9. CORIOLANUS

CORIOLANUS

The Present

A s Corey turned toward the DJ booth, he noticed Big G shutting everything down. Corey gleaned from the man’s thoughts that the strip club’s management assumed he had left after his first performance, possibly because he was embarrassed or overwhelmed; no further speculation occurred.

The floor manager had collected the tip money thrown up on the stage for him after he walked off leaving everyone spellbound. Big G held onto the cash, intending to contact Corey about the money and a much-desired repeat performance. Corey was pleased that his mental invasion of Big G’s noggin revealed that the man was not just a harness-wearing dick pig who loved mid-90s dance music: he was a fair and honest businessman.

And though the god appreciated the mortal’s genuineness and business acumen, what use was money and the pursuit of it to The Eternal? Like the few gods he had encountered over two millennia always did, Corey took what he wanted, like Tony’s lip balm—or human life.

Corey discovered early on in his godhood that he was of the bloodline of the Titan Coeus, one of the first immortals. This was a being he had never met, and one Olympius seldom spoke of.

According to his Maker, being of Titan blood meant they were superior to any Olympian bloodline, more beautiful, and more powerful, especially as time passed. They could be exceedingly gracious or vengeful. But they were fewer in number than the Olympians.

Still, all the pleasures of Gaia’s body—of Earth—were theirs by right of what Olympius called First Divinity . Their power over matter, elements, and energy, kinetic and psychic, made the toiling that mortals did to survive and thrive unnecessary.

As far as anyone attached to the club was concerned, Corey was an enigma, having intentionally left them with little to go on except a phone number and the name he gave: Corey Marcias, his public identity for the last two decades.

Now— Coriolanus ? That name meant strength and authority, which he still carried with pride. He had earned that name, but it became an archaic appellation long ago. Corey had not used it in centuries, though intractable Olympius refused to call him anything else.

Growth and adaptation, moving successfully through the ages with grace and fluidity, was a talent Corey possessed in spades. It was a function of modern godhood he realized centuries ago his Maker struggled to comprehend and could never master. And though some time had passed since they last saw each other, the idea of Olympius evolving never crossed Corey’s mind.

Tonight, the god held no illusions that any mortal at the club genuinely wanted to know him as a fully-formed individual. Was he not just a flesh and blood sex toy to them, a fantasy for the men to jack off to later that night, wishing he was there with them? A gorgeous dark-haired stripper they imagined seductively tonguing their flesh like a delectable dessert and kissing their mouth with an insatiable hunger.

Or his favourite, performing fellatio with talent and skill that would make their eyes roll back into their heads. Way back! The giving of pleasure, be it to man or immortal, was something the god excelled at.

Corey could suck a mean cock!

Wasting no more time, the god moved closer to his prey, still seated at his table, though now entirely alone. He could hear the sound of the man’s beating heart, the level somewhat elevated by his desire to find and know the dancer who had bewitched him. The god did not have to read his thoughts to determine the mortal wanted to take him—or, perhaps, for him to be the aggressor, which was the more likely craving.

As the strip club was closing, Corey heard the bouncer tell his prey rather brusquely to leave but to come back another night, spend more money, and perhaps the guy he had been asking about all fucking night might be working.

Corey was the club’s most popular new performer in some time, and the demand for his return was exuberant. Though it made the god smile, it would all have to wait; one mortal had Corey’s exclusive attention, at least for the rest of the night.

Visually disappointed that he would not meet the dancer he lusted after, the young man left the club; the clock showed 2:00 a.m.

Corey followed his prey out of the establishment, moving faster than any mortal eye could catch. While his dominion over darkness allowed for exceptional concealment, his uncanny speed was the only component of his vast power-set that produced near invisibility in all areas, lit or darkened. It was the closest he could get to an utterly imperceptible state. Even gods had limitations, though none would ever claim so. He did not quite have the speed of Mercury, but next to it.

Looking around Yonge St., Corey noticed it was relatively naked of travellers. Generally, he loved seeing the parade of humans in their garments of wildly differing fashions. Toronto, much like New York and London, held many eclectic sights. His favourites were always the alternative-looking characters, the mortals who went against the safe, popular trends of the majority. Especially the theatrical ones, like the goths, for they desired to emulate immortals in their dark, charming way.

Or at least emulate the vampiric interpretation, for Corey had come to see that contemporary minds no longer cared much for the old gods in concept or religious belief. The ancient deities who drank the blood of their worshipers, secretly sustaining their immortality and godly might, had fallen out of favour long ago, pushed to the side to make way for invented monotheistic religions.

Corey lamented the plight of ancient immortals, reduced to existing in mythology and folktales, classified for centuries as vampires, nosferatu, and the strigoi, among many other disparaging epithets.

Unlike Olympius, Corey could move easily about in the day, though, as a night god, it was not his natural time. A truth he had learned quickly after his Becoming was that a god’s power became significantly hampered in the domain not linked to their blood. Most gods could move in both worlds and at any time as they never required sleep; some occasionally slept by choice to experience dreams or slumber away the centuries, bored or hiding from a world they no longer understood.

Immortality was not for wimps.

To this day, Corey still wondered why his Maker could not move about freely in the daylight without hiding in shadows and dark spots. He knew Olympius was full of well-kept secrets.

Though he rarely interacted with other immortals, Corey knew many gods took great offence to this supernatural slander of vampirism, particularly Eos of the Dawn, or “Elodie,” her modern moniker, a child of the Titan Hyperion—and a complete bitch. Apollo, the Olympian god of the sun, was also highly affronted by the comparison.

Though deities of opposing realms, Corey and Apollo, a narcissist who also went by the names “Paulus” and “Paul,” were actually friends starting in ancient times, with the relationship always remaining platonic. Though, Apollo’s ego often tested the limits of their friendship.

Corey cared very little about the global perception of immortals, whether flawed fact or complete fiction. He was a god, period, and as the modern queer community was fond of saying, he owned his authentic self . No one else would define him.

Like many, Corey believed imitation was the sweetest form of flattery. He had never considered turning a mortal, a term he hated, overused by contemporary fiction. Corey remembered very little of his Becoming; Olympius refused to reveal to him the process of transforming mortality into godhood. And he was not about to be guided by human films or book lore .

Or the worst humiliation: ask another god, like Apollo, how to make an immortal. That was simply not an option for Corey.

As far as mortals and gods were concerned, Corey stuck with the notion that worked best for him: they were two separate and immutable states of being.

And though Corey had never needed or wanted worshippers, it was nice to know that the gods were still relevant to history and world culture, especially with the modern invention of “pop culture.” There, he had encountered many thrilling nods to his kind—the Classical, non-gothic versions.

He loved the entertaining Ray Harryhausen films, like the original Clash of the Titans , with those fabulous British thespians chewing the scenery, acting how they thought gods would. Or the delightful Percy Jackson series of novels. Nothing was ever wholly correct in their imaginative retellings, but he adored the playfulness of it all.

Corey had little interest in interacting with other immortals. The few he encountered over the millennia were like Olympius: arrogant, controlling, and untrustworthy. Even Apollo was best in small doses. Corey preferred his own company. It was as his Maker told him: immortals do well alone.

Though the Eternal of all realms co-existed throughout the ages, Corey used his exceptional talents to ensure they rarely noticed him. All gods were masters at masking their presence, but he had perfected the art. Speed and shadow were his bitches.

Still, the desire to meet and share experiences specifically with other night gods burned deep inside him. He wished to meet other offspring of the Titan Coeus besides Olympius if they existed. The possibility of meeting the offspring of the Titaness Phoebe also filled him with excitement.

His Maker’s impulsive, periodic reappearances plagued Corey; no god could conceal themselves from the one who initiated their Becoming. He acknowledged and accepted that Olympius loved him profoundly—in his twisted way.

And Corey loved his Maker as much as he claimed to the contrary; he could not help himself. But was it a side-effect of the transformation to godhood or the influence of Olympius’ blood that flowed through him? Or was he genuinely in love with him by his own agency?

Did he still believe in their connection, that they were Fated Lovers , as both Olympius and Fortuna did? He still felt it; even thinking about it made him naturally lighter and happier. But was it real? Not that it mattered; Corey could never trust him. Olympius’ lies, impediments to personal freedom, and the destruction delivered to his doorstep time and again—!

No, the god wanted no more happy recollections fighting against maudlin and angry thoughts; all it did was negatively affect his emotions. Olympius was who he was.

Done ruminating on a bitter past, Corey returned his attention to the mortal. In the short time the god was distracted, lost in thoughts best forgotten, the prey had gotten quite a bit ahead of him. The man’s pace had quickened significantly from when he had left the strip club, like he was suddenly on alert, attempting to outrun something unnerving yet invisible. Corey thought it odd, wondering if the mortal sensed his presence as he followed him.

Corey smirked, amused by the thought that Church St., which they were now on, was most likely the culprit, as it could give any young, gay virgin anxious chills, especially around the witching hour.

The god decided to stop playing cat and mouse, finding it had become rather tiresome and spoiled by his recurring thoughts of Olympius. It was time to refocus and initiate a new encounter with his admirer.