Chapter 19 #2
"You're life," I say simply. "Spring. Growth. I'm death and endings. The Garden exists in the space between us. When you're here, it flourishes. When you're not..." I gesture at the barren courtyard.
She's quiet, processing this, and I watch emotions flicker across her face. Confusion. Understanding. Something that might be sadness.
"I'm sorry," she says finally.
"For what?"
"That it's empty. That you've been alone." She gestures at the dead space.
"Don't be." I pull her closer, inhaling the scent of roses on her skin. "You're here now. That's what matters."
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't argue, and I take that as a good sign. Ophelia loves to remind me that she's not my wife, but I've noticed she hasn't said that once since she's been in my bed. Perhaps it's naivety, but I see it as progress.
We don't stay long. I'll bring her back when she's ready to grow.
The throne room makes her laugh, as I knew it would, and it's why I saved it for last.
"It's so dramatic," she says, staring at the massive obsidian throne that dominates the far end of the hall. "It's like something out of a fantasy novel."
"I am the God of the Underworld," I say, trying for dignity. "A certain amount of drama is required."
"Uh huh." She walks up to the throne, running her fingers over the carved armrests. "And these? Are these supposed to be souls?"
"They're symbolic."
"They're creepy."
"They're intimidating."
"Same thing." She turns back to me, grinning. "Can I sit in it?"
"Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"Because it's the throne of the Underworld. You can't just—"
She sits in it.
Just drops into the seat like it's a regular chair, sprawling with her legs over one armrest and her back against the other.
"Comfortable," she declares. "I can see why you like it."
I should be offended. Should be annoyed that she's treating one of the most sacred seats of power in existence like furniture.
Instead, I find myself crossing to her, bracing my hands on the armrests, caging her in.
"You look good in my throne," I say, my voice dropping.
"Yeah?" She tilts her head up, challenging. "It feels good. Powerful." She straightens her back. "Fetch me my scythe, servant!"
I laugh, leaning down to kiss her.
She makes a soft sound against my mouth. Her hands come up to grip my shirt, pulling me closer, and for a moment I consider taking her right here.
Claiming her on the throne itself.
But as I press my fingers into the space between her thighs, I hear her hiss slightly.
"Sorry," she says, blushing. "I'm a little sore."
I pull back, taking her hand and drawing her to her feet. "Come on," I say. "There's one more place I want to show you."
The hot spring is natural, formed from geothermal heat that rises from the deepest parts of the Underworld. Steam fills the cavern, making everything soft and hazy, and the water glows faintly with minerals that exist nowhere else.
"This is incredible," Ophelia breathes, staring at the spring.
"It's private," I say. "No one comes here but me."
"Why show me, then?"
"Because you're not no one."
I strip efficiently and step into the water. It's perfectly hot, just this side of scalding, and I feel my muscles immediately relax.
"And it'll help you heal."
My eyes don't stray from hers as she takes off her silk dress. When she's ready, I reach out a hand, helping her into the water.
Once she's in, I pull her close, arranging her so she's sitting between my thighs, her back to my chest. She relaxes into me, and I wrap my arms around her waist. I massage the small knots in her neck, trying to contain myself as she moans lightly.
"This is nice," she murmurs.
"It is."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, and I let myself just feel this. Her weight against me. Her heartbeat under my palm. The simple, profound gift of having her here.
"I've spent a millennium waiting for you," I say quietly, the words escaping before I can stop them.
She goes still in my arms.
I feel it immediately, the way her body tenses, the way she seems to pull inward even though she doesn't physically move. This is what she does whenever I bring up the past — our past.
But it's not something I wish to ignore, and she shouldn't either.
I turn her slightly so I can see her face. "What is it?"
"Nothing." But her smile doesn't reach her eyes. She is not as good at hiding her emotions as she seems to think.
"You're lying."
She tries to turn away, but I hold her gently, refusing to let her retreat.
"Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about." Her voice is carefully neutral, but I can hear the undercurrent of irritation. What I said about waiting has clearly put her on edge.
I tip her chin, forcing her to look into my eyes. "Please," I say, trying to extend an olive branch.
She sighs. "I just... I'm not used to this. To someone being this..." She trails off.
"This what?"
"Intense," she finishes, and it's not what I expect. "You're very intense, Hades."
I nod. I can't argue with her. Two thousand years of longing doesn't exactly breed casual affection, and even before that, we were never casual.
"I know you've been with others," I say carefully, trying to give her an out. "I'm not upset about that. I don't expect you to have waited. I know you've had relationships, experiences. Your past is yours, and I would never judge you for it."
She laughs, but it's hollow. "That's... generous of you."
I press a kiss to her temple. "Whatever came before doesn't matter. You're here now. That's all I care about."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I feel her breathing shift, like she's fighting some internal battle.
Then she turns, straddling my lap, and kisses me.
It's desperate, almost frantic, and I respond instinctively, pulling her closer. She breaks the kiss to press her face against my neck, and I hold her, letting her take whatever comfort she needs.
"Thank you," she whispers against my skin. "For this. For everything."
"Always," I promise.
And I mean it.
Whatever she needs, whatever she wants, I'll give her.
I'd give her the world if she asked.
I'd give her anything.
Eventually, we have to return.
I shadow travel us back to the penthouse, materializing in the living room. Ophelia is steadier now when we move this way, and I take it as a sign of the future. She is trusting me rather than fighting me.
She gives me a small smile. "Go. Do your scary god of death thing. I need to eat."
I kiss her once more, unable to resist, and then I head back down to my lair.
Thanatos is waiting outside, his expression grim.
"Problem?" I ask.
"He's been quiet. Too quiet." Thanatos opens the door. "I don't like it."
I step into the cell, and immediately I know something is wrong.
The cultist is sitting exactly as we left him, bound by shadows, but there's something in his expression. Peace. Acceptance.
Victory.
"You won't get anything from me," he says, and his voice is calm. Almost serene. "Mother Callista is more powerful than you could ever imagine. More powerful than any god. She has touched the divine threads themselves. She has seen the pattern. She knows what's coming."
"What's coming?" I demand.
He smiles. "The return. The resurrection. The restoration of what was lost."
"Tell me about Callista."
"She is the Mother's vessel. The Mother's voice. The Mother's hand." His eyes are bright, feverish. "You cannot stop what's been set in motion. The Maiden will fulfill her purpose. The prophecy will come to pass."
"Like hell it will."
"You cannot fight fate, God of Death." He's still smiling. "Not even you."
I'm about to respond when I see it — the slight movement of his jaw, the deliberate shift.
"No—"
He bites down.
Hard.
I surge forward, shadows lashing out to stop him, but it's too late.
The capsule hidden in his tooth shatters, releasing whatever poison it contained. The cultist convulses once, twice, and then goes still.
Dead.
I reach for his soul instinctively, the way I've done for millennia. Every death creates a pull, a connection between the deceased and my realm. I guide souls to the Underworld, ferry them to their rest.
It's as natural to me as breathing.
But this time—
Nothing.
No pull. No connection. No soul passing from one realm to another.
It's just... gone.
Not destroyed. Not hidden.
Gone.
Like it never existed at all.
"Hades?" Thanatos steps forward. "What's wrong?"
"His soul." I stare at the body, mystified. "I can't feel it. I can't sense it. It's not in the Underworld. It's not anywhere."
"That's not possible." Thanatos is frozen — fear, confusion — I'm not sure which.
I can't process what is happening. I've presided over death for longer than human civilization has existed. I've guided billions of souls to their rest. Some go willingly. Some resist. Some linger.
But they all go somewhere.
They all pass through me.
Except this one.
"What does it mean?" Thanatos asks, taking my silence for what it is — confirmation that something is not right in our world.
"It means Mother Callista has access to something she shouldn't." I stare at the empty shell that used to be a man. "Something beyond my domain. Beyond death itself."
"How is that possible?"
"I don't know." And that terrifies me more than anything.
Because if there's something beyond death, something I can't touch or control or even sense—
How do I protect Ophelia from it?
How do I keep her safe when the enemy has found a way to operate outside the fundamental laws of existence?
"Double the security," I say quietly. "On the penthouse. On Ophelia. On everything. And find out everything you can about Mother Callista. Where she is. What she's capable of. What she wants."
"And if we can't find her?"
"Then we pray she's content to wait." I turn to leave. "Because if she's not, if she's ready to make her move—"
I don't finish the sentence.
I don't need to.
We both know what it means. The attack on the casino was just step one.
More is coming. A lot more.