Page 77 of I Will Always Find You
Lifting his arm, Olympius formed a portal of darkness upon one of the theatre’s walls; it was a doorway to their home.
“Step through. And you, Aric. Open your mind to me and show me where you live, and I shall create a doorway to your home as well.”
Aric scoffed at the offer. There was no way he was letting an immortal blood-drinker access the inside of his noggin. “No thanks. I’ll take the subway.”
Olympius informed the witches that the darkness he had summoned—an extension of his own will—would dissolve the moment he stepped through the portal. His shadows, sentient and exacting, had already slithered through the compound, seeping into every surveillance system, shorting circuits and corrupting data with silent precision. No recordings remained. No evidence would be left behind.
Cassian assured the group that he would cover the damages personally, as his quick temper andpossiblemisunderstanding, as that was yet to be determined, was the cause of the broken lights and other small messes. The Revue Theatre would not bear the cost of the cleanup and repairs, though they would never know where the funds came from.
After embracing Cassian tightly and making him promise to be wary, careful, and never let his guard down, Aric watched his husband disappear through the black portal. Then, as he made a quick escape out the back fire exit, he sent a silent prayer to the goddess Hecate, beseeching her to watch over and protect his husband.
And in the hush that lingers between the realms of mortal and immortal, the goddess of witchcraft was listening.
“So you see, my old friend, Olympius is entirely innocent.”
The story sounded too fantastical, yet Cassian knew his life’s narrative sounded just as outlandish. Such was the colourfulpath of those who lived within the supernatural. Anything was possible.
“Read my thoughts, Cassian,” Coriolanus offered freely. “See my truths. I also offer you my blood, for I recall that you possess knowledge of blood magic. The ichor that courses through the veins of an immortal is primordial, older than language, steeped in power that predates even the Titans. It cannot be manipulated, not by will nor spell. It speaks only truths.”
Arms crossed and on edge, the Romani witch stood in the center of the living room of his friend’s Bloor St. penthouse. He felt no threat here, but he remained too cautious to let his guard down. Plus, he had promised Aric to stay sharp and wary. Though he had banished the Dark Arts from his life, he felt the residual effects of its addictive influence, nonetheless. The dark power was always within him, though buried deep. Still, he knew he was stronger than it; he would not succumb.
Cassian had to admit, Gian’s penthouse was stunning and far more modern than he would have expected two ancient immortals to be comfortable in. His and Aric’s Victorian home had many contemporary features, but it was cozy, remaining true to its period essence. There was nothing old-world about this place, aside from some decorative pieces that appeared quite ancient, including several Greek and North African artifacts.
What was unsurprising was the lack of a single Roman relic. Cassian understood that, given Gian’s complicated history with Rome. And from the limited information he was given regarding Olympius’ background, it appeared that he bore no love for the Romans either, historically or otherwise. Cassian even learned that he and Gian shared a similar origin, as they were both ancient Romans. At the same time, Olympius and Aeneas were both products of a Roman father and a North African mother.
The Romani witch found it fascinating how Olympius had entirely lost the warm, dark honeyed hue that Aeneas had when alive, now mimicked by Aric. The immortal’s complexion was practically alabaster. Cassian had noticed earlier how Olympius used shadows in public to soften his ghostly appearance—something that became unmistakably clear the moment they stepped into the penthouse, as those carefully crafted tones vanished and he became strikingly paler.
Gian’s complexion was not far removed, yet he still carried a noticeable trace of that distinct bronze Mediterranean colouring that Cassian bore, himself.
Looking around, the Romani witch noted that the ceilings of the penthouse stretched just over three metres high, emphasizing the openness; yet, they lacked the vaulted feel that he loved in his own Victorian. The windows ran uninterrupted along two walls, offering a sweeping view from east to south across downtown Toronto. Now, at dusk, from this height, on the 70th floor, the view was breathtaking.
He wished Aric were here to share it with him.
Cassian watched the traffic creeping along Bloor, the streetcars pushing slowly down Yonge. The squat dome of Roy Thomson Hall was partially visible to the southwest, nestled between taller buildings. The CN Tower cut into the skyline at a distance, its needle-like tip piercing the cloud cover. He knew that luxury boutiques lined the street at the base of the building—Tiffany & Co., Louis Vuitton, and a few others he often passed but rarely entered.
To the north, the green canopy of Rosedale, where he lived with Aric, broke up the concrete sprawl, and to the west, High Park was barely a blur.
Coriolanus and Olympius stood in their living room, waiting for their guest to speak, wondering what his next move would be.The silence hung in the air, more strained than awkward, yet not quite chilly.
“I have to say,” Cassian finally began, pulling away from the stunning views and breaking the silence, “even taking into account the floor height, the soundproofing in this place is excellent. I can’t hear anything from the street. No sirens. No traffic. Impressive.”
“Yes, it’s a lovely home,” Olympius muttered under his breath.
“You can be a real jerk, you know that?” Cassian snarled.
Coriolanus gave his partner a withering look that spoke volumes.
“Sorry,” Olympius mumbled. “Yes, thank you. We are very happy here.”
The god’s apology felt forced, but the smartass quality was absent, so it mainly soundedgenuine to the Romani witch. “It’s fine.”
“No, Cassian, I truly am sorry,” Olympius voiced without an ounce of insincerity or pretension. “I’m ashamed that my ancient actions, which I cannot reveal, resulted in creating a monster that has inflicted such violence and trauma upon your life, upon the lives of so many. I cannot change the past. I can only move forward and continue to right the wrongs of what my Maker hath wrought.”
“Did he really just say ‘hath wrought’?” Winking at his old friend, Cassian smirked, a broad grin spreading across his face. The tension he had carried for years eased, not with a shift, but with clarity.
Olympius had never been his enemy. He saw that now, saw it in the way the god stood before him, not with pride or distance, definitely not with anger or hatred, but with sorrow buried deep in his eyes.
And there had been no betrayal on Gian’s part. Had he made it back to their village in Devonshire in time, he would have foughtthe fiend to the bitter end, tooth and nail, without a moment’s hesitation, to protect his friends, but most of all, his son. Cassian believed this completely. Their deaths had truly shattered the ancient warrior-god. For centuries, he had carried the weight of that grief in silence and bitterness, convinced that the man he loved, the god who had made him immortal, was the very one who had committed the atrocity.
