by Wagner, Raye
Athan watched as the man stumbled into the river, his face morphing from anger to horror. Hands, dozens of them, broke the surface. Bony fingers, meaty hands, scrawny arms . . . all the same pallid color, clamoring, reaching for the dead man’s soul. The water surged, and bodies crawled over top of one another. Gruesome creatures, once human, clawed at anything in their way as they tried to pull the man into the water.
Athan’s stomach turned.
The apparition’s mouth opened in a silent scream as he struggled to free himself.
The water surged again. A bald head broke the surface. Loose skin flapped over his ear, the bone of his skull punctured through, with gray matter oozing from the wound. His emaciated frame pulsed with power in a stark contradiction to his physical appearance. The zombie-like monster opened his mouth, revealing rotten, broken teeth. The flesh from one hand was gone, only the bones remaining, and the other hand was nothing more than a stump of rotting meat. The creature leaped and wrapped around the man. The water-demon’s broken arm encircled the doomed man’s neck, and he brought his mouth down in a hard bite below the ear. Black blood spurted, and the frenzy of river creatures surged.
Athan dropped to his knees as he retched. He closed his eyes, the splashing waves the only indication of the violence ensuing in the river. The bitter smell of ash singed his nostrils. He looked at the ground, only to see round river rock washed smooth over eternity. The rocks were darker underneath, darker with moisture from the river Acheron.
He jerked up and saw Xan’s face washed with revulsion. He brought his hand to his mouth and turned away. If Xan couldn’t take it, Athan knew he couldn’t either. Keeping his eyes on Xan’s back, he moved toward the other demigods.
Glancing at Dahlia, he cringed. Her head was tilted to the side, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed.
A heavy splash came from behind, and Athan scurried forward.
“What the Kracken are those?” Xan faced Athan and glanced back at the river. “Are those zombies? Hera and Zeus. And what were they eating? Was it one of the dead?”
Weird. “You could see those sea-zombies, but you couldn’t see what they were eating?”
Xan raised his eyebrows. “That’s what I said.” He turned to Dahlia. “Could you see what they were eating?”
She shrugged and pinned Athan with a glare. “You’ve never seen them before?”
Athan opened his mouth to respond, but Xan beat him to it.
“Don’t go swimming, Dahl.”
Her glare shifted to her cousin. “At least I can swim.”
No way. They were in the Underworld, at the banks of the river of death and . . . “You still can’t swim?”
Xan rolled his shoulders, but the feathering tic in his neck gave him away. “I really never thought it would come to this.”
Athan chuckled. “Don’t fall in.”
Dahlia snorted. “For real.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” Xan muttered. “Is our dead guy around here?” He waved his hands, and a few spirits flinched as he moved through them.
Athan scanned the crowd now milling around with somber faces. The hostility had faded, but anxiety pulsed off them as their gazes darted to the river. He glanced through the pack of deceased trying to find their patient, but couldn’t . . . Ah, there he was. Holy. Hades. What was he doing?
“Do you see him?”
Athan closed his eyes and swallowed. He glanced back at the river and cringed. “Yes. I see him.”
His palms tingled, and he met Xan’s gaze. With a wave Athan said, “He’s over there.”
Athan watched Xan’s features morph into incredulity.
“He’s at the bloody river?” His narrowed gaze went from Athan to the river and back again. “For real? Do the dead not see . . . that . . . those zombies?”
Athan nodded. “Yes, they can see them.”
Xan’s pale skin blanched further. “I’m so glad I can’t touch the dead.”
Right. There must be something seriously wrong with this man’s soul for him to be drawn to the river.
Hope held up a hand. “I still have my Book of the Fates . Remember how I recognized that handwriting? That’s why. And that’s why you can’t find it here. It’s in a hotel room in the mortal realm, where I left it.”
She couldn’t believe she had left it, the statue of Hecate, and all of her possessions in the dingy hotel room. How long had Priska paid the bill for? Gods, what if it was stolen?
“You have your Book of the Fates ?” He nodded as if accepting what she’d told him. “And you are of the lineage of Hera?”
Hope nodded in confirmation. “Phoibe refused Apollo’s advances, and on the night she gave birth, he showed up and cursed her offspring, then killed her and her husband. Phaidra was her daughter. She was the Sphinx in Egypt, Thebes, and everywhere else that had Sphinxes. She made a bargain with the Graeae, which is how we have our human form, except on the new moon, when Apollo placed the curse, or if we are on the land where he placed it. But I don’t know if that is all of Europe or just ancient Greece. I’ve only ever been in North America.”
Thanatos leaned toward her. “And what fulfills the curse? Why does Apollo have the Sphinx killed?”
“It has to do with what constitutes a family. Way back when Apollo killed Phoibe, a family was a husband, wife, and their children. If we refuse Apollo and marry someone else then have children, making a complete family, it fulfills the curse. I want to find a way to break it. I don’t want to have my choices limited just because some god got thwarted. It’s ridiculous.”
“Yes. I could see why you would feel that way.”
Disbelief made her frown. “You understand?”
The god of death stood, towering over her. Anger flashed in his eyes. “Do you think you are the only one affected by curses? Even gods can be bound if enough power is exercised. Think of Cronus in Tartarus. Do you think he voluntarily went there? He would love to escape, but he is bound by the power of the gods. Do you think I enjoyed killing your mother? I. Had. No. Choice.”
Her mind raced as she put it together. “You are bound?”
“I serve Hades.” He sat back down, almost collapsing in on himself. “And yes, I am bound.”
Sympathy pulsed through her chest. She’d never even considered that the gods could be bound. Or that they wouldn’t like it. Of course they wouldn’t like it. Who would? “Are you trying to break your curse?”
He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “One day, my dear, I shall. And it will be glorious.”
That was exactly how she felt.
“So how are you to break your binding to Apollo?” Thanatos relaxed back into his seat. He rubbed his hands together as he studied her.
“I don’t know.” Hope explained how she’d gone to the temple of Artemis, the conservatory, read a few Books of the Fates , and then had put together that she needed to come here. “None of my mother’s history is recorded, and you said yourself that the dead can’t lie. I need to know what I can do to break the curse, and everything has pointed to coming here.”
A dark curl fell across the god’s forehead, and he brushed the ebony lock back from his face. “I will help you. Together, I’m confident, we can see an end to this.”
She should have been ecstatic with his declaration, but a foreboding sense of unease unfurled in her belly. Hope pushed the worry away. It was only because of what he’d done to her mother. Of course distrust lingered.
Over the next two days—that was how Hope preferred to think of the time she was awake, although she had no way to measure time—she and Thanatos discussed every detail of her understanding of the curse. Not being able to reference her Book of the Fates was incredibly frustrating, and there were a few times she had to admit a dead end. When she wasn’t with the god, she would sneak into the library and read the Books of the Fates from others who’d been cursed. But no matter how many she read, she still hadn’t found a way around a god’s binding.
She a
te prepackaged food until she couldn’t stand to look at a granola bar or fruit cup, and even beef jerky and canned chicken held no appeal. But the food and fluid had done their trick, and she felt strong and energized once again.
Hope sat in bed, counting the days on her fingers again and again. Even if time moved slower in the Underworld, she should’ve changed by now.
When she brought it up to Thanatos, he looked like he’d won the lottery. “I was wondering about that, too. I had my suspicions, but I didn’t want to give you false hope.”
She tried to connect the dots, but then that meant . . . “It doesn’t work here?”
“Curses from one realm don’t usually carry into the next, unless the god has powers in both realms. Apparently, Apollo’s power has no effect here.”
“You mean I’m human?”
Thanatos shrugged. “You are whatever you would be without the curse. You still have blood from Hera, so not quite human, I would say.”
Which would explain why she’d been able to go as long as she had without water. Several days, according to Thanatos, who had informed her that time did not work the same in the Underworld.
“Let’s go find your mother today, shall we?”
She’d been about to ask, and something about the fact that he had extended the invitation made her happy. The longer she was with Thanatos, the better she thought of him. He wasn’t traditionally attractive like Athan or Xan; the god of death was too thin, too pale, and too angular to be considered handsome. He didn’t have the same terrifying beauty of Apollo, either. But Thanatos was kind, which softened his sharp features. He was a god and still had that striking quality, but over the course of the time Hope had been in the Underworld, she’d come to consider him a friend. A tentative friend.
“Yes. That sounds fabulous.” She stood and accepted his arm as they made their way out to Asbolus.
The centaur stood hitched to the carriage, a scowl on his face.
“Hi, Asbolus.” Hope practically sang the greeting. “How are you today?”
The creature turned and glared at Thanatos, making Hope falter in her steps. “This is wrong, Thanatos.”
Thanatos held up his hand. “What you see is not set in stone, Asbolus, and we both know it. I will do this . . . for Hope.”
Asbolus snorted then turned to her. “Be on your guard, little one. Truth can be a painful lesson.”
“Enough,” Thanatos said. He helped Hope into the carriage and then stepped up to Asbolus. “You would do well to remember I choose where my kindness falls. I will not bow to Hades forever.”
Asbolus inclined his head to the god but said nothing.
They lurched through the first rings of the Underworld, the barren waste passing by in a blur of grays. Asbolus slowed to a trot as soon as they crossed into the Fields of Asphodel.
Hope looked around as if her mother would appear, but when Leto didn’t appear, Hope turned to Thanatos while asking, “How do we find . . . ?”
The words died on her lips.
Thanatos grimaced as if in physical pain. The muscles of his neck bulged under whatever strain he was going through. His eyes were closed, his jaw rigid, and he shuddered and trembled from the invisible force.
Hope reached out to the god but hesitated to touch him.
Just before contact, he opened his eyes. With a hiss, he withdrew from her. “Don’t,” he said. His eyes bore into her, and his intense gaze held her captive. Through clench teeth he said, “I must go. I will return as soon as I can. Asbolus, take her home.”
And he disappeared.
Fear simmered and boiled, making her skin crawl. “What just happened?”
Asbolus trotted around the fountain in the square. “He has been summoned, and he cannot refuse.”
“Who would do that?” But there was only one lord of the Underworld, so only one logical choice. “Why?”
Asbolus’s muscular shoulders rose and fell. “It is not Thanatos’s place to ask why.” The centaur glanced away. “I’ll take you back.”
“No.” She wasn’t going back. Now that they were in the Fields of Asphodel and she could actually start looking, she was determined to make use of it. “We can still look, right?”
But Asbolus continued to make his way through the crowds of people.
All thoughts of Thanatos fled, and her goal of finding her mom suddenly seemed to be slipping through her fingers. “Stop!”
But the centaur didn’t even glance back at her.
She reminded herself that she was not going to be a victim. She stepped to the edge of the buggy, and with a deep breath, she jumped. As soon as she hit the dark rock, she rolled. Pain exploded on her left side, but she stood and ran back toward the square. There had to be someone who could help.
“Hope!” Asbolus yelled after her, but with the cart hitched to his back, he would have to find a space to turn around.
She knew searching for her mom would be like the needle in a haystack analogy, but at some point, she had to start looking.
They followed the river. Athan figured there would be more souls closer to a dock, so they walked into the crowd and down the shoreline, hoping to run into a port for the ferryman, Charon. But the number of souls diminished and then disappeared until it was only the three demigods and the spirit of the patient.
“Please tell me we aren’t walking in circles,” Xan said.
Athan looked at his watch. They’d been in the Underworld for more than fifteen hours. Athan’s eyes ached with fatigue. He’d passed tired several hours ago, but he refused to give into exhaustion.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” Xan stopped walking and crouched to the ground, his movements graceful like a panther. He pulled his pack off, and careful to keep contact with it at all times, he opened a pouch and pulled out a protein bar. He tore the wrapper off and dropped it on the ground, watching as it blinked out of existence. After taking a big bite, he looked up at Athan. “What? Don’t tell me you’re not famished.” Xan held out another bar to his cousin. “Dahlia, you want one?”
Athan turned away from the snacking and stared out at the Acheron. He was doing something wrong, or rather, not doing something right. He could feel it.
“It’s all right to admit you don’t know.” Dahlia held out her half-eaten bar.
Athan waved it away.
She spoke between bites. “Xan’s just pissy because he hates not being able to fix something. But I reckon you remember that about him.”
No. In fact, he hadn’t remembered. Like so many memories he’d pushed to the recesses of his mind, he’d forgotten. Athan closed his eyes and listened to the water lap at the shore. He probably should eat something. He let his mind wander, ignoring the grumbling from his stomach.
Hadn’t Charon been waiting when they’d come to the river?
“Skata,” Athan muttered. His eyes blinked open, and he looked out at the endless gray river melting into the horizon. He dug into his pocket, grabbed several drachma, and strode to the water’s edge.
“Charon,” he yelled. And then he threw the coins. The money broke the surface of the Acheron with several pilps and plops . Athan gritted his teeth and waited.
“What. The. Kracken?” Dahlia breathed from behind him.
A small skiff cut through the murky fog. The square bow appeared weathered by elements that didn’t exist in the Underworld, at least not that Athan had seen. The worn wood was pocked and splintered, and the imposing figure standing at the stern pushed the ferry through the water with a long, dark pole.
Athan looked around for the dead man, but he was right there, his gaze riveted on the approaching vessel.
“Holy Moirai,” Xan swore. He stepped next to Athan and then pulled away with a shudder. “The dead bloke is right there, isn’t he?” His hand went through the man’s shoulders before connecting with Athan.
Athan’s jaw hung loose as he faced Xan. “You can feel him?”
Xan frowned. “Aye.”
The
dead patient stepped away from the living, pulling back behind them. Athan turned and grabbed the man by the wrist. “Don’t think you’re going anywhere. We need you to cross.”
The man leaned away and his mouth moved rapidly, but still there was no sound.
“That’s creepy—”
The boat scraped up onto the shore, and all four of them turned to the sound.
Charon remained at the back of the skiff, his black robe almost completely covering him. His hood hung low over his face, and his chin and neck were hidden in shadows. The ends of the garment puddled on the bottom of the god’s ferry. The sleeves, however, gaped open over pale thin wrists, and clutched in his bony fingers was the dark wood pole he used to push through the river Acheron.
Charon pulled the shaft from the water and knelt as he reverently set the rod in the skiff. With movements fluid and oily, he floated out of the boat and onto the rocky shore.
“Why are you here?” His voice rasped from inside the hood.
Athan pushed down his panic. “I’ve come to deliver this man’s soul.”
Charon laughed, the ghostly chuckle an unnerving cacophony of sound that chilled Athan’s bones.
The river seemed to swell, the mists surrounding the Acheron darkened, and the scent of carrion and rotten fruit ballooned around them.
Dahlia swore, and either she or Xan retched. Athan’s stomach flipped and turned, and he was glad he hadn’t eaten the protein bar after all.
“Liar,” Charon hissed. “Your father has not required this.”
The trick to lying was telling as much of the truth as possible. “I never said he did.”
The air pulsed with energy. A magnetic force pulled Athan’s gaze toward the god. He willed his features into neutrality, but Athan’s heart pounded in fear. “Do you require more than an obol per person for passage?”
Faster than a pulse, Charon’s bony fingers clutched the collar of Athan’s shirt and pulled him close. The coppery smell of fresh blood wafted from under the god’s hood, and when he spoke the sharp tang became stronger. “Don’t toy with me, Son of Hermes. I owe you nothing.”
