So it’s the box that does the work for us.
One of the Fates’ stewards comes on stage. She’s a slight girl with long blue hair braided twice over and beaded with violets. Her gossamer dress trails behind her and her feet are bare. She stops in the center of the dais and whispers to the box. She’s too quiet, too far away for me to hear the words.
When she’s finished, the box glows and the latch pops. The girl flips the lid open and out spills a kaleidoscope of light.
An ooohh of approval runs through the crowd. We all seem to sit on the edge of our seats as Aphrodite goes to the box.
“I’m the Goddess Aphrodite,” she announces to us and to the box. “I wish to select ten worthy opponents for the annual Descendant Trial at House of Aphrodite.”
Aphrodite’s house is known to be one where being lovely and beautiful is regarded as the highest of virtues. The sons and daughters of her house are often involved in planning love matches among those in Olympus, both in the city and outside of it. Whoever wins her trial is usually given a coveted spot among her personal court of matchmakers.
The goddess of love puts her hand into the box’s light. I can hear the rasp of the slip of paper as it appears in her hand.
She turns to the crowd. “Sasha Ivyborne,” Aphrodite reads. “Already a lovely and respected member of House Aphrodite.”
Sasha shoots to her feet. Her friends congratulate her as she makes her way to the dais to stand with her mother goddess.
Aphrodite selects nine more pieces of paper and reads off their names. When she’s finished, there are nine young women on the dais and one male.
Next to the box is Poseidon.
The god of the sea has always been cocky and arrogant so it’s no surprise that he’s shirtless and wearing nothing but a pair of loose black pants. His extremely, extremely defined abs contract as he walks across the stage. He’s barefoot too and a trail of wet footprints are left in his wake. His long hair is wet, making it seem as though he’s just emerged from the ocean at the edge of Olympus even though that’s not possible because he’s been sitting on this dais for at least an hour. The tattoos covering his chest and back glisten as though they too are freshly touched by the waters he commands. I wonder for a moment if he’s actually commanding the water to stay upon him for the effect.
When he stops in front of the box, the glittering light from within sharpens the smile on his face. I’ve heard it said he’s the embodiment of a shark and I have to agree. When he smiles I see only a hungry predator.
He draws his names and there are no surprises in whom the box chooses.
Ares, the god of war, draws his names next and when he calls out Kahne Argyris, Clea twitters beside me.
“He’s so handsome,” she says.
Although I recognized Kahne’s name, I can’t say that I’ve ever come face to face with him.
He is handsome.
His hair on the sides is cropped close to his scalp. It’s longer on top by an inch or two and in the firelight it shines as if wet.
He’s wearing Ares’s House symbol—a vulture clutching a war dagger.
He’s big. Broad-shouldered and muscular. If fighting a war, I’d want him on my side. But despite this, I still worry for Clea. Kahne doesn't look like a man destined to love an orphan from Hestia’s House.
Artemis, the goddess of the hunt goes next.
Then Athena and Demeter.
Clea fidgets next to me as the night grows long.
When it’s Hestia’s turn, she stands up at her throne. For the briefest of moments, I think she’s going to break tradition and choose this time. There aren’t many names for her to submit to the box—only Clea and I are of age in her house—but that just means the odds are in our favor. Though if I had to compete against Clea, I might just fling myself into the mortal realm to avoid it altogether.
I could never compete against Clea.
But then Hestia gives the crowd a slight bow and says, “I have submitted no names to the box. I wish not to choose.”
I look at Clea. The firelight reflects in her eyes, but I see only relief there.
We’re both safe. We’re both destined to pick flowers for the rest of our lives.
It could be worse, I try to tell myself.
Hades is last to the box.
When he’s finished, the ceremony will be over and we can finally go home. I can’t wait to peel off this dress and put on something more comfortable. That jug of wine is sounding better and better.
Since we worked the ceremony tonight, Clea and I will have tomorrow off. No walking the mountainside! No picking flowers!
I can sleep in.
Oh the joy.
Hades unfurls his first slip of paper and smiles. “Haven Knightfall,” he calls.
The crowd cheers. The loudest, most rambunctious are those from Hades’s House. But everyone else knows that when a Knightfall is before you, you celebrate him. Even if you hate him.
Which most of them do.
Which I do too.
I’m hating him more and more as the night goes on.
Haven walks up the marble steps.
I wish for him to trip.
He doesn’t, of course. He walks with ease and grace and takes his place by Hades’s side. The dark prince standing by his dark god.
Hades calls out eight more names, all of them young men. Hades may father the occasional daughter, but he nor the Fates have ever chosen a girl for the Descendants Trial. Hades’s house is a bastion of male chauvinism.
I’m growing more restless by the minute.
Clea looks at me and plucks a loose flower petal from my shoulder. “Make a wish,” she whispers.
This is a game we play. When we find loose petals on one another, it’s customary to wish and then blow it away.
I’m in no mood for wishes or games, but I am in the mood for distraction.
I close my eyes and grab at the first thought that comes to mind.
I wish for this night to hurry up and be over.
I suck in a breath to blow the petal away when I hear Hades read his last name.
“Anastasha Hearthtender.”
The crowd goes silent.
Clea’s mouth drops open.
I look up.
Hades is searching the crowd for Anastasha. This orphaned descendant. This unwanted, unclaimed daughter.
He’s searching around as though he doesn’t know who he’s chosen and I’m sitting motionless like I’m not sure I heard him right. This is impossible.
Clea nudges me. I want to shrivel into a serpent hole.
“Ana,” Clea whisper-shouts.
I lurch awkwardly to my feet.
“Did you say Anastasha Hearthtender?” I call. It’s not customary for a descendant to address a god. But I don’t know what else to do.
This is not possible.
Surely he said someone else’s name.
Surely I heard him wrong.
Because in order for Hades, God of the Underworld, to have called my name, he would have had to put my name in the box.
Why would Hades put my name in that box?
Oh shit.
Shit.
Clea and I both come to this realization at the same time. I look down at her as she looks up at me, eyes as big as coneflowers.
Is Hades my father?
Hades says, “Anastasha. Please, come join your house.”
I lock eyes with the God of the Underworld and all of the blood drains from my body.
The crowd cheers. I think they’re cheering for the scandal. The drama. I think they’re already placing bets on my impending failure. I wish I was the betting type; I would bet against myself in a heartbeat. It’s a sure thing if ever there was one.
This can’t be happening.
On unsteady feet, I cross the theater and walk up the marble steps. I mean to join the end of the line of the chosen ones, but Haven snatches my arm and shoves aside the boy beside him to make room for me.
&n
bsp; We face the cheering crowd together. I’m blinded by the glow of the Eternal Flame in front of me.
What’s happening? How is this happening?
This is a gods-be-damned mistake.
I cut a glance over my shoulder to Hestia, but she’s deep in a whispered conversation with Demeter.
Help me, I want to say. I can’t possibly be a chosen one! For Hades’s House no less! Wasn’t I just ruminating on the lack of female chosen ones in Hades’s House? Wasn’t I just thinking, It could be worse?
Oh gods. It is worse. Things have gone very WORSE.
My stomach twists into knots, my mind whirling with a million thoughts.
Is Hades my father? Why claim me now? Here in front of everyone? Hades has never been one for pomp or performance. Did Hestia know about this? Has she known he’s my father this entire time?
I can’t stop my brain from running over every moment with Hestia to see if there was one time where something that she said or did would prove that she knew and had been keeping the secret from me all along. But my interactions with Hestia were limited and she’s always been extremely unforthcoming to an annoying degree.
My attention is pulled back to the present as the crowd rises to their feet to celebrate those who are chosen. Haven leans in close to me. His breath fans across my neck and a shiver races down my spine. He smells like the dark, heady underworld, like cinnamon and woodsmoke and amber.
I clutch my hands in front of me to stop them from shaking.
“Take it all in, orphan,” he says, his voice dangerously dark. “By this time next week, no one will remember your name.”
Chapter 6
As soon as the ceremony is adjourned, I start running. I run through the woods, not caring that my dress snags on a branch and tears. Not caring that thistles scrape at my legs as I shove through a bit of bramble on the forest’s edge. The pain sings across my skin, but still I run. I run toward the only place I’ve ever known, toward Hestia’s House, the home I’m about to be ripped away from.
What’s happening? I can’t stop my brain from running over the moment again and again. Of Hades shouting my name out to the masses. Of the sneer on Haven Knightfall’s cruel, beautiful face.
When I reach Hestia’s House, I’m out of breath. Unable to hold myself upright any longer, I collapse on the front steps. Now that the night is over, Apollo is back in his chariot to start the daily trek through the sky.
There will be no sun where I’m going. While Hades’s House sits at the lowest point in Olympus and isn’t technically in the actual underworld, it sits in the mountain’s shadow and is constantly shrouded in darkness and mist.
Hades is one of the dark gods and I’m about to move to his house.
I think back over every single time I’ve complained about my role at Hestia’s. Every time I wished for more or for something different. The Fates must be laughing at me now.
I reach out and touch a wild daylily that’s growing next to the stairs. I turn the flower in my fingers, watching it wilt and turn black in my hand until all that’s left is a fine ash on my palm.
As the dust catches the air, I wonder—is this my answer? Does this strange power come from Hades? Now that the theory is on my mind, it seems obvious. After all, it’s Hades who is at the helm of life and death and it’s death that literally seeps from my fingers.
“Ana!” Clea crests the hill toward home. Tears glisten on her face. She hurries up the stairs, skirt in hand, and then flings her arms around me. “They can’t take you away from us!”
They very much can.
But they shouldn’t. They shouldn’t want me at all. Because I’m in no way prepared for the Descendant Trial, let alone one at Hades’s House.
Why would the Fates do this to me?
I’ll surely lose.
“This must be some mistake.” Clea pulls back and sits beside me.
“When have the Fates ever rescinded their choice? The Choosing Ceremony has always been final.”
“But...how will you compete with the descendants of Hades House? All boys! They’ve been training their whole lives for this.”
“I’ve been training as well.” I bristle, unsure why I’m defending the insanity that’s my current situation.
“To be a handmaiden, not a warrior.”
We both turn at the sound of a loud rumbling that grows louder as it nears the house.
It’s the sound of a horse’s hooves on the stone drive.
Clea and I both stand when the carriage seems to burst from the shadows at the end of the driveway. Wraiths of dark smoke wind around the wheels. The horse isn’t so much a horse as it is a suggested shape of one born of shadow and darkness.
The carriage is lacquered black with Hades’s symbol emblazoned on the side in gold. It’s Cerberus, the three-headed dog, surrounded by a laurel wreath.
When the carriage comes to a halt, the coachman hops down from the upper seat and opens the door. And to both my and Clea’s astonishment, the God of the Underworld himself gets out. Then he turns back and holds out a hand for Hestia to step from the interior.
Though they are brother and sister, they couldn’t be more different. Hades is the embodiment of dark and Hestia a shining light.
I didn’t realize until this moment just how bright and welcoming Hestia is until she’s standing next to Hades with his permanent scowl and fiery eyes.
I always chafed at the idea of being an unclaimed daughter in Hestia’s House, but now I want to clutch at her skirts and beg her to keep me.
The Virgin Goddess walks over to me and holds out a hand. Though there is love shining in her eyes, I know that she’s not coming to tell me I can stay.
“There must be a mistake.” My voice comes out strangled and reedy, echoing the same words Clea had spoken and I shot down. Because now I’m afraid and maybe a little hopeful. “There’s never been a female chosen for Hades’s Descendant Trial. Never.”
Behind us Sura comes out the front door. Surely she’ll stand up for me. She’ll see the error in this situation.
But instead she gapes at Hades and then quickly recalls her place. She puts a hand over her heart and bows her head to me in a gesture of farewell.
Apparently even Sura has accepted this madness.
“The Fates have spoken. Your path is set.” Hestia places her hand on my cheek and pauses, looking deeply into my eyes as though she’s trying to convey something she can’t say aloud. “May you carry my blessings with you always, in this life and beyond, my child.”
“The night grows long,” a deep voice says from behind us.
We all snap to attention. Though Hades hasn’t issued a command, the suggestion of one is clear in his voice.
Time to go.
“But,” I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. “I...my things…”
“Clea will pack for you,” Sura says quietly. “They’ll be sent to Hades’s House before the next sunrise.”
Before Hades gets back into his carriage, he nods at Hestia and says, “As we’ve said, so it shall remain.”
What does that mean?
Clea, for perhaps the first time ever, ignores custom and side steps around Hestia to get to me. She wraps her arms around me and squeezes tightly. “I’ll see you again. We can have lunch on the mountainside when you have a break and…” She dissolves into tears. “I’ll miss you, sister.”
“I’ll miss you too.” I squeeze her back.
Sura’s embrace is warm, but quick. She’s not about to keep the god of the underworld waiting. “Many blessings, child,” she says.
Hestia comes to me last with the blessing of the Virgin Goddess.
She arches her thumb over my forehead and I immediately feel the warmth and charity of her touch. “May your heart remain open.” Next she runs her thumb from the crown of my head down between my brows and then down along the bridge of my nose. “May your wisdom always prevail.” She presses the pad of her thumb to my mouth. “And may your words always be gen
erous.”
When she’s finished, I look up at her. In the early morning light, she shines like a mortal angel. Like she’s been cast from gold and stardust.
How am I to leave her? The only mother I’ve ever known? Whose house I’ve grown up in?
None of this makes sense.
If Hades is my father, then why hasn’t he said as much? Why hasn’t he formally claimed me?
Hestia smiles. “Take all the gifts and lessons we’ve given you and shine your light in every corner of your path ahead.”
I don’t know what else to say, so I bow my head in farewell and turn away.
While big on lessons, that was the closest thing to a pep talk Hestia has ever given me.
At the carriage door, I take one last look at my home trying to burn it to memory. I catch sight of the little faces pressed against a window on the second floor with Marigold at the front. I wave and then duck inside the carriage feeling the sudden sting of tears in my eyes.
As soon as I’m in, the dark walls seem to seal out the world. It’s quiet inside and warm. I settle myself on the thick, black leather cushion across from Hades himself. God of the Underworld. Now my surrogate godfather.
Perhaps your true father.
I don’t know what to do with myself.
I don’t know how to be around one of the dark gods.
I wasn’t trained for this.
I sneak a glance at Hades. The power coming off him is nearly enough to choke me. Rarely have I been around the other gods and almost never have I been around the dark ones. I wonder what the other descendants are doing right now. Since none of them are in this carriage it’s clear that Hades didn’t personally come to escort them to his house.
I expect to see Hades staring down at me, sizing me up. This orphan he’s plucked from obscurity. But instead, he’s looking out the dark window at Hestia, brow furrowed in concentration as if they’re having a secret conversation the rest of us can’t hear.
Hades’s gaze snaps to me suddenly, his eyes are so dark they almost seem black. “Hold on,” he says and then the carriage lurches away.
Hades Descendants (The Games of the Gods Book 1) Page 3
