Chapter 30
Chapter
Thirty
Sebastian/Apollo
The Sun God's Conscience
She was back. The prodigal daughter returned, or the cursed one, depending on who was telling the tale.
The curse was broken. She’d actually done it.
She had saved Hades—Apollo’s nemesis for an eon—an unfortunate side effect of lifting the curse, but it couldn’t be helped.
Now Apollo watched her flit through the gilded streets of Olympus, a flutter of pink in the ridiculous gown Demeter had stuffed her into. Still a gorgeous creature.
His role as Sebastian, a third-year student at Reaper Academy, had ended the second she revealed herself as Persephone. No more disguises or pretense. The fun was over, and he returned to being God of the Sun and Brightness.
For millennia, Persephone had held the attention of every being in the realm. She’d been their ongoing drama, their favorite sport—not because of her beauty but because of her role as Hades’s queen. Her terrible fate.
The entertainment had been in watching her die, again and again.
Few knew the true Persephone. The one who had grown fangs and claws, forged by lifetimes of suffering.
In every one of her lives, he had been there. An opposing force. Sometimes an enemy, sometimes a would-be lover—always watching from the sidelines.
Until he stopped.
He no longer joined the other players who relished Hades’s torment, who awaited the Underworld King’s final ruin.
In every lifetime, neither Hades nor Persephone had strayed. Their relationship wasn’t perfect, marked by constant fights and misunderstandings, just like every couple, yet they never betrayed each other.
Never wanted anyone else.
That kind of devotion was rare. Even among immortals. Especially among them.
By the time of her ninety-eighth rebirth, something in Apollo had shifted. He felt a thread of empathy for both of them. It sharpened when he saw her, newly arrived at Reaper Academy: frail, vulnerable, utterly lost in a courtyard of cutthroats who would do anything to level themselves up.
Her odds of surviving that life were worse than any before. The deck was stacked, impossibly, against her.
And that sliver of conscience, something none of the other gods possessed, became his undoing. He had switched sides.
Still, he’d tried to break them up. He couldn’t help the pull he felt toward her. Couldn’t resist trying, even knowing it was futile.
It was a bitter pill to admit defeat. She could have the sun, yet she chose the shadow.
He’d enrolled in her classes to get close to her.
He’d intercepted assassination attempts—courtesy of Aphrodite, who held a personal vendetta against the couple.
Love and lust were her domain, yet she’d never known a love like theirs.
Hades had shared a single night with her an eon ago and had rejected her ever since. He chose Persephone, every time.
Aphrodite wanted to kill their love. To prove it wasn’t real. To destroy what she could never have.
Apollo had done what he could to help Persephone. He’d even tried to frame Hades for the murders, hoping to lead her away. If the bond shattered, she might live. Like everyone else, he never thought she could break the impossible curse. He believed this lifetime was her final, mortal end.
When Bloom was taken to the Fates’ cave, he’d gone to rescue her. He’d even arranged that contrived one-bed, one-horse scenario—someone had told him mortal girls liked that sort of thing.
It hadn’t worked. Nothing ever did.
He didn’t know what had happened inside the cave, but as he lurked in the water below, he’d heard screaming and felt the tremor of a massive fire through the stone.
Apollo leaned against a golden column at the edge of the grand hall, a glass of whiskey on ice in his hand. He’d grown accustomed to the rough bite of mortal drink, a far cry from the refined ambrosia the other gods still favored.
Thousands of years in the mortal world, crossing paths with each of Persephone’s mortal reincarnations, had changed him in ways he’d never admit.
Persephone had always been an enigma. Goddess or mortal, she remained impossible to fully grasp.
He still remembered the first time he saw her, recognizing something singular in her despite her minor goddess status. But he hadn’t possessed Hades’s luck. Demeter had fixed her attention on him, blocking his approach, while the true serpent slithered unnoticed into her garden.
His bitterness over that had faded. Mostly.
Just as he’d anticipated, Persephone chose that moment to make her entrance.
She wore red, a gown of bold, defiant crimson. The bodice dipped dangerously low, the skirt flowing like liquid flame. Obsidian embroidery traced its surface: roses with thorns and split pomegranates.
And she wore a skull mask. Flames seemed to flicker across the bone-white surface, etched in black. Hades’s symbol. A clear, unmistakable declaration.
Every eye in the hall snapped to her. Every conversation died.
It was as if she’d never left. Yet this was not the Persephone Apollo remembered from before the curse.
She shone brighter than any goddess present, brighter even than Aphrodite, who stood nearby in a gown of white silk that clung to every curve. From Aphrodite’s venomous stare, she knew it too.
It wasn’t merely beauty, though Persephone was devastating. All the gods were adorned in their finest: Zeus in imperial purple and gold, Hera in peacock blue and diamonds, Athena in silver that looked like armor.
It was her power. Her unapologetic and unshakeable confidence, forged in fire and death. In Olympus, power always trumped beauty.
The banquet hall was opulent. The floor gleamed like liquid gold, its surface studded with rubies and emeralds. Chandeliers of diamond hung from the vaulted ceiling. Marble columns sheathed in platinum lined the space. Crystal tables held drinks and food.
From a high gallery, enchanted instruments played melodies no mortal ears could comprehend.
Persephone had arrived fashionably late to her own celebration, deliberately missing Zeus’s grand speech.
A clever move.
No one had missed her earlier defiance in the arena—she alone had refused to kneel. Had she come at the beginning, she would have been forced to at least bow to the King of Gods. Here in his city, under his domain, she remained subject to his authority.
Zeus was not pleased with the loophole she’d exploited, but he let it pass, for now. The flash of annoyance on his arrogant face behind the lion mask as she entered was a sight Apollo savored.
The party’s atmosphere had been building toward a crescendo.
Gods and goddesses mingled, their laughter too loud, their voices carrying that particular edge immortals adopted when determined to enjoy themselves.
Wine flowed. Lovers vanished into alcoves to fuck.
Politics were murmured over toasting, old feuds suspended while new ones simmered.
As the music swelled, signaling the start of the dance, Apollo pushed himself from the column and strode toward Persephone. He needed to speak with her—hadn’t had the chance since he pulled her from beneath the Fates’ cave.
But a drove of gods had already descended upon her like vultures, lining up the moment she appeared. Everyone wanted a dance with her. For this masked ball, tradition held that so long as the masks stayed on, any partner could be taken to bed for the night.
Every god wanted to bed Persephone tonight. Not even the flaming death skull—Hades’s mark blazing on her face—could deter them. To sleep with the Queen of the Underworld would give them bragging rights that would last centuries.
Lightning cracked, striking the marble between Persephone and her would-be suitors. The thunderclap sent several gods stumbling back.
Zeus pushed through the crowd, his lion mask doing little to hide his intent.
Before he could reach her, Apollo unleashed a burst of sunlight. The radiance blinded everyone in the hall. In the precious seconds his power froze Zeus mid-stride, Apollo moved faster than a sunbeam. He cut in front of the King of Gods and pulled Persephone into his arms.
“Sorry, sir.” Apollo smirked over his shoulder as he spun her away. “You’re next in line.”
Rage poured from Zeus. Lightning traced across his lion mask, but Apollo had already swept Persephone from the circle of grasping hands and hungry eyes.
“Good choice, Bloom,” he said, still using her mortal name. It was Bloom he’d formed a bond with at the academy. “Though I doubt anyone here appreciates the dark humor of that death mask.”
Zeus, for one, clearly did not approve of the mask. Neither did Demeter, who had been muttering about her daughter ditching the mask of roses and plants she’d carefully prepared.
“I’m only returning their brand of humor,” Persephone said, her voice almost pleasant.
“They watched me die, lifetime after lifetime. I thought they might appreciate seeing death stare back at them for once.” She tilted her head to regard him.
“You shouldn’t wear the sun. Wouldn’t a pirate’s mask be more fitting? ”
Apollo laughed. “Guess I’m misunderstood too. I can live with that. But they made a terrible mistake by underestimating you. They think you just rolled over, happy to be allowed to return home, and that you’ve slid right back into place.”
“Hmm,” she said, the skull mask glinting. “Haven’t I?”
“At least thank me for coming to your rescue again, Bloom.”
“I don’t need your rescue, Sebastian.” He felt a thread of relief at her using his alter ego’s name. It meant she understood the game they were both playing.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Your shoulders were tense when Zeus approached. I’d hate for you to face consequences for mauling his face in public. He does have a temper, if you recall.”
“He’s safe from me,” she snorted. “I don’t like to make a scene.”
“Don’t you now?” Apollo purred.
They moved with the flow of the music. Other couples swirled around them, but Apollo paid them no attention. This felt right. This was how it should have been—him with Persephone.
But the Fates had screwed him over. And in return, he’d helped her escape them.
Just then, the tower of The Paramount swayed. A faint tremor at first, then a more pronounced shudder.
A pair of winged seraph sentinels burst into the hall, their ivory wings beating furiously. They landed before Zeus, bowing in haste.
“Hades is coming!” Their voices carried across the dancefloor. “He leads a vast army of demons, creatures, and the dead. They poured from the leyline! The guards there are dead. He has reached the outer gate at the golden bridge!”
Panic rippled through the crowd. The hall erupted as gods and goddesses shoved toward the rooftop terrace, desperate to see.
Apollo pushed through the chaos, pulling Persephone with him. She deserved the best view from the front row to watch her mate lay siege to the city of the gods.
Clouds drifted past the tower, so high it brushed the edge of the atmosphere. Below, the city lay in marvelous, sprawling detail: lush gardens, gleaming buildings and houses, pristine streets.
But the perfection was shattered by a seething black mass at the other end of the long golden bridge. Above them, outside the gate, flew Hades’s banner, a skull wreathed in hellfire, flanked by pomegranates, the standard of the Underworld snapping in the wind.
Hades had come for his queen. Just as Apollo had wagered he would.
The sun god let out a low chuckle.
The Underworld army crashed against the city’s gate and walls. Hades hovered amid his archdemons, their forms massive and terrible, their combined magic hammering against the city’s wards in eruptions of hellfire and shadow.
From the ramparts, the godly soldiers hurled fireballs and loosed flaming arrows. Zeus, Poseidon, and Ares had expected retribution. They had prepared. After all, they were the ones who had taken Persephone with them from the arena—a prize reclaimed.
Ares, God of War, was thrumming with anticipation. His armor shone brilliantly beneath the sun. He’d left the celebration early to lead the defense, eager for the clash.
Apollo watched the skirmish unfold along with Persephone. Around them, gods and goddesses voiced their outrage.
“He’s come to ruin everything. Again!”
“Does he ever quit?”
“No.” Apollo chuckled. “He doesn’t.”
“That isn’t funny,” someone snapped.
“Agree to disagree,” Apollo said.
“What if he and his savages breach the walls?”
“He never has before! He’s tried for an eon.”
“What a loser!”
“He never had proper motivation before,” Apollo offered, another low laugh in his voice. “Not like now. When he gets inside, you all had better run.”
Several gods shot him glares. He ignored them.
Well. Time to go meet the God of Death. His eternal nemesis. His unlikely ally now.
Apollo turned to Persephone, leaning close so his whisper reached her alone.
“I can be the messenger,” he said. “What would you like me to tell him, Bloom?”
Her lips curved beneath the skull mask—a look both fierce and intoxicating.
“Tell my love I’m waiting for him to open the final bottle of Nyx’s Vintage, please.”
Apollo’s eyes widened, disbelief sharpened by envy. “He has Nyx’s Vintage?”
The final vintage—made from the grapes of an extinct vineyard, aged in darkness for centuries, bottled only during a total eclipse. Each bottle was worth a kingdom. Each sip was history itself.
“It tastes like home,” she said.