Chapter 34

Chapter

Thirty-Four

H ades

It’s never been lost on me that Hermes does his best to guide the dead, even though he can no longer cross into the Underworld. He can no longer comfort the souls to the very edge of the Acheron, where they await passage from Charon. But he does his best by ensuring they have passage to cross the Marsh.

I’ve wondered why he bothers with the ancient tradition when it affects only the Underworld. The souls who must find their way to their place, whether it be a place of resting, torment, or to be born again. To try again .

Although, lately, more and more souls are choosing to rest permanently in the Underworld. Some, even, are simply lingering. Many where they were never intended to linger, like the souls who build homes in the Vale of Mourning, with wood brined in the river Cocytus. Soon they will have created a Weeping City to stand opposite Asphodel City, where happiness and abundance is known to all.

The point is that less and less wish to return to this realm of life, where love isn’t guaranteed in the same way pain and deception are. It’s telling, this refusal to be born again into the realm of life. It’s proof of just how distorted the living realm has become. How selfish and ugly.

Still, it’s not like it affects Hermes one way or another, and yet there he is plain as day, placing a silver coin into the cold palm of an old woman. I already know she lived a good life. An honorable life. She has lived many honorable lives. And I know before her soul faces my own, under the judgement of the Crown of Souls, that she will be welcomed happily into Asphodel City. She has family there.

Hermes has not seen me, but he doesn’t need eyes to feel that I am near. “Hades, I’ve been expecting you.”

My reply is dry. “I would imagine.”

Hermes leans close to the old woman, dropping a kiss to her forehead. He turns to me. There’s a soberness in his eyes that is rare from the Messenger God of Tricks. “Come. What you want to see is in my office.”

I follow him—a man I once considered a friend, now an enemy. His office is like it’s always been. Statues of the Gods adorn shelves that threaten to burst with books. What would he do with the tome I’m reading now. Would he whisper the knowledge into Zeus’ ear? Would he give the God of Sky and Thunder all the knowledge he needs to split the Gods’ immortal forms from their mortal bodies, like he splits the whole souls he crafts from the very stars in the sky, tossing them to earth to watch in amusement as they suffer, lost in the search for their other half?

Hermes pulls a sheet from a roll over a bookshelf, hiding the statues and ancient tomes that reside there. Saying nothing, he moves behind his desk. I wait, watching, as he taps at the keys of a sleek black laptop. It’s probably the single most modern thing in this room, save for the massive safe.

Hermes taps another key, and his eyes lift from the laptop to the sheet he dropped. My own eyes follow. My breath catches. It burns in the prison of my chest.

What I’m looking at is familiar, and on a much larger scale. It’s terrifying. For a moment, I consider using the information I possess from the knowledge in the ancient tome I’ve been studying, and using it to at least attempt to permanently destroy Hermes.

With this knowledge, he is a threat to Persephone.

I will destroy anything that dares to threaten her .

When I finally tear my gaze from the sheet to look at the man I once considered my brother, my ally, I find his eyes are already on me. Waiting.

“Since her murder, I have done everything I can to win your forgiveness.” A small smile cracks the sober lines of his face, tainted with sadness. “I have not forgiven myself. I trusted Demeter, wholly and completely. I would never have brought her to Persephone had I?—”

“Your act went against my rule.” In my mind, I roar the words so loudly I crumble the foundation of this building Hermes crafted. His oasis from Olympus—his limbo away from the Underworld. Contradicting the rage I hear in my mind, my words are terrifyingly quiet, dangerously composed. “Your act resulted in the murder of my Queen.”

He can’t know that in her absence, the Underworld suffers. That without her, it draws from those who dwell there with power—feasting on our souls—bleeding us all dry of the ancient magic we possess.

“Her death has scarred my soul as my greatest regret.”

I peer at him, studying the son of Zeus, whose loyalty I once believed belonged to me. “Why did you not return to Olympus when I banished you from the Underworld?”

Simply, he says, “Olympus is not, nor will it ever be, my home.”

“But the Underworld was? ”

The pain of loss scores his face. “You know it was, Hades.”

In the corner of my eye, I see the collage of CT images flashing in a way that seemingly crafts a video. It’s playing on loop. Her very damnation if the Gods in Olympus ever learned this truth. It threatens to freeze the flame that lives, ever present, in my veins.

“And Zeus?”

“I’ve not acted as his messenger since you closed the portals into the Underworld,” Hermes says blandly. “His use for me died with my access to the Underworld.”

I did not know this. As a rule, I tend to avoid the Gods in Olympus, and their drama. I ask, “And if they reopened?”

“If they reopened to me, I would gladly pledge my soul to you and the Underworld.”

“You would give me your soul?”

“Yes.”

For a God to give another, much less the God of the Underworld, their soul is a thing rarer even than Gods’ bone.

When his declaration is met with nothing but silence, Hermes says, “I know the danger that threatens her.” His hand drifts to the flashing images that craft the video on the screen. “I know, because I can clearly see that she is the most dangerous being alive today. More dangerous, even, than the legend of Chaos. ”

If there is a God who has fallen into the ether of skepticism and myth, it is Chaos. It has been so long since I’ve heard her name spoken. So long that even I had to admit the idea of the Goddess is more legend than reality. More myth than truth.

Still, even I can admit when I saw the universe flash in Persephone’s eyes, I also thought of Chaos, the first of the Primordial Gods, long since vanished.

It’s not a surprise, given Hermes’ intellect, that he came to the same conclusion.

I take a step toward him. Even though I can taste the tension that rolls from him in waves, he does not flinch. He does not flee.

I’m not sure if he is stupid or brave.

“In my regret, I have let centuries of anger grow for you, Hades. I’ve blamed myself enough for my part in what happened to Persephone, and if I could, I would go back. I would go back and protect her as I should have done that night. I never should have allowed Demeter passage. I never should have allowed them to walk the bridge over the Lethe into the Garden of Silence. I never should have trusted Demeter to care for her as a mother should care for her child.”

He scoffs a laugh, though there is little humor in it. “Look at our own mothers. Mine gave me to a mountain nymph to raise, preferring to sink into Poseidon’s city than care for her child. And Rhea—” With a curl of his lip, he says, “Rhea might be the worst of them all. If she wasn’t mad from the horrors she stood by and allowed Cronus to enact, I would advise you to seek her council now.” He casts his gaze to the images of a galaxy that appears, with every flip of the image, to be growing. Expanding. Morphing . “She might be the only one who could look at this and provide answers. The Moirai know none of the other Titans would be willing to speak with you.”

Rhea, my mother.

He’s right. If not for her madness, a conversation with her could prove enlightening. She is far older than the Olympians, and there is a possibility she’d known Chaos personally. Or enough to recognize the lineage of the gifts Persephone is in possession of today.

A chill snakes my spine at the thought of seeing my mother, whom I’ve locked like the other Titans, in a canvas.

Only hers is not a canvas of torment. Not anymore.

Ignoring the chill, I point to the black orb in the center of the image that looks, alarmingly like a galaxy. A galaxy we’ve never seen, for it is not of this universe. “What is that?”

“That is nothing.”

I scowl. “It looks like something to me.”

Hermes moves to a wall of books. With his back to me, he plucks one from the shelf to let it fall open on his forearm, the spine bent back. He handles the ancient tome with such carelessness. Persephone would accuse him of some kind of crime. Simply thinking of her fills my blood with heat.

Hermes tells me, “I thought the same thing, when I studied the images. I’ve pored over these images since I took them two weeks ago.” Over his shoulder he says, “I planned to tell you as soon as I took them, but you were otherwise occupied.”

“Yes.” I hate that I have to admit I wasn’t there for Persephone while the madness of Tartarus clung to me. “You watched over her while I was away.”

He pauses to glance at me, single brow raised. “Minthe told you.”

“No.”

He frowns. “Leuce, then.”

“No.”

“How?”

My pitch lowers. “I scented you on her when I returned.”

His eyes widen. He mutters, “Well, I’m surprised you’ve only now come to me.”

“As am I.”

Hermes returns his attention to the book, flipping a page and settling on it before plucking a second book from the shelf. He drapes the second over the first and begins to search it as he defends, “I didn’t touch her. I was simply present to ensure that history did not repeat.”

“I know.” There is a moment of silence. I force, “Thank you. ”

Hermes stiffens, but only says, “Here it is.”

Hermes walks to the table in the seating area, dumping the books on it. Penned by hand, some of the ink is smudged and some is simply a casualty of time. The images spread on the page might be an exact replica of the images carved into the temples and other ancient artifacts long since forgotten. It is a marvel to me sometimes, the answers that live within these images, that humanity today might find to their questions. If only they trusted these civilizations were privy to more than they themselves are today.

The stigma that the ancient peoples were doing little more than cave-art is why society today is crumbling. Faith is declining and darkness is surging. Despair clings in the air in much the same way that rain can be scented before a storm.

“This is Chaos.” The Goddess is high on the page in a star-filled sky and, contradictorily, at her feet, is a full and blazing sun. In the center of her chest is an eruption of darkness eclipsed in light, just like that which lives inside Persephone. Only this light is connected by beaming rays down the Goddesses’ legs to the sun at her feet. It spills into the open mouth of another God, who then glows with that light. Hermes taps the God devouring all light—an accepted gift from the Goddess of Matter. “Aether, Light.”

I continue to study the page. There is a tear where her heart beats, oozing blood. From her womb spills a darkness that is somehow solid, sprouting vines and earth. From between her lips spills a river of fire.

She is the personification of all that exists. The Goddess of Matter. Of nothingness and everything at once.

He flips the pages, beginning at the start where a Goddess is drawn on a blank page. He taps the Goddess at the center. “Chaos.” He flips again. The Goddess at the center is at the top now, and she pours shadows into the mouth of the God below, who then erupts in darkness. “Erebus, Darkness and Shadow,” Hermes tells me what I already know. This is my history too, but I say nothing. He flips the page again.

Chaos is still centered at the top, a Goddess below. Into her mouth pours a cluster of stars that burst from her form in a collage of brilliance. Hermes says, “Nyx, Night.” He flips. The positions are the same, but into the waiting mouth—like a child suckling for the breast—Chaos pours earth. “Gaia, Mother Earth.” Another page. Another God accepting the blood that rains from the heart that throbs in Chaos’ carved open chest. Another gift. “Eros, Love and Attraction.” Hermes flips again. From Chaos eyes, she spills tears that fall into the waiting mouth of the God below. “Pontus, Sea and Fish.” He flips the last page. His eyes lift to mine, for we both know I’ve long since contained within my forms the God who waits, his mouth open to devour the essence of torment. Hermes’ voice is quiet. “Tartarus, Underworld. ”

“The Primordial Gods.”

“Yes. The beginning of all that was and all that is. Together, they make seven. The Seven Gods of creation, and Chaos, the before.”

“What do they have to do with Persephone?” Something loud is drumming between my ears as I wait for him to speak the words I fear.

“She possesses the darkness of Chaos’ ability to create from nothing.”

“We don’t know that.”

“We do, Hades.” He looks almost excited now. “Look how she changed the Underworld. Look how she changed you . It was a realm of darkness before her. You were the God of Death. Now—you are so much more. The Underworld is a place of torment, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s a place of living. A place for the souls to rest and heal. For the souls to grow and overcome. She created that.”

“Hermes.”

Hermes rises again to touch the screen where the darkness eclipses the light. “And Aether’s light.” He taps the ring of brightness. “It can’t be mistaken. It’s right here, not something we can deny.”

“And, what? She possesses the stars of Nyx, too?”

Hermes’ face twists. “I don’t know. You see the expansion, here?” He traces the eruption of stars in the scan before pacing quickly back to the book. He flips to Nyx’s page. “You see how her stars burst from her in an eruption, perfectly positioned with the inclusion of constellations?” I nod. Hermes flips to the final page where Chaos is shown to gift Aether with light. It is also the page where she is fully formed. The personification of creation. “Do you see how the stars here with Chaos—the stars before she gifts them to Nyx—how they cluster?”

“I see.”

“Well, that’s how the stars appear within Persephone. It is also how they appear in the Underworld. Clustered formations of brilliance. Absent of constellations and order.”

I release a breath that does nothing to ease the tension that is coiled within me. “So, you don’t think she has the gifts of Nyx?”

“I think she has the gifts of Chaos.” Hermes frowns.

After a long silence, I admit, “I visited Hyperion not long ago.” At Hermes’ look of surprise, I admit, “I had a theory.”

Confusion slashes his brows as his mind works. “What would Hyperion have to do with Persephone?”

“Demeter claims Zeus fathered Persephone.”

Hermes nods. “And Zeus has confirmed those claims.” His smile flashes with wicked delight, if just for a moment. “Much to Hera’s ire.”

I ignore his comment of Hera. Hermes has long since loathed the Queen of the Gods. For a Goddess of marriage, family, childbirth and women, she is a spiteful and jealous female. Hermes blames her for the way the mountain nymph, Maia—his mother—abandoned him for reprieve in Poseidon’s sunken city. That blame is not without reason.

“I don’t believe Zeus fathered Persephone.” I gaze at the light that bursts alive, even in the dull image of a scan well beyond medical limitations, thanks to Hermes’ advanced intellect. “In her first life, while she would pour energy into the realm of the Underworld, she would spark with light. Flashes of it.”

“Like lightning bolts.”

I nod. “That’s what we all assumed. What I assumed.”

“You think it was something else?”

I pin Hermes’ eyes with my own. “Recently, I’ve seen the light of all life in her eyes.”

“The light of all life?” Hermes takes a step back, before changing trajectory for the sheet. His head tips back as he studies the loop of images that play a video on the screen. He whispers, “You think Hyperion fathered her?”

“Hyperion agreed to a blood vow. A prettier prison in exchange for the absolute truth to any questions I ask of him.”

Hermes’ eyes widen. “A blood vow?”

I nod. “He claims he is not her father.”

“But if she possesses the light of all life…” Hermes’ eyes shift back to the books and something darkly da ngerous—Gods fear—flashes in his eyes. “You think Aether fathered her?”

“I didn’t until just now.” Gesturing to the books, I add, “But, like Chaos, Aether has been missing for some time. He simply vanished one day, and Hyperion was born.”

“Of Uranus and Gaia.”

I nod again. “Possessing the light of all life.”

Hermes moves quickly back to the books. His finger lands on the open spread of the second tome where an ancient family tree has been sketched, beginning with Chaos. “Could this be wrong? Could Aether have fathered Hyperion before he vanished?”

“And, what? Uranus claimed him?” Such a thing was unlikely, given Uranus’ legendary pride.

“Zeus claimed Persephone.” Hermes shrugs.

I sigh, because he’s not wrong. But it doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. “How would she have come to possess the power of Chaos? The power to craft Universes?”

Hermes frowns. “I don’t know.” He taps the books again. “But the answer is somewhere in these books.” He whispers, “It has to be.”

I look back to the screen where the power inside Persephone has been magnified for study. Something inside me coils, bubbling with disbelief as I move beyond the cluster of stars to the shifting black that rings it all, coiling around it like a snake, never squeezing .

“What is that?”

Hermes moves to the laptop to pause on the image. He magnifies the screen again as he moves to the sheet. “I’m still not sure what that is.” Hermes pauses the slide and walks to the screen, his finger tracing the line that borders the galaxy that surrounds the black orb, eclipsed by a brilliant, bright light. “You see this line here?” He continues to trace, his finger now moving in a zig-zag pattern. “There are these knots, like threads pulled tight around a galaxy not yet born. I’m not sure what this darkness is.” He frowns, stumped. “I haven’t the faintest clue, but I feel it is foreign.”

Something inside me slithers. Moving. Sliding into place and tightening.

Soul mates. The answer comes in a voice that is not my own. A whisper of three. The Moirai.

“I know what it is.” Even to my own ears, the sound of my voice is thick with disbelief. Raw with the horror of this new impossibility, a thing I can’t deny before my very eyes.

“What?” Hermes asks.

“If you want the answers, I’m going to need your soul.”

There is a moment of consideration, and then Hermes takes his knees. He offers me his throat, and the vein the pulses there. “My loyalty is to you and the Underworld. To the Queen I failed and will never fail again. If this is what you need to prove it, I will gladly offer my soul to you to keep.”

Under my flesh, the God stirs. Behind my lips, my fangs swell.