My Eros (Modern Cupid and Psyche Dirty)

"Are you sure?" The librarian's tone is dubious. "Because we do have such books, but they're written for young readers."

"Um..." I'm starting to feel a little out of my depth. I had no idea kids these days were so divine-savvy.

"Would that work?"

I shake my head. "What I need is something more like a...well..." I clear my throat. "An idiot's guide?"

Five minutes later, and I'm carrying a pile of books to the nearest desk. With just the first one alone - 10,000 Most Asked Questions about Dreams and the Divine - I already have a good-slash-bad inkling of the workings behind my dream.

So, the good news: gods have no power to kill humans in the dream world.

The bad news: other than that, anything else goes, and it's why the dream world has become the favorite playground of the divine.

I move on to the second book, and this, too, sheds more light on my subconscious activities. There are only three reasons why a god may appear in a human's dream: to deliver a message, to curse or bless the dreamer...or, in very rare cases, the fates of both human and god are entwined by destiny, and what the Crones weave, no one can untangle.

MY ALARM GOES OFF AT exactly fifteen minutes before seven, and I reluctantly take the books back to the counter. Although today's Halyna is a lot more smarter than yesterday's Halyna divine-wise, the information I've collected has only made me more anxious. I'd really rather not think that my fate is tied to a god, but if it is...what then?

The guidance counselor I'm supposed to be meeting in an hour also has an office in 44 Rosemary Square, but on my way there an all-black structure catches my eye, and my steps slow to a halt. It's all sleek lines, matte black walls, and panoramic windows, and it's the first building I've seen in the entire campus that actually seems to belong to this century.

I take my phone out, and according to my map, the building I'm looking at is...The Art Gallery of the Roses of the Erotes?

So it's not enough for this school to have its own wildlife reserve? It has to have its own art gallery, too?

This place doesn't even feel surreal anymore. It feels downright unbelievable, and the more I see, the less I understand about their reasons for taking me in. Every school in California has turned down my application for transfer while Rosethorne here has practically welcomed me with open arms. Am I reading too much or too little in the matter? Is it dumb luck that I'm here or did someone divine put me—-

My thoughts come to a half as the gallery's glass doors turn out to have motion sensors, and they slide open automatically as soon as I'm within range.

There's only one painting in the first section of the gallery, and it's something that I've never seen.

The Roses of Heliogabalus by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, 1888

This is going to make me sound like a philistine, but I recognize neither the name nor the painting's title, and all I can do is gaze admiringly at the painting. The flowers look really nice, and...oh shit, are those footsteps I'm hearing?

I quickly turn around, and my eyes immediately clash with a stranger's hooded dark gaze that sweeps over me with peculiar intensity.

The first thing I notice about him is his height. I'm five-foot-two, so practically everyone I meet is taller by comparison. But this man? He's really tall. Like, guaranteed-to-tower-even-over-supermodels tall, and I'm already dreading the need to crane my neck if I were to look him in the eye. Doing that always makes me feel I'm at an automatic disadvantage, and I hate it.

And as for the second thing I've noticed—-

It's what has me silently gulping, since I don't think I've ever seen a man so beautiful...that he can actually give me a run for my money. His hair is a jet-black mass of unruly waves, just a tad longer than what may be considered normal, and my fingers are itching to brush away the dark lock of hair brushing over his left brow. His nose is strong and refined, his cheekbones proud and high, and his jaw chiseled to perfection...just like the rest of his body. The perfect fit of his white buttoned-down shirt emphasizes the sculpted breadth of his shoulders, and the way he's rolled up his sleeves to his elbows leaves the muscles in his forearms wonderfully exposed.

When he takes a step forward, I can't help but do the same. There seems to be an invisible pull between us, almost as if the heavens have created this man just to tempt me to sin—-

"Hello."

Oh Lord.

Even his voice is another form of seduction. It's just the right blend of deep and husky, and though there's also this odd note I detect in his voice, I'm too enamored to make myself care.