He teleported to the Library of the Souls, located in the mirrored palace of the Fates. Hades had gifted the three goddesses a portion of his realm—an island that floated in the ether of the Underworld. It was inaccessible to all but him, and the Fates were unable to leave it.
A gilded cage, Lachesis had called it.
A glorified prison, Clotho spouted.
A mirrored cell, Atropos said.
The Fates may have chosen to describe it as a cage, a cell, a prison, but they knew just as well as Hades it was built to their specifications and for their protection.
“Would you prefer to live among the souls and deities of the Underworld?” he asked them every time they complained. “They would stone you, and I would not stop them.”
None of them liked his reply, and they had responded by demanding that he change the gardens outside the palace—a request they made often, and one he obliged.
There were no windows in the library, save for a glass dome ceiling that let in a greyish light. The walls were floor to ceiling bookcases, full of tomes bound in black velvet. Each volume detailed the life of every human, creature, and god.
Hades held out his hand and called for Demeter, the Goddess of Harvest. The book came to him, landing in his grasp with a thump. As he opened it, a projection of threads illustrated a timeline from the goddess’ birth to the present, which could be read or watched like a film.
Hades chose to watch, following her thread from her battle worn birth to her vengeful existence after Titanomachy, to the creation of her nurturing cult, until her thread branched off, signifying the creation of another life-thread.
“Show me who this thread belongs to,” he said, and the gold broke apart until it formed the image of the girl from Nevernight.
As Hades looked at her, his chest tightened.
No wonder she smelled like Demeter—she was her daughter.
“Curious about your future queen?” Lachesis appeared, dressed in white, her face framed with long, dark hair, her head crowned in gold. She was the middle sister, and in her hand, she held a gold rod with which she measured mortal life.
Future queen. The words shuddered through him, and he had to clench his teeth to keep from reacting.
“Her name?” Hades asked.
He did not look away from her shimmering image.
“She is called Persephone,” Lachesis replied.
Persephone, he mouthed her name, testing it upon his tongue, surprised by how right it felt, how perfect it sounded.
“The Goddess of Spring.”
Hades’ gaze snapped to the Fate. Her dark eyes stared back, bottomless, emotionless.
“You wish to taunt me.”
Goddess of Spring, Goddess of Rebirth, Goddess of Life. How could a daughter of spring become death’s bride?
“Ever suspicious, Hades,” Clotho said, appearing out of thin air. The youngest of the three Fates, she looked no different than Lachesis, clothed and crowned in gold. “Perhaps we wish to reward our favorite god.”
“You like no gods,” Hades replied.
“We dislike you least.”
“Flattered,” he snapped.
“If you are displeased, we will unweave the thread,” Atropos said, appearing before Hades and snatching the book from his hands. She was the oldest and still looked no different than her sisters, dressed in blood-red, a pair of abhorrent, gold shears hung from a chain around her neck.
Hades glared at the three of them.
“I know you well, Morai,” he said, addressing all of them at once. “Who are you punishing?”
They exchanged a look. Finally, Clotho answered, “Demeter begged for a daughter.”
“A wish that was granted,” Lachesis said.
“You are the price she paid,” Atropos added.
“I am punishment,” Hades stated.
The Fates were aware of Demeter’s hatred for Hades. He had been right when he suspected a trick.
“If that is how you prefer to perceive it,” Clotho said.
“But we like to think of it differently,” Lachesis said.
“It is the price paid for our favor,” Atropos explained.
It was how the Fates worked, and the gods were not immune.
“Demeter is aware?” Hades asked.
“Of course. We are not in the habit of keeping secrets, Lord Hades.”
Hades grew quiet. If Demeter was aware, no wonder he had never heard about the Goddess of Spring.
“You think to punish Demeter, but you are really punishing Persephone,” Hades said.
The irony was not lost on him, because he had done the same thing to her. She was bound via their bargain—the greatest bargain he had ever made, because in the end, she did not have to love him. Thousands of mortals and Divine alike had destinies woven by the Fates. It did not guarantee a love match, and one between him and Demeter’s daughter was even less likely.
Lachesis narrowed her eyes. “Are you afraid, Hades?”
The god glared, and the three Fates laughed.
“We may weave the Threads of Fate, my lord, but you retain control over how your future unfolds.” Clotho vanished.
“Will you rule your relationship as you rule your kingdom?” Lachesis disappeared.
“Or revel in the chaos?” Atropos faded.
And when he was alone, their merry laughter echoed around him.
Haven’t you ever been in love?
The mortal’s words returned to him, burrowing under his skin like a parasite.
No, he had never been in love, and now he would always wonder… Would Persephone have chosen him if given the freedom?
***
Hades left the Fates’ mansion and found himself outside Hecate’s cottage. The Goddess of Witchcraft was a long-time resident of the Underworld. Hades had allowed her to settle wherever she wished, and she had chosen a dark valley to build her vine-covered cottage. After, she spent months cultivating a wealth of poisonous nightshade.
Hades had merely raised a brow when he had discovered what she had done.
“Do not pretend as though my poisons have not been useful, Hades.”
“I have had no such thoughts,” he had replied.
Hades smirked at the memory. Since then, Hecate had become his confidant, probably his closest friend.
She was outside, standing beneath a patch of moonlight that streamed through an opening in the canopy of trees. Early on, the goddess had praised his ability to create what she referred to as an enchanted night, but it was hardly surprising. Hades was a god born of darkness. It was what he knew best.
“What troubles you, my king?” she asked as he approached. “Is it Minthe? May I suggest lye to remedy the situation? It is quite painful when swallowed.”
Hades raised a brow. “Murderous thoughts already, Hecate? It isn’t even noon yet.”
She smiled. “I am more creative at night.”
Hades chuckled, and they fell into a comfortable silence. Hades, lost in his own thoughts. Hecate, staring at the moon. After a moment, she asked him again, “What troubles you?”
“The Fates,” he said.
“Oh, the besties. What have they done?”
“They have given me a wife,” he said, raising both his brows. “Demeter’s daughter.”
Hecate laughed and quickly covered her mouth with her hand at Hades’ arched glance.
“S-Sorry,” she said, and cleared her throat, composing herself. “Is she horrible?”
“No,” Hades said. “That’s probably the worst part. She is beautiful.”
“Then why are you so glum?”
Hades explained the trajectory of his evening in as few words as possible—Aphrodite’s bargain, seeing Persephone for the first time, realizing his primal reaction to claim her was unusual, and uncovering the thread that connected them.
“You should have seen how she looked at me when she realized who I was. She was horrified.”
“I doubt she was horrified,” Hecate said. “Surprised, perhaps—maybe even mortified if her thoughts were anything like yours.”
Hecate gave him a knowing look, but Hades was not so sure. Hecate had not been there.
“I have never known you to back down from a challenge, Hades.”
“I haven’t,” he said. He had done the opposite—he had, essentially, bound her to him for the next six months.
Hecate waited for him to explain.
“She played me.”
“What?”
“She invited me to her table for a game, and she lost,” Hades explained.
By tomorrow morning, his mark would appear on Persephone’s skin, and when she returned to him, he would offer her the terms of their contract. If she failed, she would be a resident of the Underworld forever.
“Hades, you didn’t.”
He just looked at the witch-goddess.
“It is Divine Law,” he said.
Hecate glared, knowing that was not true. Hades could have chosen to let her go with no demands upon her time, and he had chosen not to. If the Fates were going to connect them, why not take control?
“Do you not want her love? Why would you force her into a contract?”
After a moment, he admitted aloud, “Because I did not think she would come back.”
He did not look at Hecate, but her silence told him she pitied him, and he hated that.
“What will you ask of her?” she inquired.
“What I ask of everyone,” he said.
He would challenge the insecurities of her soul. By the end of it, he would create a queen or a monster. Which, he did not know.
“How do you feel when you look at her?” Hecate asked.
Hades did not like that question, or maybe he didn’t like his answer, but he spoke truthfully, nonetheless.
“Like I was born from chaos.”
Hecate grinned.
“I can already tell I’m going to like her.” Then her eyes flashed with amusement. “You must tell Minthe you are to wed when I am present. She will be furious!”
CHAPTER V – A CONTRACT SEALED
Hades found himself in Tartarus.
In the beginning of his reign, he came here more often than any other place in his realm. Post Titanomachy had been a dark time. Born of war, Hades knew nothing else but blood and pain, but he had not spent his time in Tartarus out of a wish to exist with the familiar. He did so out of a wish to punish those responsible for his dark beginning—the Titans.
Overtime, he had needed that less and less.
On rare occasions, he still came to channel residual rage.
Tonight was no different.
He stood in his office, a cavernous but modern room at the peak of one of the mountains of Tartarus. It doubled as a chamber of torture, its walls covered with weapons Hades had used on many unfortunate humans and humanoids who found themselves restrained before him, many of them holding secrets, even in the afterlife. Part of the floor was glass, and from this elevated space, Hades looked down upon level after level of torture.
Over the years, the prison had evolved. It had begun underground, with levels spanning miles and miles, all dedicated to punishing the most wicked of crimes and torturing souls in absurd ways—with wind, icy rain, and fire, and the more efficient sentences of choking on tar, eagles and vultures eating livers, and flesh being torn from bodies by razor sharp teeth.
While those forms of torture still existed, Hades evolved with the world above, carving out the mountains and creating isolated cells for various forms of psychological torture. Whatever the variety, Hades only cared that it produced the same result—suffering.
Hades swiped a bottle of whiskey from his desk and took a drink before snapping his fingers, summoning a soul. The man was the one Sisyphus had shot dead in the yard of his fishery.
Isidore Angelos.
His hands were bound behind his back, his legs restrained. His chin rested against his chest. He was asleep.
Souls tended to continue in the Underworld as they did in the Upperworld, meaning they stuck to routine, even though they did not need it.
Sleep was an example of this.
“Well, isn’t he handsome,” Hermes said, appearing in Hades’ office.
The God of Trickery often came and went from his realm, having taken the role of psychopomp—a guide to souls—centuries ago. Hades glanced at him. The god was in his Divine form, gilded and garish. He had great white wings and a pair of short horns that poked out of the side of his head, almost invisible amid his curls. His golden eyes appraised the mortal.
“Do not ogle the prisoners, Hermes,” Hades said.
“What? I can appreciate beauty.”
“With your track record? No. You tend to forget what is beneath the skin.”
“I also tend to have mind-blowing sex,” Hermes said, sighing. “It is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
At that, Hades turned away from the god, rolled his eyes, and swirled the liquid in his bottle before taking another drink.
“Perhaps if you got laid more often, you wouldn’t feel the need to torture your subjects,” Hermes said.
Hades grinded his teeth, something he had done all day. His jaw would hurt tomorrow. Hermes’ words frustrated him for two reasons—that the god felt the need to comment on his sex life at all, and because his thoughts turned to the beautiful Persephone.
He felt a tightening in his groin that almost made him groan.
“Has anyone ever told you, you might need therapy?” Hermes asked. “Because I’m pretty sure torturing people is a sign of psychopathy.”
Hades glared at Hermes, who was now holding a cattle prod. Suddenly, it sparked, making a terrible clicking sound. The god yelped and dropped it immediately.
Hades raised a brow. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that Hermes was actually a skilled warrior.
“What?” he challenged. “It scared me!”
Hades swiped the cattle prod from the ground and turned toward the man named Isidore sitting in the center of his office, then said, “Wake.”
The man’s head lolled, and his eyes opened and closed, heavy with fatigue.
Hades waited while the mortal familiarized himself with his surroundings, only speaking when he saw recognition on his face.
“Welcome to my realm,” Hades said.
Isidore’s eyes widened. “Am I…am I in Tartarus?”
Hades did not answer. Instead, he said, “You are Impious.”
The Impious were mortals, and immortals alike, who rejected the gods when they came to Earth during The Great Descent for a number of reasons—some felt abandoned, some felt the gods were hypocrites, others no longer wished to be ruled. In the end, the two sides went to war, the Impious and the Faithful. Hades had not been eager to join in the fight; after all, it did not matter which side he joined, his realm would grow either way.
“And a loyal member of Triad,” Hades added.
Triad was a group of Impious mortals who opposed the gods, demanding fairness, freewill, and freedom. They called themselves activists, the Olympians called them terrorists.
“Tr-Triad? What makes you think I’m a member of Triad?”
He stared at the man for a moment. He did not like answering questions, did not really like speaking at all, but he would answer this, as it might prevent the man from trying to lie further.
“Three reasons,” Hades said. “One, you stutter when you lie. Second, even if you did not stutter when you lie, I can sense lies. Yours are bitter and they taste like ash, a mark of your soul. Third, if you do not want to advertise your allegiance, you should not tattoo it upon your skin.”
Hades noted how the man’s eyes drifted to his right arm where the triangle—the symbol of Triad—was inked.
“So, you will torture me for my allegiance?”
“I will torture you for your crimes,” Hades said. “The fact that you are a member of Triad is merely a bonus.”
Isidore gave a guttural cry as Hades shoved the cattle prod into his side. The smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. After a few seconds, he pulled away. The mortal’s back was arched, his breathing harsh.
“Gods, Hades! Do you really have to do this?” Hermes asked, but he made no move to cover his eyes or even look disgusted.
“Don’t pretend you haven’t tortured a mortal, Hermes. We all know differently,” Hades spat. As the cattle prod sparked again, the man glared at Hades and challenged.
“I’ve been tortured before.”
Hades smiled wickedly. “Not by me.”
The cattle prod was just the beginning of Isidore’s torture. Hades moved from electrocution to fire, setting the ground beneath the man’s feet aflame, keeping him alive as the flames licked his skin. He screamed, inhaling smoke, which made him cough until blood spilled from his mouth.
At some point, Hades doused the flames with his magic, and in the quiet aftermath, Hermes spoke.
“You are seriously fucked up, Hades.”
“You,” Isidore’s voice rasped, his chest rose and fell slowly. “You think you are untouchable because you are gods.”
“That’s exactly why we are untouchable,” Hermes said.
Hades held up his hand, silencing the God of Trickery.
“You don’t know what is coming,” Isidore continued, voice hollow. His head lolled to the side, and he was no longer looking at Hades but the wall. The god gripped the mortal’s charred face so he would look at him.
“Um, Hades—” Hermes started to say.
“What’s coming?” Hades demanded.
“War,” the man answered.
***
It was almost noon, and Hades had yet to sleep. His eyes felt like sandpaper, and Hermes’ voice grated in his ears. The god had followed him back to his palace and now walked beside him as he made his way to his bedchamber. Hades took a drink from the bottle he had brought from his office in Tartarus.
“You could have told me you were torturing him for information,” Hermes complained.
“Are you saying if I had told you, you would have refrained from telling me how fucked up I am?” Hades asked.
Hermes opened his mouth to reply, but Hades spoke instead—a rare occasion.
“Triad is reorganizing. I need your eyes and ears.”
Hermes laughed. “You aren’t actually…afraid of them, are you?”
“We went to war with Triad, Hermes. It could happen again. Do not underestimate mortals desperate for freedom.”
Hermes narrowed his eyes. “It sounds like you sympathize with them.”
Hades met the god’s gaze and answered as he always did, “What is evil to one is a fight for freedom to another.”
He had said it before, and he would say it again. The problem he had with Triad was the innocent lives they took with them during their fight.
“Do not let your hubris blind you, Hermes.”
This time, when Hades started toward his chambers, the god did not follow.
As soon as Hades was inside his room, he sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple. It had been a long time since he had had a headache, but this day was endless. Hades crossed the room to his fireplace and finished off his whiskey. He stared down at the empty bottle, contemplating the day’s—yesterday’s—events. He had bargained and murdered and tortured.
All things he was certain his future wife would disapprove of.
Future wife.
Fucking Fates.
Hades threw the bottle, and it shattered against the black marble wall.
I am going to have to stop breaking things when she gets here, he thought, and then scolded himself for sounding so…hopeful.
He sighed angrily and started toward his bed, loosening his tie. His eyes had started to burn. He needed sleep. In a matter of hours, he had to be up again. He had another important appointment to make. This one in his own territory, Iniquity, an exclusive club where the worst of society gathered under his protection and rule.
Just as he pulled back the covers, a knock sounded at the door.
“Go away,” he said, thinking it had to be Minthe.
Instead, Ilias’s voice answered.
“Oh, I think you’ll want to hear this, my lord.”
Hades sighed. “Yes?”
Ilias entered, arching a dark brow and smiling wryly. “No rest for the wicked. The woman from last night is outside Nevernight fighting with Duncan. He has placed his hands upon her. You had better hurry.”
Hades could not describe the feeling that overcame him, but it was like everything inside him had frozen for a second—his blood did not rush, his heart did not pump, his lungs did not expand.
As quick as the ice entered his veins, it was gone, replaced by red-hot fury.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” he snapped before teleporting to the entrance of Nevernight.
On the other side of the door, a familiar voice threatened, “I am Persephone, Goddess of Spring, and if you would like to keep your fleeting life, then you will obey me!”
Hades threw open the door. He felt frantic until his eyes settled upon the goddess, and then he was stunned.