The door swung open with the barest whisper, and the smell of burnt ashes grew stronger until it felt like I was choking on cinders and wood smoke. The sensation of still water crashed into me, doing what Persephone’s power had done, except tenfold. Not a slap, but a slam—severe enough I wobbled on my feet, steadied only by Hemingway’s hand at the small of my back.
“You get used to it,” he whispered through gritted teeth, his own face betraying the slightest strain. The Horseman’s eyes seemed to burn with some infernal light, but they weren’t trained on me. Instead, Hemingway studied an obscenely tall figure looming within—a being I wanted very much not to look at, for some inexplicable reason.
Refusing to play the role of a coward now that I’d made it this far, I steadied myself with a long exhale and gave the god of the dead my full attention. He was, in a word, beautiful. Standing perhaps three feet taller than me in a cloak of roiling smoke that licked at his heels and curled off his broad shoulders, Hades had a thick mane of pure white hair two shades lighter than his pale, artfully crafted face. His hands were long and slender, the hands of a painter or a pianist. And yet, when he beckoned us forward with them, I learned his talents resided primarily in the manipulation of the dead; in my spirit form, I felt compelled to rush to his side, to do whatever he wished—whatever had to be done.
Fortunately, the spell, the illusion, lasted for perhaps only a couple seconds before Hades himself broke it by hacking out an uncomfortable cough that sounded vaguely like a cat being strangled—not that I would know. Embers spilled from his lips, dancing in the air as if he’d just stuck a hot poker in a fireplace. He waved at us apologetically and snatched a pair of thick-lensed glasses from the desk he stood beside.
“Apologies, something got lodged in my throat,” Hades rasped, his voice not terribly dissimilar from the ferryman’s, albeit lacking even the slightest inflection. “Darling, would you—”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be back in a moment,” Persephone interjected, slipping between Hemingway and me with a movement so sinuous and graceful I’d have accused her of being a dancer in another life. The perks of being a goddess, perhaps? I sure hoped so; my gangly ass would welcome the advantage.
“Quinn! It’s you! Aren’t you so glad to see me?”
I wheeled to find Narcissus bound to a steel chair, his eyelids pinned open by some sort of ocular clamp that managed to make a mockery of his stunning features, sitting back to back with a hooded figure I recognized all too well. The Greek flashed me a smile as though he didn’t look like a LASIK patient about to go into the operating room. Helen, on the other hand, was simply tied up; the demigoddess glanced over her shoulder and stiffened at the sight of me. I felt my lip curl in contempt before I could stop myself, before I could even listen to their paltry excuses.
“D’ye two lead Ryan to the Gate?” I asked, my fists balled so tight I could feel my nails digging furrows into the skin of my palms.
“Don’t answer her,” Helen commanded.
Narcissus, who’d already begun opening his mouth, clamped it shut with an audible snap. Of course, I wasn’t the only one looking for answers; Hades’ power flooded the room, though it seemed to coalesce around the two Greeks, crushing them beneath its immense pressure. I saw Narcissus huddle beneath the onslaught, panting with the effort it took to breathe. Helen merely bowed her head, trembling.
“Here you are, husband.”
“Thank you, my love,” Hades replied, taking the glass of water Persephone had retrieved. I hadn’t even noticed her return, oblivious thanks to Hades’ flexing of power. The god of the dead tossed back the glass’ contents and took a deep breath. “Much better. Now, let’s get back to this, shall we?”
Hades approached Narcissus, towering over the seated Greek to an almost comical degree. Indeed, were it not for the circumstances, I’d have probably laughed. But whatever Hades had planned lacked a comedic element; Narcissus started to whimper as the god of the dead crept forward, moving so smoothly it was like he floated across the stone floor rather than walked. As I watched, he reached into the folds of his murky cloak and withdrew a stack of papers so thick I thought he might kill Narcissus for real with it by merely setting it atop the Greek’s head and letting gravity do the rest.
Except that wasn’t what Hades had in mind.
“Underworld Census Volume B, Section 3, Subsection 2, paragraph 17,” Hades began after donning his glasses, turning the massive tome so that Narcissus had to look at the absurdly tiny script that littered each page. “Shall I begin with the F’s, this time?”
“No, not the F’s,” Narcissus whispered, sounding so horrified it sent chills up my spine. “Anything but the F’s.”
“Florakis, family of 32. Floros, family of 9. Fotopoulos, family of 25.” Hades went on, listing more and more names, followed by the total number of family members, his droning voice dragging us all down until it felt like my very soul wanted to curl up and die. Narcissus, by this point, was crying openly, tears tracking down his face.
“So...cruel,” he sobbed. “Can’t stand...it. So...boring.”
“Answer your friend’s question, and it can all be over,” the god of the dead insisted, clearly referring to me despite not having so much as spared me a single look since I arrived, despite the fact we’d basically crashed his little torture session.
“Narcissus,” Helen began, “don’t—”
But it was too late.
“It was the only way!” Narcissus wailed, tilting his head up to stop his nose from running. “How else was I supposed to stop this from happening?!”
Before I could ask what “this” meant, Narcissus promptly turned into a freaking flower. A literal flower, its stem planted firmly in the grain of the chair he’d been sitting in a second earlier. I recognized the drooping plant immediately—a narcissus. I turned, searching for Hemingway, hoping to confirm I hadn’t just hallucinated the Greek’s transformation, only to find the Horseman conspicuously absent—almost as if he’d never been there at all.
But where the hell could he have gone?
I turned back to the bizarre torture scene playing out before my very eyes, acutely aware that I was essentially at the mercy of the King and Queen of the Underworld now that my chaperone had disappeared—meaning there would be no one to intervene should they decide to make my little vacation a more permanent arrangement. But I was also certain of one other thing: if Hemingway didn’t show back up soon, he wouldn’t be the Horseman of Death by the time I got my hands on him.
He’d just be dead.
3
Narcissus returned to human form mere seconds before Hemingway reappeared, looking oddly disheveled and a tad flustered around the edges. Spooked, I’d have said, if I thought anything could truly upset an agent of the Apocalypse. Ordinarily, I would have glared at the bastard and demanded to know what he’d been playing at when he’d abandoned me, but I was too wary of drawing unwanted attention to interrupt the impending interrogation; I’d largely managed to avoid notice up until now by keeping quiet and occupying the furthest corner of the office. Fortunately, the god of the dead seemed as curious as I was to know why Hemingway had fled.
“Problem, Horseman?” Hades asked, swinging his steely gaze past me to land on a frazzled Hemingway.
“Minor emergency,” the Horseman replied, clearing his throat. “It’s been dealt with.”
“Ah,” Hades said. “Back to business then. So, Narcissus, you were saying something about planning to wake Nemesis?”
“Yes! She cursed me to turn into a flower whenever I get too...excited. It’s been very trying, especially for me.” Tears welled up in the Greek’s eyes, though from the clamps or actual sadness, I had no idea. “So, you see, when Helen came to me and proposed we wake her, I had to agree. She told me her mother would remove the curse as a reward. Helen even showed me how to control it, somewhat.”
“Did she, now?” Hades asked. “Helen of Troy, was it?”
Helen flinched bu
t said nothing.
“Remove her hood,” the god of the dead commanded, gesturing at me with one long, tapering finger. “Let’s see what lies beneath.”
Without so much as a second thought, I did as Hades asked; I left my corner, slipping past Persephone and around the bound Narcissus to stand before the Greek I’d sailed with, the demigoddess whose advice I’d heeded, the woman who had stood firm with me beneath Typhon’s vengeful gaze. I threw back her hood, revealing the face I’d seen that day in the gingerbread house—a profile so exquisite I thought I’d never seen someone so beautiful. My eyes were drawn to it in pieces, roving over the lips, the arching brows, the smooth glow of her skin, the glowing tresses of her hair.
“Enough of that,” Persephone hissed, snapping her fingers.
The illusion flickered.
What lay beneath was not an unattractive face: small-boned and angular, a shrewd intelligence made the most out of what would otherwise have been relatively plain features. That being said, hers was not a face to launch a thousand ships. Maybe a dozen, at best. Which meant Triton had been right, after all; this was not Helen of Troy, but an imposter masquerading as a demigoddess. But then who was she, really? And why impersonate Zeus’ daughter?
“What are you all looking at?” Narcissus asked, straining to see over his shoulder with his buggy eyes. “I want to see. Helen, dearest, what’s going on back there? Tell me!”
“You’re not Helen,” I accused, ignoring the Greek, surprised to note I wasn’t nearly as angry as I’d been standing outside. More than anything, I found I was curious. Sure, this woman had lied to and manipulated me, even abandoned my crew in their time of need, but there was something in her fiery expression that felt genuine—a descriptor I’d never have bestowed upon the Helen of Troy I knew. “Who are ye, really?”
“So, you found your way here, too,” the woman replied, ignoring my question. Her voice was altered slightly. More bitter, less sibilant. She stared me up and down, lips pursed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. The madman thought you might.”
“Frankenstein?”
“Did you say Frankenstein?” Persephone asked, jerking at the name. “Victor Frankenstein?”
“Aye. D’ye know him?”
“He’s a thief,” the goddess spat.
“Yes, well, he’s done quite the number on your friend,” the imposter interjected, contemptuously. “I should have suspected he’d betray us the first chance he got. I just didn’t realize it would be so soon.”
“Ye were plannin’ to backstab them, first,” I reasoned. “No honor among turncoats, I take it?”
“You know nothing. I did what I had to once I realized neither you nor the boy were going to lead me to the Gate.” The woman sneered up at me, her eyes narrowed in disdain. “And after all the lies I had to tell just to hitch a ride with you. What a waste.”
“Ye had no idea what Atlantis was or how to find it. It was the Titan Realm you wanted to reach all along.” I shook my head, playing back our past interactions, our conversations about the role of the mythical city, our navigation of the map we’d consulted, our talk of prophecy and ascension. Had it all been a lie? But why the elaborate deception? “So, ye lied to get us to take ye there. But why go to such lengths? Wait, was Oberon in on it?!”
“I don’t answer to you,” she replied, spitefully.
“I suggest,” Hades drawled, “you answer her questions, Penelope of Ithaca.”
The woman fidgeted, eyes downcast, the illusion shattered. Distantly, I noted Narcissus sputtering in disbelief, spouting reprisals. But I ignored him; I was too busy trying to adjust to the news that I’d been working with Odysseus’ wife all along.
“The Fae Lord knew nothing,” Penelope responded before I could demand more answers, sounding more frightened than contrite. “I found out he was looking for a guide to Atlantis and volunteered. I convinced Narcissus to follow me and do as I asked. His antics make for excellent cover.”
“I don’t understand,” I admitted, thrown by her sudden confession. “What were ye hopin’ to achieve?”
“I wanted to find my husband.”
“What? D’ye mean Odysseus, or Agamemnon?” I glared at the imposter. “Because I remember ye lyin’ to me about that, once before.”
“Odysseus, you fool. He’s gone missing.” Penelope met my gaze, her expression raw. “He was always Athena’s favorite. Her chosen hero. When her war began, he chose to join her cause. But when it ended, he failed to return home. Again.”
I scowled, recalling Penelope’s role in Homer’s Odyssey; beset by suitors and tasked with waiting for her husband after the fall of Troy, the woman had spent decades fending off unwanted attention using nothing but her wits and an insistence on maintaining propriety. So, this time she’d decided she’d had enough of waiting. I supposed I couldn’t blame her—not that I was inclined to give her a pass for lying to us.
“And ye thought he was in the Titan realm?” I watched her face, noting her shifting expression. I thought back to our last real conversation. “No, not there. The Underworld, that’s where ye wanted us to go. Ye seriously think he’s dead?”
“If he isn’t, he will be,” she swore. “But no, I couldn’t be sure. Initially, I had hoped to speak with the spirits of the dead and find out. My husband spoke often of the answers they provided.” Penelope’s gaze flicked to Hades, who stood with his arms folded staring into the middle distance as if lost in thought. “I swear, Lord Hades, I had no idea the Frozen One would break down the Gate.”
“The Frozen One?” Persephone echoed, ignoring Narcissus’ sudden twitch.
“The leader of the trespassers,” Hemingway explained, relaying what I’d told him of Ryan and his exploits. “Apparently he’s been terrorizing the Eighth Sea for some time.”
“Impossible,” Persephone scoffed. “Gaia has relinquished much of her power, but in that realm her will is law. She would never allow such a thing.”
“He has a devourer,” Penelope interjected.
All heads turned to her as if on a string, including Hades’; the god of the dead looked practically lively with a single arched eyebrow. I, meanwhile, was left to curse my foolishness. The devourer he’d stolen from me! I’d forgotten all about the powerful artifact—the glittering jewel I’d recovered from Balor’s irradiated corpse.
“How did he come by it?” Hades asked.
“I don’t know. All I know is that he’s been using it to get stronger. To amass power. The mad scientist is helping him, enhancing him surgically. The effect is...grotesque.”
I felt my skin crawl at the thought, envisioning the horrifying, patchwork creature I’d battled back in Massachusetts. Frankenstein’s monster. Was that why Ryan hadn’t recognized me—why he’d changed so drastically even before our tussle in the underground laboratory? Had Frankenstein’s influence been present even then? I couldn’t be certain, but the idea of my old friend being operated on, being reforged into something equally malformed, made me sick to my stomach.
“What is he planning?” The god of the dead stepped close, looming over us both, the proximity of his stifling power making my joints ache. “Why does he invade this realm?”
Penelope shuddered and refused to meet the god’s eyes.
“Because she lied to him,” I replied, searching the woman’s face, though I knew with a grim certainty that I was right. “He t’inks he can reach Atlantis from here, doesn’t he?”
Something unreadable flashed across Hades’ face, but the god of the dead stayed quiet. Hemingway, I noticed, was studying me more intently than the situation warranted. Had I done something unexpected? Breached some sort of Underworld etiquette? I couldn’t be sure.
“My husband spoke of Atlantis once,” Penelope replied, her voice oddly forlorn. “He claimed the spirits of the dead whispered of it. That they’d seen its wonders for themselves. I merely passed that bit of information along and let the Frozen One come to his own conclusions.”
“What d
id Odysseus think of their whispers?” Hades asked.
“He thought it was a trap, a lure meant to entice the living.”
“Of course,” the god of the dead replied, thoughtfully. “Odysseus always was quite clever.”
“Where does the Titan gate lead?” Hemingway interjected, locking eyes with the pensive Hades.
“Once it led to Tartarus. But my little brother begged me to destroy that route. He was not eager to see our father freed by his kin.”
His kin, meaning the other Titans, I realized. Hades’ father Kronos, who had spawned the Olympians before eating them one by one to stave off a fateful prophecy, had once ruled the progenitor gods before falling to his divine offspring. As for his little brother, Hades could only be talking about Zeus. As in the Zeus. Which also meant he was also referring obliquely to the prison built to contain Kronos; imprisoned by his children after war between the Olympians and the Titans, the King of the Titans was rumored to reside in a black pit found at the deepest depths of the Underworld, known as Tartarus.
“And where does it lead, now?” Hemingway asked.
“It...detours.” Hades removed his glasses and began cleaning their lenses with the tail end of his smoldering cloak—though, unsurprisingly, all that did was fog them up worse than before. “By now, I expect this Frozen One will have left our jurisdiction.”
“Wait, how is that possible?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “I mean,” I stammered, heart racing, “isn’t the entire Underworld your jurisdiction?”
“Of course,” Hades replied. “But the afterlife is a place with many names. I rule but a piece of it.”
“Where’s the detour lead?” Hemingway asked, impatiently.
“Helheim.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Why, where’s Helheim?” I glanced around the room, struck by the apprehensive expressions on everyone’s face. Except Hades, of course, who seemed as implacable as ever. “What’s with the long faces? What does that mean?”
Brimstone Kiss: Phantom Queen Book 10 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 3