Oath of Fire

by K Arsenault Rivera

Genres: Fantasy Romance; Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

This lush and gripping sapphic retelling of the Psyche and Eros legend combines Greek mythology with a fae court feel.

All Psyche ever wanted to do was help people, whether it's in her job as a therapist or online as an influencer. So when a mysterious invitation arrives from the most captivating man she's ever seen, asking for her assistance, she can't refuse. But Psyche soon finds herself in a world of Courts, full of debauchery and treachery, where her only option for survival is to swear a strange oath to a mysterious masked woman named Eros. 

Now Psyche has to figure out how to fulfill her end of her bargain with Eros, while trying to navigate having a flame-winged goddess show up in her tiny Brooklyn apartment. Uncanny vistas, a spacious mansion, and decadent experiences are all Psyche’s for the taking—so long as she helps Eros, and so long as she never looks under Eros’s mask.

But how long can she keep her curiosity at bay when Eros makes her heart tremble?  

Release date: August 13, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

If flames shot down from the sky and anchored themselves in the streets of New York City, Psyche couldn’t imagine it would get any hotter. So far as she was concerned, her morning transfer at Herald Square meant running across the molten surface of Venus. But she—brave, curious Psyche—perseveres. At the end of this trip, there are people who need her.

The train, when it arrives, offers her little in the way of comfort. The AC inside is on full blast—but there are dozens packed shoulder to shoulder in the confines of the car. She hardly has room to breathe.

It reminds her of Calhoun’s rat city experiments, which generally found that urban areas were inclined to be awful and degenerate by nature. But to Psyche that couldn’t be more wrong. However bad morning trains can be, there are always good things to see, too. People giving up their seats for others who need them. Students talking about their classes and their vibrant lives. A woman shouting on the phone is trying to plan a meetup for her mother’s birthday, but her siblings can’t hear her over the din of the crowd. Psyche catches sight of a couple snuggled up together in last night’s rumpled cocktail dresses, and she suppresses a pang of longing.

Yes, there are beautiful things in cities. Things worth protecting.

The walk uptown only makes it clearer to her. Despite the heat there are drummers out beating a rhythm for everyone to enjoy, the clatter of change in their upturned drum cases the only interruption. A runner jogs along the street with his great big Shiba running after him. Construction workers huddle and gossip.

Of course, the runner nearly bowls her over and the construction workers catcall her, but… there’s always good and bad. And after five years of living here, she’s prepared to accept the city’s flaws along with its benefits. A half decade can endear you to a place.

Humming along to the Kacey Musgraves song playing in her earbuds, Psyche checks her phone. Fifteen emails—mostly spammy notifications from this or that site, but there are a couple of session cancellations and reschedules. There always are. She tries not to think of them as lost money but as opportunities to catch up on her work for other clients. Maybe she can watch a little of that Jujutsu Kaisen show Alex is always talking about; she seems to project a lot of her problems onto the characters.

But emails aren’t the only thing to tend to. She’s got well over a hundred notifications from her other followers, too. Mostly comments on her last Instagram posts.

Lovelovelove this layout! Where did you get those stickers? What markers are those?

Your handwritingggg! It’s giving Victorian diary!

Any tea on Laura and Mike?

It’s been like two months since you had a date girl what is going ON?

Your hands are as beautiful as ever. My first wife had hands just like this. Long, slender fingers. She used to massage…

Psyche winces. Most of the time her followers were nice people who liked looking at her planners or commenting on her selfies. But sometimes they were… weird. Parasocial relationships allowed people enough of a disconnect to imagine they could say anything at all to her, and they often did. Her older sister, Laura, was a professional influencer—but every other photo she posted included her husband, Mike. She did it to keep the creeps away.

The best Psyche could do was keep her face out of it unless she was posting with her cat. Yet that didn’t do much to stave them off. Every day her mentions are flooded with thirsty suitors of all kinds, shooting their shots.

Maybe she should just get rid of her account.

No, no, she can’t—for every one thirsty comment, there are three people who enjoy the advice she posts, or her live AMAs. She can’t just abandon her regulars. No matter how annoying everyone else can be.

But for now she tucks her phone back into her pocket and opens the door to the office. There, behind the reception desk, is Jiyoung. But something’s off. Instead of her usual bright smile, she offers Psyche only a curt nod.

“Morning,” Psyche says. She picks up a Hi-Chew from Ji-young’s candy bowl. Something about them always leaves her feeling better than if she’d grabbed a Kit Kat. “Rough night?”

“Uh.” Jiyoung’s rapid typing stops. “No, uh. Streamed some movies, you know the deal. Pretty regular.”

“What’d you watch?” Psyche asks.

There—Jiyoung’s sly smile returns. After glancing to make sure Dr. Kaminsky isn’t around to hear, she leans forward. “Requiescat.”

Psyche hops in excitement. “No way. That’s out already? How’s Miss Flo?”

“She’s awesome. It’s like Lady Macbeth meets Hereditary. And don’t even get me started on Paul Mescal, he’s so good in this, and—”

“Don’t spoil it!” Psyche says, waving an eager hand. “Bondi made me promise we’d watch it together after my Crystal Dragon raid this week and if I cheat, she’s gonna kill me.”

Jiyoung waggles her eyebrows. “Bondi, huh? This a date?”

“No, nothing like that. She’s my best friend,” Psyche says. She leaves out that she and Bondi have never actually met in real life. “Anyway, let’s talk more about it next week.”

The glee that had come into Jiyoung’s face flickers and there’s a tremor in her voice. “Yeah. Next week. See you, Psy.”

There’s a certain tingle at the back of Psyche’s head—one she often felt as a child. Whenever Laura had chucked Cid’s toys out the window, or whenever Cid had thrown Laura’s expensive sweaters into the washer to shrink them, she’d feel it. Whenever her father received a new post and they needed to move again—she’d get that tingle and know before he told them. And when her mother got sick, well…

But it couldn’t be anything too bad, right? Five whole years in New York this week, and one year working for Dr. Kaminsky. Sure, it’s hot now, but it’d be nice and cool when she gets out at night. She brought a salad with her favorite homemade vinaigrette for lunch; she has a movie to look forward to. Everything is going to be all right.

Everything is stable.

She says it over and over as she boards the elevator: Everything is going to be okay.

Photos of Psyche’s Maine coon, Latte, decorate her cubicle. Potted plants lend it some semblance of life. She read somewhere that you think better if you have plants around you. The truth of that remains to be seen, but they do make her feel better, and that counts for a lot.

Yet the moment her butt touches the cushion, her phone rings. A jolt of shame runs through her. Psyche looks around the room one more time. No witnesses. Probably just a client, right…?

The caller ID says otherwise. Dr. Kaminsky? That guy never comes in before noon. Psyche always comes in around eight so she can leave an hour early.

There it is again: that awful tingling in the back of her head. He wants to fire her, doesn’t he? Like her last couple of bosses. Maybe he couldn’t stand her. She hadn’t bothered to explain the two-year gap in her résumé when he hired her, and her grades never really recovered after all the hospital stuff. Plenty of other therapists were way more qualified, and maybe he’d known that the whole time, maybe the only reason he’d hired her at all was that he was Mike’s dad, which technically made him her… what do you call your brother-in-law’s dad, anyway?

No, no. She’s catastrophizing.

Psyche takes a breath. Maybe he’s in for a good reason. What’s a good reason to be in so early? Maybe he and Mike are meeting up later and that’s why he wants to be done with work sooner. Wouldn’t that be nice? A little father-son trip through the city to do whatever rich people do with their time.

Hold on to that idea. Let it become the truth, and let the disaster slip away. Psyche takes two breaths and picks up the phone.

“Good morning, Dr. Kaminsky! I hope—”

“Can you come to my office please, Ms. Dimitriou? We need to talk.”

Oh.

Oh fuck.

The tips of her fingers go cold. She swallows. “Of course,” she says. It’s all she can bring herself to say without her voice cracking. She doesn’t even bother saying goodbye; she just hangs up and stands.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. He might have caught her peeking. Maybe it’s a small reprimand? Maybe…

God, this sort of thing never happened to Laura. Even Cid just stayed home playing games all day to make money. Why’s she always the one who messes things up?

Every step toward Dr. Kaminsky’s office is filled with more dread than the last. By the time she turns the doorknob, it’s a wonder she has any strength left at all.

Dr. James Kaminsky sits behind his desk. The tailored suit and slicked-back gray hair don’t exactly scream therapist—but then again he doesn’t spend much time in the office. Still, the photos and awards on the wall speak to a long and successful career. In one, placed right on his desk, the good doctor poses with his son Mike and Laura on their wedding day.

Psyche’s in that photo. The full version, anyway. In the one on Dr. Kaminsky’s desk, she’s been cropped out.

Not that she noticed or anything.

Dr. Kaminsky gestures for her to sit without so much as a good morning wave. “We have a lot to discuss.”

“So early?” Psyche says. To her shame she can’t keep her anxiety from reaching her voice. “Did something happen with a patient?”

“You could say that.” He hits the intercom button on his phone. “Jiyoung, could you send Kate into my office?”

Jiyoung says she’s already on the way.

Which is bad, because Kate’s the practice’s lawyer.

At that moment Psyche wants nothing more than to sink through the floor. Where would she end up if she did? The finance firm the floor beneath them, probably. She’s never liked finance bros, but maybe she could hide out there for a while. Find a spacious broom closet and disappear. Turn off her phone and just… not exist.

But life so rarely allows for miracles; Psyche’s least of all. Kate comes in only a couple of seconds later with two coffees in hand. She sets one on Dr. Kaminsky’s desk. He picks it up and takes a sip, nods, then sets the cup back down.

“Ms. Dimitriou,” Dr. Kaminsky starts. “You’ve been with us nearly a year now, haven’t you?”

“A year and two days,” Psyche corrects.

“Right. About a year. And prior to that you worked for…”

“Six practices in three years,” Kate reads from a folder.

The urge to argue, to point out that some of those times she got fired were really unfair, is strong. She swallows it down. Psyche’s well aware of how it looks.

“That’s right,” she says. “I’m grateful you’ve put so much faith in me. I feel like I’m really starting to flourish here.”

“We’re happy to hear that,” he says. “Your sister’s always spoken very highly of you. Your… crisis management skills, especially.”

She’s shocked to hear that Laura’s acknowledged her skills at all. She squeezes her fidgeting hands and breaks eye contact.

“I, um. I’ve had a lot of practice,” Psyche says.

People don’t like to hear about what that kind of practice entailed. They don’t ever like to hear about that.

“That’s why we’re so puzzled about this turn of events. It isn’t like you, and it’s certainly not like the woman we heard so much about,” says Kaminsky. He gestures to Kate.

“Ms. Dimitriou,” Kate says, keeping her voice so gentle that the knife of anxiety is all Psyche feels, “we received a complaint three days ago. Due to its severity, we took a little time to investigate the claims behind it, and we’ve found them to have merit.”

“A complaint?” Psyche says. “I… About me?”

“I’m afraid so. Does the name Alex Lot ring any bells?”

No. Oh, no. Psyche bites the inside of her mouth to keep from throwing up. Alex is one of her favorite clients. What could possibly be the problem?

“Yes,” she says. “We have an appointment later today, actually. She’s made a lot of progress. I mean, her panic attacks are down to maybe once a week, and I think she’ll be ready to come out soon—”

“It’s about that,” says Kate. From the folder, she pulls a small stack of white papers, stapled together, and hands them over.

Emails, Psyche realizes. The ones between her and Alex’s parents discussing her transition. They’ve known for a long time, even though Alex hasn’t felt comfortable enough to tell them. Part of the reason they signed her up for therapy here. They wanted to make sure she was in a healthy place. Planning a family getaway where they could safely talk about Alex’s feelings on the matter and let her know how much they cared, asking for resources…

“I don’t understand,” she says. “What’s the matter? Alex’s parents are really supportive of her—”

“But Alex didn’t tell her parents, did she?” Kate says.

Silence in the room.

Like weeds, responses grow in Psyche’s head. It’s more complicated than that, she thinks, or I didn’t exactly tell them. But what’s the right thing to say? Her heart’s hammering so hard she can’t hear herself think.

“I… I understand that it looks like I violated Alex’s confidence,” she says. “But I’m telling you that I didn’t. I never told them anything about our sessions. I just wanted to provide them with the resources they needed and requested.”

Kaminsky frowns. He takes a breath. “Psyche, if you were Alex and you read those emails, what would you think?”

Once more she looks them over.

Hi Mr. Lot,

I’d be happy to help facilitate a discussion with Alex about all this once she’s comfortable. Your daughter’s very bright…

“I’d be… I’d be happy, I think? A little surprised, but happy to know my parents wanted to talk with me,” she says. “Isn’t that what everyone wants? People around them who care?”

“Some people,” says Kate, “value their privacy more than that. And Alex happens to be one of them.”

She hands over another sheet. On it: a screen cap of a review from their practice’s web page of testimonials, along with an email. Both are from Alex and say nearly the same thing.

How do you live with yourselves knowing you employ a transphobic therapist? Psyche Dimitriou outed me to my family before I was ready to talk with them.

Two sentences—each an arrowhead in Psyche’s chest. The fields of the dead are not colder than the chill that overcomes her.

“Alex sent us the emails. She seems to have seen them on her mother’s iPad, which was still synced when one came in. As you can see, the comment’s already gotten a fair bit of attention.”

The screen cap shows the review has hundreds of upvotes and a comment thread dozens of posts long. Psyche doesn’t even want to imagine what’s inside that.

“In this life, sometimes we have to make difficult decisions. Do I think you meant to cause any trouble? No. But it does look bad for us. Catastrophically bad. Our clients pay us what they do because of our outstanding discretion.”

Kaminsky’s right. His firm’s clients are mostly rich folks and their teens. Psyche works primarily with the smaller clientele of kids who wouldn’t be able to afford this care if not for city grants and assistance programs.

Every day she’s come to work proud to be helping people who need her.

She might not have that anymore.

Alex really posted that, didn’t she? God, she must be hurting. If Psyche could just explain…

The words come. The inevitable words, the scissors that sever the thread of her fate. Knowing what they will be does not lessen their hurt.

“We’re going to have to let you go.”

Few things in life are as pure, as unadulterated, as natural as a cat’s affectionate disregard. When Psyche returns home—all her posters and photos and files in a plain cardboard box—her cat does not bound up to the door to greet her. Oh no. Latte has more important things to do. Staring daggers at the birds perched on the fire escape, for instance.

Psyche sets her box down on her kitchen counter. Tomorrow she’ll sort through them and figure out what she wants to keep—but today it’s all too painful. God, she’s going to have to send so many emails. Reschedule things for her clients. Make sure they’re in good hands.

And that’s if anyone wants to hear from her again now that Alex’s post is all over the internet.

Psyche groans. Thoughts swirl faster and faster, catching her in a vortex of shame and guilt.

What is she going to do?

Psyche scoops up Latte from her perch. Outside, the birds scatter. Only a single dove remains. Pale brown, with white tips, and a stare as intense as the one Latte has for it in turn.

She tries to hold her cat tight.

But a cat will always have ideas of its own—and Latte scampers out of her grip to stand once more at the window.

Loneliness is not new to Psyche. Far from it. Loneliness has stalked her all her life. While her sisters fought and Psyche had to mediate, it watched and waited for her. In the hospital she felt it at her side when her mother slept. And now?

In the time she’s lived in New York she’s had company only twice. One of those was a visit from Laura.

It was the unbearable weight of loneliness’s regard that compelled her to adopt a cat. And it isn’t as if she doesn’t have any friends. Her Crystal Dragon Knight XIV raid group meets every other night, pretty much. Whenever they aren’t beating up enemies in the game, they’re usually hanging out on one of their chat servers, streaming movies, or playing party games. It’s fun. When she’s with her internet friends, she doesn’t have to worry about what they think of her. She isn’t Psyche, Laura’s little sister, or Psyche, Cid’s older sister.

She’s just Psyche.

A jobless, lonely Psyche—but Psyche nonetheless.

She doesn’t bother with any of the “productive” things one might do for their grief. Journaling is no comfort when she knows full well what she feels about this already; there’s no use talking it out with Latte when Latte doesn’t want to pay attention.

Instead she picks up a glass of the mead Laura sent her, heats up some day-old halal food, and sits in front of her computer. With her phone chucked halfway across the room, she won’t get any social media notifications—only the messages from her raid group.

And there are plenty of those.

Scrolling through the group chat makes it easier to forget her situation. So she won’t have a job tomorrow—there will still be things the group needs her to do in game. Materials to gather, quests to run.

She can still help here without hurting anyone.

So she does. She logs in. Whom to play today? She has two characters leveled up: a gothy, pale dragoon straight out of Castlevania, and a cute little black mage with a big hat and bigger damage numbers. Does she want to face off with a big spear and do flips, or does she want to blow things up…?

Taking a sip of the mead, Psyche picks the mage.

She only makes it a few in-game feet before she gets a call that brings a smile to her salt-streaked face.

“If it isn’t my favorite little ankle breaker. How’s it going?”

Bondi’s voice comes through in a thick Australian drawl. Psyche’s best friend is awake at four in the morning just as she always is. Bondi’s chronic insomnia and Psyche’s inability to put a game down once she’s started it mean they’ve spent an awful lot of time together. She’s the only one who knows Psyche’s real name in the whole group. Bondi’s character, an eight-foot-tall elf built like a linebacker, has always loomed over Psyche’s black mage.

“There’s no way you’re that tall in real life,” Psyche says—not for the first time.

Bondi scoffs. “Why don’t you try me? The drop bears will tear you apart before you have any chance of reaching me. They’re vicious creatures, Psy. Do you have any idea how many people die to drop bears every year?”

“You tell me every time it comes up,” Psyche says.

“And you never believe me! Would a wilderness guide lie, Psyche? Would she go on the internet and tell lies to her mates?”

Despite herself and despite the situation, Psyche finds herself laughing.

But there is a strange quality to laughter—the catharsis it brings does not care whether the tears you cry are from joy or sorrow. As Psyche laughs alone in her room, with her only company thousands of miles away, the tears that come are less about the joke and more about what she’s lost. Laughter breaks into sobs, her strength leaving her like threads pulled from a doll’s seams. Soon she’s crumpled over the desk.

“Psyche? What’s wrong, love?”

Everything, Psyche wants to say. Her job’s gone. Her reputation’s in tatters. Laura’s probably going to call to ask what happened and berate her for fucking things up…

“Uuuuugh.”

“Shit, that bad?” says Bondi. Psyche hears her shuffling in her room on the other end of the globe. “If I’ve got to track someone down, I will.”

“Google my name right now, Bon,” Psyche whimpers. “I think it’s spread past just the therapy review sites now.”

A moment’s pause, the clatter of keycaps.

“Oh, Psy…”

“I know.”

“What happened? You’re not… what was all that about?”

“Alex is one of my clients. Her parents brought her in because they found a bunch of girls’ clothes and makeup in her room, and they thought she might be having some issues with her gender. They wanted her to have someone to talk with about it. I mean, they’re good people.”

Bondi’s big elf sinks down to hug Psyche’s little witch.

“We kept in touch about Alex, just like I would with any client’s supportive parents. I tried not to give too much away, but they already knew, Bon, so what point was there? I wanted to help them make things easier at home for her, and…”

Psyche sighs.

“She saw an email she wasn’t meant to see about her and her dysphoria, and she was very upset about it. Which—well, I understand. Really I do. I mean, if it were me, then I could… I could understand, you know, being…”

Bondi’s elf pats Psyche’s witch on the head. In so doing the elf’s hands clip through the hat, making the whole thing a little absurd.

“Psy. You don’t have to go making excuses. It’s okay to feel hurt.”

“Not when there’s a kid who’s even more hurt,” Psyche mumbles. “God. What am I gonna do, Bon? I fucked everything up again, and now Laura’s gonna have to clean up after me, and the thought of picking up my phone makes me sick.”

“Well, don’t pick up your phone, then,” Bondi says. “That’s the first step. Posting’s the mind-killer, and it isn’t going to make your situation any better.”

Psyche groans.

There’s a certain tone Bondi’s voice takes sometimes—maybe she’s leaning more into her headset—that makes it feel like she’s throwing an arm around you.

“I’m serious. Let me into your Insta and I’ll look after it today. Any mess comes in and I’ll get rid of it. Whenever you’re ready, it’ll be cleaner than Blinky Bill’s reputation.”

Honestly, it isn’t a bad idea. Psyche doesn’t want to imagine what her notifications are like at this point, let alone how they’re going to be for the rest of the day. And who else would she trust to do somethin. . .