DEDICATION
For my husband, Albert. This was all your fault.
CONTENTS
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Josephine Angelini
Back Ad
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
ONE
Helen could see what she guessed was the River Styx just off to her left. It was a roaring torrent, riddled with icebergs. No sane person would dare swim across it. Feeling stranded, she limped around in a tight circle. A quick scan of the horizon showed that there was no one else on the barren plain.
“Damn it,” she swore to herself, her voice breaking. Her vocal cords were not completely healed. Less than an hour ago, Ares had slit her throat, and although it still hurt when she spoke, cussing made her feel better. “So typical.”
She’d just made a promise to her friend Zach. He was dying in her arms, and she swore that she would make sure that he drank from the River of Joy in the afterlife. Zach had sacrificed himself to help her, and in his final moments, he’d given her the clue that allowed her to kill Automedon and save Lucas and Orion.
Helen intended to keep her promise to Zach even if she had to carry him to the Elysian Fields and right up to the banks of the River of Joy herself—broken ribs, wonky leg, and all. But for some reason, her usual way of navigating in the Underworld wasn’t working. Normally, all she had to do was say out loud what she wanted and it just happened.
She was the Descender, which meant that she was one of the exceedingly few Scions who could go down to the Underworld in her living body and not just as a spirit. She could even control the landscape to a certain extent, but of course just when she needed that talent the most, it found a way to go on the fritz. It was just so Greek. One of the things Helen resented the most about being a Scion was that it meant that there was an appalling amount of irony in her life.
Helen pinched her bruised lips together in frustration and raised her hoarse voice to the empty sky. “I said—I want to appear by Zach’s spirit!”
“I have that one’s soul, niece.”
Helen spun around and saw Hades, lord of the Underworld, standing several paces behind her. Tall and poised, he was wreathed in shadows that dissipated like fingers of fog relaxing their grip. The Helm of Darkness and the extra yards of fabric from the black toga he wore obscured most of his face, but she could just make out his lush mouth and square chin. The rest of his toga was draped over his body like a decorative afterthought. Half of his smooth chest and his powerful arms and legs were bare. Helen swallowed and concentrated on focusing her swollen eyes.
“Sit, please. Before you fall,” he said softly. Two simple, padded folding chairs appeared, and Helen eased her abused body into one while Hades took the other. “You are still wounded. Why did you come here when you should be healing?”
“I have to guide my friend to paradise. Where he belongs.” Helen’s voice trembled with fear, although Hades had never hurt her. Unlike Ares, the god who had just tortured her, Hades had always been relatively kind. But he was still the lord of the dead, and the shadows around him were filled with the whispers of ghosts.
“What makes you think that you know where Zach’s soul belongs?” he asked.
“He was a hero. . . . Maybe not at the beginning when he was still being a jackass, but at the end, and that’s the bit that counts, right? And heroes go to the Elysian Fields.”
“I wasn’t questioning Zach’s valor,” Hades reminded her gently. “What I asked was: What makes you fit to judge his soul?”
“I . . . huh?” Helen blurted out, confused. She’d taken one too many knocks to the head that night, and she wasn’t up to a lesson in semantics. “Look, I didn’t come here to judge anyone. I made a promise, and I just want to keep it.”
“And yet I’m the one who makes the decisions here. Not you.”
Helen had no argument for that. This was his world. All she could do was stare at him pleadingly.
Hades’ soft mouth curved into a distant smile, and he seemed to consider what Helen had said. “The way you handled the freeing of the Furies proved that you are compassionate. A good start—but I’m afraid compassion is not enough, Helen. You lack understanding.”
“Was that a test then? The Furies?” An accusing note crept into her voice as Helen recalled what she and Orion had gone through on her last mission in the Underworld. She got even angrier when she considered what the Furies themselves went through. If those three girls were tormented for thousands of years just to prove that Helen was a compassionate person, then there was something terribly wrong with the universe.
“Test.” Hades’ lovely mouth twisted bitterly around the word, as if he could read Helen’s thoughts and agreed with her. “If life is a test, then who do you think grades it?”
“You?” she guessed.
“You still don’t understand.” He sighed. “You don’t even understand what this is.” He gestured to the land around him, indicating the Underworld. “Or what you are. They call you the Descender because you can come here at will, but the ability to enter the Underworld is the smallest manifestation of your power. You do not understand what you are enough to judge others yet.”
“Help me then.” He seemed so sad, so beat down by his lot in life. She suddenly wanted to see his eyes very badly and leaned closer to Hades, trying to dip her head down to see under the fabric obscuring his face. “I want to understand.”
The shadows spun out again, hiding him and murmuring the regrets of the dead. Helen’s insides chilled. The words from the Tyrant prophecy came to her mind—born to bitterness. She sat back.
“Shadowmasters,” Helen whispered. “Do they get their power from you?”
“A long time ago, a woman known as Morgan La Fey from the House of Thebes had the same talent you have—the one that allows you to come to the Underworld. She bore me a son named Mordred, and since then my burden has haunted the House of Thebes.” His voice trailed off regretfully before he stood and held out a hand to her. She slipped her hand into his and allowed him to help her stand. “You must go back now. Come to me as often as you like, niece, and I will try my best to bring you to understanding.” Hades tilted his head to the side and laughed quietly to himself. His lips parted, revealing diamond-shaped incisors. “That’s why I’ve allowed you, and those with the same talent before you, to enter my realm—to learn about yourselves. But right now you are too badly injured to be here.”
The world shifted, and Helen felt his mile-wide hand lifting her out of the Underworld and placing her gently back in her bed.
“Wait! What about Zach?” she asked. As Hades released her, Helen heard him whisper in her ear.
“Zach drinks from the River of Joy, I swear it. Rest now, niece.”
Helen reached out to move the shadows away from his face, but Hades had already left her. She fell into a deep slumber, her broken body greedily sucking up sleep as it tried to heal itself.
After Ares was sealed away in Tartarus and the rift in the ground closed, Daphne had carefully collected her daughter’s broken body as Castor carried Lucas and Hector carried Orion back to the Delos compound. Daphne had only been running for a few moments when her daughter fell asleep in her arms. For a moment, Daphne was worried. Helen’s injuries had been horrible
—some of the worst Daphne had ever seen—but when she listened for the sound of Helen’s heart, she heard it beating slowly but steadily.
It wasn’t much past dawn by the time they made it back to Nantucket from the caves on the Massachusetts mainland. In the early morning light, Daphne carried Helen up the Delos staircase and down the hallway to the first room she could find that seemed to belong to a girl. She looked regretfully at the pretty silk comforter that her filthy, blood-soaked daughter was about to ruin. Not that it mattered. The House of Thebes had a large enough fortune to replace it. A fortune that had, in part, once belonged to Daphne and Helen’s House—the House of Atreus.
Tantalus could scream “holy war” and rant about how it was the “Scions’ turn” to rule as much as he wanted, but he’d never fooled the Heads of the other Houses. The Purge some twenty years ago was just as much a grab for the other Houses’ wealth as it was a grab for immortality.
The prophecy that started the Purge said that when the Four Houses were made into One House by the shedding of blood, then Atlantis would rise again. The exact wording that Daphne had memorized stated that in the new Atlantis, the Scions could find immortality. The prophecy didn’t actually say that the Scions would become immortal—it just said they could find immortality there. Daphne wasn’t optimistic enough to think immortality was a sure thing. But Tantalus was, and he’d used this prophecy to rally the Hundred Cousins of Thebes around him to kill off all the other Houses.
The whole thing was a sham, as far as Daphne was concerned, sanctified by a lot of mumbo jumbo from the last Oracle—who they all knew had gone crazy after making her first prophecy. But it worked.
Lots of Scions left their vast properties behind to be plundered by the House of Thebes in order to play dead and avoid the slaughter—like Daedalus and Leda, Orion’s parents. Like Daphne herself. But Daphne had never cared for money. Then again, she’d never had any moral qualms about taking money when she needed it. Other Scions, like Orion and his parents, did have qualms about theft, and they’d struggled for the last two decades while the House of Thebes lived in luxury. Remembering this, Daphne placed Helen on the bed and destroyed the lovely comforter with a little smile.
Before Daphne could turn to get water and gauze to clean her daughter’s rapidly healing wounds, Helen disappeared and life-draining cold took her place. Daphne assumed that Helen had descended. Time ticked by. Daphne waited, her anxiety growing with each moment. She had thought that trips to the Underworld were instantaneous—that time didn’t pass. So much time went by that Daphne began to wonder if she should wake up the rest of the house, but before she made a move, Helen reappeared. Her body smelled like the barren air of the Underworld.
Daphne’s teeth chattered, not from the cold, but from the fearful memories the smell of that air awoke in her. She had nearly died so many times now that she could guess what part of the Underworld Helen had visited. The smell was not baked enough to be the dry lands, and there was a touch of damp mud clinging to Helen’s feet. Daphne guessed that meant she must have gone to the banks of the River Styx itself.
“Helen?” Daphne cooed. She smoothed her daughter’s hair and peered into her chilled face.
Helen had been terribly injured in her battle with Ares, but if she were going to die, Daphne knew she would be dead already. Helen must have used her ability to descend to the Underworld on purpose, probably to look for her newly dead friend—the envious one who’d unfortunately gotten himself enslaved by Automedon.
More than once, Daphne had gone on a similar journey looking for Ajax, but she did not have her daughter’s ability to come and go in the Underworld at will. She’d had to all but die to get there. After Ajax had been murdered, she had no will to live, but she knew that killing herself wouldn’t reunite her with her lost husband. Daphne had to die in battle like Ajax had, or she would never end up in the same part of the Underworld. Heroes went to the Elysian Fields. Suicides went—who knows where? She had thrown herself into every honorable fight she could find. She sought out the other Scions in hiding and recklessly defended the weak and the young—just as she’d done for Orion when he was a little boy. Many times, Daphne had been nearly killed in battle and made the journey down to the Underworld, always seeking her husband by the banks of the River Styx.
But all she had found was Hades. Unrelenting, enigmatic Hades, who would not restore her husband to life and take her instead no matter how much she begged or bargained. The lord of the dead did not make deals. She hoped Helen hadn’t descended in the hopes that she could raise her friend back to life. It was a fool’s errand—for now, anyway. But Daphne had been working for nearly two decades to change that.
“Can’t see you,” Helen murmured, and her fingers flexed, like she was trying to grab something. Daphne immediately understood. She, too, had wanted desperately to see Hades and had tried to pull the Helm of Darkness off his head. Eventually, after Daphne half died enough times to pay off all of her blood debts and rid herself of the Furies, Hades had finally showed her his face.
It was recognizing Hades that had set her plan in motion. The plan that had broken her only daughter’s heart by separating her from the one she loved.
“Oh. Sorry,” Matt said from the doorway, startling Daphne out of her spiraling thoughts. She wiped her damp face and turned to see that Matt had Ariadne draped limply across his arms. She was a ghastly shade of gray and barely conscious, having exhausted herself trying to heal Jerry. “She wanted to sleep in her own room.”
“I’m sure they’ll both fit,” she said, gesturing to the wide bed. “I didn’t know where else to take Helen.”
“Seems like there’s an injured person on every piece of furniture in the house,” Matt said. He carried Ariadne over and laid her down gently next to Helen.
Strong boy, Daphne thought, staring at Helen’s friend.
“It’ll be easier to watch over them together, anyway,” Daphne said, still surveying Matt.
He’d shaped up and put on a lot of muscle since last she saw him, but even still. Ariadne was a buxom girl, not a willowy thing like Helen, and Matt wasn’t even breathing hard after carrying her down the long hallway.
Ariadne mumbled something unintelligible to Matt before he pulled away, her face crinkled in protest at his departure. He stopped to smooth her hair. Daphne could nearly smell the love wafting off of him and filling the room, like something sweet and delicious baking in an oven.
“I’ll be back soon,” he whispered. Ariadne’s eyes fluttered and then stilled as she fell into a deep sleep. He ran his lips across her cheek, stealing the smallest of kisses. He turned to Daphne and looked down at Helen. “You need anything?”
“I can handle it. Go. Do what you need to do.” He gave her a grateful look, and she watched him stride out of the room—back straight and shoulders squared in the new light of morning.
Like a warrior.
Helen saw herself running down a beach toward the biggest lighthouse she’d ever seen.
It was strange at first. How in the world could she be watching herself like she was watching a movie? It didn’t feel like a dream. No dream had ever felt so real or been so logical. Still not understanding what was going on, she quickly got wrapped up in the drama and just went with it.
Dream Helen was wearing a long, diaphanous white dress, held together by a richly embroidered girdle. Her sheer veil had come loose from the pins in her hair, and streamed behind her as she ran. She looked frightened. As the giant lighthouse loomed closer, Helen saw her dream-self recognize a figure standing at one of the points of the octagonal base. She saw a flash of bronze as the figure undid the buckles at his neck and waist, and allowed his breastplate to fall into the sand. She saw herself cry out with happiness and pick up speed.
After shedding half his armor, the tall, dark young man turned at the sound of her voice and ran toward her, meeting her halfway. The two lovers crashed together. He caught her up against his chest and kissed her. Helen watched her
self throw her arms around his neck and kiss him back, then pull away so she could kiss his face over and over in a dozen different places—as if she wanted to cover every bit of him. Helen’s mind drifted closer to the entwined pair, already knowing who the other Helen was kissing.
Lucas. He was strangely dressed and wearing a sword around his waist. He had sandals on his feet, and his hands were wrapped with worn leather straps and covered with bronze gauntlets, but it was really him. Even the laugh he gave as the other Helen smothered him with kisses was the same.
“I’ve missed you!” the other Helen cried.
“A week is far too long,” he agreed softly.
The words were not English, but Helen understood them just the same. The meaning echoed in her head, just as the relief of being reunited with her love echoed through her—as if it was her body that was pressed against his. Suddenly, Helen knew that it was her body, or had been, once. She had spoken this language, and she had felt this kiss before. This wasn’t a dream. It felt more like a memory.
“So you’re coming with me?” he said urgently, catching her face in his hands and forcing her to look at him. His eyes glowed with hope. “You’ll do it?”
The other Helen’s face fell. “Why, always, do you talk of tomorrow? Can’t we just enjoy right now?”
“My ship leaves tomorrow.” He let her go and pulled away, hurt.
“Paris . . .”
“You are my wife!” he shouted, pacing in a circle and tugging his hand through his hair exactly like Lucas did when he was frustrated. “I gave Aphrodite the golden apple. I chose love—I chose you over everything that was offered to me. And you said you wanted me, too.”
“I did. I still do. But my sister has no head for politics. Aphrodite didn’t think it was important to mention that while you may have been tending sheep that day, you were not a shepherd boy as I believed, but a prince of Troy.” The other Helen spared an exasperated sigh for her sister and then shook her head, giving up. “Golden apples and stolen afternoons don’t matter. I cannot go with you to Troy.”
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