This helpful recap did nothing to suggest a best course of action for Neil, so in the absence of anybody actually challenging him, he decided that he might as well just walk straight in. It was reasonably hard to sneak, anyway, if there was nobody trying to stop you.
He chose the most humble-looking door at the back of the building, and found himself in an enormous kitchen, with flagstone floors, whitewashed walls, and a huge fireplace. There wasn’t a trace of food to be seen, nor a single kitchen implement anywhere. In the middle of the room was a large wooden table, and around it sat a group of the dead, both men and women, of varying ages and states of disrepair. They were all facing inward with looks of deep concentration on their faces. He tried to slip past, but one of them, an old man in a surgical gown who had a huge open wound down the front of his chest, noticed him and spoke.
“What are you doing here?” he said.
“Are you a guard?” said Neil.
“Don’t be absurd,” said the man. “Do I look yellow to you?”
“Um, not particularly,” said Neil.
“I’m an architect,” said the man. “Are you an architect?”
“No,” said Neil. “I’m an engineer.”
“Then you’re in the wrong room,” said the architect. “Kitchen wing is architects only, engineers are in the ballroom. Though why the engineers get to be in the ballroom I have no idea. They’re just structure, we’re design.”
“I’ll make my way through,” said Neil. “Thank you.”
“Pay close attention to the main hall carpet,” said an old woman sitting at the end of the table as Neil went to leave. “It’s one of mine. Each tuft is individually imagined.”
Neil left the kitchen and made his way deeper into the palace, picking his way along paneled corridors until he came out to a huge open hallway—with, to his eye, an entirely unremarkable carpet—where an imposing flight of steps swept up to an enormous pair of heavily gilded doors guarded by two uniformed men, both (and he now realized the meaning of the architect’s words) with queasy yellow faces. He guessed that this was probably where he wanted to head.
The two men watched with curiosity but no aggression as he climbed up the stairs toward them.
“Hello,” said Neil.
“Hello,” said one of the guards.
“I’m looking for Hades and Persephone,” said Neil.
“I think they’re in here,” said the guard. “But they keep moving the rooms around. Are you an architect?”
“No,” said Neil.
“Shame,” said the guard. “I was going to ask you to keep everything where you put it. It would make our afterlives much easier.”
“So can I go in?” said Neil.
“You want to go inside?” said the guard.
“Are you sure?” said the other guard.
“I don’t want to go in,” said Neil, “but it’s what I’m here for.”
“Well, that makes more sense,” said the second guard.
“What are we supposed to do when people ask to go in?” said the first guard.
“Search me,” said the second guard.
“Give us a moment,” said the first guard. “Usually we’re here to stop people coming out.”
The guards put their heads together and conferred in whispers. After a while, they appeared to reach some agreement and turned back to face Neil.
“We’ve decided,” said the first guard. “We’ll let you in, because stopping you is not in our remit. But we might not let you out again. Depends on commands from them inside.”
“That sounds reasonable,” said Neil.
“Good luck,” said the second guard. “And be careful. You’re only small.”
The two guards stepped aside, and Neil stepped forward, putting his hands up to push the doors open. Instead, he went straight through them, arms in front of his face like a sleepwalker. He heard the guards chuckling on the other side of the doors.
The throne room looked familiar, and it took only a few moments for him to recognize it as the Hall of Mirrors from Versailles, which he’d visited the previous summer. It was an enormous, arched chamber, spanning dozens of meters, brightly illuminated by crystal chandeliers whose light was reflected in the row of huge mirrors that extended along one of the ornately gilded walls. Closer examination proved that it wasn’t an exact copy of the original Hall of Mirrors. When Louis XIV had his built, he had commanded it to be decorated with images and statues of himself in various heroic guises. Hades and Persephone had had these replaced with representations of themselves.
At the far end of the room was a dais with two ebony thrones, on which the two gods were seated. Hades was gigantic, his swarthy bulk filling every inch of his huge, ornate throne and spilling out over the sides, his vast head reaching up to the ceiling. His skin was waxy and black, like something burned, his body bursting with muscle, with great twisted cables of sinew pushing their way through. His eyes glittered hard and unwelcoming, like rain on the road on a cold winter’s night. At the sight of him, everything in Neil wanted to turn away and run. He looked like the devil—he looked like death itself. Next to him, pretty, inconsequential Persephone seemed tiny, like a doll.
“Is there a mortal in here?” said Persephone to her husband. “What cheek!”
“And he isn’t even dead,” said Hades. “Come on, then,” he called to Neil. “Approach! Let’s see what you’re made of.”
Neil crept across the enormous chamber toward the dais.
“Why are you here, live thing?” said Hades.
“Um. Is Artemis not here yet?” said Neil.
“Artemis is in the underworld?” said Hades, one giant eyebrow raising like a flexing bow. “Why didn’t Cerberus inform me?”
“Oh, bother,” said Persephone. “Don’t tell me she’s poking around down here. Once she starts they’ll all be at it. They don’t care two hoots for my privacy.”
“Did Artemis tell you to come here?” said Hades to Neil.
The closer Neil got, the more he too felt like a toy in the presence of Hades. A very fragile toy that would rather be back in its box.
“Yes, she did,” said Neil.
“Why?”
“Well,” said Neil, “mainly because the world is ending.”
“Mainly?” said Hades. “There is another reason, then?”
“Ah, yes,” said Neil. “It’s . . . kind of personal.”
“More personal than the world ending?” said Hades.
“Yes,” said Neil. “It’s a woman.”
“It always is.”
“Her name is Alice.”
“Alice?” Hades’ gigantic muscles rippled as he turned to his wife. “Darling, do you know an Alice?”
“I know millions of Alices,” said Persephone. “Everybody’s called Alice these days. It’s such a bore.”
“I can’t give you millions of Alices,” said Hades to Neil.
“I don’t want millions of Alices,” said Neil. “I want my Alice. Alice Joy Mulholland. She’s thirty-two. She died on March twenty-first of this year.”
“Oh, poo,” said Persephone. “Is it spring already? I’m supposed to be back on the surface now. How tiresome.”
“Darling, I’m sure you don’t need to go back up there if the world is coming to an end,” said Hades. “The weather’s bound to be ghastly.”
“So can I have her?” said Neil.
“My wife?” said Hades.
“Alice,” said Neil.
“Of course not,” said Hades. “Now leave before I have you destroyed.”
“But there’s a precedent,” said Neil.
Hades growled. The walls of the throne room shook. Neil wanted to take a step back—a mile-long step—but he didn’t. He clenched his fists by his sides, chose one of Hades’ enormous eyes, and looked him in that eye.
“You’re just a mortal,” said Hades. “Not even a dead one at that. How dare you come here into my palace and start talking about precedents?”
&nbs
p; “Precedents are very important,” said Neil. “It means you can do it again.”
“I ought to eat your soul right now,” said Hades, “only I just had my lunch.”
“Artemis says all I have to do is prove to you that I love her and you have to let her go.”
“Artemis is wrong,” said Hades. “There’s always a sacrifice involved. A sacrifice, a test—”
“Or maybe a dance, darling,” said Persephone. “We could make him do a dance.”
“Persephone, darling, please,” said Hades. “No, we’ll have to cut off some limbs at least.”
“Done,” said Neil.
“Done?” said Hades.
“I don’t need my legs, I don’t need my arms. Take them. I need Alice.”
“Well, that’s no fun at all,” said Hades. “You gave in far too easily.”
“I still think a dance would be better,” said Persephone.
“I’m quite happy to dance,” said Neil.
“No, no,” said Hades. “Something else. Do stop talking about dances, darling. The thing is,” he explained to Neil, “the more souls I get, the more powerful I am. If you just want to take even one away, that hurts me. I wouldn’t expect a mortal like you to understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” said Neil. “It hurt me when you took Alice away.”
“Oh, isn’t he sweet,” said Persephone. “Why don’t you ever talk about me like that?”
“So if you hurt me,” said Hades, ignoring his wife, “I need to hurt you.”
Hades reached over and picked Neil up with one hand. Neil could feel the realness of Hades and his body against Hades’s palm. Neil’s real body was very, very frightened. But he refused to struggle. Hades closed his other hand around Neil’s head.
“Hurt me,” said Neil into Hades’s fingers.
“You’re taking all the joy out of it,” said Hades.
“For her, hurt me,” said Neil. “Do whatever you like.”
Hades’ hands began to grip him more tightly. But then they stopped. Hades put Neil back down in front of the dais.
“No,” he said. “It’s not worth it. You can’t have her. Sorry, good-bye.”
“Wait,” said Neil.
“I said good-bye,” said Hades, waving toward the door.
“If you don’t want to let me have her, then let me stay in her place.”
“Oh, bless him,” said Persephone.
“The same amount of souls. You don’t get hurt. You lose nothing. Just let her go and I’ll stay.”
“It’s really adorable that he’s trying so hard,” said Persephone. “I don’t mind keeping him instead. I don’t even know this Alice. Let’s swap them.”
Hades looked at his wife and then down at Neil.
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Hades. “Why don’t you choose?”
“Choose?” said Neil.
“Yes. You can save the world or you can have your Alice. We’ll put you up somewhere nice in the Elysian Fields—it’s the underworld’s most exclusive neighborhood. You can have all of eternity together, I’ll guarantee not to eat either of your souls. You’ll have pure, uninterrupted bliss until the end of time itself. You and Alice. Together. Forever. What do you say?”
“And the world?”
“Ends. Everybody dies. Or otherwise, you can save the world but I’m keeping the girl.”
“What do you mean, you’re keeping her?”
“She stays here, you go back, and you never see her again. It’s up to you.”
“Oh, Hades, you are nasty sometimes,” said Persephone.
“Be quiet for once, Persephone,” said Hades. “So, mortal, what do you say? World? Alice? World? Alice? World? Alice?”
“I have to decide right now?”
“Right now,” said Hades.
Neil nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
“What’s your choice?” said Hades.
“World,” said Neil.
“World?” said Hades. “You choose the world? You came all the way down here to the underworld, to my palace, for this woman; you offer your limbs, you offer your soul, and yet you choose to save the world?”
“Yes,” said Neil.
“But why?” said Hades.
“Everybody loves somebody,” said Neil. “So I lose her. But everybody else gets to keep theirs. It’s what she’d do. And she’s probably better off without me anyway.”
Hades laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Like crows celebrating after picking out some nice, juicy eyes. Neil shut his own eyes. He didn’t know what he’d just done, but his life, either way, was over.
“Well, as it happens,” said Hades, “I don’t have the power to save or end the world, so it’s kind of irrelevant. Still, it was a nice answer. So anyway, did you say that Artemis was on her way here? I do wonder what she’s done with our dog.”
37
IT WAS A nice palace, Artemis had to admit. Irritatingly so, when she considered the squalor that she had to put up with in the upperworld. No wonder Persephone was always in such a mood when she came up; no wonder she always acted so superior. Even being a god felt different down here, like the clear, clean water of a shower after swimming in a murky stream. It wasn’t at all fair. She would have to have a word with Hephaestus about some urgent refurbishments.
It was easy enough to find Hades and Persephone, as she could simply follow the draw of their godly presence through the (well, perhaps rather gaudy, now she really considered it) palace to the (tastelessly ostentatious, some might say) doors where two decidedly surprised-looking guards eyed her, her mortal, and her dog.
“Stand aside,” commanded Artemis. “I am the goddess Artemis, niece of Hades, sister of Persephone, and these are my chattels. I demand admittance into the presence of my fellow gods, without whom you would be nothing but dust and air.”
The guards looked at each other.
“Again?” said one of them.
“Do you have an appointment?” said the other.
“Oh, just let them in,” called a voice from inside the room, dark and booming, like tombstones being knocked over: Hades.
The guards stepped away and the doors to the chamber swung silently inward. Artemis, Cerberus, and Alice stepped across the threshold, and the doors swung shut equally silently behind them.
“Greetings, fellow Olympians,” Artemis began.
“Leave out the formalities,” said Hades. “Come over here where we can see you.”
The three of them approached the dais. Alice walked bravely, Artemis noted, with barely a hint of a tremor.
“Uncle,” said Artemis. “You’ve grown.”
“With every soul, dear niece. With every soul.”
Hades grinned, showing off long, sharp teeth. Beside his obscene bulk, little Persephone eyed Artemis with a smirk.
“Isn’t this just like the Wizard of Oz,” said Persephone. “You’re the Wicked Witch of the West, that mortal child is Dorothy, and Cerberus is the Cowardly Lion.”
Cerberus growled.
“Or maybe Toto.”
Cerberus growled louder.
“That would make the pair of you the Wizard,” said Artemis. “A fraud with a hand crank and some whistles and bells.”
“That’s enough,” said Hades. “What are you doing here?”
“The upperworld is in danger,” said Artemis. “Apollo, for reasons best known to himself—you know how hotheaded he can be—put the sun out, and now he’s in a coma and we can’t wake him up. We haven’t got the sun, we haven’t got Apollo, and if we don’t work together to keep the earth going, the world is going to end.”
“And then all of the mortals will die?” said Hades.
“Yes.”
“And this is a bad thing?”
“Well . . . yes,” began Artemis.
“The way I see it,” said Hades, “once the upperworld ends, all of the mortals there will become my subjects.”
“Our subjects,” interjected Persephone.
“We’ll own them. We’ll have all of the power, and you’ll have nothing. Why should we help you?”
“Because . . . ,” said Artemis. “Because . . .”
“Because if everybody dies,” said Alice, stepping forward, “nobody will be born. Sorry to interrupt.”
“Please,” said Hades, gesturing for her to continue.
“And so,” said Alice, “it seems to me that although you will rule over all the mortals who live in the upperworld right now, you’ll never gain any more souls after that. Not a single one. Everyone who is alive at the moment is going to be dead in a hundred years anyway, so it’s only for the next hundred years that you’ll be disproportionately powerful. After that, you’ll effectively start losing power.”
“Feisty little thing, aren’t you?” said Hades.
“Not on the whole,” said Alice.
“Give us back Cerberus,” said Hades, “and maybe we’ll think about helping you.”
“Cerberus is mine,” said Artemis. “I defeated him in combat, and now he belongs to me. I will not part with him merely in order to win your consideration.”
“Okay, if that’s how you feel,” said Hades, surprisingly lightly. “But in that case, maybe you’ll swap him for this.”
Hades reached behind his throne and pulled out a small, metal cage. And inside that cage, crouched down on all fours, was Neil. Alice’s eyes widened, and she was about to speak, but Neil shook his head, and she stayed silent.
“Now tell me,” said Hades, “what exactly were you thinking bringing a live mortal into my kingdom?”
“He’s alive?” said Alice.
Neil nodded. Alice smiled.
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