They appeared in a large room that Persephone thought must be a study. The light was muted, making the walls look dark teal in color. Chestnut colored bookcases lined with leather-bound tombs boxed in a desk of the same color. Thick frames of antique gold hung on the wall, encasing paintings depicting naked nymphs, winged cherubs, and lovers beneath trees. The opposite wall was all windows, bare, leaving them exposed to the freezing night.
The decor was not at all like Aphrodite’s—no plush rugs, crystals, or pearls—and for a moment, Persephone thought they had arrived at the wrong location, but her eyes soon found the Goddess of Love sitting on the edge of a chaise in the center of the room. She was dressed in a light blue, silk nightgown and sheer robe. Her body was twisted toward a woman who lay draped beside her.
Persephone did not recognize her, but thought she had hints of Aphrodite’s features—in the curve of her lips, the arch of her brow, the tilt of her nose. She was pale, battered and beaten. Her hands, which lay curled upon her rising stomach were bloodied, nails broken and jagged.
But what caused Persephone’s stomach to coil were the goddess’s horns. Two bits of mutilated bone protruded from her muddy and knotted honey colored hair. A small dog with dirty, white fur was curled up tightly beside her, shivering.
This was not at all what Persephone had expected. This goddess had fought for her life, and if she had not been able to sense life, she would have thought the goddess was dead because her breathing was so shallow.
“Oh my gods,” Persephone’s hands went to her mouth and something thick and sour gathered in the back of her throat. She rushed to them, and knelt, taking Aphrodite’s hand in hers.
The goddess of love looked at Persephone, her eyes red and face splotchy. It was hard to see her so emotional. Aphrodite usually tried her best to repress her feelings, the most she conveyed was anger, and if that began to melt her frigid exterior, she shut down, but this—this had destroyed her defenses. Whoever this goddess was, she was important to her.
“What happened?” Hades asked the question, filling the room with a dark tension that seemed to curl into her lungs and steal her breath. There was an edge to his voice, a shudder of violence, and it trickled down her spine.
“We don’t know for certain,” a voice answered, startling Persephone. She realized Hades hadn’t been taking to Aphrodite or Hermes but another—a man who loomed in the corner near the doors. It was as if he were prepared to make a quick exit, except that he also looked at ease, leaning against the wall, thick arms crossed over his chest. He was near-equal in size to Hades, but he did not dress like any god she had ever seen. He wore a beige, thread-bare tunic and a pair of trousers that came to his calves. Despite his simplicity in clothing, his blond beard and hair were well-manicured and almost silky in appearance.
She thought she could guess who this was as her gaze dropped to his feet where a gold prosthetic leg peeked out from his pant leg. This was Hephaestus, God of Fire, and Aphrodite’s absent husband—or so the rumors said.
But if he was absent, what was he doing here now?
Hephaestus continued speaking, his voice like a match struck in silence.
“We believe she was walking her dog, Opal, when she was attacked and had just enough strength to teleport here. When she arrived, she was not conscious, and we have not been able to rouse her.”
“Whoever did this will suffer,” said Hermes.
It was strange to see the usually gleeful god so serious.
She looked from Hermes to Hades, then to Hephaestus, noting their fierce gazes. Persephone turned to the woman lying on the chaise and asked, “Who is she?”
This time, Aphrodite spoke, her voice thick with emotion.
“My sister, Harmonia.”
Harmonia, Goddess of Harmony—she was the least combative of the gods, not even an Olympian. Persephone had never met her, nor had she realized her connection to Aphrodite.
She turned to Hades. “Can you heal her?”
He had healed her multiple times, but her wounds had never been anything like this. Still, he was the God of the Dead and had the ability to bring them back to life. Surly this wasn’t beyond his abilities?
Still, he shook his head, a grim expression on his face.
“No, for this we will need Apollo.”
“I never thought those words would come out of your mouth,” Apollo said, appearing suddenly. He was dressed archaically, in a gold breastplate, a leather linothorax, and sandals with straps that wrapped around his strong calves. A gold cape hung off one shoulder, and some of his dark curls stuck to his sweaty forehead. Persephone thought that he must have been practicing, perhaps for the Panhellenic Games.
He was smirking, his dimples on full display, until his gaze fell upon Harmonia, and then his expression morphed into something fierce. It was almost frightening, how serious he could become in seconds, much like his brother, Hermes.
“What happened?” He demanded, moving to kneel beside the chaise and Persephone couldn’t help detecting that the god smelled…different. His usual scent of laurel—sweet and earthy—was overpowered by something spicier, like cloves. She might not have noticed as much, but he had wedge himself between her and Aphrodite to reach for Harmonia.
“We do not know,” Hermes said.
“That’s why we summoned you,” Hades replied, his voice dripped with disdain.
“I…don’t understand,” Persephone said. “How would Apollo know what happened to Harmonia?”
The god grinned again, his horror momentarily forgotten as he bragged, “As I heal, I can view memories. I should be able to tap into her injuries and discover how she received them…and by who.”
Persephone stood and retreated a step, watching as Apollo worked, and she was surprised by how gentle he treated the goddess.
“Sweet Harmonia,” he said quietly, placing his palm upon her forehead, he brushed at her tangled hair. “Who did this to you?”
As he spoke, his body began to glow, and soon that glow was transferred to Harmonia. Apollo’s eyes fluttered closed, and Persephone watched as his face contorted—brows furrowing, body spasming—and she realized that he was experiencing her pain. Apollo’s breath grew ragged the longer he worked. It wasn’t until his nose began to bleed that she started to worry.
“Apollo, stop!”
Persephone pushed him away. He fell back, his hand going to his nose where crimson now dripped to his lips. As he pulled his fingers away, he seemed confused by the effects of his healing.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Apollo looked up at her, his violet eyes were tired. Still, he smiled.
“Aw, Seph,” he said. “You really do care.”
She frowned.
“Why isn’t she waking up?” Aphrodite asked, drawing their attention back to Harmonia who had not stirred.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I healed her as much as I could. The rest…is up to her.”
Persephone felt the color drain from her face. She thought about Lexa in limbo, choosing between returning or staying in the Underworld.
“Hades?” Persephone asked.
“I do not see her lifeline ending,” he answered, and she got the feeling he was only answering her unspoken question for her sake, not Aphrodite’s. “The more pressing question is what you saw as you healed her, Apollo.”
He winced like he had a headache. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing that will help us, anyway.”
“So you couldn’t view her memories?” Hermes asked.
“Not much. They were dark and hazy, a trauma response, I think. She’s probably trying to suppress them, which means we may not have any more clarity when she wakes. Her attackers wore masks—white ones with gaping mouths.”
“But how did they manage to harm her at all?” Aphrodite asked. “Harmonia is the Goddess of Harmony. She should have been able to influence these…vagrants and calm them.”
That was true. Even if her aggressor had managed to land a surprise blow, Harmonia should have been able to stop any further attack.
“They must have found a way to subdue her power,” Hermes said.
All the gods exchanged a look, even Hephaestus seemed concerned, uncrossing his arms to step out of the shadow just an inch.
“But how?” Persephone asked.
“Anything is possible,” Apollo said. “Relics cause problems all the time.”
Persephone had learned about relics while she was in college. They were any item imbued with the power of the gods—swords, shields, spears, fabrics, jewels—basically anything a god had owned or gifted to one of their favored. The items were usually scavenged from battlefields or graves. Some ended up in museums, others in the hands of people who intended to use them for their own disastrous gain.
“Hades?” she called his name because she could tell his mind was working, turning over possibilities as they spoke. After a moment, he replied. “It could be a relic or perhaps a god eager for power.”
She noted that his gaze was on Hephaestus. The blacksmith had created many things over the centuries—shields and chariots, swords and thrones, animatronics and humans. “Any ideas, Hephaestus?”
He shook his head, his expression grim as his grey eyes fell upon his wife and sister-in-law.
“I would need to know more.”
Persephone got the sense that wasn’t exactly true. Still, she understood wanting more information than what Apollo had been able to give.
“Let her rest and when she wakes give her ambrosia and honey,” Apollo said, rising to his feet. Persephone rose with him and steadied him as he stumbled, placing his hand to his head.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” he breathed, then he laughed. “Stay alert, Seph. I’ll summon you soon.”
Then he vanished. Persephone met Hades’ dark gaze and while he seemed focused upon her for a moment, he quickly shifted to Aphrodite.
“Why summon us?”
Persephone winced at Hades’ tone—it was void of emotion, but she thought she knew why. This made him uneasy like it made her uneasy, and if she had to guess, he was probably imagining her on that chaise beaten and bruised, not Harmonia.
Aphrodite’s back straightened and she looked at Hades.
“I summoned Persephone not you,” she replied briskly, glaring at Hermes.
“What?” he countered. “You know Hades wouldn’t let her come alone!”
“Me?” Persephone asked, eyes widened in surprise. “Why?”
“I would like you to investigate Adonis and Harmonia’s attacks,” she said.
“No,” Hades said evenly.
The goddesses glared at him.
“You are asking my fiancée to put herself in the path of these mortals who hurt your sister. Why would I say yes?”
“She asked me, not you,” Persephone pointed out. Although, Hades had a point. If Adonis and Harmonia were attacked for their connection to the Divine, they would not hesitate to hurt her based on the mere fact that she was to marry the God of the Dead. “Still, why me? Why not ask Helios for assistance?”
“Helios is an asshole,” Aphrodite spat. “He feels he owes us nothing because he fought for us during Titanomachy. I’d rather fuck his cows than ask for his assistance. No, he would not give me what I want.”
“And what do you want?” Persephone asked.
“Names, Persephone,” Aphrodite answered. “I want the name of every person who laid a hand on my sister.”
She noted that she didn’t mention Adonis. Still, a cold dread swept through Persephone as she realized what the goddess was after—revenge.
“I cannot promise you names, Aphrodite. You know I can’t.”
“You can,” she said. “But you won’t because of him.”
She narrowed her gaze upon Hades.
“You are not the Goddess of Divine Retribution, Aphrodite,” Hades replied.
“Then promise me you will send Nemesis to enact my revenge.”
“I will make no such promise,” Hades said simply.
They were getting nowhere—and then Hephaestus spoke.
“Whoever hurt the mortal and Harmonia has an agenda,” he said. “Harming those who assaulted them will not lead us to the greater purpose. You might also, inadvertently, prove their cause.”
Aphrodite glared, her eyes flashing with something that looked more like hurt than anger.
“If that’s the case, I can see the value of Persephone investigating Harmonia’s assault. She fits in—as a mortal and a journalist. Given her record of slander against gods, they may even think they can trust her, or at least, turn her to their cause. In either case, it would be a better way to understand our enemy, make a plan, and act.”
It was Hades turn to glare at him, but Hephaestus’ words made her hopeful and she turned to Hades.
“I would do nothing without your knowledge,” Persephone assured Hades. “And I will have Zofie.”
Hades stared at her for a long moment. He was stiff, everything in him hated this, but then he answered, “We will discuss the terms.”
Persephone preened—that wasn’t a no.
He continued, “But for now, you need rest.”
She felt his magic rising to teleport, adding before they vanished, “Summon us once Harmonia wakes.”
***
When they appeared in the Underworld, they faced each other. A long silence stretched where neither of them said a word. Persephone didn’t think it was because they lacked anything to say, but because they were both exhausted, and the weight of having to see Harmonia—one of their own—beaten near death, was heavy. Persephone did not know whether she should scream or sob or collapse.
“You will keep me informed of every step you take, every bit of information you glean on this case. You will teleport to work. If you leave for any reason, I have to know. You will take Zofie everywhere,” as he spoke, he closed the gap between them. “And Persephone, if I say no…”
He did not finish the sentence because he didn’t need to. She knew what he meant.
If he said no, he meant it, and she knew if she disobeyed, there would be no coming back so she nodded.
“Okay.”
He let out a breath and secured his hand behind her neck, pressing their foreheads together.
“If anything happened to you—”
“Hades,” she whispered, wrapping her hands around his wrists. She wanted to meet his gaze, but he wouldn’t release his hold on her neck. Still, she spoke. “I’m here. I am safe. You will not let anything happen to me.”
“But I did,” he answered.
Without explaining, she knew he was talking about Pirithous.
“Hades—”
“I do not wish to discuss it,” he said, and released her, taking a step back. Apparently, he didn’t wish to touch her, either. “You need rest.”
She watched him for a moment, that same strange silence stretching between them. She didn’t like it and she wanted to call him out on it, but she also didn’t want to push him. He’d already said he didn’t wish to talk, and he was right—she was tired.
She retreated to the bathroom where she showered. She needed the privacy, the heat, the mindless noise of the water pounding against the tile. She focused on these things as long as she could, avoiding thinking about Adonis, Harmonia, and Aphrodite.
Had it only been hours since they had been in the kitchen together? They’d been on the cusp of making love on every surface. She could still feel the emptiness Hades had carved inside her. Twice he had taken her today and twice he had stopped, albeit not by choice. She was wound tight and needy, though it seemed selfish to ask for sex given tonight’s events.
Even so, he’d all but rejected her earlier—both her words and her body.
It was as if he wanted no part of her tonight.
Even knowing that wasn’t true, an ache still formed in her chest at the thought, and she sat on the floor of the shower, knees drawn to her chest until the water ran cold.
Rising from the shower, she changed into a billowy shirt and returned to the bedroom where she found Hades standing before the fire, still clothed.
She frowned.
“Are you coming to bed?”
He turned toward her and sat his drink aside before approaching. He took her face between his hands as he spoke.
“I will join you shortly.”
He stared at her for a moment, and when he leaned forward, she parted her mouth, anticipating his kiss—except he pressed his lips to her forehead.
A mix of emotions flooded her—disappointment and embarrassment warred. What was going on in Hades’ head? Whatever it was, it felt like he was punishing her. She stared at him, swallowing what she wanted to say—the accusations she wanted to throw—and whispered good night before crawling beneath the cool covers, too tired to think long about Hades’ avoidant kiss and fell into a deep sleep.
***
She woke later to find Hades sitting on the bed, his bare back to her, feet planted on the floor.
Well, she thought, he has made progress coming to bed, at least.
She reached for him; her hand splayed across the hard muscles of his back.
“Are you well?” she whispered.
He turned and looked at her, then shifted completely, his naked body stretching until his mouth lined up with hers, but instead of kissing her, he brushed his thumb tenderly over her cheek.
“I am well,” he said and straightened. “Sleep. I will be here when you wake.”
But those words did not bring her comfort, and instead of listening, she sat up and rolled onto her knees.
“What if I don’t want to sleep?”
She straddled him, her arms going around his neck while his hands settled on her waist.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You did not kiss me earlier and you will not lay with me now.”
She felt his hands flex against her sides.
“I cannot sleep,” he said. “Because I cannot stop my mind.”
“I can help you,” she whispered.
He smiled a little, but it was sad and when he said nothing more, she spoke.
“And…why won’t you kiss me.”
“Because there is rage inside my body and to indulge in you…well, I am not certain what kind of release I would find.”
“Are you angry with me?” She asked, her fingers twining into his hair.
“No, but I am afraid that I have agreed to something that will only hurt you and already I cannot forgive myself.”
“Hades,” she whispered his name, his fears hurt her heart. She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t just his decision, it had been hers, too, but she knew she could not give him comfort. This was a god who had lived for centuries, a god who knew the world unlike she did, a god who had reason to believe as he did, and she could not argue with that.
She leaned closer; her breath caressed his lips. The tension between their bodies was electric.
“Indulge in me,” she whispered. “I can handle you.”
He crushed her to him, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, kissing her until she couldn’t breathe, until her eyes watered and her chest hurt and just when she thought she couldn’t handle it anymore, he broke from her.
As she drew in ragged breaths, his hands skimmed under her night shirt, guiding the fabric over her head. When she was naked, his hands pressed into every part of her—her back and breasts and ass and he kissed her mouth and sucked her neck and nipples. The sweet sensation and biting pleasure had her dragging her nails down his back, and then he entered her—slipping one finger inside then the other—working her so fast and so hard she didn’t recognize the sounds coming out of her mouth.
“Please,” she chanted. “Please, please, please.”
“Please what?” he asked.
Her answer was guttural cry of release. She wasn’t recovered when he deposited her on the bed and her legs were so numb, they hung open, ready for him. Hades sat back on his heels before her, stroking himself.
“Can you handle me?” He asked.
“Yes,” she breathed. In the next second he grasped her ass, tilted her hips, and slammed into her, moving at a pace that spoke of his desperation to come. Once again, his hands were everywhere—gripping her thighs, kneading her breasts—now and then he bent to taste her tongue or lick the sweat from her skin and when they came, Persephone was sure everyone in the Underworld heard their cries of ecstasy.
Hades collapsed upon her, ragged and wet and heavy.
Persephone wrapped her legs around him and her hands moved to his hair, smoothing it from his face. When she caught her breath, she spoke, her throat ached from the cries Hades had torn from her throat.
“You’re mine. Of course, I can handle you.”
It was what she’d wanted to say earlier, when he’d asked, but she hadn’t had enough air to do so. Hades pulled away to look at her, his gaze penetrated her, straight to the soul.
This, she thought, was the most vulnerable they’d ever been with one another.
“I never thought I’d thank the Fates for anything they gave me, but you—you were worth all of it.”
“All of what?”
“The suffering.”
