Chapter 11
Hayden
“So…where’s the throne?”
That’s the first thing Levi says after settling in with fresh drinks, bourbon for me, another glass of wine for him. I blink at him questioningly. “A throne?”
“Yeah,” he says, tucked into the corner of my couch, legs folded, cradling his glass with both hands. “Hades…I mean, you…had a throne, right? Big, ominous, probably made of bone or, like…cursed obsidian or something?”
I snort. An actual snort, which shocks me more than it does him. “Careful, you’re about to insult me,” I say, followed by a large gulp from my glass. “But, no. No throne.”
Seby chooses that exact moment to hop onto the back of the couch, tail flickering with judgment like he agrees this is a ridiculous line of questioning.
Levi narrows his eyes, unconvinced. “You’re telling me you ruled the underworld,” he whispers, protecting my secret from…the broom closet? “…and didn’t have some sort of dramatic seating arrangement? Seems very off brand if you ask me.”
I roll my eyes, setting my glass down. “If it helps, I once had a very imposing desk chair.”
“See? That counts.” He grins, victorious, and I feel it in my bones.
It’s been hours since I told him the truth, which should’ve sent him running. But he’s still here, cross-legged, face lit by my lamp.
We move from the couch to the kitchen after a while because Levi insists he’s “snack-adjacent” hungry, whatever that means. I watch as he rummages through my embarrassingly bare cabinets.
“Do you live here or is this a set you rent by the hour?” he teases, holding up a can of soup like evidence.
“I live here,” I reply. “I simply don’t make a habit of stockpiling snacks like an apocalypse is imminent. Especially when it’s just me.”
“Well, remind me to find another doomsday buddy, because this isn’t going to cut it, my friend,” he mutters, shaking his head like I’ve personally disappointed him.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him. My kitchen isn’t big. Nothing in this apartment really is. But the way Levi moves makes it feel like there’s more space.
He expands the room by existing, as if I’ve been rationing air and he didn’t get the memo.
Eventually, we settle on popcorn, which feels hilariously mundane given the whole god revelation.
Levi insists on adding a concerning amount of butter while I pretend not to be invested in the process.
We migrate back to the living room, snack bowl in hand, and somehow end up sitting closer this time.
Our thighs find each other, a quiet, unspoken kind of closeness that could be brushed off if either of us moved.
But neither of us does. The heat of him soaks into me, and suddenly I’m aware of every inch of space I’m not filling.
Seby wedges himself between us for exactly two seconds, then abandons the attempt with a huff, as if even he can’t get between this.
Our hands brush in the bowl. He murmurs an exaggerated “Excuse you,” like I’m the one crowding space, and I answer with a deliberate nudge. But my hand lingers, and he doesn’t pull away. “Okay,” he says, popping a kernel into his mouth, “tell me about the shadow thing.”
I glance at him. “The shadow thing?”
“You know. The flickery, not-quite-normal darkness that follows you around like a moody puppy.”
I bark out a laugh at his observation. “Moody puppy. That’s new.”
“Well?” he prompts, nudging my leg with his knee. I feel my shadows stir, as if they’ve been on standby for their cue.
I hesitate, staring into my glass for a moment before answering.
“Residue is a lazy word. Think reflex, echoes of what I used to be. Like muscle memory for powers I don’t fully have.
But they’re also a warning system. Sometimes they react before I do.
Sometimes they’re just shadows. And others…
” I trail off, debating how much to say.
“Others what?” he presses, his voice more serious now.
I sigh. “Sometimes they pull back the curtain and spirits step through.”
Levi freezes, mid-chew. “Spirits?”
“Yes.”
He swallows, eyes wide. “Like…Haley Joel Osment level of dead?”
“Well, yes. That’s typically the criterion.”
Levi glares, unamused. “No need for sass, Hades.”
I chuckle at his use of my formal name. “It’s not like that. They’re not always around. Just…occasionally. They linger. Some are confused; some are stubborn. And some just like the company, even if momentarily.”
“So that’s how you knew about the daisies? A spirit, not a hunch?”
I nod and watch his mouth go slack.
His disbelief softens into wonder instead of fear, a mercy I’m not sure I deserve, then he glances around my apartment like he’s expecting a ghost to materialize in the corner. “Is there one here right now?”
I follow his gaze, letting my senses stretch out, but I already know the answer. Seby blinks like a sentry off duty, then promptly stares into the corner with unsettling focus, which…yeah, terrible timing. The room feels still, though. Quiet in the way only the living can appreciate.
“No,” I assure him. “It’s just us. For now.”
He relaxes slightly, though he keeps glancing over his shoulder every few moments, just in case. “Okay. Cool. Totally fine. I mean, it’s only been five minutes since you told me you’re the god of the underworld, so, uh…pardon me if I’m still…adjusting.”
He scrubs a hand over his face, then bumps me with his thigh. “Seriously though, I’m not over this. Not even close. But…it also kinda tracks. And honestly? It makes you even more mysterious. And hotter. So, you know. Silver lining.”
“The flattery.” I feel the tug at my mouth before I can stop it as we drift into another round of questions because, apparently, Levi’s curiosity is endless.
“Did you know Cleopatra?”
“Yes.”
“Was she as beautiful as they say?”
“Incredibly.”
He groans. “Unfair.”
I shrug. “She was also terrifying, for what it’s worth.”
Levi grins, eyes sparkling with something that makes my chest ache. “So, this whole…immortality thing. How’d that go sideways?”
I exhale slowly, knowing this part would come. “We signed the Immortal Retirement Act. It was supposed to—”
“The what now?” he interrupts, an eyebrow raised.
“The Immortal Retirement Act,” I repeat. “We were tired of meddling, of humanity’s messes. Tired of being worshipped and blamed in the same breath. So, we signed it. Gave up our immortal abilities…sort of, to live as mortals.”
“I’m assuming there’s a big but in this story.”
“Correct. The Fates, ever the bureaucrats, included some unfortunately overlooked fine print. Our decision was allegedly permanent. No do-overs. No apparent loopholes. Just…this.” I gesture vaguely around us. “Mortal-adjacent. In all its mundane glory.”
Levi is quiet for a long moment, then tilts his head. “Wait…you mean all of you? Every god signed this?” His voice drops. “So if you’re here…does that mean there’s no one down there now? No one ruling anything?”
My chest tightens, but I answer. “Correct. Olympus. The seas. Even the skies. Empty now. Whatever balance remains…it belongs to the mortals.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, shit, that would send more than a few Sunday morning regulars into one hell of an evangelical tizzy.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “If they’d even notice at all.”
The joke lands light, but the truth beneath it hangs heavier. For all our divine noise and fury, the world seems to move just fine without us. Maybe that’s what stings the most. How easily eternity can be replaced.
Levi studies me, brows knit, before asking softly, “Do you miss it?”
I don’t answer right away. Because the truth isn’t simple. Because yes…and no. It’s not the power I miss. Certainly not the isolation. But the purpose. The feeling that I belonged somewhere, even if that somewhere was dark and endless.
“Parts of it,” I admit finally. “But not all.”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing against mine.
And I realize…I don’t actually miss being a god.
Not when this feels like it could be more than anything I ever had back then.
We sit like this for a while, the quiet stretching between us.
“What about your family?” he asks after a beat of silence. “What are they like?”
I lean back against the couch, unsure of how to answer that. “Complicated.”
“That’s vague.”
“But accurate.”
“C’mon,” he smirks. “Give me something.”
I sigh, staring at the ceiling, letting the memories flicker across the back of my mind.
“Zane is…well, Zane. Imagine the world’s most overconfident man, but with lightning powers and zero impulse control.
He’s the type who thinks he invented charisma and can’t understand why the universe doesn’t revolve around him anymore.
Last I heard, he was holed up in some small town as self-elected mayor. ”
Levi snorts into his glass.
“Porter’s less of a jackass, but only because he’s too busy fawning over the ocean to bother with people.
He’s carved out some existence along a rugged coastline where he can tend to the marine life in peace and pretend he doesn’t care about humanity while secretly saving drowning surfers… or something like that.”
Levi’s laughter bursts out, bright and unrestrained. “Wait, you’re telling me the gods are just…out there? Like, doing regular jobs? Blending in?”
I nod. “We scattered after the Act. Everyone adopted their little mortal personas, tucked themselves into the corners of the world like they belonged there.
“The rest of them are varying degrees of insufferable,” I add, smirking slightly. “Our paths cross every couple of decades or so, but they’ve all moved on, adapted in their own ways. I guess that’s what eternity teaches you. How to pretend you’re something you’re not.”
“And when was this…Act?” he asks over the rim of his glass.
“Oh, I lost count centuries ago,” I admit. “Before that, we were what you’ve read in myths. Immortal. Fixed. Afterward…” I gesture vaguely around us. “We became…something different. Bound to time, whether we like it or not.”