by Wagner, Raye
Tears dripped down Hope’s cheeks. “I didn’t know she would do that.”
“Of course not.” Artemis’s hand rubbed the black stone. “You are still far too young to understand the sacrifices one makes for love”—she sniffed—“or duty.”
The words were a dagger to Hope’s heart. “Was that all I was?”
Artemis stood and pointed at Hope. “She was too good to have been wasted on this. You’d better hope our paths don’t cross again, monster. I won’t be so kind if they do.”
Hope wanted to say she would make it right, that somehow she would make up the loss. But she had nothing to give. Nothing to offer the goddess. Hope bowed her head and let the tears fall. It didn’t matter what she said. Nothing would be good enough. So she said nothing.
Doubt crept in. Was all of this truly selfish? Was it selfish to want to be free from a curse? Maybe it was.
“It’s not,” a woman said, taking the abandoned spot next to Hope.
Hope wiped her eyes. The girl sitting next to her was dressed in a pale blue chiton edged in silver. She held an odd walking stick with markings in ancient Greek that ran the length of it. Her thick brunette curls cascaded over her shoulder, covering the strap of the leather messenger bag at her hip.
Standing beside the bench were two other young women: one blond with fair skin, who was clacking two knitting needles together; the other, with dark, cropped hair, appeared macabre with several pairs of shears hanging from leather straps.
“Don’t lie to her,” the dark-haired one snapped. “It is selfish.”
“But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong,” the blond said without looking up from her needles.
The brunette smiled at Hope. “Don’t mind my sisters.”
They looked nothing like sisters. Oh! Oh, gods! Literally. “You’re the Fates?” The shears. The measuring stick. The knitting. Of course they were. Hope looked at the blond goddess. “Is that really the thread of someone’s life?”
Atropos leaned over Hope. “Do you really think you have the power to cut someone’s thread that wasn’t meant to die?”
Hope shook her head.
“That’s right. You don’t.” The goddess who measured life stepped back and grabbed the blond by the elbow. “Come on, Clo. Sit down. Move, Lachesis.”
Lachesis laughed and stood. She extended her hand to Hope in invitation. “Let’s go walk through Rhadamanthus’s garden.”
Hope stood, mostly to clear the bench for the other Fates. “Will he be upset we’re in here?”
Atropos snorted, and Lachesis laughed again. “No. He won’t mind.”
Hope followed after the goddess who measured man’s life. Hope had so many questions, but her mind blanked on every single one.
“You want to know how to break the curse.” Lachesis walked past the daisies and onto a well-used path through the jeweled garden. “But you already know that it’s impossible.”
Disappointment churned in Hope’s stomach. “Then why did I come?”
The goddess fingered a thin branch, and the dangling stones shook and swung. “Answer your own question,” she prompted.
Why had Hope come? “To talk with my mother. To find out if there is anything else I can do.”
“Would you bargain with another god to make the curse shift or change?”
Hope’s first instinct was to say yes. If she got to choose the terms of the agreement, she would make a bargain with another god. But then, that would enslave her to that god. She didn’t want to owe anyone anything.
“What if I offered you aid in exchange for a service?”
“No matter what, I’m going to owe someone something, right? Is that what you’re saying?”
Lachesis let go of the branch, and the entire shrub shimmied. “No. Do you feel indebted to Athan? Or Xan or Dahlia? Do you think they feel indebted to you?”
There was no reason for any of them to feel indebted to her, and she said as much.
“Do you feel you owe Priska something?”
“She’s the one who made it possible for me to come here, and she died. Of course I feel like I owe her.”
“Do you feel like she owed you something?”
“No.”
“Really? Your grandmother gave her a purpose to live when she had none. She gave her joy. Because she continued to live, she found love again and again. And not just romantic love, although she did find that again, right?”
“But it was still my fault she died,” Hope choked out.
“Did you ask her to?”
“No.”
It was a difficult concept to wrap her head around. She couldn’t help the guilt that hung heavily in her chest. Hope wanted to push it away or ignore it. Not have a conversation about whose fault it was.
“What if I told you she did it because she felt guilty about not being there for you, like she’d promised to you all those years ago? What if her death was an attempt to make it right by you?”
“Why would she do that?”
Lachesis pursed her lips. “Don’t take Artemis’s words to heart. She is hurt and mourning her only daughter’s death. Even so, if there comes a time where you could do a service for the goddess of night, you might consider it an olive branch. The gods have long memories.”
“So, I do owe her?”
Lachesis turned to Hope and pointed at her stick. “You don’t owe anyone anything. Life doesn’t work that way. If you are constantly trying to keep track or keep a tally, you will miss out on the opportunities to be an influence when it actually matters. I’m the one that measures worth. No one else, not god nor mortal. However, if you want someone to be on your side, it never hurts to help them achieve their goals, either. Maybe give them a reason to like you. Especially true when you’re dealing with gods.”
“So I don’t have to, but I still should give her something if I can?” Wasn’t that the same thing? Hope felt like the conversation was going in circles, and she couldn’t keep up.
They continued down the path, only to see Atropos and Clotho ahead of them on the bench.
“Your choices are yours, and you will have to live with them. Be careful whom you trust, and always be polite.”
“You sound like my mother,” Hope said with a wan smile.
“Yes. Let’s go see her now.” Lachesis grabbed Hope’s wrist, stopping her on the path before the bench. The ground seemed to drop out from under them, and Hope stumbled to gain her footing.
A loud pop like the crack of gunfire awoke Athan, and he sat up. A coarse black blanket fell from his shoulders, and a chill skirted over his bare skin, giving him raised goose bumps. A roaring fire burned on the other side of the room in a roughly-hewn fireplace, and another snap of the wood told him what had awoken him. Rough walls of dark rock surrounded him, and the ceiling was the same black stone of the Underworld. If the cave wasn’t so high, he’d feel buried alive. There wasn’t even a window, only a single opening into the darkness of what he assumed was Hades’s realm.
A glance around the room told him he was alone, and he swung his legs over the side of the cot and waited for a wave of dizziness to pass. On the other side of the space, four bunk beds the same gold and black as the litter and his cot lined the wall. Shelves were carved into the stone, making cubbies that appeared to be filled with clothes and other linens.
Where were Xan and Dahlia? And why hadn’t they put him in a bed?
Athan stood, and the blanket pooled at his feet. Cool air skirted over his bare skin, and he shivered. Who had undressed him, and why? Not that he minded his boxer-style briefs, but he didn’t want to wander around the Underworld in his underwear.
He wrapped the blanket around his waist and toured the room. The clothes were all chitons, far too small for him, and bedding was folded and stacked in the corner, likely for the inhabitants. Over by the bunks, pictures were stuck to the rough stone: girls smiling, their arms thrown around each other. They weren’t sisters—there were too many different races for that to be the c
ase—more like a sorority, as they were all similarly dressed in fitted black clothes or drapey chitons.
Dahlia would fit in well with the group. Maybe. Except Dahlia didn’t wear dresses or have friends, except for Xan and Hope.
“You’re up.”
Athan turned and faced a redheaded woman, somewhere in her late teens, standing inside the opening to the cavern. She was dressed in a black robe, a blue clasp at her shoulder.
“Hecate will see you.” Her words were clipped, as if well rehearsed, and her accent was similar to Xan’s brogue when he got angry or drunk.
“You’re from Ireland?”
The young woman pursed her lips but didn’t answer.
He let it hang in the air between them until tension filled the space. Weird. Why wouldn’t she answer? Not that it mattered. There were more pressing issues. “Where’s Xan?”
Her eyes darted out the doorway before coming back to Athan. “The guy you were traveling with?”
“Yes.” He drew the word out for several seconds. Who else would he be asking about? And why was she so nervous?
“He has been detained.” Her smile patronized him and offered no comfort. “But I’m sure you’ll see him shortly.”
Detained? Great. Xan wasn’t the best at keeping his temper in check. And after that blast, he was sure to be pissed. “Is Dahlia better? Where is she?”
The girl waived him forward. “Come. Now. Let’s not keep our goddess waiting.”
Our goddess? Hecate? Not likely. But it wasn’t worth arguing. Not yet. “Um, one more thing.” Athan pointed at his makeshift skirt. “Can I have my clothes back? I’d like to get dressed. And what did you say your name was?”
The woman flinched. “You’ll have clothes momentarily.” She indicated that he follow, and she stepped out of the room.
She’d again not answered his questions. Athan rubbed his hand over his face. His options were limited, and they both knew it. He tucked the corner of the blanket at his waist, and hoping it would hold, he followed her out of the cave.
Only to realize they’d been in a cavern of a much larger cave. Athan followed the girl through a series of tunnels. She never once turned to see if he was following, and step-by-step, his resentment and frustration grew. Two left turns and a right. Down a set of stairs, another right, then left, then up two levels . . . She was leading him in a maze.
He debated telling her. After all, she was clearly trying to confuse him by taking him in circles. But she’d withheld information, so he saw no reason to spoil the fun. Fifteen minutes later, they were exactly down the hall from the bedroom he’d woken up in, and his escort led him into a space the size of an Olympic stadium.
“Isn’t that Hecate?” He pointed to the goddess reclining on a chaise lounge. Two young men wearing nothing but loincloths stood on either side of her, fanning her with large palm fronds. Their rich mahogany skin was painted in intricate designs of scales and feathers, and their shaved scalps were bare except for one long lock of hair.
She frowned. “Yes. Our goddess is anxious to meet you.”
The goddess didn’t look anxious.
His skin crawled as unease skirted through him. They crossed the large room, and Athan took inventory. He was dressed in a skirt, barefoot, weaponless, and the only other people, if he could call them that, were girls in dresses, who also appeared weaponless, and two men waving foliage. Nothing that could help him.
Maybe Hecate was one of the good gods. His father had once been close to her—consorts was what the textbooks called it. Lovers, really. But it had ended long ago, like ancient Greece long ago.
All Athan could think as he crossed the stone ground was witchcraft and magic.
“Son of Hermes.” She sat up. “What are you doing alone in the Underworld?” The goddess waved at the two young men, and they stopped their fanning. Her hair hung loose, the maroon waves framing her in a halo of blood all the way down to her waist. Her flowy chiton was a pale green fabric, almost completely sheer except in a couple of strategic places. Hecate perused him from head to toe and back again. “Or is your father here, too?”
As he swallowed back disgust at her obvious once-over, he considered his options. Lying to Charon hadn’t gone over well, but did Hecate have allegiances to Thanatos? “No, he’s not. I’m here to collect someone.”
“Shame.” Her blue eyes gleamed. “Is the person you’re trying to get alive or dead?”
“Hopefully alive. Are my companions safe?”
She waved away his question. “Does your father know you’re here?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t tell him I was coming, but he’s probably aware of it by now.”
She nodded. “Probably.”
They were outside a stone house. The double doors were painted a deep burgundy, and vines of emerald leaves climbed the right corner of the building, extending over the arched doorway. The blue shutters were open, revealing curtained windows. The porch was covered with terracotta plant holders, and the geraniums and chrysanthemums sparkled in the light. The home was isolated in a valley surrounded by black hills. The air was sweet, clean, with a hint of earthy undertones that told Hope dirt was nearby.
“Where are we?” Hope whispered. Thanatos had never shown her this part of the Underworld.
“The in-between of Elysium and the Isles of the Blessed. Very few are here, relatively speaking.” Lachesis pointed to the door. “Go ahead and knock.”
Butterflies took flight in Hope’s stomach, and her palms became clammy. “Here?”
All of her travels and risks, and now she was finally here.
“All of your answers won’t be here, but it’s a good start, young one. Before I go, I must ask, did you by chance bring your Book of the Fates with you to the Underworld?”
Hope shook her head.
Lachesis bit the side of her mouth in a very human gesture. “Then let me give you a gift.” She held out a thin book, its buttery yellow cover embossed with an intricate diamond pattern. “The Books are bound here as we are bound. We cannot add to your book while we are bound. One day you will be able to read it, and it will make sense.”
“Whose is it?”
Lachesis shook her head and motioned for Hope to knock.
Hope glanced at the book in her hands. She flipped through the pages, but they appeared blank. Her mind raced. For it to be unreadable could only mean one thing. “Whose—?”
Hope looked up, but Lachesis was gone.
To read a person’s Book of the Fates , one must have pure intent toward the individual. Athan was able to read hers, and she could read the ones in the Olympian library. Xan initially wasn’t able to read hers, which given his history of slaying monsters made sense. So who did Hope hate so much that she wouldn’t be able to read their book?
With a deep breath, Hope switched the book into her left hand and knocked on the front door.
A handsome blond man answered. He was several inches taller than Hope, with broad shoulders and a square chin. His muscular arms were bare, and his fitted tank top revealed that his upper torso was just as strong. He raised his brows and asked, “May I help you?”
Everything about him made Hope cringe. Her heart raced with revulsion and fear. His sky-blue eyes confirmed his heritage. She shook her head. Denial, fear, incredulity. “I’m looking for Leto Nicholas.”
He smiled, and his entire countenance lit up. “Of course. Come in.”
She wouldn’t budge. There was no way her mother would let one of them into her home. Her mind reeled with the puzzle, trying to explain to herself why he could be here.
The man disappeared down the hallway, leaving the door open.
Voices drifted out to her, but Hope couldn’t focus. She looked down the hall, then to the book in her hands. She turned and looked out at the expanse of lawn, realizing there was actual grass here, which would explain the smell of dirt. How could the grass grow without the sun?
A gasp came from the house and then a squeal. Hope turne
d to see her mother running at her.
“Hope!” Leto crashed into her daughter, wrapping her arms around her in a smothering embrace. “Good gods. I can’t believe you’re here. How did you get here?” She patted and kissed and squeezed. “And you’re still alive; I can feel your warmth. How? How can this be?”
Hope let her mother ramble, but when Leto tried to pull her into the house, Hope refused.
“What’s the matter?”
Hope pointed into the dark hall. “Why is he here?”
Leto’s eyes widened. “Luc? I . . . You better come in and sit down, sweetheart.”
That wasn’t going to happen. Nausea roiled through Hope, and she could feel the crushing weight of a boot on her face. The taste of blood. The smell of ash. Apollo’s hand as he caressed her cheek. Hope shook her head, clenching the book in her hands. “No.”
Leto sighed and closed the door behind her. “Don’t be melodramatic, Hope. I wouldn’t let anyone—”
Hope barked out a laugh. They were in the Underworld, Leto was dead, living with a son of Apollo, whose brothers had tried to kill Hope, and she was being melodramatic?
“Let’s go sit in the grass,” Leto said. Like they had when Hope was younger.
Hope stepped off the porch and into the lawn. She sat, one leg extended in front of her, the other foot on the ground with her knee bent. Her hand was braced with the book against the ground, in case she needed to quickly stand in guard position.
Leto stared at her daughter as if absorbing every detail. “You don’t trust me?”
More than anything, Hope wanted to deny it. “Him. I don’t trust him.”
Leto knelt in front of Hope. “Please, baby, please don’t be mad.”
