The Sharpest Thorn

By Victoria Audley

In an alternate-universe gothic-flavoured Greece, one war consumes the mortal world while another brews in the realm of the gods. Civil war rages on the island of Syros, and Psyche impersonates the goddess Aphrodite in order to win support for her father's cause. When the goddess curses her in revenge, she sends her son, Eros, to finish the job. Newly questioning his place and power, he refuses, and whisks Psyche away to an enchanted palace out of Aphrodite's sight.

 

Together, Eros and Psyche build a life of their own in defiance of what is demanded of them, but the secrets they keep from each other threaten their ability to keep it. Psyche betrays Eros and they are torn apart, but they know now what life they want and what they're capable of doing to get it. Each of them must challenge their families and embrace their darkness if they want to find each other again in the light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Audley
• Release date: Apr 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224653478

Victoria Audley

Victoria Audley is a folklorist, museum educator, and ghost escaped from a gothic novel, currently haunting a seaside town on the north east coast of England. In her spare time, she plays too much D&D and makes friends with the neighbourhood crows.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

All love stories begin with Aphrodite.  All horror stories begin with her, too. It is the corruption of love that births horror: the warm embrace tightening into a cold vice, the beautiful object of desire morphing into a vicious monster before one’s eyes.

The earth below echoes Olympus above in towering spires, sharp as needles, and cavernous halls, filled only with whispers and wishes. Years of roses and years of swords — monuments in the minds of men — blend together in the endless passing of time, one much like another in the perspective of the immortals.

Aphrodite remembers the war the gods fought against their parents. All then, as ever, love and horror: black ichor dripping between clawed fingers clinging to marble flesh. The march of indivisible years had pushed it back in memory, drowned in years of as much love and peace as the gods can manage amongst themselves. But it lingers in distant memory, shadowing the edges of her vision — a constant reminder that even Aphrodite’s love is not immune to distortion.

CHAPTER ONE

Sea salt clung to Aphrodite’s skin, glowing with divinity even in her human form. Her brandy-coloured eyes transformed in an instant, light one moment and dark the next, and each mode was fascinating in its own right. At first they sparkled like sunlight on the waves, and then they were tenebrous pools of thick blood. If she did not wish to be seen by mortals, she could make herself unseen, but she rarely chose to do so; she liked the adoration, the stunned awe plain on their dull faces. They tended to forget her charms when she wasn’t around to remind them, and worship did not flow from those who forgot her.

Her eyes dimmed as she walked through the bustling crowd, heels clicking with each sure step on the uneven cobblestones. Silk taffeta skirts striped with burgundy and dusty rose rustled as she walked. A matching hat was perfectly placed in her swept-up hair, the small pink veil barely obscuring one eye. Mortals turned to gape at her as she passed, but she did not acknowledge them with more than a growing smirk on her face. Her gaze was set ahead, on the cloaked young man standing in the shadows on the other side of the square.

She looked more like his sister than his mother, but of course, that was of her own design. With a familiar tilt of her chin, she wordlessly linked her arm through his and steered them away from the throng, through narrow alleyways between solemn stone buildings.

The young man shared her raven-black curls, the shape of her lips, and the aura of divine presence, indescribable but unmistakable. The large, white-feathered wings protruding from his back made the wearing of modern clothing difficult, and as such, he opted for the older style of dress, a linen chiton fastened at one shoulder with a gold brooch in the shape of a bow and arrow. All this was hidden beneath his long grey cloak, the hood pulled forward to hide his face. Between them, it was Aphrodite who drew attention, and that was as much her intention as his. He hid his mischievous smile, hunching his shoulders forward to make mortal eyes skim over him and rest on his mother instead.

Aphrodite walked with her head held high in self-assured confidence. Her eyes raked the crowd, like a hunter surveying the landscape for their prey. Lovers strolling arm-in-arm laughed at private jokes as they passed, ladies in fine dresses walked slowly to best display their beauty, children shrieked and giggled as they rolled wooden hoops through the park green. So much opportunity, but most of it too easy — not satisfying enough. The cold air carried the slightest hint of rain, a needle-sharp iciness that left wet flecks on mortal cheeks.

Her eyes flooded dark as she focused on a woman sitting on a bench across the green, with lines of thought creasing her forehead.

Eros, she said to her companion, gesturing toward the bench. Look there.

Eros followed her indication. The stern woman was neither old nor young, wearing a severe black dress and jacket adorned with a gold watch chain, and reading a newspaper. She shook out the large paper, moving it up to cover her face as she read the small print at the bottom.

I see, Eros replied.

Aphrodite turned, pulling him with her as she did. Now, look there.

A small group of women in dresses perfectly tailored to highlight their corseted waists huddled their heads together as they walked past a handsome young man with dark curls and a quirk in the corner of his smile. They whispered the name ‘Niko’ and giggled amongst themselves before turning as a group to walk past him again. Niko seemed to ignore them, laughing at nothing as he tossed his curls and gazing with pointed focus at the other side of the park. Eros wondered if it was merely divine insight that made it obvious to him that the man was watching them; their faces fell as they passed him again, seemingly without drawing his attention.

Yes, I see.

Aphrodite stood on her toes, reaching up to whisper in Eros's ear. The heat of her breath made him shudder.

Shoot him.

His lips curled in a malicious grin as he pulled the hood of his cloak further forwards. Like a thief in the shadows, he slipped into the promenading crowd unnoticed. A thousand times he had played this game, and still he never lost his fervour for it. Delicious fear pulsed through gods and mortals alike, both yearning for and terrified of his arrows: the divine ache, the impassioned frenzy that his piercing touch imparted. Sighs and screams and tears rose to him in melody like hymns, bitter and sweet as dry red wine. Humans often thought they cursed his name, but it all fell as praise on Eros's ears; as they renounced him, still they kept secret hope in their hearts that he would torture them again. He was well familiar with the score.

Keeping his head down, he wove between mortals far too concerned with themselves to notice him and slowly, cautiously made his way toward Niko. The edges of his vision darkened until only his target was visible. Eros could hear nothing but his own steady breathing as his hand reached for the bow hanging from his belt. Suddenly, he collided with something and fell with a hard thump onto the ground.

He looked up to see the tallest of the group of friends, a young woman with wide brown eyes and smooth honey-coloured hair, staring back at him.

Marie, are you alright? concerned voices asked from somewhere over her shoulder.

Instinctively, Eros reached up to pull his hood back down over his face, but something in Marie’s gaze froze his hand. He had seen mortal sadness countless times, but never before had he felt it like a weight on his own chest. The mortal woman’s misery so consumed her being that it was impossible to look at her and see anything else. Ice-cold hands had reached into his chest, gripping his heart and squeezing it close to bursting. Breath caught in his throat as he gaped, wordlessly.

In a flash, the mortal was gone, and Eros found himself looking up at Aphrodite instead.

What are you doing? she seethed through gritted teeth. Her fists were balled at her sides, fingernails digging into the flesh of her palms. Have you never done this before?

Frowning, he rose to his feet, cleared his throat, and brushed off his chiton. He quickly pulled his hood back up over his head. It was an accident, he growled.

"An accident. She huffed. Do you know what happens when mortals see you?"

Of course I do, he snapped back. I’m not an idiot.

Then stop acting like one and do your job properly.

This time, as Eros made his way back toward Niko, his thoughts were not on his target, but on the melancholy young woman in love. In all the countless times he had directed the course of mortal and immortal lives with the point of his arrows, never once had he felt any reticence. Now, he felt something akin to guilt for crossing what might have been love — true love, not the flimsy facsimile he forced on unwitting victims. He wondered what it would be like, for once, to make someone happy. To simplify the path, rather than complicate it. To grant ease to those for whom joy is just out of reach.

Not this time, though.

Leaving nothing to chance, he slipped out of the crowd and into the trees beside the path. He flitted between them and up into a cypress on the other side, balancing uncomfortably on flimsy branches. Slowly, he unlatched the bow from his belt. The polished myrtle wood was soft in his hand, so perfectly fitted it felt like part of his arm. Leaping hares and scattered roses were carved into the wood, decorating the curvature of the fine weapon. The gold string gleamed in his fingers as he attached the loose end to the bow.

Plucking an arrow from his quiver, he ran his fingers over the stiff red and white fletchings before fitting it to the weapon. He stepped forward on a branch and leaned just far enough out of the tree to break free of the leaves’ interference.

The world around him stilled. Only the sound of his own quiet inhalation broke the silence. He aimed his arrow, pointing the sharp, golden tip at Niko’s heart. With his eye focused on his target, he kept the picture of the older woman on the bench in his mind. Slowly, he let out his breath, and loosed the arrow.

Niko cried out at the impact, and before Eros could let himself feel sorry, he quickly nocked another arrow and loosed it at the iron bench. The clang reverberated and Niko turned toward the sound.

Eros watched the immediate change in his victim: the quick exhalation of breath as if the arrow had knocked it out of him, the light that sparkled in the widened eyes, the clutching of the unseen wound in his chest, the capitulatory fall of his shoulders.

He stumbled forward toward the bench, dropping to his knees at the woman’s side. The object of his enchanted affection looked frightened, quickly pushing herself away as Niko reached for her hand and tried to kiss it.

Eros looked back at the group of friends. While her companions pointed and laughed at the besotted fool, Marie looked crestfallen, eyes glistening with repressed tears.

He found himself summoned to Aphrodite’s side once more, and she laughed shrilly with delight. Oh, mortals are too much fun, she crooned.

Eros looked back across the green. The older woman stormed from the park as quickly as her legs would carry her, while Eros's target knelt on the grass, reaching forlornly after her. Marie’s companions rolled their eyes and tugged at her arms, begging her to accompany them onwards.

He wondered what could have been, had he instead drawn Niko’s attention toward the beautiful woman who wanted him. He wondered what her face looked like in joy, rather than lined with sorrow, and whether Niko truly did not care for her, or if the feigned shunning was a game to encourage her obsession.

Had he given them the chance at love, would it have lasted? The enchantment would wear off, as it always did, and then they would be left with their true feelings. Could they have had real happiness? What future had his arrow robbed them of?

Still laughing, Aphrodite linked her arm in his once more. Come along, my dear.

Eros followed his mother’s command, letting the encounter fall from his mind as they turned away in pursuit of another victim.

CHAPTER TWO

Lord Kleitos of Syros kept his daggers sharp and clean. His father had impressed upon him the importance of both — the danger, and the appearance thereof. He kept them unsheathed, displayed on his desk within his reach and within the line of sight of those who sat opposite him.

He looked out the window and saw his young daughters, Efimia and Psyche, in the gardens. Dark-haired Efimia sat on a bench between two topiaries in the shape of hares, arms folded over her chest and staring at nothing. Little Psyche paced restlessly, her hair ribbons whirling with each turn.

Kleitos sighed. Daughters were a nuisance. Their mother’s illness grew worse by the day, and with it his daughters’ hysteria increased. If he’d had the sons he should have had, he was certain they would be more composed. Sons love their mothers, of course, but sons do not whine and wail and lose their vitality over them. It is a dignified love that sons have for their parents. Kleitos yearned for a house with dignity.

He regretted having let their mother come between himself and his daughters. Whenever he had a mind to attempt any improvement in their weak and useless natural tendencies, he had let Alethea talk him out of it — largely because he did not care enough to fight about it. It might have been in everyone’s best interest for him not to relent, to insist upon training them to be worthwhile in some regard. Regret, he knew, was useless now. They could at least, perhaps, be useful to him someday, for the world had places for frivolous girls; still, his mind often wandered to the boys that should have been, the useful and dignified lives his sons might have led, and what life he might have had with them.

My lord.

A servant stood in the study’s doorway with fidgeting hands. Every line of his being pulled downwards, as if strings beneath the floor puppeteered him. Kleitos waved him in.

My lord, he repeated in a quiet voice, tentatively stepping over the threshold. It’s your wife.

Kleitos turned back toward the window, looking up at the cloudy sky. She is dead, he stated without emotion.

The servant hesitated. Yes, my lord. I am deeply sorry for—

Please tell the young ladies, Kleitos interrupted, turning back to his desk and sitting down.

A surprised silence hung in the air for a moment. Are you certain you would not like to tell them yourself?

Yes. Kleitos replied curtly and waved in dismissal. With a tight expression on his face, the servant bowed before leaving the room.

Part of him had known when Alethea first fell ill that they could not now have their long-awaited son. Even at first, when the illness seemed mild and treatable, he felt the severance of that string of hope. Unable to bear the sight of her face, he avoided her sickbed; she only reminded him of his failure. It lessened the sting of her death, somewhat. He had already said all the goodbyes he intended to say.

THE DAUGHTERS OF KLEITOS were, as expected, insufferable over the death of their mother. Regardless of the weather, Kleitos banished the grieving girls outside, where their sorrowful voices could not echo in his halls.

Psyche clung to her sister in the wild, wet weather of late autumn. The chilled mists and sky-shaking storms matched her inner thoughts, as if her soul were writ in the earth itself. Rain fell in sheets matching her tears, and the howling wind answered her cries of pain.

Efimia seemed a pillar of strength to Psyche. She carried her grief quietly, silently holding her sister as she wailed. Her dark eyes often lifted to the window of their father’s office. She knew better than to expect his attention, but still, she hoped. Her composure was as much performance as genuine force of will; she was, after all, her father’s daughter.

Eyes clouded with tears, Psyche looked up at Efimia’s stony face. She pulled back, confusion colouring her countenance. Why are you not sad?

Efimia’s brow wrinkled in a frown and she spoke in a hoarse voice. Of course I’m sad. I loved our mother.

Psyche’s breath caught in her throat and she made a hoarse choking sound. It caught her by surprise and in panic, she gasped a few breaths down. The shock receded, and Psyche wondered why she had reacted with such a reflex. She had not expected to hear Efimia say that; was it love that was meant to be the reason for her sadness? Psyche thought love was a happy thing. Her tears were for herself, for the shield that their mother had been between them and their father that was now gone, and for the fear of not knowing what that vulnerability meant.

No matter the cause, she could not fathom Efimia not sharing the intensity of her emotions. If sadness filled Efimia the way it filled Psyche, how could she bear to keep it bottled up? Psyche could not imagine how a feeling that overpowered her so completely could be concealed or contained. She tried, as hot tears rose to her eyes, but it hurt to hold them back; her breath stopped in her throat and her skin felt so tight it would burst if she tried to control herself any longer.

Efimia sighed, patting Psyche’s shoulder. Father wants us to be brave.

Father doesn’t want us to be brave, Psyche spat bitterly. He doesn’t want us at all.

That isn’t true, Efimia said, trying to inflect her voice with the soothing tone their mother used with Psyche.

Psyche shook her head. Efimia didn’t remember that voice never worked. You know it is.

Distant thunder rumbled as darker clouds rolled toward them. The wind whistled as it whipped the girls’ hair into their faces, obstructing their sight of each other.

Efimia didn’t reply. She looked down at her feet for a moment, then lifted her eyes to the office window. Lightning flashed in the sky, illuminating the curtains which blocked the view into the room.

Unable