This is 21st Century Leda. Our narrator is Zeus, dallying with a girl in a pub. He is leading the poor girl upstairs...
Up the stairs. Leda's smiling at me. Posters on the walls – Bela Lugosi, Christopher Lee, Ingrid Pitt. Centuries ago the adornments would be carvings of me, of Aphrodite (working for Chanel, last I heard), or of Athene. I tighten my grip on Leda’s waist, and she squirms against me encouragingly.
As far as I can tell, she’s no relation to the last girl of this name I had. I can usually feel the blood in them, if they have any hint of my bloodline. And that’s why I’m still important – why I still matter. Most of you are pale, drab beings, without a fraction of divinity. You need me, refreshing your bloodlines, so that there are still gods walking the earth.
Trouble is, most of your women are using contraceptives – even my fecund seed can’t work miracles. Progress, eh?
First room off the top of the stairs - landlord keeps it for me. Close the door and gaze deep into her eyes (not that it’s her eyes I’m interested in). She whispers “I know who you are.”
Final part next week.