Chapter 23

Chapter

Twenty-Three

H ades

“More and more souls are settling in the Vale of Mourning,” Hecate tells me. The warm air from the river Phlegethon clashes with the breeze that rolls in from the sea to create a whirl of wind that blows the black gauze of her gown around her gaunt body. “They no longer move into the Elm of False Dreams, conquering the loss that clings to their souls—” She knots her hands at her belly, the black of her skeleton a shock through the pallid flesh that clings to bone. “They have built homes in the Vale of Mourning. Homes where there have never been homes before, built with wood from the weeping pines that are fed sorrows by the river Cocytus.” There is a moment of silence, interrupted only by the keening cry of the wailing river. Hecate says, “These houses sing songs of sadness, tormenting the souls just as their time in the wailing river tormented them.”

Leuce cranes her neck from where we stand next to the whispering Elm of False Dreams. She plucks a leaf from the tree, a dangerous challenge, and flips the whispering green between her fingers even as it curves and twists, desperate to latch onto her finger. To spill its venom into her bloodstream. To pull her innermost secrets from the deep, and present them to the forefront of her mind.

Leuce drops the whispering green, and we watch as, within seconds, it turns brown and dies. For good measure, she drags a silver shoe over the dead foliage, crumpling it to dust. She asks, “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Hecate steps away from the tree, for even Gods have unseen dreams. “But I can guess.”

“And your guess would be?” I ask quietly, but I already know.

Her eyes sway to mine. Once a bright, shocking violet, they are now dark as the bone that peers through thin skin. “The realm is hungry, Hades.”

My jaw hardens even as I feel my fangs grow, the pressure of the God who lingers under the surface threatening to make his appearance. To show this realm who it answers to .

Before I can speak, Hecate asks, “Have you told her who she is?”

Beside me, Leuce stiffens. I disregard the question with one of my own. “What of the unburied souls?”

“Charon says they stand at the edge of the Acheron, but they’ve stopped calling to him. Stopped begging for passage.” Hecate sighs a tired sound. “None have begun the journey along the Acheron. None have put in the work that travelling the river of sorrows and mourning would grant them.”

“If they don’t travel the Acheron, don’t journey the path of sorrows and mourning, they will never heal the way they need to heal. Never come to accept that their lives were stolen from them too quick, their bodies disregarded like trash. They will never move beyond the injustices imposed on their last corporal form.”

Panic edges Leuce’s voice. “If they don’t take the journey, Charon can’t offer them passage. They will never ferry the marsh, never cross the Stix, never settle in the Asphodel City, walk the meadows or experience the warmth of the Elysian Fields. They will never heal enough to find their way to the Tree of Life. To take another chance…”

“There is a disease in the Underworld,” Hecate murmurs. “A disease that has been spreading for thousands of years. A disease that can be healed exclusively by the mother who birthed it.”

I feel her eyes on me again, hollow where they once danced with magic. I admit, “She is human, Hecate. Entirely, exclusively human.”

There is enough magic left swirling in her pillaged veins to flash violet in her eyes. “She is a Goddess .”

I shake my head. “She is human.”

“The Goddess is buried deep within, but there.”

I repeat, “She is human.”

Leuce shifts, looking suddenly uncomfortable. My eyes track her as she takes a few slow steps away from the Elm. Her gaze drifts pointedly into the distance where the Grove of Persephone sways in the breeze that rolls over the deep grooves of rolling hills. It is a grove of healing and peace, crafted by Persephone for the souls who are spit from the river Cocytus, who then must travel the Vale of Mourning, conquering the Elm of False Dreams. It is a grove of rest where the souls can recuperate before journeying the long excursion along the river Styx, past the Garden of Silence and the River Lethe and, finally, into Asphodel City.

I mimic Leuce’s steps, studying her as she moves. I feel Hecate study us both. “You know something.” Every inch of Leuce’s body stiffens. Mine responds in kind. Her name on my tongue is a warning, “Leuce.”

“Minthe took Persephone to see Hermes.”

Air leaves my lungs in a rush. My quiet demand of an explanation clings to a dangerous threat of death. “What?”

“It was yesterday. She’s fine. Everything is fine.”

I’m standing toe-to-toe with her now. “Why?”

“She told Minthe she is afraid of her mind. That she thought she might be sick. Might have something growing in her brain.”

I feel Hecate drift closer to us, her wraithlike movements enhanced by the black gauze of her gown.

I growl again, “Why?”

“She’s seeing things, Hades. Visions.”

“I know.”

“Of the past. Her past.” Leuce implores me to understand with sharp eyes of faded green. “She was drowned in the Lethe, but she is remembering. It should be impossible.”

“If she is remembering…” Hecate whispers, failing to finish her thought.

I can’t focus on Hecate right now. Right now, my thoughts are on the fact Minthe, a trusted friend, brought the woman I love to the man who, in part, held responsibility for her previous murder. “What does Hermes have to do with this?”

“He scanned her body for any illness.”

“She is not ill. I would scent it if she were.” I feel my nose wrinkle as I growl, “We all would.”

“The scan showed something. Something we’ve never seen before.”

Something snaps inside me. Something dark and dangerous. Something deadly.

The God ripples under my flesh, before splitting it. Leuce gasps as long talons bite into the flesh of her arms as I grip her tightly. My long fangs push at my upper lip as the black of my God’s form emerges from the flesh that contains him. My vision sharpens as I take my original form, the form I possessed upon birth. Leuce’s pulse flutters under her flesh, voice rattling with fear as her eyes flash wide.

“Hades,” Hecate calls, but it’s distant. I pay it little mind.

“What did he find?”

She shakes her head, whimpering, “I don’t know.”

My grip tightens. The strength I possess in this form could easily tear her into shreds. I’ve done it before, lost to a rage.

It’s been so long.

My nostrils flare, scenting the Phlegethon and the evil that resides beyond its flaming gates of liquid magma into the bowels of Tartarus. To the souls so evil and corrupt in their human lives, that evilness clings to their souls even in death, rancid. The acrid pull of sins so vile is undeniable.

“You’re burning me, Hades,” Leuce cries. My eyes drift down to where my hands—my claws—lock around her arms. The skin is washed in the red of a fiery burn, blistery bubbles already oozing under my touch.

I uncurl my claws, turn, and run toward the Phlegethon. Diving into the scorching abyss, I swim for the heart of Tartarus.

It’s been so long. So long since I took the reins of torture into my hand.