in prayer, willing the powers that be to make his life what it once was. So that it could be more.

Mental connections tethered him to this earthly place like a stubborn piece of thread. But the Fates had cut his life’s thread some time ago.

Nyx addressed the shade aloud, “You were young, when you departed. Injured in a battle far from here.”

His voice sounded like an echo when he responded.

“I want to be here. She’ll come. It will all be fine. You can’t make me go anywhere.”

Nyx reached out and laid a hand on his arm. His eyes became the deep blue they once were in life, and they widened as the shade felt touch for the first time in years.

“Who are you?” he asked, his body jerking back, unaccustomed to being solid. The novelty of his own voice in his ears made him gasp.

Nyx paused, looking behind her at the old church with a raised eyebrow. She turned back to him.

“Let’s just say, you likely did not come here to speak with me. But how lucky you are that I found you.”

The man furrowed his brows. His mouth began to form a smile, yet the sensation was so strange, so foreign. It was as though the muscles of his face couldn’t recall the procedure.

Nyx crossed her arms and scanned him with her black gaze. His eyes were familiar. In life, they had turned up to her in gratitude. Then, just on the side of his arm, she saw something glowing behind his clothing. A golden smear. Not a tattoo but something gifted to him without his knowledge.

He’d been marked by another goddess.

In life, he was marked by the mother of comely Amanda, who now lays in the arms of Morpheus.

The Night Goddess turned and grinned at him.

Nyx reached out and touched his face. Eyes, mourning the future denied him, looked back at her. She unveiled his name and began assessing him.

“You are a handsome man, Scott. Perhaps I could make things happen for you?”

He would be a beautiful devotee. A servant for me. Ever indebted. And his soul is strong.

The shade shifted beneath the stare of Nyx. He broke through the silence.

“I guess some girls thought so, but they never wanted to wait or commit. I…never had a lot of money. I became a soldier. My dad had been a soldier…”

“War brings Death on swift wings to many mortals,” she said.

“I could hear them.”

“Hear who?” Her voice did not betray any knowledge.

“When we were ambushed, I could hear these…shrieks. It was like something between a bird of prey and hysterical women. There were wings. It was like the pits of Hell were calling for me. Nobody else heard it. I thought I was going crazy.”

Nyx knew the memory of his terror. Penetrating, sickening fear rolling in his stomach at the war cry of the Keres. The adrenaline galloping through his body to battle for life.

His own screams wailing in his ears.

Nyx also knew their bloodlust. That of the Keres. She knew of ruthless slaughter and how one could develop a taste for it. The Keres could be summoned to satisfy the grimmest needs. The unexpected pleasure of killing in those with a debased heart. Nyx understood the Underworld and all its demons.

“You heard the Keres.”

“Aren’t they death demons or something?” he asked.

They are my mad daughters.

But Nyx merely replied, “Something like that.”

She reached out again and placed her hand on the side of his face, then moved it down to the side of his neck. Stopping to place her hand where it met his shoulder, her grip tightened slightly.

I could mold him. Loyalty is his strongest suit. If he were to believe I am his “one,” he could be mine forever. He is certainly handsome enough. He could learn to be happy with me.

His eyes were wide again and Nyx sensed his fear. Removing her hand from his shoulder, she folded her hands in her lap. Scott looked down at her dusky fingers, entwined on the black folds of her skirt.

Nyx said nothing for a few moments more. It was apparent to her that he was trying to assess what she was. When Scott appeared to have calmed, she spoke.

“You should not stay here. Go to the home that will welcome you. You were a good man. No doubt your faith will see you through the necessary gates.”

Nyx’s eyes darted to his hands. They had begun to tremble. Goddess and soldier were alone in front of the church in the dark hours of the morning.

Scott struggled with his newfound breath. He swallowed and nervous words stumbled out. “No… No, I will not. My life was unjustly taken. Those….things hurt me. It wasn’t even like the gunfire or an explosion. It was them. I was supposed to meet someone here. I don’t know what you are, but…you’re not human. You are…like them, somehow.”

His voice overcame the fear that attacked with a tremor in his speech.

Then, he watched Nyx’s eyes change. She stood, and appeared taller than before.

“My nature is not wholly consumed by lust or murder, though I know the Death Demons and all their ways. You have not deduced at all who I am.”

The goddess’s voice had gone deeper. The air around them murkier. Scott moved his head back and forth, trying to reassure himself of his surroundings, but the buildings and the flagged stone paths were smothered by shadows.

He could just make out the fragrance of rain. Wheels going over a wet street in the distance. Scott winced as the sounds and smells became fainter. Like he was drifting farther away.

I’m in Manchester, I’m in St. Ann’s Square, and this is all going to be a bad dream.

Scott…

The woman’s voice threaded through his brain.

He turned to the source of her voice, unable to get his bearings at all. His vision was clouded.

Nyx paused for a moment and clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms, when she thought of encounters with Poseidon. When she imagined that he would ask to accompany her, that he would desire her on a satisfying level.

After a shaking breath, Nyx continued, “It is worship and devotion I seek. For me and for those like me, it is a need. Like what water is to living men.” The mention of water again brought the Sea God to her mind. The cooling, gravity-altering power of his vast oceans.

It was Nyx’s turn to tremble inside, but it was rage that caused it. Taking silent, deep breaths, Nyx did her best to remain in mortal form.

A mirthless laugh escaped her throat. “And how dreary for me that you find me to be some sort of devil. Do you appreciate nightfall, Scott? Do you find it welcome? After a trying day that has done its best to relieve you of your soul? Try to think of me that way…”

And Scott recalled that in fact, he had always appreciated the evening. He’d welcomed night’s still, quiet hours. Its gentleness in comparison to day’s demands. His heart slowed and his eyes ceased darting around.

Night could be a haven for unknown danger. As well as a sanctuary from it. A sanctuary, like an embrace or a blanket….

Then, the humming lips of Nyx were at his ear, a profound vibration the source of which he forgot. It went through his entire being and he lost all sense of what or where he was.

Nyx drew back. Scott found himself a living, breathing man again.

On a summer night in the city of his birth. Shadows everywhere accompanied by shades of blue, black and grey. Stars and moonlight glittered above.

She was still there, probing his thoughts and looking at him.

Loyalty. Sincerity. Kindness. A deep desire to stamp out the evil in this world. To make it safe for his family. Safe for the family he has yet to have.

Mothering instincts warred with her darker needs. The desires of a lover battled with the whims of a goddess.

Nyx began to pace in front of Scott. Chewing her mortal fingers then tapping them on her thighs.

Her mind drifted back to the woman she’d left in the arms of Morpheus. The woman, prone in the care of the Oneiroi leader and ignorant of whose daughter she was.

“Tell me then. Who this angel is you wait for, Scott?”

He sat back up, groaning at the rather mortal sensations of a sore back. Things he hadn’t felt for so long.

“I never met her. But I knew. I knew I would somehow come to her here. I never had a lot of money, but I had been a good soldier. And I was going to be a teacher. Until I died…”

Relief was reflected in his face when her physical glamour turned yet more natural. She was to his eyes, a pretty Mediterranean girl with inky hair and large brown irises. Almost mortal.

She ceased pacing and sat down beside him.

“Do you know, I could be an angel for you? Do you not think that perhaps it was no ordinary girl you were destined to wed? But someone like me? Someone with sort of…divine qualities?”

And her lips parted in a smile that was wholesome. Deceivingly so.

He sucked in a breath. Then, after a gasp, Scott realized. “I really am…breathing.” A laugh escaped his parted lips. “You...you did this. But you…you are…” He fumbled with his voice. His living voice. His pumping blood. His solid skin and his…breath.

“For now, let’s just say that you are reborn of the night. Shall we?”

Scott pressed his lips together and looked at her. His chest rose and fell in short, shaky breaths.

One corner of Nyx’s mouth went up. One of her cloaked shoulders went up in a shrug. She continued explaining at his perplexed look.

“If you believe I serve some red, horned man surrounded by flames, you would be sorely mistaken. No bearded masculine entity holds sway over me. Though I do find beards terribly attractive when properly trimmed.”

And dripping wet with seawater, she thought, clenching her fists.

“Miss?” The former shade, Scott, coughed and broke into the reminiscing goddess’s thoughts.

She turned to him with a flash of pretty white teeth set against her plum lips and dusky olive skin.

“Would you like to be mine? I am sure that I could find a way to make you happy. To give you…some sort of joy in belonging to me. There are abilities I could give you.”

His eyes remained far away and Scott looked down, unsure of what to say. But he knew, supernatural abilities could be handy.

Imagine what I could do. Scott placed his palms on his legs and pressed down. He was still reveling in being alive. It was a miracle itself.

“I’m sorry. You are...beautiful. And obviously powerful. Really, I just want a simple life. I don’t see you settling down in a semi-detached house with a couple of kids. You don’t seem like the type to take an interest in gardening or camping trips.” He laughed nervously, seeing her upturned eyebrow.

“How strong you are in your convictions.” She sat back and crossed her legs, tilting her head as possibilities played themselves out in her mind. After her pause, Nyx addressed him again.

“Let’s play a little game. I will let you wander this earth for a certain amount of time, you will see if you can get your destined lady to come to you here. On this very bench you chose in your other life.” Nyx patted the stone rectangle they sat on. “If after the time has passed, you cannot find her, you will be mine. It won’t be a bad existence. You will grow to enjoy worshipping me.”

She stroked the side of his face again, watching his eyes widen. Then he turned to her.

“Is this the payment? For you…restoring my life?” he blurted out.

Nyx removed her hand.

“I don’t require any payment. But I do wish to have you make a choice. You cannot stay here forever. Someone eventually would have moved you.”

Scott shook his head.

“You’ll interfere, somehow. I know. Somehow…” And his light brown brows drew together then came apart as he tilted his face back in her direction.

“I promise not to impede your progress.” She laid one hand over her heart.

“Right,” he said the word slowly. Then another sort of recognition crossed his face as he said,

“Won’t…people be confused if they see me?”

Nyx put his mind at ease with the calmest of words.

“You died five years ago to this day. And you underestimate me. You can and will carry on as you wished to before. The memory of your death has been removed from this world. The last five years will have no impact on you. Only you know of your demise. And the time that passed. Go home. And after tomorrow, seek her, your great love and the one who will give you a reason to live this mortal life again.”

“And where will you be?”

“You will find I am around most nights.” A coy grin drew the corners of her mouth up.

“And what should I call you?” he queried further.

She turned towards the brightening sky, lids softening over her midnight eyes.

“You can call me, N…” Her name interrupted by a very human yawn, she said, “Nina.”

“Nina…” He looked down.

Her name and other words fumbled out of his thoughts. His mind came alive with recollections of Greek Mythology. You will find I am around most nights…

“Nina… Nyx. Nyx!” As recognition dawned, he looked to the Night Goddess, who now was nowhere to be seen.

The church in front of him slowly lit up with the rising sun. He stood and began the journey to the last place he knew as home. The city new yet strange to him. People saw him. Some nodded.

Panicking suddenly, he dug in his pocket when he realised he would have no money. But there was his wallet. He swallowed at the date on his license. And at the collection of twenty pound notes there. Valid credit and debit cards.

He boarded a bus that took him to Piccadilly. Then boarded a train that got him to the last place he knew as home.

(The Next Day)

Scott turned the key and opened the brand new, white door. All his belongings remained in the same place they were when he had left to go abroad. There was no sound inside the house, only the tweeting of birds outside.

Memories flashed through his brain of fitting the wooden floor. His dad had done the tiles in the kitchen.

When his father was diagnosed with a condition he knew would one day claim his life, the man had worked tirelessly to help purchase a home for his son. He’d insisted on helping with the work that needed doing until he grew too poorly.

Scott sat down on a cushioned armchair with rounded sides. It was so foreign. This comfort. And the smell of paint and new flooring. He stared into the doorway that led to the kitchen.

“Is this a dream?” he asked the freshly painted white walls. In the grey daylight, it felt barren. There was no television, no pictures on the walls.

He stood and went to the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway and looked to his right at a steep, carpeted staircase that led to the two bedrooms and bathroom. Scott ascended.

Weariness assaulted his eyelids. A heaviness that made him crave his bed. The very human experience of falling asleep. An escape. The time he’d spent as a ghost in front of St. Ann’s church began to fade from his memory. He tried to recall the imitation of life he’d tried to do. His desperate conjuring to bring back his existence.

In the end, it brought Nyx to me. A bloody Greek goddess. A primordial one, no less.

Slowly, his memories turned to the cold in winter. The rain and wind. He remembered eating fast food and walking past St. Ann’s. He remembered stumbling through the square after a few too many beers.

Getting lost in a fantasy of having a beautiful, hazel-eyed woman look at him with some sort of recognition.

He recalled coming back home from his last tour. Having an interview at a school he wished to teach at. Visiting his parent’s graves. Telling them that he was back and that he was going to the house. Thanking his dad for helping with the floors. Trying not to weep on his way home.

When did I do that? Did that happen this morning? Yeah…it did.

Scott reached the top of the stairs and turned to the left where the bathroom was. He looked at the clear shower guard and saw his favorite “man wash.” A blue beach-themed shower gel.

Another memory, of going to the store and buying new toiletries yesterday. Of seeing people he knew in the car park.

His wonder-filled voice came out, “These memories, she… She did them. She made them.”

Nyx.

Scott placed his hands on either side of the oval white sink and looked at himself in the mirror. He still bore the results of an endless sunburn. A few new freckles had cropped up around his nose. His eyes were a little red from fatigue. But they were his original blue color. His previously cropped hair had begun to grow out, the strands still short but becoming shaggy.

He needed a shower.

He licked his lips and swallowed, then opened his mouth, taking note of every breath. “I’m knackered. Why am I so…” He paused, trying to digest all the things whirring in his mind.

Scott closed his eyes then opened them again. He placed one hand on the side of his neck, squeezing. The moment he did that, he found himself lightheaded. The light behind the frosted privacy window beside his white bath/shower flickered. As though something large and dark flew past.

A familiar voice hit his head. Her.

“You walked all around town last night, unable to find rest. But now…you will find it. Worry not.”

One of the horses from the field behind his back garden whinnied. He was brought back to the moment.

Scott showered, enjoying every moment of hot water and cleanliness.

It’s like I haven’t experienced a shower in ages, but…it’s just all that time in Afghanistan. When normal hygiene was a major luxury. When the stinking heat infiltrated every bastard pore. It’s not like it’s been years…

Leaning his head back and rinsing the last of the shampoo from his hair, he closed his eyes. Remembering all the months of fighting the sweat endlessly dripping into his eyes. At the same time fighting to remain alive.

Toweling off, Scott went into his room. The walls were a deep blue. The blackout curtains had been drawn. The duvet was black, inviting him to crawl into an oblivion-filled, restorative slumber. Scott decided to turn on a lamp on the bedside. He paused to stare at his unpacked things, then went into one of the boxes to find a plain white t-shirt, clean boxers and sweats.

He wanted…nightfall. Like a blanket.

Nyx. He swallowed.

It felt lonely without the goddess’s presence.

I can give you abilities. Make things happen for you. You would grow to enjoy worshiping me.

She’d been like a comfort in the darkness. He was suddenly sensitive to the temperature, despite it being midsummer.

Scott switched off the lamp and climbed into bed. He’d never been a person to kip during the day, but this fatigue was overwhelming and the sheets beckoned him like a siren.

He slid his body beneath the duvet and found himself at sleep’s mercy. Unbidden dreams brought a reality he could smell. He felt it in the very soles of his feet.

He found himself standing on a vast expanse of soil. Not one blade of green grass sprouted from the earth. The moist dirt was warm. Overhead, the blue-black sky rumbled, and flashes of lightning provided lingering illumination.

He looked up at the sky. The top of what could be some sort of netherworld. That was when he heard it.

The demonic wail. Beating wings. Scott locked his feet to the ground and braced himself.

I can make you capable of god-like feats. You need not know fear or vulnerability.

Scott swallowed, squinting at the sky. The winged demons were there. They would come for him. The tearing and pulling would begin. His soul would be thrown to Hades.

They would make him into nothing.

Standing his ground, he began to tremble. He looked down at the hot soil flashing in the ethereal glares of lighting. It confused him. He felt he had seen these creatures, heard them before.

No…I remember the pops and cracks of enemy fire. I remember the helicopter blades. That’s it… That’s it. Right?

In that moment, Scott knew that if he surrendered himself to Nyx, devoted himself to her, she would free him. She would put him in a position where he could dominate the mortal world around him if he so chose.

Beautiful women would flock to you. Women with hazel eyes. You could pick and choose amongst them. For your own comfort. For your own joy. The beauties with enticing lips and smooth bare shoulders, ever ready to reveal more. A collection of willing, personalized favorites.

Temptation was there. A hook that pulled him from the base of his simplest desires, and fear of being so human and exposed before unconquerable powers. Before people who saw no value in love. Before people who saw kindness as a joke.

The lure threatened to tear him from himself. To make him something else.

It could be amazing. I could have heaven on earth. Maybe she doesn’t even exist, my St. Ann’s wife.

Scott took a deep breath, understanding that this was some sort of test. Grasping what was on offer.

He looked to the rolling darkness above him and pressed his feet into the soft ground.

“I accept that you might take away whatever it is you’ve given me, Mighty Nyx. But I want to live my life as a man. I want to go to St. Ann’s. I don’t want to be anything…unnatural.”

The expanse above him rolled into dancing mists. The cries of the Keres dimmed until he could hear nothing. He couldn’t feel the soil beneath him. The temperature meant nothing. And soon, he could see nothing.

Scott woke to find it was night.

His blackout curtains had been pulled open just a little. The moonlight shone onto the carpet. Worried someone had broken in, he sat up and turned on the light. The sudden glare made him reach to adjust it. He wound up knocking a magazine off the bedside table.

It was a popular film magazine he bought from time to time. Trying to keep up with what was in cinemas. The magazine was open to an interview with a stunning actress.

Her skin was flushed with an ethereally golden tone. Her tawny glittering eyes revealed a hot-blooded goddess. She shone with every imaginable power of desire and love.

Like she was a bit of an authority on such things.

Scott’s heart began to hammer in his chest. Focusing on her eyes, it was like she was looking at him. It was a look of approval.

Scott leaned back in bed for a moment. “Well, I’m glad you approve of me.”

He went downstairs to the kitchen and checked the answering machine.

“Hiya. This is Scott. Leave a message I’ll get back to you. Cheers.”

First was an offer of a job by the very school he’d wished to teach at. The second was an army mate, someone he had been in Afghanistan with, who wanted to know how he was. Scott stretched his arms overhead, staring at the landline on the tiled floor.

There was a fragrance in his house, the aroma of burning incense lingering in the air.

Scott moved towards the circular armchair before the window of his front room.

He stopped when he saw the crown of her ebony tresses, shining. Her eyes met his. She spoke to him.

“I’ve given birth to many terrible things, Scott. Death, the Keres, many entities of the Underworld fall under my domaine. But you, I am proud of. I can’t lay claim to creating you…” She stopped.

He heard the rustling of fabric. Nyx adjusted her mortal form.

The goddess was thinking before she continued speaking.

Then she said, “But it is an honor to give you back to this world. Much good may you do here. And I would desire greatly that more men had hearts like yours. Good night…Scott.”

And Nyx was gone.

Scott spent the night researching the Goddess Nyx.

One website said that Homer called her a “subduer of gods and men…Zeus himself stood in awe of her.” And that the Keres were just some of her many children.

(The Night Before)

Amanda was trembling with her knees drawn to her chin. Every shadow was a threat. A lurking man of Greek appearance was in one corner. The ghost of her would-be love was in another.

She pushed herself off the bed and went to her kitchen to fix some tea. Though every space seemed a potential harbor of spirits, she willed herself to make a brew.

Morpheus’s haunting continued. He could use the voice of her love.

“You’re so beautiful. God, you’re beautiful. I can’t believe you are going to be mine…”

The whispered words hurt. Morpheus was cruel. Before her love could even say hello, before their lips could even meet, then why show him to her?

“Leave me… Leave me… Leave me,” Amanda said through her teeth.

The whispering stopped.

A fragrance hit her nose. Floral but not too sweet. Enticing fruit. It made her think of the word ambrosia.

A slight tingling happened under her skin. Even through this, Amber continued to remove the tea bag and pour in the milk. As though someone shouted for her, she went back into her bedroom. She placed the hot drink on the sideboard and lay down.

There were fingers threading through her hair, nails running down her scalp. It wasn’t like the heavy sedation that had attacked her before once the night lady left.

“Daughter, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to see you. But now it appears you have attracted a primordial one.”

Mother?

Amanda had always dreamed of her mother being gorgeous, but this was beyond anything she could have imagined. The warm colors lit up her shadowy room. The lady was all soft textures and comfort. Tawny, golden, and ruby-hued.

“I love what you do, by the way. Weddings.” Aphrodite’s hazel eyes glowed with pride, then her supposed mother’s voice changed when she looked to the corners of Amanda’s room.

“You. Show yourself, Oneiroi leader.”

The one called Morpheus emerged.

“Stunning Aphrodite. Whatever can I do for you?” Morpheus spoke in playful tones.

“I would know why you play a cruel trick on my daughter. Is it not enough that she suffers? That jealous Hephaestos marked and called the Keres to murder her father as well the male she was destined to love?”

Morpheus gave Aphrodite a closed mouth smile.

The Oneiroi leader remained silent.

So she spoke again.

“How goes never being able to feel touch, Morpheus? How goes your loneliness? Do you know I could make beautiful women worship you, love you with an intensity that would rival that of the greatest known physical encounters? The greatest pleasures begin in the mind. Do they not? I’ve always valued you, Morpheus. But I must demand to know what you are doing here, what part you are playing.”

Morpheus spoke, “Beautiful Aphrodite, you flatter me. Hephaestos, though he can come up with the greatest instruments of destruction, summoned the Keres to murder one of your lovers, the father of this child. And in a continuation of his wrathful jealousy, rivaling even Hera, he cursed the potential loves of your daughter. To choke the happiness out of those in your line. So much like great Ares was her father, the Fire God’s envy extended into a summoning not of weaponry or tricks, but of the violent death spirits themselves.”

Amanda lay listening, all the while the goddess Aphrodite’s hand lay protectively on her back.

“Aren’t you and Ares…” Amanda began, questioning Aphrodite’s, her mother’s, history.

And the Love Goddess’s voice came out, “Ares is who I would have chosen once upon a time. That all happened long before you were born. Hephaestos sought to best Ares with cleverness. Existence is cruel to us as well.”

Then Amanda said, “And the one who you picked for me to love is dead.” She knew it. Morpheus had played the part of the ghost of her would-be love.

Aphrodite stood and began to pace. She flung her hands in the air, wringing her delicate fingers together. Her legs revealed themselves between the floating slits of her long red gown. Her flesh was shining and glorious.

Despair rang out in her voice.

“I tried not to mark him in any noticeably way. And any god or goddess would be able to see it. But I liked him. I couldn’t have just any person for you. You will bear my descendants! I would have this world overrun with true love. Never mind Ares and all his bloody battles! I tried not to reveal any intention to gift the man to you, but he had the call of Ares to War. And Hephaestos had to do little but call the Keres upon recognizing him. There is much machinery and metal work now in war. I…” The goddess’s eyes shone with tears as she addressed Amanda. “I loved your father, as much as a Goddess can, but I could not protect him.”

Aphrodite released a weary sigh and sat down. “I would spare my children such pain, if I could. But I haven’t the power to prevent Hades from collecting his souls, once a life’s thread has been cut. Only a truly ancient primordial could have such sway. To erase the grave and rebuild living futures. Tell me, Morpheus, is Nyx capable of this?”

The God of Dreams’ whisper carried through Amanda’s flat. “Dawn approaches. You underestimate powerful Nyx. Hades, Ares, Hephaestos, and Zeus combined could not deter the dark daughter of Khaos. He lives life anew, your dearest love. His name I will give you in a dream. Forgive my trickery, dear Amanda.”

Then, Morpheus’ voice raised slightly, to a polite, more business-like tone, when he addressed Aphrodite.

“Love and desire are common place in the minds of mortals, dearest Aphrodite. I have made use of such things as I lay out the dreams of sleeping mortals. I mean no harm…not really.”

Again his mouth curved upwards. He bowed and disappeared.

Amanda turned to her mother. “I can’t tell if he is good or bad.”

Aphrodite smiled and reached out to touch the side of Amanda’s face. “He flows in and out of many a mortal’s subconscious. He knows the deepest origins of your thoughts and desires. He has to perform for the purposes of good as well as evil. Simply because both exist within all of us.”

Amanda’s mother adjusted herself. The bangles on Aphrodite’s wrists and ankles made a tinkling sound, like tiny sweet bells. “I don’t think you need to worry now. I will speak to dark Nyx. For now, you are free to sleep. Sleep, my daughter.”

Amanda closed her eyes. The tinkling noise was just beginning to fade as her mother’s soft lips rested themselves on her forehead.

Perhaps all this has been a dream, Amanda thought, beginning to drift off. The bells infused into her blood, bringing tingles just behind her scalp.

Before her eyes was a man with cropped light brown hair that was still wet. His body rested on ebony cotton sheets. She could hear the fabric rustling as he adjusted himself. She could hear his heartbeat.

It’s him. It’s really him.

Amanda smiled in her sleep, turned over, and whispered a name.

“Scott...”

(Sunset, Two Evenings Later)

Scott had woken late and gone for a run. His feet hit the canal path near his house in the old mill town. The calm brown waters were to his left, a tall moss coated wall to his right. Dirt and greenery scents mingled with cooking smells coming from one of the pubs he passed. After passing under the arch of a bridge, he went home.

After showering, he made his way to the train station to go into Manchester. The familiar walk would never be the same. Tipsy giggles and drunken chuckles accompanied the clack-clack-clack of heels and dress shoes on paved streets. He noticed a wedding party or two gathered in large glass and brick structures.

Places that once were factories.

Wine glasses, satin ribbons, and silver cutlery adorned the tables and chairs inside. Objects handled absently in the libation-swilling guests. Pretty, flushed mums in frocks and high shoes held champagne glasses and cooed at their new babies. Couples lounged together, entwining fingers and leaning coifed heads on their lover’s shoulders.

June. A season for weddings.

It was a far cry from the baked earth interspersed with ancient mountains, irrigated fields of wheat, vegetables or opium. A hideous yet beautiful place. War-torn ground, once soaked by his own blood. A place of poverty and greed. And monsters.

Instinct took him to St. Ann’s Square.

There will probably be another bloody wedding there.

How many times will I have to come here? Will Nyx just come and take me? Will I even have a choice?

It was late, yet sunset’s last heated layers lingered in the summer sky. He sat down on a familiar bench. It wasn’t long before the moon and stars dominated the heavens above. He looked up at the full milky shining circle.

People continued to titter and stroll around him. Then, wisps of cloud floated past the moon. Like ebony smoke. It swirled, threatening the bright orb of the moon.

Scott swallowed and looked down. He searched the vicinity for the raven-haired goddess in her mortal form.

Then there was a sound of a lone pair of high heels. A lush, fruity fragrance filled the air. Sweet and edible. It tantalized, but didn’t infiltrate his senses. Not like the smokey, heady assault of Nyx.

He turned in the direction of it. There, wearing a red pencil skirt accompanied by a floaty white blouse with a v-neck, was…her.

She had the look of the woman in the magazine, yet Scott was aware that it wasn’t exactly her.

Despite it being night, he could gather the blush in her cheeks and the ruby tint of her open lips. Large hazel eyes trained on him in astonishment. She came and sat down beside him. He could smell the difference between her perfume and whatever divine product she washed her hair with. Her gaze darted between his hands and the place where his shoulder met his neck.

“Hiya,” he said, stupidly.

“Hello.” She smiled then swallowed and he could hear her breath. Scott’s stomach summersaulted. The air became hot. Even in summer, heat waves like this didn’t happen often. Nobody needed AC in Northwest England.

“What’s your name then?”

“Amanda.”

“Are you out tonight?”

“I’m working… Are you alright? You seem a bit…pale. Can I do anything for you?” she replied. To his ears, her words sounded like an enticement. The way he was feeling, anything she said would sound like an enticement. Like she sought to lure him somewhere rather private. Oh god… Oh dear. She’s not a…

Scott frantically sought some query he could make that was neither insulting nor condescending.

He was met with a friendly laugh.

“Weddings. I plan weddings,” she said, covering her mouth and trying not to giggle.

“Oh. Right. Right. Got ya.”

“What’s your name then?” she asked.

“Scott. I’m called Scott.”

“Scott…” The blush left her cheeks.

“Are you alright, Amanda? Now you’ve gone pale. You…you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Have I? I mean… Do I?” The blush returned to her cheeks.

“Not anymore,” he said and reached for her hand.

Amanda’s mouth opened in recognition of his palm’s texture. Words deserted her in awareness of the pressure of his fingers.

The city’s night life kicked into full effect around them.

Nyx lay on her back in the sand. The cold sea lapped near her but didn’t touch her bare toes. Her hands were beside her ears. Her fingers moved, making lazy paths in the sand. Meanwhile above her, tendrils of inky smoke curved in front of the pure, full moon.

The sea rolled against the jagged rocks on either side of the smooth beach.

Beside her, the crimson-adorned Aphrodite lounged, parallel to the surf. She lay on her side, the silky curve of her hip a beacon of womanhood on the otherwise murky beach. Pitch-cloaked Nyx was near invisible, save for her dusky feet and hands.

“You could have had him, you know. Forced his hand. I’ve no doubt you could have bent him to your will,” Aphrodite said to Nyx, her smooth elbow pressing in the sand. Nyx’s shadows caressed the shining, moonlit flesh exposed above Aphrodite’s red gown.

“That would make me no better than the stupidest of men. Those false mortals who bully and devise plans to achieve one-sided, unnatural happiness,” Nyx replied.

Aphrodite was silent for a few moments, lost in thought. No longer able to keep them to herself she said, “I know what you would ask of me, Nyx, but I cannot make the Sea God love you in the way you want. What you ask is obsession. It borders too close to violence. I can make men and gods love and I can summon the lustiest of urges, but I cannot enforce madness. If you want a cult again, I’m sure you could encourage some group of mortals. You can do what you want, Nyx. But I cannot create this…this mad devotion dressed as love you want.”

“I know,” Nyx whispered, still twirling her fingers in the sand, toying with light’s access, and making shadows in the sky.

“Then why did you bother? Such a great deed. How do I repay you? You did not have to. You did not have to care. You could have even dragged him to Hades, finished the work of your insane daughters.”

“You forget how old I am, dear beauty. But you obviously see the depths of my needs. It pains me to admit you are correct. Perhaps love is…not possible for me.” There was a pause. Silence interspersed with waves.

Then, the Night Goddess finally said, “But kindness is. That I can do.”

And with that, Nyx disappeared into her realm, dragging the inky sky behind her to meet the dawn, Hemera, in an ancient, friendly greeting.