Desire. Cindy Jacks

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СКАЧАТЬ drained his seventh wineskin of the day. Or was it eighth? “Please do. I would take it myself, but last month’s lecture on the qualities of genuine cork will hold me over for a lifetime.”

      “Of course, sire.”

      “Also, make sure the nymphs are oiled up for the festivities this evening. Are the accommodations ready for our visitor from Hawaii?”

      “Yes, sire. Pele’s suite is ready. I inspected it myself.”

      “Good, I wouldn’t want a repeat of the last time she visited. I hear they’re still unearthing charred remains in Pompeii.”

      From the bottom of the pile, a gold scroll twinkled, smug in its self-importance. Bacchus bolted upright. “Pan, am I hallucinating, or is a scroll from the Council thrown in with common post?”

      The squat goat-man flushed deep red, apparent even through his silver facial fur. “I-I-I, sire, I think, maybe…”

      Cloven hooves echoed in Bacchus’s private hall as Pan scurried to the heap. Eyes wide, mouth agape, Pan snatched the Council communiqué and ferried it to Bacchus.

      “Just read it to me, Panny boy. It’s probably for Liber anyway.” Bacchus laughed. How very clever. Probably for Liber anyway. Good one.

      Stubby fingers worked at the crystal seal. He’d barely fixed his beady gaze upon the text when a trumpeter flew into the gilded chamber and blasted a hurried version of Hail to the Father.

      Guards, nymphs, and courtiers snapped to rigid attention. Bacchus knew he should’ve moved faster to pay his respects to the god of all gods, to whom Bacchus’s own father, and every other deity, bowed. The room spun. Reaching out, he steadied himself. Yes, he definitely had finished eight wineskins. Still, a cold tingle ran up Bacchus’s spine. Lightning flashed, thunder shook him to the core. His breath caught in his throat. Sniffing the air, he noted the scent of frankincense and sandalwood. As if greatness had a smell. Then again, maybe it did.

      The Father’s union with the Mother created every living thing in the Universe. In a tidal wave of snowy robes and untamed, silver hair, He flowed into Bacchus’s great room. At the flick of His hand, the fanfare silenced.

      Bacchus executed a deep bow, and as he rose, listed to one side. He caught himself against the arm of his throne. Curses. He’d chipped a nail. “And to what do we owe this great honor, my lord?”

      “Good afternoon, Bacchus.” The Father glanced around the scattered floor pillows and the sycophants lounging on them. “I need a few moments of your time. Alone.”

      “So you aren’t here to see Liber, then?” Bacchus turned to dismiss his entourage, but no one had waited for the mere god of intoxication’s permission to disperse. An implied request from the Father carried more weight than a direct order from anyone else in the Palace of Light. Oh sure, when she felt ornery, the Mother could contradict the Father, but only She dared to do so. Bacchus gave the standard answer, “Thy will be done.”

      The wizened deity motioned to a chaise. “Please, have a seat.”

      Bacchus staggered to the lounge.

      Storm clouds above the Father’s usually glowing brow made a poor show of hiding a scowl. He paced, a very human compulsion no god engaged in, much less The Lord of All Lords. “I trust you received the scroll from the Council.”

      “About that.” Bacchus swallowed the lump in his throat. “There was a bit of a mix up with the post this morning.”

      “No matter. I would rather tell you this in person anyhow.” The Father clasped his hands.

      It must be very bad news, then. A heaviness in his core rooted him to the spot. Words failed him, and his mouth ran dry. He reached for his wineskin. Gods damn it. It was empty.

      The Father’s chest heaved. “I will not insult you by being indirect. Since Siddhartha joined the Council, he has done some excellent thinking on the sorrows of the world. Please understand he didn’t target you specifically.”

      “Target me?” Bacchus rolled his eyes. “Am I being summoned before a firing squad?”

      The Father furrowed his brow. “No, no. Not literally, anyway. Has Siddhartha talked to you about his premises regarding the sorrows?”

      Bacchus waved. “Yes, he’s tried several times, bless him. His manner of thinking is so far beyond me. My lord, you know I do whatever I can do to ease the sorrows of the world. I will admit I’m limited by my inferior mind, but I do try.”

      “No one questions your dedication, Bacchus. The debate has arisen over your methods.”

      “But my methods have withstood millennia, and believe me, the Puritan Era was no walk in the park for me and my devotees, but we’ve endured. I have my purpose. Human life is fraught with misery. My gifts provide respite from that misery.”

      “I understand. No one entered into this decision lightly. Mother is on the warpath. She has always been fond of your company.”

      Since Bacchus’s birth, there had been those who argued he was not a proper god, but a demigod, since his mother had been mortal. Though, did he not deserve the status of god? Erupting out of Zeus’s thigh had been no romp through Elysium for the newborn Bacchus. “Am I finally being demoted?”

      The Father exhaled, white eyebrows knitted, and sat next to Bacchus. “It is worse than that, my child. The Council has decided Desire does indeed seem to be the root of all suffering. Siddhartha has proven his assertion beyond a shadow of a doubt. Since Desire—well, it is central to everything you do. Therefore, we have decided we must revoke your divine power and disband your following. There is no way around it.”

      Bacchus reeled. How dare the Council do this to him and behind his back? He hadn’t heard a word about these discussions. True, he held the rank of lesser god, but a god of any rank was still a god. Why had no one come to him? “So just like that I’m out on my ear?”

      “We did debate this for over two centuries. It was not a snap decision; I assure you. And Siddhartha argued for you hardest of all. He deems you necessary to ‘the joyful participation in the sorrows of the world.’”

      “Who argued against me?”

      “We shouldn’t get into that.” The Father shook a hand, his snowy locks spilling over his shoulders.

      “It was Discordia, wasn’t it?” Well that smarmy, contrary, scheming little bitch had better not cross his path anytime soon. “She could use a good buggering to loosen up that tight ass of hers.”

      “Easy, now.”

      Bacchus wanted to scream at the Father, but he dare not. He reached for his wineskin, remembered it was empty, jumped up, and dashed to the banquet table. With shaky hands, he threw aside platters of grapes, a half-consumed roasted suckling pig, and a pudding of figs and ambrosia before he found a wineskin. He drank greedily.

      Ages had passed since anyone had attacked Bacchus outright, and he’d always managed to pull his pretty, fleshy bottom out of the fire. Once he had invoked his female form, Bacchus draped herself across the Father’s lap with feline grace. Her golden hair spilled over masculine thighs. She wound a long, slender finger around a lock of the СКАЧАТЬ