Chapter 17 #2
The evidence is written across the destroyed terrace, in the bodies of the cultists, in the shadows still writhing at my feet.
"She's under my protection," I say, and my voice carries that old authority, the kind that ended arguments before they started. "Anyone who touches her answers to me."
Ares whistles low. "Persephone really is back, then. Damn." He grins. "I heard rumblings, but I wasn't sure."
I remain quiet.
"Great," Aphrodite smirks. "Just what we all need—more of us."
Ares's eyes don't leave me. "What are you going to do about this, Hades?" he asks, his tone serious. He looks around. "As much as I enjoy this, it's only a matter of time before the mortals start asking questions. We can't have that."
My shadows pulse with warning. "Careful, Ares."
He raises his hands in mock surrender. "Would you rather Zeus ask?"
"God," Aphrodite groans. "Why does he need to get involved?"
"He doesn't," I say. "None of you need to be involved."
"Too late," Ares says.
As much as I hate it, Ares is right. This was very... public.
Tonight changes everything. The cult is more organized than I thought. They have resources, training, inside information. And they made their move, and while they failed, it's only a matter of time before they don't.
"I need to go," I say abruptly. "Thanatos will coordinate cleanup. Ares, make yourself useful and help."
"And where are you going?" Aphrodite asks, though her knowing smile says she already knows.
"Home."
I don't wait for a response.
I dissolve into shadow and let the darkness carry me away from the carnage, away from my destroyed casino, away from the other gods and their questions.
I need to see her.
Need to confirm she's safe.
I move through the penthouse like I'm being pulled by a string. My chest is tight, my hands are shaking, and I realize with distant shock that I'm afraid.
Afraid of what I'll find.
Afraid she's hurt.
Afraid she's—
I round the corner into the living room and stop.
Ophelia is there, curled in one of the leather chairs, wrapped in a thick blanket. She's soaking wet, her hair plastered to her face, her makeup running. She's shaking—whether from cold or shock or both, I can't tell.
But she's alive.
Whole.
Safe.
Relief hits me so hard I nearly stagger.
Poseidon is standing by the window, drink in hand, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Hades."
Ophelia's eyes meet mine, and I see everything in them—fear, confusion, anger, and underneath it all, something that looks almost like relief.
"You're here," she whispers, and I watch as some of the tension falls out of her shoulders.
I stride toward her. "Are you hurt?" I kneel in front of her. I want to touch her, check for injuries, reassure myself that she is real, but I just hover there, too scared of my lack of control to do much.
"No. Poseidon got to me before—" Her voice cracks. "My powers didn't work. I tried to summon plants, anything, but nothing happened and I couldn't—"
"Hey." I do touch her then, just my hand on her shoulder, gentle despite the violence still singing through my veins. "You're safe now. That's all that matters."
She nods, but she's still shaking.
Behind me, Poseidon clears his throat. "This complicates our lives, brother."
I ignore his comment. "Thank you. For getting her out."
He nods. His eyes move to Ophelia, then back to me. "This won't be the last attack. You know that."
"I'm working on it."
"Good luck." Poseidon sets down his glass and heads for the door. He pauses in the threshold. "Nice to see you again." He tips his head to Ophelia, who ignores him, and then he's gone.
And it's just us—me and Ophelia and the weight of everything unsaid between us.
"I have one of them," I tell her. "One of the attackers. He's being held in my... security facilities."
Her head snaps up. "I want to see him."
"No." I did not expect this from her, and I hate that. I should know her, anticipate how she is going to react to things. Once upon a time, such a thing had been easy. Now…
"Hades—"
I stand, putting some distance between us before I do something stupid like pull her into my arms. "You just survived an attack. You're in shock. You're not going anywhere near—"
"Those men tried to kidnap me." Her voice is steel wrapped in silk. "They came for me. I have a right to know why."
"I'll handle it."
"I don't want you to handle it!" She's on her feet now, wet and shaking and furious. I notice that she doesn't have her heels on. "I want answers. I want to understand what the hell is happening to my life." Her voice breaks. "I need to see him. Please."
The please does it.
That and the desperation in her eyes, the way she's looking at me like I'm the only thing standing between her and the truth.
I should say no. Should keep her away from this darkness, this violence, this world she doesn't understand yet.
But I can't, because Ophelia will not allow it.
Sure, I can force the issue, use my power against her. But I know that way will only lead to resentment.
I sigh.
Even when I try to protect her, she finds ways to slip through my fingers.
"You don't engage. Understood?"
"Understood."
I don't believe her for a second.
But I lead her toward the elevator anyway, toward the basement levels that house my real kingdom, the Underworld entrance that exists beneath this modern penthouse.
Toward answers that might destroy what little peace she's managed to build.
The Underworld isn't what people expect.
It's not fire and brimstone where souls scream for mercy and rivers run with the blood of the innocent. Those are mortal inventions, fear made manifest in art and literature.
The real Underworld is cold and quiet and vast.
It's beautiful in a lonely, stoic kind of way.
We descend through the basement levels, past the parking garage, past the mechanical rooms, past the layers of security that keep mortals out and divine secrets in. With each level, the temperature drops. The air grows thinner. The very laws of physics start to bend.
Ophelia is silent beside me, her hand pressed against the elevator wall for balance. I can see the goosebumps on her skin, can hear the slight hitch in her breathing.
This descent affects her, just as traveling by shadows and water does. She is not yet used to the press of magic and divinity.
"Where are we going?" she asks as we descend past the tenth sublevel.
"The Underworld."
She laughs, but it's strained. "Seriously?"
"Yes."
The elevator stops with a soft chime, and the doors open onto darkness.
Not the darkness of a power outage or a closed room. This is primordial darkness, the kind that existed before light, the kind that will exist after everything else ends.
My darkness.
I step out first, and the shadows part for me like curtains. Behind me, Ophelia hesitates.
"It's safe," I say, offering my hand. "The Underworld recognizes you. It won't hurt you."
She takes my hand, and I feel the jolt of contact, the way her power—dormant, suppressed, but still there—responds to mine.
Life and death, recognizing each other across the void.
We step out together, and the Underworld unfolds around us.
Obsidian pillars rise into darkness that has no ceiling. The river Styx flows in the distance, dark water that reflects no light. And everywhere, everywhere, there are souls.
Not screaming or suffering. Just... existing. Waiting. Resting.
"Oh my god," Ophelia breathes.
"You don't need to be scared."
She shakes her head. "I'm not." There's a catch in her throat. "Just... overwhelmed."
I nod and lead her onward, toward the palace.
My home.
The one that survived the Fall of Olympus, the one place in all the realms that's truly mine, where I do not have to hide. We pass through halls of black marble, past chambers filled with ancient records, past courtyards where nothing grows.
She's silent, taking it all in with wide eyes.
Finally, we reach the holding cells.
Thanatos is waiting outside, his expression grim. "He's ready," he says. Then, seeing Ophelia: "You sure about this?"
"No," I admit. "But we're doing it anyway."
The cell is simple. Stone walls, no windows, a single chair where the cultist sits bound by shadows instead of rope. He looks up when we enter, and I see recognition flash across his face when he sees Ophelia.
He knows who she is.
That knowledge alone makes me want to kill him.
"Talk," I say, my voice carrying that old authority. "Who sent you? What were you after?"
The cultist doesn't answer. Just keeps staring at Ophelia with something like awe.
"I asked you a question."
Still nothing.
My shadows tighten around him, not enough to cause harm, just enough to remind him of what I can do.
"The Maiden," he whispers finally, his eyes never leaving Ophelia. "She's real. She's really back."
Ophelia goes very still beside me.
"What did you call me?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"The Maiden." The cultist smiles, and it's the smile of a zealot, someone who's already given up everything for their cause. "Persephone reborn. The key to the Mother's resurrection. We've been waiting so long—"
"You're insane," Ophelia says. I hold my breath, because I know they aren't. Ophelia is the Maiden—Persephone—and she knows it as much as everyone else in this room.
What she doesn't know is the prophecy, and I don't intend for her to learn. Thanatos and I exchange a look. We are on the same page.
"We're faithful." His smile widens. "And we know what you are, even if you don't. We know what you're meant for."
"Enough." My power lashes out, slamming him back against the stone wall. "Answer my questions or I'll—"
"Wait." Ophelia's hand touches my arm, and I feel the contact like electricity.
She steps closer to the cultist, studying him with an intensity I haven't seen before. Her eyes zero in on his chest. The fabric from his gear is torn, shredded.
"Ophelia?" I'm not sure what has caught her attention. Her hands shake as she reaches toward his skin.