CHAPTER VI: A SOUL FOR A SOUL

CHAPTER VI – A SOUL FOR A SOUL

Hades escorted Persephone downstairs. He wanted to ensure she accepted the ride home he had offered and introduce her to Antoni, his driver.

The cyclops waited patiently, dressed in a black suit and tie. When he saw Persephone, he smiled, his eyes alight.

“Lady Persephone,” he said. “This is Antoni. He will ensure you make it home safely.”

While he knew the cyclops would take care of her, he felt the need to make his point by holding Antoni’s gaze as he spoke.

She is important.

“Am I in danger, my lord?”

Her question drew his attention, and he found her looking up at him. Despite the sarcastic tone in her voice, he sensed her unease.

No one will harm you, he wanted to say, but those words would only inflame her fear. In truth, Hades was being overly protective. Perhaps it had something to do with the mortal he had tortured last night—the man who had threatened war from Triad.

“Just a precaution,” he assured her. “I would not want your mother banging down my door before she has a reason to.”

They stared at one another for a long moment before Antoni cleared his throat and opened the rear car door. They both looked at Antoni, who gestured toward the cabin of the car.

“My lady,” he offered.

“My lord.” Persephone spoke his title in that quiet, breathy voice. It made him think of other things, like how she might say his name as she found release beneath him.

She turned and slid into the back of the car. As Antoni shut the door behind her, he glanced at Hades. He knew that look. It was the you’ll thank me later look, but Hades wasn’t so certain. If Antoni had not opened his mouth, he might have kissed the goddess again the way he had wanted to in his office.

But maybe that was what the cyclops was saving him from, because Hades was not certain he would have let Persephone go a second time.

He watched as his black Lexus departed down the street.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Minthe said, leaning in the doorway behind him. She had been eavesdropping in the foyer while he saw Persephone off.

Hades kept his eyes on the car; it was in a turning lane, almost out of sight. “What do you think I am doing?”

“Encouraging her,” Minthe said. “If you aren’t careful, she’ll fall in love with you.”

He was glad he was not looking at the nymph, because a smile curled his lips.

The Lexus finally moved out of view, and Hades turned to face Minthe. Her features were pinched and slanted, partly due to the brightness of the sun, and partly from her seething judgement.

“Was Thanatos looking for me, or were you spying?” he asked, referring to her earlier intrusion into his office.

“Why is it that every time I catch you doing something you shouldn’t, I’m suddenly a spy?”

Hades did not like her words. The nymph pretended her role as assistant somehow meant she was his keeper.

“And what should I not be doing, Minthe?”

The nymph folded her arms over her chest. “Tell me, Hades. Would you have kissed her had I not shown up?”

“I did kiss her,” he replied. The nymph’s eyes widened and then narrowed as he continued, “If you saw something you disliked, Minthe, I suggest you knock in the future.”

“Thanatos is waiting for you in the throne room,” she said, before spinning on her heels and slamming the door behind her.

He sighed and teleported to the Underworld, where he met Thanatos. The God of Death was tall and slender, sporting white-blond hair and two black gayal horns. Hades liked Thanatos and trusted him as much as Hecate. He was a kind god, and he cared for the souls. He had been one of their greatest advocates, more of a king to them than Hades had ever been.

He bowed when Hades appeared, his large, black wings sweeping behind him like a silken cape.

“My lord,” he said, and as he straightened, bright blue eyes met his. “We have a problem.”

“What is it?”

“The Fates are in an uproar,” he explained. “Atropos’s shears have broken.”

Hades raised a brow. “Broken?”

Thanatos nodded. “You had better come.”

Dread pooled in Hades’ stomach, but he agreed and followed Thanatos to the Fates’ island. He found the three sisters in their weaving room.

At the center of the room was a shiny black globe where millions of threads had been woven into the surface like a tapestry. Each thread represented a person—a fate—that the Moirai had spun into existence. Usually, the three sisters sat in an arc around the globe. Clotho would start the Thread of Life, weaving it into the surface of the map, and when it was long enough, Lachesis would begin her work, weaving into it a destiny, while Atropos plucked and unraveled threads, determining the deaths of all souls, cutting their lifelines with her shears.

Except when Hades appeared, Clotho and Lachesis were consoling Atropos, who wailed and sobbed into her hands.

“You must fix this, Hades!” Lachesis demanded when she noticed him.

“Yes, you must!” Clotho cried.

“My shears! My beautiful shears!” Atropos cried.

“I cannot help if I do not know what happened,” Hades said, already frustrated with the three.

“Did you not hear?” Lachesis spat.

“Atropos’ shears have broken!” Clotho seethed.

“How?” Hades asked through his teeth, fingers tightening into fists. He was losing his patience, a dangerous quality when it came to the Fates. Hades knew he would have to handle this carefully, or he would find himself at their mercy.

“Atropos?” Hades asked.

It took a moment for the Fate to calm herself. Then, she spoke, her dark eyes red from crying.

“I picked a thread from the globe, chose and wove a death, and when I went to cut the thread, it would not sever. I tried again, and again, and again, and again, until my sheers broke apart.”

Her voice quivered, and she began howling again, a horrible keening that pierced Hades’ ears and made him feel violent. He took a breath and held it until he felt a little less murderous.

“Whose thread?” Hades asked next.

Breathing hard and sniveling, Atropos looked at Hades again, gaze fierce and wild. He recognized the feral look—it was the look of a goddess, ready for vengeance.

“It is a mortal who seeks to cheat death!” she fumed. “Sisyphus de Ephyra.”

Hades scowled at the name, and a dark feeling crept into his chest. The mortal from the fish yard. It was not completely surprising that the man had somehow managed to find a way to defy the Fates. He had connections in the criminal underworld of New Greece, as well as to Triad. He probably tried a number of options—magical potions and spells cast by Magi, mortals who practiced dark magic, even relics—until he found something that worked.

“Fix this, Hades!” Clotho exclaimed.

“Find him!” Lachesis shrieked.

“Fix this, find him, Hades,” said Atropos. “Or we will unweave the Goddess of Spring from your life!”

“Yes,” they all hissed in unison. “Or we will unweave the Goddess of Spring from your life!”

Then you will invite a war.

Hades eyes flashed, and he almost verbalized the threat—the promise—he was now making, when the sisters began to scream.

It took Hades a moment to discover why, but he finally spotted the source of their agony. A thread had risen to the surface of the globe between them and disintegrated—and it was not due to the Fates’ will.

A soul for a soul, Hades thought. The universe would have balance, even against the will of the gods.

“Thanatos,” Hades said, turning to the God of Death. It was an order—take us to that dying soul.

The god obeyed, and the two found themselves in the upperworld outside a dilapidated apartment in the Macedonia District.

Hades recognized the smell of death immediately—sharp and foul and tangible. It was an odor he never got used to, one that seized his mind and sent him back to his early and ancient days on the bloody battlefield, where he had come to know the varying scents of decay.

He exchanged a glance with Thanatos. They had come too late.

Hades touched the door, and it opened. Inside, lay a man. He was sprawled on the floor, face down with his arms fanned out. It was as if he had just entered his home and collapsed, lifeless.

“He wasn’t due to die for another year,” Thanatos said. While it was not uncommon for mortals to die unexpectedly, those deaths were still orchestrated by Atropos.

And someone had denied her that right.

Hades stared down at the lifeless corpse for a long moment. The man was young, but his face was scarred and scabbed, and there were track marks and bruises in the crook of his arm.

Evangeline, the god thought grimly.

“Name?” Hades asked.

“Alexander Sotir,” Thanatos said. “Thirty-three.”

Hades frowned. A pang in his chest caught him off-guard, but he recognized it for what it was—sadness. He would have liked to help this man overcome his addiction.

“Hades,” Thanatos said. “Look.”

His gaze shifted from the body to Thanatos to the black scratches on the floor; they were wet and looked like drag marks. Hades followed them, and what he found in the corner of the room enraged him.

It was Alexander’s soul, and it lay at Hades’ feet in a fetal position, broken and beaten. It looked more skeletal than human. The skin around it was like a membrane, blackened and tar-like. The state of the soul told Hades two things about how the mortal had died; that the death had been traumatic and unnatural.

Hades had seen few souls in this state, and he knew there was no hope. This soul had no chance of healing, no chance of reincarnating.

This was the end.

“Contact Ilias,” Hades instructed Thanatos. “I want to know Sisyphus’ connection to this man.”

“Yes, my lord,” Thanatos said. “Shall I…”

“I’ll take care of him,” Hades said quickly.

“Very well.” He nodded and vanished, leaving Hades alone with the soul.

The god stood there for a moment, unable to move. He had no doubt this would keep happening. Would every death break a soul? Would every death fray another thread connecting him to his future queen?

He was certain of only one thing—he would find Sisyphus and reap his soul himself.

Hades knelt and gathered the soul into his arms, teleporting to the Elysium Fields. Despite the heaviness of the day, there was peace here in the silence, in the way the wind moved the golden grass. It was a space reserved for healing, and though Hades knew Alexander’s soul would never recover from its horrific end, he would give him the best end.

Beneath the brightness of the blue sky, Hades settled the soul beneath the leaves of a pomegranate tree, heavy with crimson fruit.

“Rest well,” he said, and in the next second, the shade transformed into a swath of red poppies.

***

Hades traded the peace of Elysium for the horror of Tartarus, teleporting to the part of his realm affectionately known as The Cavern. It was the oldest part of his realm, boasting towering stone formations, shimmering draperies, and crystal pools of icy water. The natural beauty was marred by the desperate pleas of the souls who were tortured here; part of the misery was the echoing cries that carried through the vast ceilings.

Hades approached one of the stone slabs, where Duncan was stretched out, wrists and ankles chained. He had been stripped down, and a cloth covered his groin. His chest rose and fell quickly, a mark of his fear. His textured skin was coated in sweat. He turned his head and met Hades’ gaze, beady eyes desperate.

“My lord, I’m sorry. Please—”

“You put your hands on a woman,” Hades said, cutting him off. “One who caused no harm, save for a few biting words.”

“It will never happen again!” The ogre began to struggle against his restraints, panting as hysteria settled in.

Hades’ lips curved into a fiendish smile.

“Oh, of that I am certain,” he replied as a black blade manifested in his hand. The King of the Underworld leaned over the ogre, pressing the blade to his bulbous stomach. “You see, the goddess you touched, the one you attempted to choke, the one you left a mark upon, will be my wife.”

Just as Duncan bellowed his final rebuff, Hades plunged the knife into the ogre’s stomach.

“I did not know!” Duncan cried.

Hades dragged the knife down, cutting deep with the intention of exposing the creature’s liver and summoning vultures to feast upon it, but the more Duncan repeated himself—I did not know, I did not know—the angrier Hades became. The more he thought of Persephone, lithe and powerless, suspended by the throat from the ogre’s very hand, the more his rage blossomed. He plunged the blade into the ogre’s stomach once, twice, then over and over, until he no longer spoke, until blood pooled from his mouth. Until he was dead.

Last, Hades cut off his hands, and when he was finished, he stood back, breathing hard, face splattered with blood.

This had not been torture.

It was a slaying.

Hades dropped the blade as if it burned and drew his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths until he felt calm again. He was insane, sick, and violent. How could he possibly think he might one day be worthy of love?

The thought was laughable, and his hope was selfish.

And he knew then that the only way he would ever keep Persephone was if she never discovered this side of him. The one that craved brutality and bloodshed.

***

Later that evening, Thanatos found Hades in his office and offered a bundle wrapped in white cloth.

“Atropos’s shears,” he said.

Hades would take them to Hephaestus so the God of Fire could restore them.

The two were quiet, each lost in their own thoughts.

After a moment, the God of Death spoke. “What sort of power would destroy the Fates’ magic?”

“Their own,” Hades replied.

Which meant more than likely, Sisyphus de Ephyra had found a relic.

After The Great War, scavengers collected items from the battlefield—pieces of broken shields, swords, spears, fabrics. They were items that contained residual magic, items that could still pose a threat if they fell into the wrong hands. Hades had worked for years to extract relics from circulating in the black market, but there were thousands and sometimes it took a disaster to figure out who was in possession of one.

A disaster like Sisyphus de Ephyra.

Hades would be damned if he let a mortal like him cheat him out of love.

Ilias had delivered a file earlier. It confirmed what Hades had suspected—Alexander Sotir was addicted to Evangeline and in debt to his dealer, Sisyphus, but making the connection did no good until Hades located the mortal.

“What will you do?” Thanatos asked.

“Visit Olympus,” Hades replied, shuddering.