Now it was my turn to clear my throat.
“Well, see...I guess so. I mean, I haven’t exactly put it to the test or anythin’.”
Frankly, I wasn’t certain whether I was or not. During my daylight hours, it seemed I was nothing more than a frail human being with all the capacity I’d had before discovering my divine roots. At night, I became a shadow-wielding, flame-spewing goddess with more power in my little finger than half the minor gods I’d encountered over the years. But did that mean I was immortal? That I could take a bullet or lose a limb or swallow poison and shake it off like a scraped knee?
“Seems Charon put it to the test for you,” Hemingway said, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I’m assuming you haven’t told Othello, yet?”
“It’s sort of a new development. I’ve been...out of town.”
“Good,” Hemingway replied. “Then you can tell me all about it on the way.”
The Horseman leapt from the bank onto the boat, landing with such easy grace that the vessel barely rocked, as though he weighed far less than I’d have thought. For a brief moment, I thought I saw something else standing in the boat—a hulking, skeletal figure with a skull for a face. But it was gone between one blink and the next, little more than a flicker, leaving me with goosebumps and a case of the willies.
“Do I look like a taxi?” Charon asked, sounding nonplussed.
“She knows about the break in,” Hemingway said, defensively. “Don’t you think he’d want to hear what she knows sooner rather than later?”
“Well,” Charon replied, scratching at his cheek as if considering, “she did drink three whole beers without exploding. I’m sure he’d like to talk to someone who could do that.”
“Ye thought I would explode?!” I exclaimed, waving my hands about, thrown by the ferryman’s sudden admission. “Wait, no. First, who is ‘he’ and where in the hell are we goin’?”
“Nice one,” Charon said, chuckling. “‘Where in the hell’, I’ll have to remember that.”
“Wait, what’s so funny?” I asked.
“Take the Acheron. It’s wider, and the Styx always gets backed up on holiday weekends,” Hemingway suggested to Charon as he settled into the boat, his sprawled limbs leaving very little room for Charon and me, ignoring my question altogether.
“I was going to take the Cocytus.”
“Oh, gods, no, don’t do that. All the lost souls do on the Cocytus is wail and cry.”
“I know, isn’t it great?”
“There’s something wrong with you, I hope you know that. Anyway,” Hemingway continued, turning to me, “why don’t you go ahead and fill me in on what all you’ve been up to since we last saw each other? How’s that plant of yours holding up?”
Distantly, I realized he was referring to Eve; he’d known what she was and had let her remain in my care for reasons I’d never entirely understood. If I was being honest with myself, I had to admit I knew very little about Hemingway and his fellow Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Their roles were straightforward enough—war, death, famine, and pestilence weren’t exactly vague concepts—but how they chose to play them was a mystery. You’d think they’d want to make Judgment Day an international holiday, maybe get their faces thrown on whatever End of Times currency we’d wind up using, and yet they seemed pretty damned hellbent on doing the opposite. Pun intended.
“I’ll answer that once one of ye answer me questions,” I countered. “Where are we goin’?”
“Oh, I thought you were being funny on purpose,” Charon said, sounding put off. The boatman plunged his paddle into the surging river waters and, just like that, we were off again. “Hell is where we’re headed. An isolated part of it, anyway.”
“We are?” I experienced a sudden wave of apprehension that had nothing to do with motion sickness or a budding hangover. “To see whom, exactly?”
“Management.”
“His boss,” Hemingway elaborated, catching sight of my expression. “Well, one of them, at any rate. Regardless, you should cheer up. We’re getting you an audience with Hades, Lord of the Underworld, himself. Something which, I should add, more than a few Greek heroes would have killed for.”
“Mostly died for,” Charon chimed in. “Historically speaking.”
“Ye lot aren’t goin’ to take ‘no’ for an answer, I take it?”
“It’s either this, or I let Charon drop you off at the Mourning Fields.” Hemingway shrugged, as if my decision made no difference to him. “That’s where the unrequited lovers end up. Basically a bunch of lost souls complaining about never finding love for all eternity. Think about every friend you’ve ever had whining about their latest crush...only they go on and on and on, lamenting over the one who got away. Forever. Oh, and they spend most days watching every season of The Bachelor on repeat when they aren’t busy screening Hallmark movies that never made it to television.”
“I t’ink I would rather die. And yes, I know who I’m talkin’ to.”
“Like I said, it’s your choice.”
“Fine, let’s go see Hades,” I said, huffing, distantly aware of how ridiculous that statement would have sounded out of context. Me, chatting with the god of the dead? What would we even have to talk about, aside from how many people I’d put here in my time? “Wait, this isn’t goin’ to take long, is it? I came here to do something.”
“Is that so?” Hemingway asked, arching an eyebrow. “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Hades isn’t the sort of god to drag his feet, although I expect he’ll be fairly preoccupied when we first arrive. He’s what you might call a...micromanager.”
“More like a control freak,” Charon corrected, snorting indelicately.
“How so?” I asked the ferryman.
“You’ll see for yourself. Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”
“Why do I feel like I’m bein’ threatened all of the sudden?”
“Because,” the infamous boatman replied, grinning at me in a way that would have haunted a saner person’s dreams, his obsidian eyes flashing with amusement, “you aren’t stupid.”
2
Charon docked his boat along the riverbank, pinning us in place with his radiant paddle, seemingly unperturbed by the veritable horde of wraiths—dark, vaguely sinister silhouettes with faintly glowing eyes—spilling out from a sprawling granite structure that looked one part courthouse and one part bastille. In their shadowy hands, they carried papers tucked away in manilla folders as well as thick plastic binders and steel briefcases. For some reason, the entire scene reminded me of students fleeing the school after the final bell in a cult coming-of-age classic...provided the sexually repressed teenagers were played instead by terrifying shades with administrative ambitions.
“What the hell are they?” I asked, my voice a hushed whisper, my throat a little raw from having glossed over the majority of my story up to this point, leaving out only a few pertinent details—stuff I wasn’t ready to tell Hemingway, for one reason or another.
“Lobbyists,” Hemingway replied. “Lawyers. Accountants. Bankers. Hades recruits them all to work for him and keep this place up to code.”
I cringed at the thought of dying only to end up working a nine-to-five as a glorified clerk. I mean, talk about Hell. Hemingway must have seen my face; he chuckled and stepped off the boat onto the bank, holding out his hand.
“I wouldn’t pity them,” he suggested. “Most worked themselves into an early grave. The ones who didn’t, the ones who broke camp and made a good life for themselves, often end up elsewhere. Besides, you know what they say, busy spirits are happy spirits.”
“Pretty sure that isn’t how that sayin’ goes,” I mumbled as I reached for Hemingway, only to hesitate when I felt a desiccated hand take my arm. I turned to find Charon staring at me, his mouth puckered in what might have been either a smirk or a sneer, his skeletal fingers clinging to the meat of my bicep.
“Here, take this with you,” he insisted.
The boatman passed m
e a shooter of oozing amber liquid, like one of those single use bottles you can buy at any liquor store. This one’s label was missing, however; only the faint patina of torn paper remained to show where the glue had once sat. I turned it over in my hand, confused.
“What is it?”
“A gift. And a reminder.”
I felt Hemingway stiffen as he caught sight of the shooter, though he remained silent. Indeed, he seemed content to let this—whatever it was Charon was up to—play out; the Horseman stepped away, inspecting the building with such scrutiny that he might as well have had a hand in its construction. I slipped the shooter into my pocket, warily.
“A reminder, huh?” I echoed. “Of what, exactly?”
“That our little contest remains undecided.” Charon released my arm and tapped the side of his head. “Don’t forget, whatever I want. That was the deal.”
“Whatever I want, ye mean,” I countered, smirking despite myself. “So, what’s in the bottle? More bath water?”
“Something to remember us by,” Charon replied cryptically, failing to appreciate my joke. “Now, get off my boat. I’ve got actual dead people to see.”
Hemingway returned to help me step off the boat as Charon plucked his paddle from the water and nestled it in the crook of one shoulder. He gave us both a wave before fetching another beer from his chest and cracking it, the sound somehow loud enough to be heard above the gurgle of the River Styx. I watched him go, wondering whether I’d ever see that crazy son of a bitch again. Part of me hoped not; I wasn’t sure I wanted to go up against him in a drinking contest a second time. Frankly, I doubted I’d survive it.
“Come on, death waits for no one,” Hemingway insisted, tugging my hand before releasing it and marching towards the dreary building.
“And just how long have you been waitin’ to use that line?” I asked, rolling my eyes.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Uh huh. So, Hades runs this place?” I asked as we walked, forced to dodge the milling spirits as they shuffled past, seemingly oblivious to my presence. Hemingway, however, was able to pass through them without so much as a sidestep. The shades parted for him like he was radioactive or something, their eye sockets flashing a little brighter as he went by. Not that I was surprised; in this hellish place, we might as well have been on the red carpet—which meant I was following the leading man so he could introduce me to the director.
Or the director’s secretary, at any rate.
“Sort of,” Hemingway replied as we reached the gaping doorway, only to be accosted by a severe looking creature in a black pantsuit that covered her like a silk glove, her alabaster skin radiating mercurial power—unmistakably that of a goddess. She held a clipboard in one hand and a pen made entirely of smoke in the other, its tip so bright with heat it looked like the lit end of a cigarette. Her dark hair was worn back in a tight bun, held in place by what seemed to be a writhing rattlesnake, its sand-colored scales a perfect match for her eyes.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Horseman,” she said, primly. “You have work you should be doing, elsewhere.”
“Hello to you too, Persephone.”
I gaped, recognizing the name immediately. Persephone, also known as the Queen of the Underworld, who ruled alongside her husband, Hades. Frankly, I’d always found her mythical backstory one of the most interesting; stolen away by Hades and later tricked into remaining by his side for at least a portion of the year, she was a fascinating character whose role oscillated between victim and accomplice depending which scholars were to be believed. As far as first impressions were concerned, however, I was leaning as far away from victim as possible.
There was nothing weak about this one.
“Don’t be glib, Horseman. We’ve had an unusually hectic day, even by our standards.” The goddess flicked her gaze to me and back. “Who’s this creature you’ve brought with you? You know we don’t allow mortals all-access passes down here.”
“Her name is Quinn,” Hemingway replied hurriedly, as though worried I’d cut in with some smartass comment, otherwise. “She knows who accessed the gate, and has some idea why. I thought Hades would like to speak with her.”
“We already know all that,” Persephone said, shooing us with her pen. “We caught two of the intruders. My husband is speaking with them now.” She licked her lips. “It shouldn’t be long before he knows everything worth knowing.”
Caught two of the intruders? Which ones? I opened my mouth, prepared to demand to see them, then hesitated. I had to consider whom I was addressing—not to mention whose turf we were on. Unfortunately, if I wanted to find out who’d been taken and what was being done to them, I had to rely on tact, not bravado.
“May I see ‘em?” I asked, putting on my most innocent voice—the one I used whenever a teacher caught me out in the halls in school, or when I got caught stealing some priceless relic from a highly warded vault. “The ones ye captured, I mean.”
“Why?”
Persephone’s suspicion lashed out at me like a physical blow, and I felt the beat of her power against my skin. It was a slap, nothing more. A reminder of how low I—the pathetic mortal—stood in the pecking order. After all, as hierarchy went, Persephone was bound to one of the mightiest gods ever known and had been for so long there was no telling what all she’d picked up or how much power she’d amassed. And yet, the instant her energy stung me, I found myself seeing—not red as the metaphor would suggest—but white.
“Because I said so.”
The words came rumbling from my throat, brimming with the threat of violence, with the promise of unleashed power. I felt the wraiths flooding around us hesitate, drawing away from me as if I’d done something far more frightening than I could imagine. Hemingway actually took a step back—not in fear, but in appraisal.
“What is she?” Persephone asked the Horseman, her curt manner unchanged. “And don’t bother lying to me. Mortals don’t look like that.”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s…” Hemingway drifted off for a moment, ignoring my outburst. “Something different.”
“Ah,” the goddess replied, somehow managing to put all her derision into that one sound. “Well I could hardly turn her away, then. Any chance she’ll surprise him?”
“Only one way to find out.”
“Wait a second,” I said, palming the side of my head as my racing heartbeat slowed and the wraiths resumed drifting heedlessly past. “What are ye talkin’ about, now? Surprise whom?”
“My husband is notoriously hard to shock,” Persephone replied, meeting my eyes at last. “It’s become a sort of game among us. Trying to rile him up.”
“Are ye sure that’s a good idea? Rilin’ up the god of the dead?”
“Probably not. But simply because we spend eternity caring for corpses does not mean he can afford to become one. That, child, is what makes a strong marriage: discouraging your beloved’s worst habits at every turn.”
“I’ll...keep that in mind.”
“See that you do.” Persephone secured her pen to the top of the clipboard, its smoldering tip still blazing. “Come along, then. Maybe having you present for the interrogation will speed this process along.”
I tried to spare Hemingway a glance to be sure we weren’t walking into some sort of trap, but the Horseman was already hot on Persephone’s shockingly high heels. I sighed, shaking off the residual buzz from Charon’s beers, and followed, determined to find out who’d been caught breaking into Hell.
We passed through the building’s grim interior to the sound of clacking keys and pen scribbles, weaving between long tables occupied by dozens of wraiths at work transcribing documents or writing suicide notes or whatever it was creepy ghost folk did on their lord’s behalf. I shuddered, my skin crawling at the idea of being forced to work in a place like this for all eternity.
Of course, that was nothing compared to meeting the boss. The instant we reached the door at the far end of the build
ing, its otherwise bland sheet metal exterior swimming with our reflections, I could sense his smothering power. Indeed, there was a flavor to it. A texture, too. Glancing at my two companions, I realized I felt something similar—albeit significantly lesser—from them, as well.
From Hemingway, the fragrance of black licorice and the sensation of finely carved bone. From Persephone, pomegranate and dried flower petals. And, on the other side of the steel door, the faintest whiff of burnt ash and the feel of still water. I wasn’t sure why I was able to sense these things all of a sudden, only that I could. Did it have something to do with the beer I’d drank at Charon’s insistence, perhaps a side effect of the hangover? Or were my godlike powers merging into my daytime hours, as Circe had suggested they might? It could have been either, both, or neither, I decided. Hell, I wasn’t even really here, except in spirit.
But then why did I have a headache?
“There’s no need to treat us this way,” a voice said from the other room, loud enough to be heard over the general hubbub behind us.
“Yes, especially me,” a second added.
The first belonged to a woman, the second a man. I recognized both, though I wished I didn’t. Helen of Troy and Narcissus—the Greek contingent of my misfit crew—caught trespassing in the Underworld by Hades himself. And now it looked like a reunion was eminent.
How serendipitous.
“Husband!” Persephone called, rapping her knuckles against the door. The snake wound in her hair began to shake, agitated, its rattle like a promise of violence. “I’ve brought someone to meet you. It’s important.”
I hated to admit it, but part of me had forgotten all about my treasonous crew in the aftermath of my bout with Frankenstein and Ryan’s subsequent departure. It seemed like so much had happened since then, and yet I found myself growing angrier with every passing second as we waited for Hades to answer. They’d abandoned James and the other Neverlanders, siding with the enemy for reasons I couldn’t fathom—reasons I was determined to hear for myself as soon as I got my hands on them.
Brimstone Kiss: Phantom Queen Book 10 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 2