Hades and Persephone: Crown of Souls (Gods of Myth #3)

Chapter 36

Persephone

I don’t know what wakes me, only that something does. The first thing I think is that Hades called out to me. It would make sense, as he is the only other person—God—in the room with me.

But Hades, like I should be, is fast asleep.

For a moment, I am caught up in the shockingly soft beauty of him asleep. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually seen him so deep in sleep. He’s always so aware.

But not now.

My eyes drift to the open balcony and the sky with two full white moons. I’m not sure what it means that they’ve changed from their blood red to the bright white of how they’d been in my past life. I’ll have to talk to Hades about it when he wakes.

As for me, even though there is an exhaustion that pulls heavily at me to fall back into sleep, something else pulls me to stay firmly awake.

Before I know it, that something else has me sliding cautiously from the bed and into a deep, dark red gown. Why I have not a single black gown in the closet of togas is beyond me. At least this one should be dark enough for me to keep to the shadows. And with Hades’ black cape thrown over the whole of me, I should be, mostly, unseen.

At least that’s what I hope as I race down the stairs, through the silent palace, and outside to the stable. Aethon makes a noise in his stall. It’s not quite a whinny, but I know he’s excited to see me.

I shush him with a finger to my lips, hoping he understands me as my eyes shoot to the cracked open door where the stable boy sleeps. I see the flickering flames that dance over the Hydra’s bloody water whisper over shadows that cling to corners and nooks, but the stable boy remains asleep.

Releasing a breath I hadn’t been entirely aware I held, I start toward Aethon.

Two stalls over, I am entirely aware that I am being eyeballed by the largest of the black stallions. Alastor.

Ignoring Alastor, I make quick work of readying Aethon for a ride. But when I begin to pull him from the stable, three sets of dark eyes watch with too much awareness for simple horses.

But these aren’t simple horses. They’re the four horses of Hades.

As I begin to lead Aethon from the barn, drenched in its char-black wood and glowing firelight, my heart pounds with the truth of my mischief. Clearly, Alastor senses something is off with me, because he lets out a loud noise of distress before kicking the back of his stall madly.

Immediately, the other two join him.

Aethon digs in his heels, black eyes settling on me warily.

I hear noise in the room with the stable boy and my heart lurches.

I tell Aethon, “I’ll go alone, but I’ll be safer with you.”

If indecision could war in a horse’s eyes, Aethon would be the poster horse. The stable boy’s door snaps open and my body lurches to flee when Aethon bends as though to offer me onto his back. I climb quickly on top, and he shoots from the barn as the stable boy yells something to our retreating backs.

“To the Grove of Persephone,” I call, trying to ease the frantic notes that cling to my words. Aether’s hooves pound the earth as he moves quickly over the ground. Far quicker than any horse in the earthly realm could ever hope to move.

With the Palace of Hades in the distance, Asphodel City begins to glow brighter. The desire to slow Aethon—to explore the city and the souls living and thriving in the Underworld is strong. But it’s not strong enough to battle out the call that propels me forward in this journey I am no longer able to deny.

The Pool of Lethe and House of Thanatos fly by. Over the River Lethe that glitters with the blue of its agate bed, I can see the tall stone of the House of Hypnos. Where the House of Thanatos is black, like the Palace of Hades, the House of Hypnos is white marble with swirling black veins that drift into faded shadows. Like dreams lost to the ether.

When we cross the border of the Grove of Persephone, I urge Aethon on. Deeper in the forest, between the thick of the Weeping Pines, Aethon moves. He moves until we’ve hit the wall of the white mountain.

Prickles of awareness spread over every inch of my body as the urging sensation, a voiceless instinct pushing me forward, heightens.

Like I knew what I was to do when I first woke, I know what I am to do now.

Sliding from Aethon’s back, I give him a rub that he pushes into. I whisper, “Go back to the Palace of Hades.”

He whinnies like he doesn’t like my plan.

I press a kiss to his thick neck and turn to the white mountain. I’ve climbed only a few steps when I feel a tug on my cape. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the determined set of Aethon’s eyes as he clamps the fabric between his teeth. I try to pull, but he only tugs back in response.

Betrayal stings in my heart, because I know that must be what he is feeling now. My betrayal. And knowing that I’m hurting him hurts me.

“I’m sorry.” I inhale a gasp. “I—I have to.”

Aethon huffs through his nose but doesn’t release my cape.

Gathering my gown in one hand, I unclasp the cape from around my neck and hurry out of his reach up the White Mountain.

When I look over my shoulder again, the betrayal I sensed burns bright in his black eyes.

My voice shakes with emotion. Indecision wars inside me. I shake my head desperately. “Please understand,” I beg. I’m begging a horse to understand something I don’t even understand . “I have to do this.” My hand palms my low belly where I feel the brunt of the pull. The instinct I can’t ignore. “Please.”

When a tear falls from my eye, Aethon’s dark eyes darken. There’s so much understanding from this horse, from my friend, that it physically hurts me.

With a huff, he drops the cape and charges back through the forest toward the Palace of Hades. I know he’s going to alert Hades and turn quickly back to the White Mountain. Now, it’s a race against time.

In his Gods’ Form, I have no doubt Hades could get to Tartarus in very little time.

I have to get there first.

But it’s seriously not easy to climb a mountain in a gown. I have half a thought to just strip naked, but the idea has my flesh burning too hot to commit to.

By the time I crest the top, I’m sweating and breathing hard. Inside my chest, my heart is raging a war it has no hope of winning.

With a glance back at the Grove of Persephone, I begin the descent. This time, I don’t descend into the land that borders Tartarus, where the River Phlegethon boils as it rolls over screaming souls. Just thinking of the Elm of False Dreams gives me a shiver I grit my teeth to fight. The descent from the White Mountain into Tartarus is clearly not supposed to be done, as the stone is far steeper, and slippery with the heat that radiates up from the boiling River Phlegethon.

Unlike on the descent into the Elm of False Dreams, there are no steps carved into the mountain. My heart leaps as I slip on the steam-misted stone, catching myself just in time. I don’t know what will befall me if I slip into the River Phlegethon and its soul-boiling doom.

Clutching at the stone that holds me, I dare a peek over my shoulder before looking back up at the way I’d come. I’m going to have to find another way out of Tartarus, because there’s no way I can climb back the way I came. It’s too steep. Too misted with steam. Treacherous.

Why did I think I could do this?

I want to cry.

The muscles in my arms ache with strain.

I tremble as my strength drains as though the very mountain syphons it.

Still, there is nowhere for me to go but down. So down I go. Slowly.

The descent is agonizing, wrought with close calls. By the time I reach the thin bridge of jagged amethyst that has somehow formed over the boiling river, my fingers are raw, and my feet are cut from the jagged stone. It had been easier to feel my way down the mountain without the slippery flats I’d worn, and I’d abandoned them at the top.

I’m still not sure that had been the best idea after all.

From the top of the mountain, the bridge of amethyst appeared much more stable than it looks now when I’m facing a crossing of the thin, brittle looking crystal.

Nibbling my lip in indecision, I realize that I’m trapped if I don’t make the crossing. There’s no way I can climb back the way I came. The boiling river surges below.

Cautiously toeing the bridge, I test it with my weight. When it doesn’t creak or crack, I give it a little more until I’m standing with all my weight on the amethyst. It’s not smooth like it looked from above. The swirling shades of purple I’d seen from the top of the White Mountain were actually differing depths of the jagged crystal. They bite into my already shredded feet, spearing pain up the length of my legs.

“No way to go but forward,” I breathe to myself as I take one step. And then another.

Every step hurts. Every step is treacherous.

The bridge is thin enough that if I fall, if I slip or lose my balance, I’ll crash into the boiling river that borders the realm of torment.

Even more unsettling is the screams of the trapped souls that release with every bubble that pops in the blood-infused river of boiling red. They sing a symphony of agony that makes concentration hard. Worse, is the variability of it. The sounds only escape from those popped bubbles. Some screams threaten to last forever while others die quickly.

Sweat beads my hairline as I steal another cautious step. As I continue to cross the bridge, the giant amethysts that cut from the land in a garden of purple hues loom like sentient creatures whispering tales of doom. It’s all so massive down here.

At the top of the White Mountain, everything in Tartarus had felt less . I’d been able to see for what seemed like miles. And everything had felt far smaller than it is now that I face it on level ground.

From here, I can’t see the swirling columns that craft the temple of the Erinyes, the Furies who reap their vengeance on those who fall deserving of such wrath. I can’t see the stone galaxy that is their temple or the red mountains of fire opal that loom on either side.

And I can’t see the inky pool of darkness that sits in the heart of these jagged giant amethyst pillars that jut perilously from the land.

I take my last step, from the glittering purple bridge to the burnished red earth that assembles the whole of Tartarus. It’s as though it’s built of the very flesh and bones of the souls who met their eternal ends here, calcified by the torment of the passing of an eternity, and stained a deep rusted copper as though dyed by the spill of blood.

Only a second after I’ve stepped onto the solid shore of burnished copper, the amethyst bridge begins to crack. With a loud glasslike pop, I flinch as I watch my thin bridge crumble like shattered glass into the River Phlegethon, sinking into the abyss in which there seems to be no end.

A breath of horrified relief escapes from between my lips. I press my back to one of the giant stones, heart thundering. The solid weight at my back assures me that the land beneath my feet won’t wash away into the boiling river, whisking me into an eternity of suffering.

But the bridge is gone. It only confirms it’s not the way back.

Still, a little sob breaks from between my lips. Through the tugging in my belly that urges me to continue, an ember of regret glows.

What have I done?

With nothing for it, I turn my back on the boiling river. A maze of giant stones jut from the ruddy earth haphazardly. They’re so big, as I step into the garden of them, the angled points conceal even the sky overhead. Darkness feels like it might smother me as I continue forward, using my hands to guide my way. I have no idea where I’m going now and let the intuition that pulled me here to begin with guide me.

The silence is deafening. Not even the scurry of a rodent sounds as I move through the tomb of amethyst. To hear a rat might have been a comfort.

This silence is unsettling.

I couldn’t turn back now even if I wanted to. I wouldn’t know the way.

Fear spikes inside me.

I’m a fool. Hades warned me and I didn’t listen.

All along, I’ve been drawn to Tartarus, though. Perhaps it has to do with the fact my soul was conceived in this place of torment. Perhaps there’s a more sinister reason.

Perhaps it’s a trap set in place millennia ago by Demeter and Uranus.

“Why am I here?” I ask the stiflingly warm darkness.

No surprise, it doesn’t answer.

I continue through the darkness for so long, my feet ache. My entire body aches, probably partly due to the way Hades had me only hours before.

I miss him.

What if I never find my way out of Tartarus?

What if he can’t find me…?

I swallow the burn of acidic fear that rises and continue forward. I keep walking until I see a shimmering hue of purple. The amethyst is beginning to glow, and that must mean I’ve made it out of the grave of jagged, giant stones.

I hurry my steps, overwhelmed by the flicker of relief that loosens the tight knot of anxiety in my chest. The pull in my belly only grows though, as I break through the last of the amethyst to find myself facing a gigantic canyon.

From this vantage point, it’s clear the walk through the towering amethyst had been a sloped one toward this very canyon. Looking out from the bowl I now stand in; the stones jut higher and higher in layers and layers of what appears an endless wave of violet. I can’t even see the White Mountain from here. The amethysts are too high and too many.

I think I’ve walked for hours in this place of warped time, but I am not sure. The journey should have taken days. Maybe it did.

I’ve arrived at the location of the inky black pool of the Hydra’s Sinkhole. The shore is pebbled with polished onyx stones and smaller cuts of raw amethyst. It’s surprisingly gentle on my feet as I move cautiously toward the glittering black of the massive lake.

Between my ears, my heart thunders violently as I creep over a beach of pebbles toward the black water that is still as glass.

I freeze, heart stuttering, when a fearsome sound echoes from the edge of the pebbles, closer to where the giant stones jut from the earth. The ground shifts beneath my weight, humming like a vibration—an echo of sound that moves through a sea of stone.

Fear is acrid on my tongue where a silent scream builds.

The stones settle, and the tremor of tiny waves in the glass of the pool’s surface stills. Heartbeats pound in my ears and the silence that follows that single fearsome sound is deafening.

Breath is caught in the net of my lungs, burning.

I stay impossibly still for long seconds. Maybe even minutes.

Then I dare a single step forward, waiting for a second tremor.

Nothing happens. I release my burning breath.

Prayer is an instinct I don’t fight, even knowing that it may offer my location to Hades. Such an act has been engraved in the making of me after a lifetime with Mom and Dad.

The thought of them brings a sharp pang of pain that I promptly shove into a box for later.

Right now, I have— bigger —problems.

Bigger like the black whole of inky water that looms in the earth of this treacherous land. It’s maybe the size of two large swimming pools. I could probably swim the length of it, if simply looking at it didn’t terrify me so much.

As I get closer, I realize there isn’t a gradual slope of land into water. Defying all physics, the pebbles border against what appears to be a literal tunnel of endlessly deep black water.

Slowly finding my knees, I glide my fingertips over the rim of pebbles to confirm the abrupt transition from something solid to something not .

I was right. The water isn’t simply so dark that it conceals the stones of a gradual sloping into the water. It’s simple beach and then a harrowing drop-off into an inky abyss.

What propels me to dip my hand deeper into the water, I will never know.

It’s not warm, like I expected. The air surrounding me is muggy enough to cling to my dewy flesh, but somehow this water is cold enough to offer my overheated flesh a kiss of reprieve. With my palm pressed to the column of stone, I dip my hand deeper until I’m lying flat against the pebbled shore, shoulder deep in the water.

That’s when I see it.

Something sharp and scaled crests the still water, much like an alligator might peer through the surface that conceals it in the moments before it strikes its prey. Fear bludgeons my heart against my rib cage, and paralysis like I’ve never known freezes me to the pebbles I lay on.

Eyes the shade of deep mauve are set in jagged scales of purple-tainted deep sangria. I’d always envisioned the Hydra much like a snake. But this isn’t that.

The sharp points that craft a giant head of the beast shimmer as though plated metallic, caught in the prisms of the inky water that ripple gently as it rises to show the slope of a long, jagged snout.

It hovers there, glassy eyes peering into mine, the base of its powerful jaw still concealed within the dark water.

Something, belayed human intuition perhaps, tells me to run.

But that deadly weight inside my belly which led me here—coated in fear—pins me in place.

The Hydra—only one head—opens her mouth. A toothy void has my eyes snapping wide.

Sound spills from the depths of her. It is deep, and yet surprisingly feminine, even as it rings with ancient power.

“I have been waiting for you.” The words are slow and clear. She hums my name, “Persephoneeee.”

That human instinct kicks in and I finally possess the will to pull my arm from the water with the beast.

Only—something catches me before I can.

Something cold and scaled.

A flash of metallic sangria in ink.

And then I’m pulled into the water.

Deep. Deep below the surface.

***

Thank you SO much for reading! I had hoped to end this series with Crown of Souls, but things don’t always go as planned. There will be a final book in the Hades and Persephone story: Hades and Persephone - The Giftless Goddess.

I’m so grateful you’ve come on this journey with me! I can’t wait to see you in the next book!

If you have the time and could consider leaving a review, those help us authors so much, and I would be forever grateful.