“Heh! Good point. Which way do we go?”
Hannah scans the horizon, then points toward another river. “That way.”
“Is that the Styx again?”
“No, it’s the Lethe.”
“It looks like the Styx, except the water’s green, not black.”
“Yeah, well, it isn’t.”
“What makes it different?” Mark asks.
“This river doesn’t go anywhere. Also, it doesn’t need monsters. It’s its own monster.”
“How do you mean?” I ask.
“It’s the River of Forgetfulness. Any one, ghost or mortal, who touches it instantly and forever forgets who they are and why they would ever want to leave Tartarus.”
I stare at the glittering green water and curse. The Lethe looks wide, and I imagine it’s deep—as deep or deeper than the Styx. “What about us? We’re not mortal.”
“The effect is temporary for us,” Hannah says, “but trust me, you don’t want to experience it.”
“So how do we get across? Call Charon?”
“No, that might draw attention. I’ve got a better idea. Follow me.”
Hannah leads us in the direction the centipede went. Soon, we can see it. Worse, it can see us.
“We’re going to ride it,” Hannah says.
My jaw drops. “We’re going to what?”
“Not ride it exactly; we’re going to use it as a boat.”
Before I have time to argue, the creature charges, scuttling forward with an angry chittering that sounds like a hundred knives being sharpened.
I draw my sword.
“Don’t kill it,” Hannah commands. “Distract it.”
“How?”
“Run!” Hannah shouts, then flaps her cloak up and turns into a familiar gray fog, a fog that reeks of death. It’s what she uses to fly, and she uses her magic now to float up, hovering overhead.
Mark and I don’t need to be told twice. We run. The centipede gains. It’s not hard; it has three hundred legs and we only have two each.
I dare a backward glance. Hannah materializes on top of the centipede, right behind the bulging, hateful head. She takes out her dagger and does something to the back of the creature’s head. She said we weren’t going to kill it, so I can’t imagine what she’s doing.
Whatever she’s up to, it works. The centipede slows to a stop twenty feet away. It drools venom, but otherwise makes no aggressive move. Mark and I cautiously approach, each coming around on different sides.
“Come on,” Hannah calls. “I promise it won’t bite… not unless I tell it to.” As if to prove her point, the centipede lowers itself to the cavern floor, making it easy for Mark and I to climb up and join her.
“How did you do it?” I ask.
“Witchcraft.” Hannah taps her boot down at the mystic symbol she’s scratched into the thing’s skull. “It’s a symbol of control. It’ll do whatever I tell it now.”
And it does. She orders it to march us to the river. As we cross the Lethe, Hannah explains there are five rivers in the underworld: some water, some ice, some fire. Ghosts can’t travel over water without help, so the outer kingdom is encircled by the River Styx, which is full of monsters. The inner kingdom is encircled by the River Lethe. “Together,” she says, “they serve as a double ward against anyone breaking in—or breaking out of Hades’ kingdom.”
“What about the other rivers?” Mark asks.
“The Acheron is the River of Woe, and it serves to separate the good and peaceable ghost population from the malevolent half.”
“You mean Murder Town?”
Hannah nods. “Among others. Only those who truly repent can cross from the evil side to the good, and only those who have given in to cruelty can cross to the evil side. Everyone else is turned back by inconsolable waves of sadness.”
“Literal waves?” Mark asks. “Or metaphorical?”
Hannah smirks. “Literal. There are a few exceptions… Those who are morally gray and comfortable with it can freely pass from one side to the other.”
“What about the rivers of ice and fire?” I ask.
“Phlegethon is the River of Flame. It leads to the deepest part of Tartarus, to my father’s castle and the prison where he kept Cronus and the other Titans. It’s also where Cronus rules now.” She says this last bit with a grimace.
“And the river of ice?”
“The Cocytus? The River of Wailing is on the deepest level, beneath the castle. That’s where Zeus imprisoned the Titans, frozen beneath the ice.”
“Do you think that’s where Hades is?”
Hannah rolls her eyes. “Too obvious, genius. Guess again.”
“But you’ve checked?” I persist.
“Yes, I’ve checked. Of course, I have! That was the first thing I did, and it was almost the last… Cronus hid my father somewhere more clever than that.”
“More clever,” Mark puts in, “but maybe not more secure?”
Hannah’s mood brightens at the suggestion. “I’m beginning to like you, mortal.”
Mark frowns. “I thought you already liked me?”
“No, I said I was glad Andrus brought you along. There’s a difference.”
“Oh,” Mark says.
Hannah laughs. Mark looks confused, then he laughs too. I smile, glad to see them getting along, but my mind is already racing ahead, toward the battle I know is coming.
8
THE ASPHODEL MEADOWS
We leave the centipede behind. Tartarus is big… bigger than I thought. Vast is a better word. And it’s gloomy, yet strangely serene and beautiful.
We come into a meadow, filled with strange black flowers and long-stemmed grass. The place has a lazy, untended look. Parts appear to be kept up—the grass cut, the flowers artfully arranged—yet there’s no consistency, no pattern. Everywhere I look, I see halfhearted attempts to maintain the work, but no attempt to expand it. Parts are wild, overgrown, encroaching. It’s as if whoever’s in charge of the project had some grand ambition, then gave up and decided this weird unfinished mess was good enough.
“This is the Asphodel Meadows,” Hannah says. “It’s where the undistinguished dead live—those who never did anything especially wrong or right in life. It’s a boring place, full of boring people. Lots of families, scholars, tradesmen. I never spent much time here. I like to go where the action is.”
“Murder Town?” I tease.
She smirks. “Sometimes… Anyway, like I said, these are boring people who don’t take risks. That means they’ll sell us out to the Titans in a second, so be on your best behavior.”
“What’s that mean?” I ask.
“I don’t know, act like ghosts. Be friendly, but don’t do anything to stand out. Try not to talk to anyone.”
There’s a village up ahead, neat rows of white stone houses with blue trim rising up from the meadow. We walk among the ghosts, and the dead carry on with their lives much as I imagined they did in life. Here, they aren’t insubstantial. They seem as flesh and blood as any of us, but they don’t always stay that way. They can interact with solid objects, but pass through walls like ghosts.
As we continue down the cobblestone street, I notice none of the houses have doors. I guess that’s because ghosts don’t need them. Still, it makes them seem more like tombs than houses.
“That seems kind of crazy,” I whisper to Hannah.
“What?”
“No doors! Anyone could walk into your house any time, any way they want.”
“That’s not how it works,” she replies, then shuts up as a family of ghosts walks by. Father, mother, and two young daughters out for a stroll. Hannah is invisible to them, but the ghosts nod and smile at Mark and me, thinking we’re ghosts too. We return the greeting, and the family continues on, chatting about normal things. Well, normal for them. I’m not sure what’s normal for me anymore.
Once they’re out of earshot, I ask her why.
“Because a house’s walls are coded to whoe
ver built it, so only that ghost and the people it gives the code to can come inside.”
“Coded?” Mark asks. “You mean like a combination lock?”
“Yes, but it won’t work for the living. It’s a kind of spiritual lock. See, everything vibrates at a certain frequency, the living, the dead, Earth, Tartarus… It’s what keeps our worlds separate. Now ghosts, they operate on a frequency, a frequency that allows them to alter their physical integrity to match whatever object they need to interact with is vibrating at. On Earth, it’s not easy, but Tartarus is a different story.”
“What’s that got to do with locks?” I ask.
Hannah sighs. “I was getting to that. Each ghost invests a certain amount of their spirit into the construction of their home; that causes it to vibrate at a specific frequency customized to them. Kind of like wards, but different. There’s also another reason.”
“What’s that?” Mark asks.
“Having the ghost’s home attuned to a specific vibration acts as a kind of portal to Earth.”
“You mean to their grave?”
Hannah nods. “Yes, or to wherever they died, or felt most connected to in life. Ghosts are more easily summoned there, more easily communicated with.”
“What about your friend, Doctor Herophilos?” I ask. “He didn’t die in Bronson Canyon. He died in Ancient Greece, thousands of years ago.”
She grins. “I’m a witch, remember? I know things. Also, I’m the daughter of Hades. The rules don’t apply to me.” That ends the conversation.
Mark’s stomach growls. When we get to an open air farmer’s market, he heads for a fruit vendor’s stall. Hannah hisses at him to stop. “You can’t eat that!” she warns.
He turns away from the stall, regret in his eyes. “Why not?”
“Because that’s spirit food, not human food. It nourishes ghosts, but it kills you. Listen to me: You can’t eat or drink anything that grows here. If you do, you’ll die, and never be able to leave.”
Mark blinks at her, then sighs. “But I can’t die while Hades is imprisoned.”
“That’s right, but you can become a zombie. Besides, my dad will be free soon.”
His stomach rumbles again. “So what am I supposed to eat?”
Hannah rummages in the leather pouch attached to her belt. She pulls out an energy bar. “Here, eat this.”
“What about my ghost-mask? Won’t I have to take it off first?”
“No. The mask is made of magic vapor. You can pass harmless things through it, like food and water—as long as it’s from Earth.”
“Oh,” Mark says. “That’s pretty cool. I was worried I’d have to do this quest on an empty stomach.”
“Nope,” she says. “See? I thought of everything.”
My stomach rumbles too. I shoot the witch an awkward grin.
“Really?” Hannah says. “You too?”
I shrug. “What can I say? Saving the world makes me hungry.”
“Fine.” She hands me an energy bar, then opens a third one for herself, nibbling on it and feeding some to Shadow.
“This whole place is deadly,” Mark grumbles.
Hannah rolls her eyes. “Not if you’re a ghost.”
“No,” he says, “I suppose not. But it’s not exactly paradise either.”
“There are places like that,” Hannah says. “Beautiful, heavenly places: Elysium, and beyond that, the Fortunate Isles. But they’re reserved for heroes, and for those who achieved greatness in life: feats of knowledge, virtue, sacrifice, that sort of thing.”
“Can we visit those places?” Mark asks.
Hannah shakes her head. “They’re not on our way. Maybe, when this is all over, I’ll take you there.”
“I want to go there when I die.” Mark’s voice is full of determination. “I don’t want to end up here, trapped with the undistinguished dead. I don’t want to be a Loser in the afterlife too!”
“You won’t,” I tell him, but he gives me a troubled look. I realize he’s worried he’ll end up here, trapped for all eternity with his drunk mother, trading one life of poverty for another, only this one would stretch on forever…
“And Lucy?” Mark asks. “What about her? She sacrificed herself so we could escape.”
“Hey, man! Come on, she’s going to be fine.” I put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off.
“You don’t know that!”
It’s true. I don’t, but I have to hope, have to believe Lucy’s going to be all right. If she isn’t… Hannah mentioned sacrifice was one way to get into paradise. But there’s a difference between sacrifice and revenge.
When Lucy attacked Inquisitor Anton—when she buried her knife in his chest—how much of that was for us, and how much was for her? And does that make a difference in the afterlife? Should it? Or does only the end result matter? I don’t know, and I know better than to bring it up now.
We walk on, each of us together, yet alone. We walk through ghost-traveled streets, and it’s almost normal. Almost home. It makes me miss Othrys. It makes me miss my life, my family, my Lucy… But that’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re fighting—and that’s why we’ll win.
9
THE GARDEN OF BONE
We soon learn why it’s called the Garden of Bone. There are bones growing out of the ground. Giant bones: rib cages and skulls, mostly. I don’t have time to ask whether they’re really growing there or were placed on purpose, and I suppose it doesn’t matter. What matters is there are a lot of monsters camped here; some I’m familiar with, like centaurs and harpies, and one I’m not: cyclopes. These one-eyed giants lumber along, guarding the perimeter. They’re brutish, tusked like wild boars, and wear sheepskin loincloths. Their hands carry clubs and axes, simple weapons for simple smashing. Each cyclops stands twenty feet tall and looks twice as mean.
Towering above them all is the Lesser Titan called Gyges, as tall as the rock climbing wall in the Harryhausen Gym back home. He has fifty heads and a hundred arms, each uglier than the last. Not all the heads are human, or even human-ish. Some are reptilian, some bird-like, some insect, while others are bestial: lions, bears, wolves. Drooling, screeching, growling. They glare out in every possible direction. Likewise, not all the giant’s arms are human-like either. Some are tentacles, and still others are the pincers of crabs.
The worst part is the central “face” in Gyges’ torso. The best I can do is describe it as some sort of spider-thing, with eight jet-black eyes surrounding the fanged and suckered mouth of a lamprey or leech. Beneath that terrible visage, the lower-half descends into the dark-furred haunches of a goat, yet the black taloned feet are those of a great eagle. The combination is so horrible, yet so fascinating, it’s hard to look away.
In the center of the camp is a prison cell literally made from the ribcage of some monster. And inside that cage is a huge three-headed dog: Cerberus. The red-eyed beast howls for its lost master, an unearthly sound. There’s an almost human quality to it, an emotional depth that’s anguish beyond animal. But there’s a monstrous quality too, like a pack of wolves sharing the same body, which of course is what Cerberus is. The creature raises one lonesome head at a time, each separate howl rising to join the previous until they become a single midnight chorus, then veering off into their own song. Three voices, one body. It’s an eerie effect, and it would be bone-chilling if I hadn’t seen Gyges first or known Cerberus was going to be on our side.
We’re hiding behind a boulder a half-mile away from the Garden, at the edge of a forest of enormous mushrooms, their stems as thick as tree trunks, their white caps as wide as tents.
“You didn’t tell us Gyges was going to be that ugly.” I say in half-jest, half-horror. “How the hell is that thing even alive?”
Hannah shrugs. “The same way you’re alive: magic. And just like you, Gyges shouldn’t be alive, but there he is. Think you can take him?”
“Take him? Are you kidding? He’s fifty feet tall!”
“Yeah,” she agrees.
“It’s a problem.”
“What about your magic dagger?” Mark asks her.
“What about it?”
“You used it to control the centipede. Couldn’t you fly over and use it on Gyges?”
I clap Mark on the back. “Good thinking! If Hannah can mind control him, we could take out those monsters easy.”
“I’d love to,” Hannah says, though I’m not sure how much of that is sarcasm. “Except my dagger doesn’t work on Titans—even lesser ones like giants. Besides, even if it did, it’s only meant to control one brain, not fifty.”
I frown. “Fifty brains? Gyges doesn’t look that smart.”
“Trust me,” Hannah says, “the giant’s no genius, but he’s not stupid, either. Don’t underestimate him. And not to lecture, but just because something’s ugly, doesn’t mean it’s not smart. Look at Medusa.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Ha, ha,” the witch mock-laughs. “You know you’re related to Gyges, right?”
“I guess it’s like Captain Nessus,” I say. “We underestimated him, and look what happened.”
“Actually,” Mark says, “you underestimated him. I hid in the alley.”
“I remember. Let’s not make the same mistake twice.”
We duck behind the boulder to think. It bothers me a little, what Hannah said, about me being related to Gyges. It’s true, which doesn’t make it any easier, but it’s something I’ll have to get used to. Maybe I can find a way to use it to my advantage…
When nothing comes to mind, I ask, “Didn’t you and Ares have a plan?”
“Sure,” she says, “to get you down here.”
“And after that?”
Hannah shrugs. “We figured things would sort themselves out.”
“But you didn’t count on Gyges.”
“We didn’t count on a lot of things, Andrus! How could we?”
“I don’t know, maybe because you’re Gods?”
“I’m a Demigoddess,” Hanna corrects me, “and Ares is an avatar, so he’s only one aspect of himself, a fraction of his power.”
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