DOMINION by Bentley Little (interesting books to read .TXT) 📗

were in school, the two of them, in a classroom, though the teacher and the other students were vague, misty figures and he could not see them. He saw only Penelope. She was talking to him about a movie she’d seen on television the night before, and he was listening happily, glad merely to be there with her, to be able to enjoy these simple everyday pleasures with her.

Dionysus awoke, tears streaming down his face.

What was wrong with him?

Hangover.

That had to be it, although he had never gotten hangovers in the old days. That physiological inconvenience had been reserved for humans. He had been immune.

Not anymore, apparently.

He wiped his eyes. One of his maenads—one of Penelope’s mothers—was sleeping between his legs, her hands wrapped around his organ. He thought of pissing on her, but he knew that she’d like that, so he pulled up his leg and kicked her hard in the midsection. She went flying across the grass, landing on an old couple entwined with a goat. He was gratified to hear screams, to hear the crack of old bones.

He stood, strode over the strewn bodies on the grass, and jumped into the river. The cold water felt good, refreshing, and he washed off the grape stains, washed off the blood. He bent down, dunked his head, let the water clean the tears from his eyes, then stretched to his full height, shaking out his hair.

He looked down at his body. He was smaller than he should be, closer to a human than a god. Before, he had been bigger.

But this new skin was tight, confining. Even his brain felt small. He ran a hand through his hair, looked up into the overcast sky. His thoughts too were confined. He seemed unable to think clearly.

And he was not himself.

That was the most difficult adjustment to make. He knew things that he should not have known, felt things he should not have felt, thought things he should not have thought. He knew this new language, knew this new culture. He had memories of this existence. He had been reborn, but the rebirth had not happened the way he’d thought it would. He closed his eyes. The others would not have this problem. They would be reborn pure, as themselves. He was the only one who would have to suffer this dual existence.

And it was not fair.

It had always been thus. He was forever the outcast, Zeus’ whipping boy, forced to endure humiliation after humiliation merely because of the fact that he was half human.

And the fact that he preferred wine to ambrosia.

Those self-important elitists never could understand sensual pleasures, the wonders of the flesh. Or perhaps they could, on a purely intellectual level. But they could never feel it.

He could.

And they were jealous of that.

And they took it out on him.

He walked out of the river, back onto the bank. He was supposed to mate with Penelope, who would bring forth from her golden womb the remaining gods. He desperately wanted to mate with her—a combination, he knew, of his own sexual desires and Zeus’ subliminal prodding—but he was not at all sure that he wanted to share this world with the others. This was his world now, his alone, and he liked it that way. There was no reason he should share. He was as powerful as the other gods and more versatile in a lot of respects. He could assume their duties. He could take over Poseidon’s role as ruler of the seas. That was a part-time job to begin with. And Ares? Who couldn’t wage war? A moron could handle that.

What about an underworld? That was a much bigger responsibility.

Could he maintain that?

There was only one way to find out.

He looked around, finally focusing his attention on the land across the river. Drawing upon the power within him, he loosed a withering blast of heat and fire at the location. The land scorched, burned, and was changed. In place of the trees and bushes, lawns and houses, there was charred earth and burnt air. The perfect environment for the dead.

But how to effect the dead’s transition?

He glanced about him. To his left, on a slab of concrete, was the mutilated body of a young man, someone’s used plaything. Grinning, Dionysus walked over and picked up the man’s corpse, raising it to the level of his face. He held the body and concentrated.

The man’s glazed eyes blinked, his mouth worked silently. His stiffened limbs moved slowly, with effort, the jelled blood in his joints flowing slowly across the cold skin.

Yes.

He could maintain an underworld too.

He threw the corpse across the river. It bounced against a burnt tree, cracking a branch, then stood awkwardly. The dead man remained unmoving for a moment, then shambled dumbly into the smoke away from the water.

Fuck the others. Fuck Zeus. Fuck Hera. Fuck Athena. Fuck Apollo. Fuck all of them! This was his world now. He did not need them.

He would not bring them back.

9

The clocks had stopped. All of them. Penelope thought at first that it was merely electric clocks that were not working, but battery-powered watches, wind-up alarm clocks, every timepiece in the house was now functionally dead.

Power had gone out sometime last night, although the water was still on.

Thank God. She didn’t relish the idea of not bathing, of not having a toilet that flushed.

But power? Water? Those were minor inconveniences.

The clocks worried her.

She might have imagined it, but last night had seemed unusually long, much longer than it should have, and she could not help wondering if Dion—

Dionysus—had somehow affected time, had somehow altered the normal laws of physics. She thought of the bolt of power she’d seen shooting into the sky from the meadow that first night, and she had no trouble believing that he could do it.

Maybe he was planning to shorten the days, lengthen the nights. Maybe everything here in the valley would happen in the rest of the world’s split second.

There was a