The man gave no other demands or acknowledgments, and before Dionysus could say more or even ask where they were, he vanished.
Alone, Dionysus carried Ariadne into the cottage.
He was surprised to find that the floor was covered in sheepskin rugs. There was also a cot and a small clay fireplace. A few pots and a kettle were stacked beside it.
It would be enough.
He lay Ariadne on the cot and covered her with one of the blankets. He smoothed her hair away from her face, letting his hand linger on her forehead, which was warm to the touch. Then he brushed his fingers over her heated cheeks.
This was fever.
He frowned and pulled the blanket back to look at the wound on her thigh. He would need to clean it before he could heal it.
He was still in Poseidon’s territory, stranded in the middle of the sea, and while he could not teleport, he could call on his magic. The only danger was that the more he used, the more he faced the risk of drawing the god to them.
He spent a few more moments caressing Ariadne’s skin, reluctantly pulling away.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
He didn’t think she heard him at all, but it made him feel better to speak to her as if she could.
He left the cottage in search of firewood, herbs, and clean water.
Dionysus was familiar with the art of healing. He had been taught by Rhea, the mother goddess, who had cured him of Hera’s madness. The only thing that worked against him on this island was that he was not familiar with the environment. He had no idea where to find supplies or even if the wild would have what he needed.
He gathered wood first and then set water from the ocean to boil, offsetting the lid so he could collect the desalinated water. He checked on Ariadne before he left again to search for herbs, which was a far more tedious task. There was a variety he could use for fever—elderflowers, yarrow, echinacea, willow bark. The issue was finding one of them on this island wilderness.
It took him a while, but he finally located lemon balm and aloe, which he would use to disinfect her wound. By the time he returned to the cottage, anxiety tore at his chest, worsening when he checked on Ariadne, whose fever had spiked. Her skin was on fire.
He drew the blankets from her body and set about drying the lemon balm leaves over the fire and boiling the clean water he’d made. He studied the wound on her leg. It was a jagged cut that ran the length of her thigh, and the skin around it was red and angry. He guessed that she must have hit some kind of rock after they’d been swept out to sea.
Dionysus was disturbed that he could not recall what happened in the immediate aftermath of Poseidon’s yacht capsizing. He remembered holding on to Ariadne while she raged with madness, but at some point, he had lost consciousness, and so, it seemed, had she.
They were lucky they had managed to stay together.
He thought of Poseidon’s final words to him and his threat against Ariadne. He would be careful with how he used his magic and hope they could make it out of Poseidon’s realm before he realized either of them was alive.
Before he could clean her wound, he stripped her of her clothing, which was dry and stiff from salt water. There was nothing sexual about the process, and he hated having to do it without her knowledge.
When she was bare, he used hot water to clean her wound and then added a layer of aloe, leaving it uncovered. He would wait until tomorrow to heal it to ensure it was free of infection.
When the lemon balm leaves had dried, he crushed and boiled them to make a tea, and when it was cool enough, he propped Ariadne’s head into the crook of his elbow and brought the minty drink to her mouth.
“Come on, Ari,” he coaxed as he poured it into her mouth. He wasn’t sure how much actually made it down her throat, but it would have to do.
By the time he finished medicating her, night had fallen outside the cottage.
He washed her salt-encrusted clothes and lay them by the fire to dry. While he worked, he could hear thunder in the distance—there was another storm raging at sea, and as it hit land, it roared around the cottage, causing it to creak and groan.
Though he grew tired, he remained beside Ariadne, too afraid to leave her alone even if it was to sleep.
For a while, he did not speak, just stared at her face as color slowly crept back in. Finally, he spoke.
“You make me feel insane,” he said. “Like I’m struck with madness. I never thought I would want to feel that way again…but it’s different with you.”
He fell quiet and then he scrubbed his hand over his face, feeling ridiculous for having said that aloud, but at least she had not heard him.
“Dionysus.”
He turned his head toward the soft sound of his name. Fingers twined into his braids, and lips trailed along his jaw.
“Ariadne?” he murmured, though he recognized her scent, the heat of her touch.
“Dionysus,” she said his name again, and it shivered across his skin. He wanted to capture her lips against his and taste her like he had that night in the pleasure district.
“Ari,” he whispered, and her hold on him tightened.
“Dionysus!” she barked, and he opened his eyes to find her staring at him.
He blinked, realizing he had fallen asleep with his head on her cot.
“You’re awake,” he said, straightening, rubbing at a sore spot on his neck.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“I’m not certain,” he said. “But if I had to guess, an island somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea.”
She frowned and then shifted beneath the blankets, drawing in a harsh breath between her teeth.
“Careful,” he said as she shoved the blankets aside to look at her leg. “I haven’t fully healed you yet.”
He rose onto his knees and placed one hand on her hip, the other just below her knee to keep her still.
“Why not?” she hissed.
“I can’t heal an infected wound, Ariadne,” he snapped.
It took a few more moments for her to relax, and once she did, they both seemed to realize she was naked. He lifted his hands and then quickly covered her again.
“I’ll get you more medicine,” he mumbled, rising from his place on the floor. He crossed to the fireplace and ladled more of the tea into a cup before returning to her and helping her sit up. “It’s lemon balm,” he explained as he placed the cup to her lips.
She held her hands against his as she drank and groaned in disgust as the tea touched her tongue.
“I know it isn’t the best,” he soothed. “But it will take the pain away.”
When she’d had enough, he helped her lie back down, and an awkward silence filled the cottage.
“Do you…remember what happened?” he asked after a moment.
It took her some time to respond and when she did, her voice was a whisper. “Mostly.”
Again they were quiet.
“Did he hurt you before we got to you?” He had to ask. He needed to know.
“Not really,” she answered.
It bothered him that her answer wasn’t a definitive no. He wanted to ask what Poseidon had done, but he also did not want to press. Last night had been traumatic enough.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Dionysus looked at her, but she was staring at the ceiling, a single tear trailing down the side of her face.
Her apology carried the weight of her regret, and it shuddered through him. It wasn’t until she spoke the words that he realized he hadn’t wanted to hear it because he did not deserve it. She’d had to face a horror that went well beyond simple consequences.
“Why are you sorry?”
“I should not have left to go to Poseidon on my own,” she said.
He was quiet. Then he said, “I went to him the day before. I didn’t tell you because I thought you were still angry with me and I…” He let his voice trail off. He hadn’t wanted to disturb her, but it didn’t matter anymore. What was done was done. Now, they had to move forward. “Poseidon does not have Medusa. I’m not sure where she is, but the worst part about her situation is that her power is only active after she’s dead.”
Ariadne met his gaze. “What?”
He had nothing more to say.
“Perhaps it’s best if she stays missing,” Ariadne said after a moment.
Dionysus did not disagree at this point.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes, and Ariadne had gone so quiet, he thought she had fallen asleep.
“I blame myself for what has happened to my sister,” she said, her voice soft. She wasn’t looking at him anymore; her gaze had returned to the ceiling.
“Why?” Dionysus asked, confused.
“Because I introduced them,” she said. “Theseus was…with me first.”
Dionysus bristled, surprised by just how hot his jealousy burned.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, though that felt like a stupid question. She didn’t have to.
“Because I’m ashamed,” she answered, her voice thick with emotion.
Her words cut through him, and he shifted closer, hovering over her.
“Ari,” he whispered, letting his fingers trail along her cheek. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I don’t care that he never loved me,” she said. “But I hate that he does not love my sister and that she is so devoted to him. She deserves more. She deserves everything.”
Dionysus studied her, and after a moment, he asked, “And what do you deserve?”
She was quiet.
“Ari?”
“Nothing,” she said, looking at him.
He frowned and started to speak, but Ariadne pressed her fingers to his mouth and shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes and her mouth quivered. After a moment, she managed to speak in a quiet whisper, “Good night, Dionysus.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
HADES
There was a roiling in Hades’s stomach and an ache in the back of his throat. Poseidon had known Persephone’s location; he’d taunted him with images of her broken and beaten body. “You are here fighting for a woman who does not even belong to you while yours suffers at the hands of my sons,” he’d said.
Hades had left.
There was no thought behind what fate he might leave Dionysus and Ariadne to face because he could not shake his fear, and after what had befallen Adonis and Harmonia, he had to know Persephone was okay.
Except that when he appeared in the basement of Club Aphrodisia, he found a bloodbath. Hephaestus was there holding Aphrodite by the shoulders. The Goddess of Love clutched a human heart in her hands. There were bodies strewn about, limbs misshapen and chests gaping. Then there was Persephone, who sat on her knees amid the carnage, the center of a circle of bodies.
None of them were lucky enough to escape her magic—Persephone included.
Her body was torn. It was the only way to describe it. It was the same horror he had witnessed the night she’d mistaken him for Pirithous. She was bent slightly, and as she breathed, her chest rattled.
Hades felt panic claw up his throat, and his heart wasn’t beating right.
When she met his gaze, she opened her mouth and blood poured from it. She seemed surprised and a little confused. Then she swayed and Hades caught her, gathered her into his arms, and took her away.
Hades’s hands shook.
They had never shaken before this moment. Perhaps this was the shock of everything settling deep into his bones now that he had gotten Persephone to safety. She lay in bed across the room, motionless but breathing. Though he had managed to heal her, he wasn’t sure he could look at her without seeing her the other way—bloodied, broken, dying.
A shadow fell over him, and he recognized Hecate’s magic. The goddess folded a towel around each of his hands, cleaning away the blood, though it was long dried. She was saying something, but he could not make out the words because the ringing in his ears was too loud.
The goddess knelt in front of him, a blur of color. He frowned, brows furrowed, unable to focus on any part of her.
Then he felt her hands on either side of his face and a rush of her magic.
“Hades?”
His eyes roamed her face until he was able to focus on her gaze.
“Hecate?” he said, and she offered him a small smile.
“I’m here.”
He stared at her a moment longer, and then his attention turned to Persephone.
“She is well, Hades.”
He knew she meant to comfort him, but her words only brought anger and guilt. He should never have allowed her to go to Club Aphrodisia. He should never have entrusted her care to anyone save himself.
“You would have only encouraged resentment,” Hecate said, reading his thoughts.
“I’d rather she resent me every day of our life if it meant never having to see her like that again.”
“Careful of your words, Hades. Resentment is just as fatal a wound.”
Hades ground his teeth. “Is it any more fatal than what I see when I look at her?”
“Magic can heal a wound to the flesh,” she said. “But it cannot heal a wound to the soul.”
“You do not have to remind me. I’ve had enough blows of my own.”
“Then you should never want the same for Persephone.”
Perhaps he would feel differently in a day or two, but right now he was tempted to never let her leave this island.
“What you should want is for her to learn to control her power,” Hecate said, rising to her feet. “She would have been fine had she channeled it correctly.”
“Is that not your job?” Hades asked curtly.
Hecate narrowed her eyes. “Careful, God of the Dead. I have little patience for your hubris.”
Hades let his head fall into his hands, and he scrubbed his face.
“I’m sorry, Hecate.”
She placed a hand on his head. “I know.”
They were silent, and then Hades sensed Hermes’s magic.
Anger coiled inside him, tightening his muscles, curling his fingers into fists. Shadows darkened the room as his hold on his glamour slipped, and when Hecate stepped out of his way, he met Hermes’s gaze.
The god looked haunted, and angry lines were etched on his face. His white shirt was covered in blood.
“Before you begin,” Hermes said, knowing what was to come, “you should know that Tyche is dead.”
Those words made Hades straighten, and Hecate took an audible breath.
It was not news he had expected, but it gave context to the massacre he had stepped into and explained why Aphrodite had been present—to seek revenge on those who had hurt her sister.
“How?” Hecate asked.
“We do not know,” Hermes said. “I…took her to Apollo.”
“You left her,” Hades said, his voice darkening. He took a step toward the god.
“Persephone ordered me,” Hermes said.
“I ordered you to protect her,” Hades said. His voice rose and black spikes shot from the tips of his fingers. “You swore an oath.”
“I know,” Hermes said, voice quiet, a shamed whisper as his eyes dropped to his feet. “I failed.”
Hades reached him and placed a hand on his face, tilting his head back so their gazes met. His thumb settled just beneath Hermes’s eye, the sharp tip of a spike drawing blood.
“I failed,” Hades said.
Hermes flinched, those words far more painful than any wound Hades might inflict, and yet they were not enough. This type of magic required a physical debt, a daily reminder of the oath that was broken.
Hades braced his other hand against Hermes’s head.
“I will never forget this night,” Hades said. “And neither will you.”
Then he jabbed his thumb into Hermes’s face. The god screamed and jerked away, but Hades held him steady, dragging the spike down his cheek and over his lip before shoving him away.
Hermes stumbled back, his hand shaking as he held it to his bleeding face.
A normal wound to a god would have already healed, but this one would take time, and even then, it would scar. It was the price of breaking an oath.
“Do not worry,” Hades said. “That will be the last oath you ever have to make.”
Hades would never trust him with one again.
Hermes glared, eyes glistening, but he did not say a word as he vanished from sight.
Hades sat on the balcony just outside the room where Persephone lay sleeping. He remained awake, knowing his dreams would be no better than his reality—he would still relive what haunted him now.
There was a part of him that wanted to acknowledge the sheer terror of Persephone’s magic, but he also knew she would not see the lives she took as power, though they had made the choice to attack her, to bargain with their lives, and all for a cause that saw another goddess dead.
He certainly had not expected Tyche to become the next victim, though she was as close to one of the Fates as any goddess could be, given her control over fortune. Perhaps that was why she was targeted. Triad and their followers—official or otherwise—had an obsession with free will, and powers like Tyche’s threatened that because she could grant prosperity and abundance just as easily as she could take it away. Perhaps they blamed her for Demeter’s storm.
Though Hades also knew it was futile to assign a reason to Tyche’s death. Why she was chosen did not matter. It mattered only that she had died.
He knew when Persephone woke because he could hear the rustling of the sheets and the patter of her feet as she made her way to the balcony.