CHAPTER XII: A GAME WITH A GODDESS

CHAPTER XII – A GAME WITH A GODDESS

Hades returned to the Underworld and summoned Ilias. He was exhausted after expending so much energy keeping Poseidon’s magic at bay, but he had a plan to locate Sisyphus. It was the first time he had felt any kind of success since the beginning of this ordeal.

He poured a glass of whiskey and drank quickly, approaching the window to look out upon his realm, spotting Hecate walking with Persephone. The two goddesses talked and smiled and laughed, and Hades could not help thinking how perfect Persephone looked in his realm, like she belonged there, like she should have always been there.

“My lord?” Ilias asked.

Hades turned his head and found the satyr beside him, brow raised.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, amused.

Hades would have liked it better if he had realized Ilias had arrived.

“I have a job for you,” he said. “Poseidon gave Sisyphus a relic. A spindle, to be exact.”

The satyr’s eyes widened. “A spindle? Where did he get that?”

“That is your job,” Hades said. “Trace it.”

“And what would you like me to do when I find it?”

Usually, Hades gave Ilias free rein over how he dealt with illegal dealers. The satyr would organize raids, burn shops, destroy merchandise. On rare occasions, he found someone worthy of joining Iniquity.

“I want their name,” he replied. He would be visiting them personally.

“Consider it done,” Ilias bowed, but he did not leave Hades’ side. Looking outside, nodding toward Persephone and Hecate.

“She is curious about you,” he said.

“She is eager to examine my flaws,” Hades corrected.

The satyr chuckled. “I like her.”

“I am not seeking your approval, Ilias.”

“Of course not, my lord.”

With that, the satyr departed, and Hades watched until Persephone was no longer in view, but he could feel her presence in his realm, a torch that scorched a path across his skin. He considered seeking her out but thought against it. As much as he hoped to change Persephone’s opinion of himself, he also needed her to find solace and friendship in his realm.

Not needed.

Wanted.

He wanted her to find solace in his gardens, to walk the paths of the Underworld with Hecate, to celebrate with the souls. He wanted her to, one day, think of the Underworld as her home.

A strange feeling overcame him, one he was familiar with and hated—embarrassment. If anyone could hear his thoughts, they would laugh. The God of the Dead, hopeful for love, and yet he could not help it. When he had taken Persephone into his arms in the garden, when he had kissed her, he had suddenly understood what their life could be—passionate and powerful. He wanted that desperately.

And despite her dislike for him and his bargains, she could not deny her desire. He had felt it in the pull of her fingers through his hair, the mold of her soft body to his, and the desperation in her kiss.

His head started to rush, and a warmth spread through him that went straight to his cock. He groaned; he was going to have to expel some of this energy.

He shed his jacket and shirt and headed for the Asphodel Fields.

“Cerberus, Typhon, Orthrus, come!” he called, and turned in the direction of his approaching Dobermans. They charged through the grass, determined in their stride.

“Halt,” Hades commanded when they drew near, and the three obeyed and sat. Cerberus sat in the middle, Typhon on the right and Orthrus on the left. They were handsome dogs with glistening black coats, pointed ears, and wedge-shaped heads.

The three were never apart, always traveling in a pack, guarding the Underworld from intruders or unwelcomed deities who lived outside the gates of his realm. Sometimes, Hecate recruited them for various punishments, commanding them to feast upon innards or maul a deserving soul.

Hades preferred playtime.

“How are my boys, huh?” he asked, roughing up their ears. Their demeanor changed from fierce to playful. The dogs’ tails wagged, and their tongues lolled out of their mouths. “Punished a lot of souls today?”

He took some time to scratch behind their ears.

“Good boys, good, good boys.”

He summoned a red ball from thin air. When the dogs saw it, they sat straight, panting with anticipation. Hades grinned, tossing the ball into the air, once, twice, the dogs eyes following with rapt attention.

“Which one of you is fastest, huh? Cerberus? Typhon? Orthrus?”

As he called each Doberman’s name, they offered a growling bark, impatient for the chase.

Hades smirked, feeling a little devilish.

“Stay,” he commanded, and then threw the ball.

Fetch with Cerberus, Typhon, and Orthrus was not like fetch with normal dogs. Hades’ strength was great, and when he threw the ball, it went on for miles, but his Dobermans were unnaturally fast, able to travel across the Underworld in minutes.

Hades waited until the ball disappeared, before turning to the dogs. “Fetch.”

At his order, the dogs took off, muscles working powerfully. Hades laughed as the three raced to find the ball. They returned in no time, running in sync, the red ball clutched in Cerberus’ mouth, who brought it obediently to Hades and dropped it at his feet. He continued playing with his dogs, running in circles through the meadow, working off his frustration and lust until he felt breathless and sweaty.

He tossed the ball once more, free from the burden of his feelings, when he turned and found Persephone standing in the clearing, watching him with wide eyes.

Fuck.

She was beautiful, and his eyes traveled the length of her, unashamed. She had flowers in her hair—camellia, if he had to guess—and they threaded through long strands of curly blonde locks. She wore a blue tank that was cut in a low V at the neck, drawing attention to her breasts. Her shorts were white, revealing her long legs—legs he had fastened around his waist just days ago. As his eyes traveled back up her body, he found that her gaze had made the same descent, and he smirked.

He might have challenged her to deny her attraction, except the Goddess of Witchcraft was here and marching straight for him.

“You know they never behave for me after you spoil them!” she was saying, casting her arms out in the direction where Cerberus, Typhon, and Orthrus had disappeared. Her complaint was playful, mostly because the three were quick to listen, especially if instructed to return to their work.

He grinned. “They grow lazy under your care, Hecate.”

And fat. She liked to feed them.

Hades’ eyes slid to Persephone. “I see you have met the Goddess of Spring.”

He did not miss how she stiffened at the title.

“Yes, and she is quite lucky I did,” Hecate said, eyes flashing. “How dare you not warn her to stay away from the Lethe!”

His eyes snapped to Persephone, who was trying hard not to smile. It seemed she enjoyed hearing Hecate scold him, but Hecate was right, he should have warned her not to approach any of the rivers in the Underworld. The Lethe, in particular, was powerful, drawing memories from souls like air.

What would he have done if she had touched it? Drank from it? He shoved the thoughts away.

“It seems I owe you an apology, Lady Persephone.”

She was surprised. Perhaps she had not expected him to apologize, but she stared at him with those fiery emerald eyes and parted lips, and he found his desire for her renewed.

Then, the Horn of Tartarus sounded, and he and Hecate turned in its direction.

“I am being summoned,” Hecate said.

“Summoned?” Persephone asked.

“The judges are in need of my advice.”

The Judges, Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus, often summoned Hecate to sentence certain souls to eternal punishment, mostly those who had committed crimes against women.

“My dear,” Hecate said to Persephone, “call the next time you are in the Underworld. We’ll return to Asphodel.”

“I would love that,” Persephone said with a smile, and it made Hades’ heart beat harder.

She enjoyed her time with the souls. Good.

When they were alone, Persephone turned to Hades. “Why would the judges need Hecate’s advice?”

He cocked his head to the side, curious at her demanding tone, and answered, “Hecate is the Lady of Tartarus and particularly good at deciding punishments for the wicked.”

“Where is Tartarus?”

“I would tell you if I thought you would use the knowledge to avoid it.”

But given her history, he did not trust her.

“You think I want to visit your torture chamber?”

“I think you are curious and eager to prove I am as the world assumes—a deity to be feared.”

All things that would probably be confirmed if she found her way to his eternal torture chamber.

She gave him a challenging stare. “You’re afraid I’ll write about what I see.”

That made him laugh. “Fear is not the word, darling.”

He feared for her safety. He dreaded her assumptions.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you fear nothing.”

Oh darling, you know nothing, he thought as he reached to pluck a flower from her hair. He twirled the stem between his fingers and asked, “Did you enjoy Asphodel?”

She smiled, and the honesty of it left him breathless. “I did. Your souls… They seem so happy.”

“You are surprised?”

“Well, you aren’t exactly known for your kindness.”

Hades lips flattened. “I’m not known for my kindness to mortals. There is a difference.”

“Is that why you play games with their lives?”

He studied her, frustrated by her question and the way she asked it—like she forgot that mortals came to him to bargain, not the other way around.

“I seem to recall advising that I would answer no more of your questions.”

Persephone’s inviting lips parted. “You can’t be serious.”

“As the dead.”

“But…how will I get to know you?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You want to get to know me?”

She looked away, glaring. “I’m being forced to spend time here, right? Shouldn’t I get to know my jailer better?”

“So dramatic,” he muttered, and fell quiet, considering. He wanted to answer her questions because he wanted her to understand his perspective, but he wanted control. He wanted the ability to limit, to explain until understanding was achieved, he wanted to be able to ask her questions, too.

“Oh, no.”

Persephone’s voice drew his attention, and he raised a brow. “What?”

“I know that look.”

“What look?”

“You get this…look,” she explained, and paused, like she did not quite know how to explain. He liked watching her search for the right words, brows knitted together over her pretty eyes. “When you know what you want.”

“Do I?” he asked, and couldn’t help teasing her. “Can you guess what I want?”

“I’m not a mind reader!” His question flustered her, her cheeks turning crimson. She might be more of a mind reader than she thought.

“Pity,” he said. “If you would like to ask questions, then I propose a game.”

“No,” she said flatly. “I’m not falling for that again.”

“No contract,” he promised. “No favors owed, just questions answered. Like you want.”

She lifted her chin and narrowed those lovely eyes, and he had the fleeting thought that he would like for her to look at him like that while she rode his cock, hard and fast.

Fuck me, he thought.

“Fine,” she agreed at last. “But I get to pick the game.”

His instinct was to reject her offer, and the words were on the tip of his tongue. No, I hold the cards. But as he considered the consequences, he thought it might be a chance to show her he could be flexible.

Finally, he grinned. “Very well, goddess.”

He led Persephone to his office, where he had watched her walk with Hecate earlier. He left her alone for a few minutes, long enough to change, and when he returned, she was standing near the windows. At his appearance, she looked at him over her shoulder.

His steps faltered, and he paused in the doorway, staring.

She was beautiful, wreathed in the landscape of the Underworld.

“This is a beautiful view,” she said.

“Very,” he breathed, and then cleared his throat. “Tell me about this game.”

She grinned and turned fully toward him. “It’s called rock, paper, scissors.”

She explained the game, demonstrating the various shapes—rock, paper, and scissors—with her hands. Despite her enthusiasm, Hades was not impressed.

“This game sounds horrible.”

“You’re just mad because you haven’t played,” she countered. “What’s wrong? Afraid you’ll lose?”

Hades laughed the question off. “No. It sounds simple enough. Rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper, and paper beats rock. How exactly does paper beat rock?”

“Paper covers rock,” Persephone said.

“That doesn’t make sense. Rock is clearly stronger.”

Persephone shrugged. “Why is an ace a wild card?”

“Because it’s the rules.”

“Well, it’s a rule that paper covers rock,” she said.

Hades smiled at her retort. He had smiled more in the last hour than he had in his lifetime.

“Ready?” she asked, lifting her hand, and forming a fist. Hades mimicked her movements, and she giggled. Clearly, this was amusing for her, and he groaned internally. The things he did for her already.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” She spoke the words with fervor. She was definitely having fun, and for that, Hades was glad.

“Yes!” she shrieked, arms flying into the air. “Rock beats scissors!”

Hades frowned. “Damn. I thought you’d choose paper.”

“Why?”

“Because you just sang paper’s praises!” he explained.

She giggled some more. “Only because you asked why paper covers rock. This isn’t poker, Hades. It’s not about deception.”

“Isn’t it?” he disagreed. He was certain if he played this game long enough, he would learn her tendency to choose one of the three options over the others. It was an algorithm, and most people had a pattern, even if they did not realize it.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, Persephone’s earlier excitement subsiding. The atmosphere was changing, and Hades did not like it. He wanted to recapture their earlier reverie, not explore darker secrets.

Suddenly, he wondered if he could distract her, close the distance between them and press his lips to hers, but she looked away, took a breath, and asked, “You said you had successes before with your contracts. Tell me about them.”

Hades pinched his lips together before retreating to the bar across the room to pour himself a drink. The alcohol would help him loosen up and hopefully prevent him from saying something he regretted.

I wanted a chance to explain, he reminded himself.

He took a seat on his black leather sofa before answering.

“What is there to tell? I have offered many mortals the same contract over the years. In exchange for money, fame, love, they must give up their vice. Some mortals are stronger than others and conquer their habit.”

It was a little more complicated than that, and as he spoke, he could feel the threads that covered his skin burn from every failed bargain he had made with the Fates.

“Conquering a disease is not about strength, Hades,” she said as she sat opposite to him, folding her leg beneath her.

“No one said anything about disease.”

“Addiction is a disease,” she said. “It cannot be cured. It must be managed.”

“It is managed,” he argued.

He managed it by holding mortals to their agreements, reminding them of what they would lose if they failed—their life.

“How? With more contracts?”

“That is another question,” he snapped, but she seemed unfazed and lifted her hands, signaling she was ready for another round. Hades sat his drink aside and mirrored her stance. When she landed on rock and he scissors, she demanded, “How, Hades?”

“I do not ask them to give everything up at once. It is a slow process.”

He did not want to admit that he had given no way for mortals to manage their addictions. It was up to them to find ways to come clean. When he did not elaborate, they played another round.

This time, to Hades’ relief, he won. “What would you do?” he asked, because he was curious, and he had no answers.

She blinked, brows furrowing. “What?”

“What would you change? To help them?”

Again, he felt a prick of frustration when her mouth parted in surprise at his question, but her expression quickly changed, becoming determined. “First, I wouldn’t allow a mortal to gamble their soul away.”

He grumbled at her critique, but she continued.

“Second, if you’re going to request a bargain, challenge them to go to rehab if they’re an addict, and do one better, pay for it. If I had all the money you have, I’d spend it helping people.”

She had no idea of his influence or how he maintained balance by bargaining with the world’s worst to feed the world’s deprived.

“And if they relapse?”

“Then what?” she asked, as if it were nothing. “Life is hard out there, Hades, and sometimes living it is penance enough. Mortals need hope, not the threat of punishment.”

Hades considered her words. He knew life was hard, but he knew that because he could see the burden upon souls when they arrived on his doorstep, not because he actually understood what it was to be mortal and to exist in the Upperworld.

After a moment, he lifted his hands as she had done before to signal another game. When he won, he took her wrist and turned her hand over, laying her palm flat, fingers brushing the bandage tied there.

“What happened?”

Her laugh was breathy, like she thought he was silly for asking.

“Just a scrape. It’s nothing compared to bruised ribs, I promise.”

Hades jaw tightened. Perhaps there was no comparison, but he did not like that he could not keep her from being hurt in his realm. In truth, this was a small part of a greater fear—that he could not protect her from those who would wish to harm him.

After a moment, he pressed a kiss to her palm, sending a shock of magic into her skin to heal the wound. When he pulled away, he met her heated stare.

“Why does it bother you so much?” she whispered.

Because you are mine, he wanted to say, but those words froze in this throat. He could not say them. They had known each other for a week, and she had no knowledge of the thread that bound them together, only the bargain that forced her to be here. So instead, he touched her face. He wanted to kiss her, to somehow communicate this desperate need he had to keep her safe in every way, but just as he started to lean forward, the door to his study opened and Minthe entered the room. She stopped short, her eyes narrowing into slits.

Had he not commanded her to knock?

“Yes, Minthe?” he asked, his jaw clenched. She had better have a good reason for this interruption…but he doubted that was the case.

“My lord,” she said tightly. “Charon has requested your presence in the throne room.”

“Has he said why?” He did not try to hide the irritation in his voice.

“He has caught an intruder.”

“An intruder?” Persephone asked, her curious eyes falling to Hades’. “How? Would they not drown in the Styx?”

“If Charon caught an intruder, it’s likely they attempted to sneak onto his ferry,” he replied, standing and extending his hand for her to take. “Come, you will join me.”

If she was curious about him and his realm, she would want to be present for this anyway. Perhaps she would see the demand mortals placed upon him.

She pressed her fingers into his palm, and he led her down the halls of his palace to his cavernous throne room, with Minthe leading the way.

In the beginning of his reign, Hades had used this room more often than any other part of his palace. It had been the one place souls had feared more than Tartarus, because it was a place of judgement. He would sit upon his obsidian throne, flanked by black flags bearing golden narcissus, and cast souls into a bleak eternity without a second thought. Then, he had been ruthless and angry and bitter, but now, this was his least favorite place in his realm.

Charon waited for them, his brown skin ignited against his white robes. He was a daimon—a divine creature that ferried souls across the River Styx. He met Hades’ gaze before it slipped to Persephone, his dark eyes sparking with curiosity. Beneath his gaze, Persephone started to withdraw her hand from his, but Hades’ grip tightened. He guided her toward his throne, manifesting a smaller one beside it, composed of the same jagged edges but in ivory and gold.

He gestured for her to sit and knew she was about to protest.

“You are a goddess. You will sit on a throne.”

Those words were similar to what he was really thinking. You will be my wife and queen. You will sit on a throne.

She did not protest. After she took her seat, Hades did too, turning his attention to the daimon.

“Charon, to what do I owe the interruption?” he asked.

“You’re Charon?”

Hades jaw tightened, not only at the goddess’ interruption, but at the evident admiration in her expression and tone. It was true that Charon did not look as the Upperworld depicted. He was regal, a son of gods—not a skeleton or an old man—and he was about to face a stint in Tartarus if he did not wipe that grin off his face.

“I am, indeed, my lady.”

“Please call me Persephone,” she offered, her smile matching his.

“My lady will do,” Hades interrupted. His people would not call her by her given name. “I am growing impatient, Charon.”

The ferryman bowed his head, probably to hide his laughter and not out of respect, but when he looked at Hades again, his expression was serious.

“My lord, a man named Orpheus was caught sneaking onto my ferry. He wishes for an audience with you.”

Of course, he thought. Another soul eager to beg for life—if not their own, then another’s.

“Show him in. I am eager to return to my conversation with Lady Persephone.”

Charon summoned the mortal with a snap of his fingers. Orpheus appeared on his knees before the throne, his hands tied behind his back. Hades had never seen the man before, and there was nothing particularly remarkable about him. He had curly hair that stuck to his face, dripping with water from the Styx. His eyes were dull, gray, and lifeless. It was not his appearance Hades was interested in anyway, it was his soul, burdened with guilt. Now that interested him, but before he peered deeper, he heard Persephone’s audible inhale.

“Is he dangerous?” she asked.

She had posed the question to Charon, but the daimon looked to him for an answer.

“You can see to his soul. Is he dangerous?” Persephone asked, looking at Hades now. He was not sure what had him so frustrated about her question. Perhaps it was her compassion?

“No.”

“Then release him from those bindings.”

His instinct was to fight her, to scold her for defying him in front of a soul, Charon, and Minthe. But looking into her eyes, seeing to her soul, how desperate she was to see compassion from him, he relented and released the man from his bonds. The mortal was unprepared and hit the floor with what Hades felt was a gratifying clap. As he picked himself up from the floor, he thanked Persephone.

Hades grinded his teeth. Where is my thanks?

“Why have you come to the Underworld?” Hades’ question was more of a bark. He was finding it hard to contain his impatience.

The mortal stared into Hades’ eyes, unafraid. Impressive…or arrogant. Hades could not decide.

“I have come for my wife. I wish to propose a contract—my soul in exchange for hers.”

“I do not trade in souls, mortal,” Hades answered.

The fact that his wife had died was an act of the Fates. The three had deemed her death necessary, and Hades would not interfere.

“My lord, please—”

He held up his hand to silence the man’s pleas. No amount of explaining Divine balance would help, and so Hades would not try. The mortal looked to Persephone.

“Do not look upon her for aid, mortal. She cannot help you.”

He might have given her free rein over his world, but she could not make these decisions.

“Tell me of your wife,” Persephone said.

Hades’ brows knitted together at her question. He knew she was challenging him, but what was her aim?

“What was her name?”

“Eurydice,” he said. “She died the day after we were married.”

“I am sorry. How did she die?”

Hades should discourage this line of conversation. It would only give the man hope.

“She just went to sleep and never woke up.”

Hades swallowed. He could feel the man’s pain, and yet there was still guilt weighing heavily upon his soul. What had he done to his wife? Why did he feel such guilt at her passing?

“You lost her so suddenly.” Persephone sounded so sad, so forlorn for the man.

“The Fates cut her life-thread,” Hades interjected. “I cannot return her to the living, and I will not bargain to return souls.”

He noted the curl of Persephone’s delicate fingers into a fist. Would she attempt to strike him? The thought amused him.

“Lord Hades, please—” Orpheus choked. “I love her.”

His eyes narrowed, and he laughed. He loved her, yes, he could sense that, but the guilt told him the mortal was hiding something.

“You may have loved her, mortal, but you did not come here for her. You came for yourself. I will not grant your request. Charon.”

Hades leaned back in his throne as Charon obeyed his command, vanishing with Orpheus. He would return the man to the Upperworld where he belonged, where he would mourn like other mortals for his loss.

In the silence, Persephone seethed. He felt her anger, billowing. After a moment, he spoke.

“You wish to tell me to make an exception.”

“You wish to tell me why it’s not possible,” she snapped, and Hades’ lips twitched.

“I cannot make an exception for one person, Persephone. Do you know how often I am petitioned to return souls from the Underworld?”

Constantly.

“You barely offered him a voice. They were only married for a day, Hades.”

“Tragic,” he said, and it was, but Orpheus was not the only one with this kind of story. He could not spend time feeling for every mortal whose life did not turn out the way they expected.

“Are you so heartless?”

The question frustrated him. “They are not the first to have a sad love story, Persephone, nor will they be the last, I imagine.”

“You’ve brought back mortals for less.”

Her statement took him aback. To what did she refer?

“Love is a selfish reason to bring the dead back,” he replied. She had not yet learned that the dead were truly favored.

“And war isn’t?”

Hades felt his gaze turn dark. The anger her words inspired burned through him. “You speak of what you do not know, goddess.”

The bargains he had struck to return wartime heroes weighed heavily upon him, but the decision was not made lightly, and he had not been swayed by gods or goddesses. He had peered into the future and saw what lay ahead if he did not agree. The sacrifice was the same—a soul for a soul—burdens he would carry forever. Burdens that were etched into his skin.

“Tell me how you picked sides, Hades,” she said.

“I didn’t,” he gritted out.

“Just like you didn’t offer Orpheus another option. Would it have been relinquishing your control to offer him even a glimpse of his wife, safe and happy in the Underworld?”

He had not thought of that, and he did not have long to think on it in the moment, either, because Minthe spoke.

He had forgotten the nymph was still in the room.

“How dare you speak to Lord Hades—”

“Enough!” Hades cut her off and stood. Persephone followed. “We are done here.”

“Shall I show Persephone out?” Minthe asked.

“You may call her Lady Persephone,” he snapped. “And no. We are not finished.”

He registered her shock for only a moment before turning to face Persephone. She wasn’t looking at him, but watching Minthe leave. He drew her attention, his fingers touching her chin.

“It seems you have a lot of opinions on how I manage my realm.”

“You showed him no compassion,” she said, and her voice trembled.

Compassion? Did she not remember their time in the garden? When he had showed her the truth of the Underworld? Was it not compassionate to use his magic so that his souls may live a more peaceful existence?

“Worse, you mocked the love he had for his wife.”

“I questioned his love. I did not mock it.”

“Who are you to question love?”

“A god, Persephone.”

That man’s guilt was not for nothing.

Her eyes narrowed. “All of your power, and you do nothing with it but hurt.”

Hades flinched. He could not help it; her words were like knives.

“How can you be so passionate and not believe in love?”

He laughed bitterly and said, “Because passion doesn’t need love, darling.”

He had said the wrong thing. He knew it before the words left his mouth, but he was angry and her assumptions made him want to hurt her in the only way he could—with words, and it worked. Her eyes widened, and she took a step away as if she could not stand being so close.

“You are a ruthless god!”

She vanished, and he let her go. If she had not accused him of only hurting others, he might have tried to help her understand his side of things, he might have even told her of the guilt he perceived upon Orpheus’s soul, but he could not bring himself to do it.

Let her think the worst.