by Bree Despain
“It’s not here,” the commander says.
“Do not lie to me!”
“I’m not.” He gestures toward an empty case. “It’s gone. I don’t know where—”
I’ve lost patience for subduing the man. He’s of no use to us. I cuff him hard across the forehead and then lower his limp body to the ground.
“Mother, do you know—” Ethan starts to say, but when he looks up the woman is gone. The door stands wide open.
“She’s changed . . .” Jonathan’s raspy voice says. “She’s worn down by life. Like me. Still as beautiful . . . as ever. At least I got to see her one last time . . .”
“Father, don’t speak,” Ethan says. “Save your energy. We’ll find your bow.” He signals to me. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”
I scan the room again, searching every case. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I can feel my confidence from before whooshing out of me like air from a billows.
Why did I ever think this would work?
Why didn’t I see the danger I was putting the others in?
I look back at Ethan and shake my head. He has rolled Jonathan on his back and holds his hand now, squeezing and rubbing it like he’s trying to keep it warm.
The memory of my own mother’s cold hand in mine flashes through my mind. I held her while she died when I was only a boy. And now because of me, because of my foolhardy plan, Ethan—who had never had the chance to know his father when he was a boy—would have to hold him now as he faded away.
This is all my fault.
I start for the door, not sure if I am leaving to give them privacy, or if I think I can find the bow elsewhere in the palace—but I know from the amount of blood and the pallor that has crept over Jonathan’s normally rosy countenance, that even if I searched the entire palace and located the bow, it would be too late.
“Wait,” Jonathan says. “My last darts.”
I realize it now, his quiver is missing. The one that held his last two emotion darts. Would that restore him?
Ethan and I both search the ground. It only takes a moment to find the quiver clutched in the hand of the guard who stabbed him. He must have ripped the quiver from Jonathan’s shoulder when he struck him. Ethan desperately rips out the store-bought, graphite arrows that are no good, and then reaches into the bottom of the quiver, searching for the darts. First he finds what looks like a handful of brittle, metallic blue dust. One of the last two darts must have been crushed during the chaos. He groans and lets the useless particles fall through his fingers. He reaches into the quiver again, even more desperate this time, and pulls out a small, glittering purple dart. He places it in his father’s hand and tries to close Jonathan’s large fingers around it. “Here,” he says. “Take it.”
“No,” Jonathan says, letting it fall from his hand. “It’s not enough.”
“Just hang on. It could be enough until we find your bow . . .”
“Too late.” He blinks his eyes rapidly. “Give it to Haden.”
“No,” I say, stepping forward. “I don’t deserve it.”
“You’ll need it. You can still find Persephone. You can still save Daphne.” He closes his eyes. “Save her for me.”
I kneel next to him, his blood soaking the hem of my tunic. This is even more blood than when my mother died. I reach down and wrap my fingers around the small dart-like arrow. Ethan makes a move as if he wants to stop me, but then pulls back, still clasping his father’s hand, and allows me to pick it up.
I hold it for a moment, wanting nothing more than to dose myself right now—to experience anything other than the grief that grips me. But I hold back, knowing that feeling sorrow is a privilege at this time. A gift. An emotion that will etch this moment into my memory forever. I will never be able to forget what Jonathan sacrificed in order to help save Daphne.
No matter how black or bleak things will get in the very near future, I won’t allow myself to give in to the nothingness. “I won’t give up until she is safe,” I say, tucking the arrow into the belt of my stolen uniform.
And then, as if his soul recognizes that someone else has taken possession of his last dart—his last thread of immortality—Jonathan’s large body goes limp, and a wheezing breath escapes his lips.
Ethan collapses to his knees next to me. “Oh Zeus,” he says into his hands as if he were praying, “why have you let his thread be cut?”
“He hasn’t,” a woman’s voice says. I look up just as Psyche scrambles past us—a large golden bow in her hands. She lays it against Jonathan’s chest and wraps his large arms around the bow.
“Take it, Eros,” she says. “Take your mantle.”
She presses his arms tighter around it, but they fall away.
“It’s too late, Mother,” Ethan says, holding his hand out to clasp her shoulder.
“No.” She throws herself on top of the bow, pressing it against Jonathan’s chest. “I’ve waited centuries to see you again, Eros. I will not allow you to leave me now!”
Ethan grabs her and pulls her away. She collapses against his chest, her dress soaked in her husband’s blood, crying tears so painful that I turn away.
For the third time this afternoon, we are interrupted by an unexpected cry from the doorway. Though this time, it is less of a cry and more of a command. Two dozen soldiers file into the room, each with an electrified spear in hand and sword at hip. Before I can even think how to react, we have been flanked on all sides.
“Arrest the invaders,” the commanding voice barks. “For breaking and entering, armed robbery, and high treason.”
Two guards grab me and pull me to my feet. Psyche tries to protest as they wrench her away from Jonathan’s body, but it is evident that they think she was in on our heist. Ethan doesn’t struggle as another set of guards pulls him away from his father. Perhaps he’s in shock?
“Put them in chains,” the voice says, coming closer. Terresa steps through the doorway. She stands in front of us with her hands on her hips. “And then I will escort them to the Black Hole from here.”
chapter twenty-seven
daphne
It takes about two hours of practicing before I start to get the hang of using the pomegranate necklace to teleport. Shady has me practice moving only a few feet at a time, popping from inside the cave to the outside. Which he quickly reverses from outside the cave to inside when I almost teleport myself right off the edge of the cliff.
The tricky part is visualization. I have to close my eyes and think hard, visualizing where it is that I want to go. The problem is that I let my mind wander, and instead of picturing the landing outside the cave entrance, I start to think about when I stood at the edge, listening to Tobin’s message. Instead of landing beside the boulder, I land with my toes hanging over the edge of the cliff. Luckily, I re-visualize a spot inside the cave just before teetering over the ledge.
After playing it safe for a while after that, I start feeling antsy. The time is ticking away, and the light in the sky is beginning to wane. It will be late evening soon. But Shady keeps insisting I’m not ready yet.
“Now try taking me with youuu,” Shady says, holding his hand out to me. “Visualize both of us moving to water pool.” He points to the back of the cave.
I squeeze Shady’s hand, trying not to shrink back at his touch. His gangly fingers remind me of withered carrots. I close my eyes, but instead of visualizing the water pool, I picture the gray rocky ground at the bottom of the cliff. I don’t want to practice anymore, I want to get moving.
When I open my eyes and see the gray rock earth beneath my feet, Shady moans at me in disapproval. “What?” I say. “We made it, didn’t we?” We are standing at the bottom of the cliff, near a sandy footpath that would take us to the road that leads into the Wastelands.
“And what if we’d reappeared midair?” Shady asks. “We would have fallen to our deaths.”
“You’re already dead,” I say. “And besides, we didn’t fall. Now can we move on?”
&nbs
p; Shady grunts and holds out his hand once again. I nod and give a little smile—I don’t know if it’s me getting better at listening or if Shady is getting better at speaking—but outside the cave everything is a little clearer. More hopeful. I can even start to hear the ethereal tones of the rocks and ghostly flowers around us. We must have traveled off the royal grounds.
“You think Charon is most likely on one of his docks?” I ask.
“He is always either on his boat on the river or at one of the docks. His job issss never ending. He must collect and escort the freshly arrived souls of the dead through Underrealm. Trying to catch him at one of the many docks is ooour chance of finding him.”
“I’ve only seen three different docks since I’ve been here. The one where I was attacked by the Shades after the chariot crash, the one I passed while traversing the Elysium shore, and the one on the beach near Persephone’s Gate. I guess we need to start with those since they’re the only ones I can visualize.”
Shady nods. “The first one you mentioned is closest. Let us start there.”
I think back to the dock where I was attacked by those Shades, just before Shady saved me. The only thing I had really gotten a good look at were the slats between the boards where I had fallen. I close my eyes and think about those slats as hard as I can. When I open my eyes, I find myself standing on the dock with Shady, my heel wedged into one of the slats.
“Not here,” Shady says. It only takes a moment to glance around and find the dock deserted. Even the boat that had been waiting to take Garrick and me up the river is gone. Had that been the boatman’s vessel, or had it been a military ship?
I work my foot free from where it’s wedged in the slats while Shady scans the river. My foot is good and stuck, and I am feeling more than grateful that horde of Shades is gone also. “Can I ask you something?” I say when I finally wrench my sandal free. “When you rescued me from those Shades, did you do it because you knew I was the queen, or did you do it because you wanted to take me home for your very own meal?”
Shady grunts. He looks down at the dock where he’d clubbed me in the head. He shrugs his big gray shoulders. “If youuu must know, I considered eating you. Then I saw your crown. I assumed you were important.” He waves his leathery hand in my general direction. “Besides, youuu are far too scrawny.”
“Ha!” I laugh. Scrawny is not a word that I have ever heard to describe me. Curvy is more like it—if the person is being polite. Though on a diet of flowers and lizards, I can tell from the way my dress fits that I am starting to lose some of those curves. Something I’ll have to rectify with a bacon cheeseburger and the world’s biggest root-beer float when I get home.
Shady looks at me with his eyeless gaze. “I do nnnot care for eating people. Only if there is nothing else.”
“Well, isn’t that noble of you and all.” Maybe it’s because I’ve never had a conversation with another Shade, but Shady definitely seemed different from all the others. He is a solitary, thoughtful soul, while the other Shades seem to prefer to run in mindless packs and viciously prey on just about anything that moves. “Are you like an anti-people-atarian?” I ask.
Shady shakes his head like he doesn’t understand my question, but then he says, “People have bad texture. Too stringy. And all that hair of yours wouuuld get stuck in my teeth.”
I raise my eyebrows at him and stifle a gag at the mental image he just conjured. Shady makes that weird noise again, and I realize he’s laughing at me again.
“Suuuch expressions!” he moans.
“All right, funny guy, let’s go to the beach by the gate next. That’s where I met Charon before, so it seems like the most likely place to find him again.”
I take Shady’s hand again, close my eyes, and try to concentrate on what details I can remember from that location. We’d been running for our lives at the time as well. What is it with Shades attacking near docks? Finally, I picture the sandy bank where we had discovered Charon lying unconscious. Garrick had thought he was dead, but after checking for his pulse I had insisted on taking the old man on the boat with us to keep him safe from the Shades. I picture the prints our feet had made in the sand.
When I feel soft wet sand under my feet, I know we’ve made it to the right place. Shady answers my unasked question before I even open my eyes. “Not here, either.”
I look around, scanning the horizon, hoping he’s missed something.
“Perhaps we should wait,” Shady says. “Perhaps he’s on his boat already? If there were enough souls waiting, he may have made an early start.”
“If only I knew what his boat looks like, I could pop us right over.” It is starting to get dark. Once Charon is on the river, the likelihood of catching up with him seems nil. And even with Shady by my side, the idea of hanging out where Shades might decide to come looking for dinner seems like a less than appealing plan. “Let’s go to Elysium next. Then stop there and wait. He’s bound to deliver a soul to Elysium sooner or later.”
“Only rare souls gooo to Elysium,” Shady says.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky.” I hold my hand out to him, but he doesn’t take it.
“I cannot go to Elysium,” he says. “Shades cannot tread on their shores.”
“Right,” I say, crossing my arms in front of me. It grows colder as the fake sunlight fades away. “Sometimes, I forget you’re a Shade.”
Shady cocks his head at me. His gaping mouth twists into the strangest grimace. Then I realize that it isn’t a grimace. He’s smiling.
In this moment, I can’t help but think that Shady reminds me a little bit of Haden. The two of them would probably get along.
My heart aches just thinking of Haden. I turn away and close my eyes. If I can’t find Charon—if I can’t find the Key—I may never see him again. And even if I do find the Key, if I’m too late and the curse takes him before I can cure him, I may get to see him, but he won’t be the same. He won’t be my Haden, just an emotionless husk of his former self. What if I never get to see Haden’s smile again? “I’ll go to Elysium. You wait here and see if Charon comes. I’ll be back as quickly as possible.”
I know Shady is about to protest in his overprotective way, so I picture the lonely dock in Elysium as quickly as possible. It had been night when my guide and I had passed it, but I picture the way it had looked illuminated in the light of Kayla’s lamp.
Kayla! Why didn’t I tell Haden that I had met his mother? He would want to know that she’s okay. That she’s a handmaiden to the oracle and not a Shade like he had always feared. We’d had so little time together . . .
I catch my mind wandering and try to center it back on the image of the Elysium dock, but I know I’m off course when my feet land in water. I open my eyes just as the current of the river pulls me under. Water fills my mouth and I choke, trying to keep it from rushing down my throat. I claw at the surface of the river, and bob up once before I’m pulled down again. I close my eyes, thinking of somewhere, anywhere but here.
I feel dry land under me. I open my eyes and find that I am lying on my side on the Elysium shore, just where my boat crashed all those days ago. This was the first place Kayla had brought me to search for Tobin and the Key, and the last place Charon had been before disappearing. No wonder my mind had latched on to that.
In the distance, I see the Elysium dock. A great black boat is just pulling away from the shore.
“Stop!” I shout, run-hobbling to the dock. My feet sink into the wet sand on the riverbank. I’ll never make it there in time . . .
Unless I use the pomegranate. Duh! I keep running and grab the pendant while imagining the dock in front of me. My feet hit wood and I am running up the dock now, having bypassed the half mile from where I had been to here.
“Wait,” I shout toward the boat as a tall oarsman in a black cloak pushes away from the dock into the river. “Stop!” I shout again. I don’t know if he can’t hear me or if he doesn’t care to listen, but the oarsman continues to paddle into th
e current.
I peer into the crowded boat as it pulls away. Several ghostly-looking people—or souls, I should say—sit huddled together on a long bench. One man cries, moaning into the shoulder of an elderly looking woman at his side. These must be the souls of those not lucky enough to be dropped off in Elysium. Charon must be taking them to wherever souls are turned into Shades. Out of instinct, I scan their faces, hoping not to see anyone I know.
There’s a young woman, clutching her jacket close to her chest. A smear of blood paints her face. Next to her is an empty space on the bench. The current catches the boat and pulls it swiftly down the River of Woe. I close my eyes, picturing the girl and the empty space next to her.
I know I’ve arrived when I feel the press of cold bodies against me. Someone grabs at my tattered skirts as I stand. I try not to look at any of the souls, knowing my dreams will be haunted with them for weeks to come.
“Charon?” I say, calling to the oarsman.
The cloaked man turns toward me. His face is hooded. He points a bony finger in my direction. “You do not belong here.”
“Uh, yeah. I know,” I say, taking another step closer. I keep my movements slow and measured, trying not to rock the boat. “You’re Charon, right?”
The oarsman raises his withered hand and pulls his hood from his head. The skin is so thin on his face that it almost looks like a skull, and his nose is so large and crooked, it reminds me of a beak. The old man stares back at me with black eyes that are sunk deep in their sockets. He hadn’t looked so ghastly when he was unconscious. “Who’s asking?” he says. “It’s a crime to trespass in the world of the dead.”
“I’m from the mortal realm, and yeah, I’m not dead. I almost was, but that’s a different story. Anyway, I’m not exactly trespassing since I’m technically Queen of the Underrealm and all. Sort of. But we’ve met before . . .” I trail off as I feel someone yanking on my cloak. I glance back to see the crying man, trying to get my attention.
“I don’t know how I got here,” he says. “I don’t know where I am. There was a train and I . . .” He looks down at his leg—only it isn’t there.