by Wagner, Raye
Athan acknowledged her with a nod. “Okay then, let’s roll.”
The dead man pulled from his grasp and, without any direction, shuffled into the mists.
She put her hand in his cool one, and he tucked it back into the crook of his arm. They strolled through the garden and down a stone path.
Another wall greeted them, this one chest-high with shards of broken crystals lining the top. “Why is it blocked off?”
Thanatos pointed to a wrought-iron gate. He pulled a ring from his pocket and selected an old key from the countless ones there. Inserting it into the lock, he twisted, and the clang of the metal lock withdrawing screeched in her ears.
“It is the Lethe.”
The river of lost memories. Those that drank of its waters would allegedly forget.
She walked through the gate and looked down the steep hill to the river below. Liquid diamonds splashed over the dark rocks, prisms of light dancing within the water. The air was cooler, crisp and clean, and it pulsed with promise of new possibilities.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. She stepped toward the river, and Thanatos grabbed her arm.
“Let’s use the steps, shall we? The hill is quite steep, and you definitely don’t want to fall in.”
She followed him down the stone stairs, her gaze wholly absorbed on the dancing rainbows, and bumped into him when he stopped at the bottom. “Sorry.”
He turned and faced her, his proximity making her breath catch.
“No need to apologize, Hope.” His smile softened the sharp angles of his face, making him look human. Almost.
She stepped back.
“Do people really drink from there?” She pointed to the water, hoping to direct his penetrating gaze elsewhere.
He obliged. “Yes.” His gaze went up the river toward a large mountain. The river seemed to come out from underneath the towering rock. “My brother lives there in that cave. Do you see?”
“Hypnos.”
He chuckled. “Yes. It’s fitting, really. He is the god of sleep, but dreams have the potential to dredge up unconscious memories. He will drip some of the river into an individual’s mouth if the memory is too painful.”
“He can do that?”
“You don’t think it’s right? He helps them let go of their pain. It is a mercy.”
She shook her head. It was like stealing a part of a person’s mind. “I get that some people have bad memories and things”—she thought of her mom, Apollo killing his sons, Skia attacking Athan—“but that’s wrong. And the dead can come here and drink from the Lethe? Isn’t that like giving up a part of who you are?”
He took a deep breath. “You are still young and perhaps a bit . . . idealistic. For some, the burdens are so many they actually consume them. This allows souls eternity without having to carry those burdens anymore.”
He squatted at the river’s edge and dipped his hand in the water, cupping the liquid in his palm. “One drop can erase a recent memory, if someone had been murdered or worse. A cupful would eliminate several days, possibly weeks depending on the mind. The more a person drinks, the more they would forget. Some choose to drink away the pain of hurt, betrayal, or loss with the water of the Lethe. But it is only an option to those who can make it to the banks of the river.”
The river flowed only in certain parts of the Underworld. “So only those who live a life worthy of Elysium or the Isles can drink of it?”
“It is a privilege.” The water trickled from his hand. “Don’t judge others whose shoes you have not walked in. You know not what pains them.”
Guilt stabbed her. She was being a hypocrite. “Of course.”
She reached out and let a drop from Thanantos’s palm fall into her hand. The water was delightfully cool, and desire to lick it pulsed through her. It wasn’t just desire. No, the longing became a craving and then morphed into a need. She needed to drink it, to wash away the horror of Priska’s death. She raised her hand . . .
Thanatos emptied his palm and then grabbed her wrist, twisting it to release the single drop back into the water.
“I guess you have some pain you’d like to be rid of after all?”
Hope shook her head, not in denial, but in an attempt to clear it. “Why did it do that? Why did I suddenly want to drink it so bad?”
Thanatos gazed out over the wide river. “It measures your pain and makes you want to consume an amount equal to your anguish. Don’t touch it unless you plan to drink.”
Hope stepped away from the bank of the river. “I’ll remember that.”
Thanatos extended his elbow, but Hope suddenly wanted to distance herself from the god, and she swept past him to the stairs.
They rode at a more leisurely pace back through Elysium. Hope asked if her mother was there, but the god of death only shook his head.
They crossed into the Fields of Asphodel, and at the slower pace, the area reminded Hope of downtown Seattle. It was crowded, busy, and loud. She again asked about her mother, and again Thanatos shook his head.
Which left only the Isles of the Blessed or Tartarus. But when she asked Thanatos, he yet again shook his head.
By the time they arrived back at his home, darkness had descended and frustration drove her from the open carriage and to her room.
When Hope got out of bed the next morning, her head spun. Her dry tongue felt like sandpaper to her parched lips. Two bottles of water sat on her bedside table, taunting her, and in addition to the package of beef jerky, there were now two chocolate bars. She didn’t even like chocolate, but she picked up the bars and smelled them.
“Hope?” Thanatos’s muffled voice came through the door. He tapped at the wood.
She shuffled to the door, holding the wall, just in case.
“Coming,” she choked out, horse and indecipherable. She tried to clear her throat, but there was nothing to clear. Her stomach churned, and the floor started to rock. She was going to pass out, and she mentally braced for the impact.
“Foolish girl,” Thanatos whispered as he caught her. He carried her to her bed and then sat beside her. “You are still living.” He grabbed a water bottle, uncapped it, and extended it toward Hope.
She tried to shake her head, but it lolled to the side.
“Find something else to be obstinate about,” he said, as he dribbled water over her lips.
She closed her mouth before the liquid could pass. She would not be damned.
Thanatos growled, and the sound rumbled in her ear.
“I swear on the River Styx that this is from the mortal realm. It will not bind you here.” Thanatos lifted her head and held the plastic bottle to her lips.
He could be lying, but even if he were, she needed the water. Greedily, she gulped the first bottle down. Her stomach flipped, but the water stayed down. “Gods, I’m so stupid.”
Thanatos didn’t argue with her. He held out the second bottle. “Drink it all. I’ll go get you more. And eat that dried meat, or at least suck on it. You need the salt.”
Just before he closed the door, he glanced over his shoulder at her. An entire storm brewed in his eyes.
The door clicked shut, and Hope closed her eyes. Her mind was just alert enough to scream in protest. The gods didn’t do favors. What did Thanatos want with her?
“Feeling better?” Thanatos held out another bottle of water.
Hope pushed him away and scooted to the edge of the bed. She needed to use the restroom . . . right now. “I’ll be right back.”
The bathroom was all black and crystal. On the polished counters was another clean set of clothes, a faded vintage T-shirt and jeans. As she washed her hands, she wondered how the god of death knew what size she was. Or even what styles to get. She poked her head out of the door. “Do you mind if I shower?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Be my guest. I’ll be downstairs in the study.” He set the bottle of water down next to two additional sealed ones and a basket of packaged snacks. “Be sure you eat something, too, pleas
e.”
It was the please that touched her heart. Because even if he was trying to use her, he was being so kind about it.
“I’ll be down shortly.” She closed the door and continued to let her questions flow through her mind. She did feel better, only weak, and food would take care of that. Could she starve to death in the Underworld; was that possible? How long had she been here? What could the god of death want with her, a cursed monster?
When she was clean, dried, and fed, Hope made her way to the study, only flinching when she passed several Skia, but they completely ignored her. She wanted to trust Thanatos, but could she?
He stood as soon as she entered. Crossing the polished floors, he stopped in front of her and clasped her hands. “You gave me quite a scare. Even cursed, you have physical needs, something we will need to bear in mind.”
“How do you get the food and water?”
A slow smile spread across his face, and his dark eyes twinkled. “Hermes is not the only psychopomp. I’m quite pleased that hoarding a few mortal items has paid off, and my Skia help when I need them to.”
She pulled at the T-shirt. “And the clothes?”
He shook his head. “They are clean. I promise.”
Something told her she didn’t really want to know.
“Come sit down,” he said, pulling her toward the plush chairs. “You will take a day or two to recover from your self-imposed fast, I reckon.”
Self-imposed fast. Right. “Can I die here?”
Thanatos tilted his head as if considering her question. “I honestly don’t know. I looked for your Book of the Fates , hoping there was a copy here, but I can’t find it. I’ve asked the Moirai to grant me an audience, but they haven’t responded yet.” Irritation flashed across his face. “I need to know the terms of your curse to be able to answer that.”
He’d asked the Fates for an audience, but they hadn’t attended him? Did he know about her mother? What about her grandmother? The biggest question, and the one most pressing, was whether or not she could trust him. And she had no idea. But did she even have a choice? She had no other options. None.
“My great-grandmother was the daughter of a shepherd and the goddess, Hera.”
Thanatos sucked in a breath, and his eyes darkened. “Hera is the goddess of marriage and fidelity. If you don’t want to tell me, fine. But, don’t lie to me.”
The mists skittered and rolled over the dark rock at their feet. Misery mixed in the dark vapor, scuttling over their shoes and legs, a tangible emotion with spindly limbs. Unease crawled over Athan, an itch just under the skin that refused to relent. The sulfuric stench of rotten eggs clung to them, and the sound of lapping waves was louder, yet they still hadn’t reached the Acheron.
Several hours later, Athan called for a rest.
“Please tell me we’re almost there.” Dahlia’s eyes were wide, her face glistening with moisture.
Odd, it wasn’t hot in the Underworld as many humans thought hell would be. Not that it was cold either. The dank, musty air was warm but barely uncomfortable.
“We should rest,” he said. Athan thought back to the other times he’d been in the Underworld with his father. Had it ever taken this long to get from a portal to the River? He pulled the dead man’s sleeve. “Stay here with us.”
The apparition narrowed his eyes. Amongst the mottled scar tissue from his burns, an angry scar ran from his temple to his jaw. His mouth opened, but whatever argument he had was lost to them in silent movement.
“Your voice is lost until judgment,” Athan told him.
The man flipped him off and then sat, the lower half of his body disappearing into the thick vapor.
“It looks like your charisma doesn’t carry to the dead.” Xan chuckled to himself, as he swung his pack to the side and pulled out a pouch of water. With his teeth, he tore the corner and began to drink.
Athan wanted to flip him off. “I guess not.”
But it was more than that. There was something dark about this man’s life force. Something that made Athan uneasy.
Dahlia wiped her sleeve across her face. “Do you guys feel that?”
She pointed at the haze moving across the barren landscape.
Xan paused, holding the pouch of water inches from his mouth. “Feel what?” He kicked at the mist, and his pack swung forward. The vapor swirled away from his boots, exposing the packed gray earth. “What do you feel?”
Dahlia shrugged her pack off her back and set the canvas bag on the ground. She fumbled to open the side pocket, the zipper snagging on the fabric.
“Bloody Hades,” she swore, her voice cracking with emotion. She tugged at the corner of a water packet. As the pouch broke free of the pack, she stumbled back and landed on her butt.
“Shite!”
“I’m fine.” But the warble in her voice betrayed her lie.
Athan extended his hand. He’d let her keep her pride. “Of course.”
Her skin was cold and clammy, and he could feel her desperation and fear.
She snatched her hand back. With a swallow, she rubbed at the skin through the broken fabric. Her normally warm, russet skin was a blotchy gray around the tear. “I said I’m fine.”
Athan’s protest died on his lips as Xan stepped up next to them and whispered, “I’m not worried that Dahlia fell. She could kick your arse any day, pretty boy.” He pointed to where Dahlia’s pack had dropped into the mist. “Something’s not right.”
The dark eddies covered any trace of the bright orange fabric of her pack. Dahlia leaned over to grab her bag, but her hand swung through the haze and came up empty. “What the—?”
“It’s gone.”
Dahlia’s hand sunk into the darkness, and she shuffled around in circles until she was far away from where she’d dropped the pack. Athan stooped low and joined her, his own pack making his movements awkward and unsteady.
“I said it’s gone.” Xan pointed at the center of their search area. “As soon as you let go, it disappeared.”
Athan stood and pushed back the panic crawling in his chest. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” They’d just need to ration more strictly.
Dahlia stood, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She wiped at her face again. “Bloody Hades.”
Xan wrapped her in a hug. “It’s fine, Dahl. We can get by on a little less.”
Exactly what Athan was thinking. Not that big of a deal.
Her dark curls covered her face as she buried her head in Xan’s chest. “I’m sorry.”
There was something so wrong about watching Dahlia cower. Worry gnawed at his heart. “Do you want me to take you back?”
He wasn’t even sure how to get back at this point, but there was no doubt Dahlia had been injured by the Skia blade. He had no idea how the wound would fester here in Hades’s domain, but Athan wasn’t going to take chances. He couldn’t live with anyone else dying.
Dahlia seemed to move in a blur. She was away from Xan and holding Athan by the front of his shirt in the blink of an eye. “Are you saying I’m not good enough to be here? Do you think I’ll slow you down?”
Athan drew back from her vehemence. “I . . .”
He looked at Xan, but the son of Ares just shrugged. Great. Of course the war god’s son wouldn’t help.
Athan took a deep breath. “I know that blade touched your skin.”
“Bloody hell!” Xan surged forward and grabbed Dahlia’s sleeve. Before either of them could protest, he poked his fingers through the tear in the fabric and ripped it through to the hem. His thumb ran over her skin, and then he glared at Athan. “It’s fine. What are you talking about?”
Athan looked at his companions, and pointing at the ashen skin of Dahlia’s forearm he asked, “You can’t see it?”
Xan shook his head even as worry crept over his features. His gaze went to his cousin, and he tugged on her arm.
Dahlia said nothing, but grimaced when he brushed over the wound again.
Athan pulled her arm away fro
m Xan. Cradling it, Athan ran his fingers over the dusky patch of skin. The cold bit at him. Searing pain like a Skia blade stabbed at his fingertips, and he jerked away.
Dahlia flinched and pulled the ends of the fabric together. “It’s not broken.”
He pinched his lips together. Strange. “But you can feel it.”
She nodded.
He let out a slow breath. “I can feel it. Somehow it’s in your skin. Just as if he’d cut you.”
She nodded again.
“Shite!” Xan pushed Athan out of the way. “Seriously? Why didn’t you say something?”
She gritted her teeth and set her shoulders. “Because I wasn’t going to skive out on you. We’re here for Hope. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” She looked around the darkness and pointed into the mist. “That gormless arse is wandering off, Athan. Go get him, and let’s go.”
Athan jogged after the apparition, even while something about Dahlia’s words nagged at him. The dead man continued to pick up the pace, and Athan had to push himself to keep the man in sight. Thoughts turned to panic. If the man escaped, there was no way they’d get across on Charon’s ferry. He pushed himself harder, going from jog to run, to an all-out sprint when the man disappeared into the blackness.
The sounds of waves lapping against a shoreline grew, and the ground seemed to crumble beneath Athan’s feet. He tripped forward and stumbled, barely catching himself before he fell into the water.
They had arrived at the Acheron.
Death smelled like overripe fruit and mold. A bitter tang wafted off the river, causing an ache of despair to swell in his chest. Athan stepped away and looked around.
There, in the swirling mists, were dozens and dozens of dead milling around at the water’s edge. The color leached from their skin, their paleness much like a Skia’s, but their eyes lacked the total blackness of Hades’s minions. If that weren’t enough, the confusion, worry, and in some cases fear etched on their features eased any concern about them being Skia.
Expressions were the only way to determine what they were trying to communicate. Some looked to be pleading; others emanated anger. Somehow the apparitions were corporeal to one another. Two men shoved a third toward the water’s edge.