Chapter I
A Game of Retribution
Hades manifested in the shadow of the grandstand of the Hellene Racetrack. Soon, the divinely bred steeds of the gods would compete in the first of three races, which would ultimately place the fastest competitor on a path to becoming one of Poseidon’s prized hippocamps—the fishtail horses that pulled his ocean chariot. But it was not this so-called honor that drew Hades’s presence or even the usual thrill he got from the promise of a risky bet. He had come to test the validity of a supposed oracle who went by the name Acacius.
He was familiar with the name and his businesses—a well-known relic dealer whose front was a mechanic shop. Hades and his team had kept an eye on his affairs for several months. They were familiar with his routine, instruction, and correspondences, which was why, when he began to offer mortals a look into the future, Hades became suspicious.
It was not just the future Acacius offered. He’d obtained a kind of omniscience that came only with divine blessing or the possession of relics, and since Hades knew it was not the former, it had to be the latter.
He had sent Ilias ahead to bet in his place, and now the satyr stood near the track, his disorderly hair slicked back and tied at the nape of his neck, making his horns look larger and more pronounced. Hades crossed the green, where twenty steeds would soon compete, heading toward him. At his approach, mortals gave him a wide berth. Despite their fear of his presence, they stared, curious too—more so now that he had openly shown affection to a person they believed to also be mortal.
Affection for Persephone, who was not mortal but insisted on acting as if she were, something that worried him far more than he was willing to admit.
He had few vices, among them racing, whiskey, and Persephone, his Goddess of Spring. Two of the three had never interfered with his routine, had never provided enough of an escape to be called a distraction.
But Persephone was more than that—she was an addiction. A craving he could not sate. Even now, he fought the visceral urge to return to her despite having spent most of the weekend with her, exploring her, buried inside her. She was why he was late. He had not wanted to leave her side, in part because he
worried over whether she would remain despite her promise that she would await his return to the Underworld.
A hot wave of frustration twisted through him at his doubt.
He had never doubted himself, but he doubted everything when it came to Persephone…even their fate.
“You’re late,” Ilias said, not looking at him but at the starting gate where the horses and their jockeys marched into place.
“And you’re a satyr,” Hades replied, following his gaze.
Ilias glanced at him, brow raised in question at the comment.
“I thought we were stating the obvious,” Hades said.
He did not like to be reminded of his mistakes, though those closest to him—in particular in particular Hecate, Goddess of Witchcraft and Magic—reveled in reminding him that he was very much fallible.
Or, as she liked to say, an idiot.
“How are they looking?” Hades inquired, eyeing each powerful animal as they filed into their respective numbered stalls.
“I put money on Titan,” Ilias said. “Just as you advised.”
Hades nodded, his attention shifting to a large board where the odds glared back. Titan was favored for second place.
“I’m surprised you did not choose Kosmos,” Ilias said.
Hades heard what the satyr did not say—If you wanted to win, why go with Titan? He was familiar with Kosmos and his trainer. He knew that he was a favorite of Poseidon’s. Given that, it was likely no other horse in the running had a chance.
Then again, this was a race of divinity, and that meant anything was possible.
“The bet is a test,” Hades replied.
Ilias looked at Hades questioningly, but he offered no other explanation.
The horses and their riders were in place behind the gate, and the race would begin in minutes. There was a tightening in the bottom of his stomach, an anticipation for the race that was reflected in the enraptured and colorful crowd. Horse racing, like so many things in New Greece, wasn’t even about the race for most; it was about the fashion and status, and while the outfits were not as extreme as those at the Olympian Gala, the hats and headdresses were.
“Lord Hades.” A voice drew his attention, and he turned to find Kal Stavros standing a few paces behind him. Kal was the CEO of Epik Communications, the media conglomerate. He owned television, radio, news outlets, even theme parks. Among them, New Athens News.
Hades hated the media for many reasons, but Kal Stavros ranked near the top, not only for how he encouraged the spread of misinformation but because he was a Magi, a mortal who practiced dark magic and already had two strikes against him for misuse.
A third and he would be banned, possibly punished.
Like many, the mortal kept his distance, though his pose was casual—his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his pressed navy slacks. His bright-blue eyes seemed to glitter, and Hades knew it wasn’t from admiration. When Kal looked at the God of the Dead, he saw power, potential.
Neither of which he possessed.
Kal took his hands out of his pockets to bow, and Hades glared—not only at Kal but those who stood near, warning off any approach they may have been considering after watching this exchange.
“A pleasure,” Kal said, grinning as he straightened.
“Kal,” Hades said. “To what do I owe the interruption?”
The words fell from his tongue, heavy with disgust. If the mortal caught on, he ignored it.
“Forgive me,” Kal said, though he did not sound all that sorry. “I would have approached you elsewhere, but I have been requesting a meeting for weeks and have heard nothing.”
Hades’s irritation increased, a subtle heat that burned the back of his throat.
“Silence is usually taken to mean no, Kal,” he replied, focusing on the gate again. If it had been anyone else, they would have understood this to be a dismissal, but Kal had always made the mistake of flying too close to the sun, and it seemed that everyone understood the implications but him.
Kal dared to step closer. Hades’s spine went rigid, and he clenched his fist, noting Ilias’s warning glance.
“I hoped to discuss a possible partnership,” Kal said. “One of…mutual benefit.”
“The fact that you believe you could possibly benefit me, Kal, illustrates a significant amount of arrogance and ignorance.”
“Considering your recent experience with a certain journalist, I think not.”
There was a note of irritation in Kal’s voice, but it was his words that drew Hades’s attention—and made that small scratch of irritation a full-on inferno.
“Careful with what you say, Kal,” Hades warned, uncertain of where this conversation was heading but disliking the possibility that Persephone’s name would soon pass this mortal’s lips.
Kal smirked, oblivious to the danger, or perhaps he wished to antagonize him, force him to act out in public merely for the benefit of his reporters.
“I could ensure your name never appears in the media again.”
Those words hit like hot oil, though Hades did not outwardly react. Despite the fact that he was not the least bit intrigued by Kal’s offer, he asked, “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Your public relationship with one of my journalists—”
“She is not your journalist, Kal,” Hades snarled.
The mortal stared for a moment but continued. “Regardless, you allowed her to write about you, which will encourage others to do the same with an emphasis on your relationship. Is that what you want?”
It wasn’t what he wanted at all, mostly because it placed Persephone in more danger.
“Your words ring eerily threatening, Kal,” Hades said.
“Not at all,” the man said. “I’m merely pointing out the consequences of your actions.”
Hades was not certain what the mortal meant by actions. Was it that he had let Persephone write the articles? Or was he referring to their public reunion outside the Coffee House, when she had run and jumped into his arms, both heedless to onlookers who had photographed and filmed the entire thing?
“I can help ensure your privacy.”
“For a price, you mean?”
“A small one,” Kal said. “Only a share in the ownership of Iniquity.”
Kal’s voice was drowned out by a loud bell, followed by the clang of the gates opening and the thundering of hooves as all twenty steeds sped down the track. The announcer’s voice rose over the roaring crowd, narrating with a lyrical inflection.
“Kosmos has an early lead as expected, then it’s Titan…”
He rattled off more names—Layland has the rail, Maximus on the outside. Throughout, Kosmos maintained the lead, with Titan only a length behind. The continued reporting from the announcer made Hades’s chest tighten and his teeth grind together, exacerbated by the crowd’s cheering, but then there was a shift in the race. Titan seemed to gain a better foothold and practically sailed past Kosmos across the finish line.
The announcer’s voice rose with excitement as he announced the winner.
“Titan, the dark horse and Divine superstar, wins the Hellene Cup! Kosmos is second!”
In a matter of minutes, the race was over, and Hades turned from the rail to make his escape when a hand landed on his arm.
“Our bargain, Hades,” Kal said.
The god turned quickly, catching Kal’s wrist within his grip and shoving him away.
“Fuck off, Kal.”
He offered nothing else before he vanished.
* * *
Hades manifested at the Nevernight bar.
The club was pristine, the floor empty, though he knew his employees lurked, navigating within the shadows of the club to prepare for opening tonight—an event that never saw peace. Inevitably, someone always assumed their status would grant them access and, depending on their sense of entitlement, always led to a very public tantrum that Mekonnen—or, in very serious cases, Ilias—would have to handle.
Mortals and immortals alike never ceased to illustrate the faults of humanity. There were moments when Hades wondered if he had done right to create such a paradise in the Underworld. Perhaps it was best when they feared the afterlife—feared him, even. Then people like Kal would never dare approach with such imperious requests.
Another wave of frustration ricocheted through him at the man’s audacity.
Worse, Kal’s offer brought up another concern—Persephone’s safety. Hades had an unlimited number of enemies. He hated to regret anything about their reunion, but he should have been more careful. He could have draped them in glamour, teleported, anything to prevent the public from having access to their lives and leave her exposed.
But the damage had already been done, and the world was watching.
Was Persephone prepared? It was one thing to be favored, another to be the chosen lover of a god. She did not wish to be known for her divinity. Would she tire of being known as his lover?
He took a bottle of whiskey from the backlit wall and drank it straight. As he did, he sensed he was not alone and turned to find Hera, Goddess of Marriage and his begrudging sister-in-law. She stood at the center of the floor, impeccably dressed in white, her face angled, proud.
Only slightly less severe than Demeter’s, he thought.
“A little early for a drink,” she said, her voice tinged with disgust, though he knew she had come to make requests. She never bothered to approach him otherwise.
“A little early for your judgment,” Hades replied, returning his attention to the bottle, effectively dismissing Hera, who stood quiet for a moment before taking a breath and moving a step closer to the bar.
Hades braced himself for whatever came next.
He knew he would not like it.
“Before I begin, I hope my visit to you remains anonymous.”
Hades raised a brow. “That depends on what you have come to say.”
He took another drink, just to drive the point home.
Hera’s features turned stony.
Hades did not dislike the goddess, but he also did not like her. For him, she was neutral territory. Her vengeful nature was often spurred by Zeus, his infidelity the crux of many of her outbursts. In most instances, Hades had a hard time blaming her for her outrage. After all, Zeus and Hera’s marriage was built on deceit, but her cruelness was misplaced, always directed toward those who were often victims of Zeus themselves.
Hera lifted her chin, glaring.
“You are well aware of Zeus’s exploits,” she said. “The havoc he wreaks upon the human race.”
She was not wrong, and though no god was particularly innocent, Zeus was probably the hardest on humanity.
“I’m well aware of yours as well,” Hades replied.
Hera’s mouth hardened and her voice shook as she spoke. “I have reason. You know I do.”
“Call it what it is, Hera—revenge.”
Her fist clenched at her side. “As if you haven’t sought revenge.”
“I was not passing judgment,” he said and, after a moment, prompted, “Why have you come?”
She
stared at him, and Hades remembered that he did not like Hera’s eyes. It was easy to forget as she was often with Zeus, and when he was by her side, she presented herself as being uninterested and almost aloof, but being the center of her attention meant feeling the stab of her gaze.
“I have come to obtain your allegiance,” she said. “I wish to overthrow Zeus.”
He was not so surprised by her statement. This was not the first time Hera had attempted to dethrone Zeus. In fact, she had tried it twice and had managed to enlist the help of other gods—Apollo, Poseidon, and even Athena, and of the three, only one had managed to escape Zeus’s wrath once he was free.
“No.”
His answer was automatic, but he did not have to think long about this decision. Hades disliked Zeus’s tyranny just as much as the next god, but he knew Hera’s intentions, and he’d rather his erratic brother have the throne than her.
“You would decline, knowing his crimes?”
“Hera—”
“Don’t defend him,” she snapped.
He had not intended to defend Zeus, but the reality was, Zeus was only king because they had drawn lots. He had no greater power than either Hades or Poseidon.
“You’ve tried this before and failed. What makes you think this time will be any different?” Hades asked because he was truly curious. Had Hera come into possession of some kind of weapon or alliance she believed would change the course of fate?
Instead of answering, she said, “So you are afraid.”
Hades gritted his teeth. Zeus was the last person in the cosmos Hades feared. He was merely cautious. There was a difference.
“You want my help?” Hades asked. “Then answer the question.”
A bitter smile spread across her face. “You seem to think you have a choice, yet I hold your future in my hands.”
Hades narrowed his eyes. He did not need to ask what she meant. Hera also had the ability to bless and curse marriages. If she wanted to, she could ensure that he never married Persephone.
“Perhaps I will find reason to side with Demeter. I am the Goddess of Women, you know.”
While many had known that Demeter had a daughter, she had kept her identity a secret, which meant that few gods knew of Persephone’s divinity. The most recent exception was Zeus—and, by default, Hera—when Demeter had gone to him to demand the return of her daughter. Zeus, however, was not interested in opposing the Fates and had refused.
“If you wish to embody that role, then you’d do well to listen to Persephone herself and not her conniving mother. Do not fuck with me, Hera. It will not end well.”
She offered a bark of laughter, her chin dipping so that she glared back at him. “Is that your answer?”
“I will not help you overthrow Zeus,” Hades repeated.
He would not do anything on anyone else’s terms. Overthrowing Zeus was far more complicated than gaining alliances. The God of Thunder was always looking for hints of rebellion, consulting prophecies and moving pieces to prevent the conception of someone far more powerful than himself. It was perhaps the plight of being a conqueror—a fear of the cycle repeating as it had with the Titans and the Primordials. Zeus feared ending up like their father, Cronos, and their grandfather, Uranus.
Hades had no doubt that eventually the tides would turn and the Fates would weave new rulers—a fact that would make the Olympians a target. He’d already suspected Theseus, his demigod nephew, of making such plans, though he did not know the extent. Theseus led Triad, an organization that rejected the influence and interference of the gods. Ironic, considering Hades was certain Theseus hoped to obtain full divinity, or at least equivalent power.
“Then this will not end well for either of us,” Hera replied.
They stared at each other, a quiet tension building.
“If you will not help me overthrow Zeus, then you shall have to earn your right to marry Persephone.”
Hades’s fingers curled into his palms.
“This is not about Persephone,” he said, the words slipping between his teeth.
“This is the game, Hades, and all gods play it. I asked for your aid and you declined, so I shall seek retribution all the same.”
She spoke as if this were mere business, but Hades knew Hera, and her threats were not idle. The goddess would do just about anything to ensure she got her way, which meant she was not above hurting Persephone.
“If you touch her—”
“I will not approach her if you do as I say,” she said, then tapped her chin, eyeing Hades from head to toe. “Now, how best to earn the right to marry your beloved Persephone.”
Her musing made Hades cringe. Clearly her intention was to wound. She knew Hades wished to marry Persephone just as much as she knew he felt unworthy of such a gift. This was as much a punishment as it was entertainment for the goddess.
“Ah! I have it,” she said at last. “I shall assign you to twelve labors. Your…completion of each one will show me just how devoted you are to Persephone.”
“Pity Zeus never had to do this for you,” Hades replied tightly.
It was the wrong thing to say—and hateful, he had to admit. Hades despised how Hera had come to be wed to his brother. It had been through deception and shame, and Hades’s words had only brought those memories to the surface, causing Hera to go pale with rage.
“Kill Briareus,” she sneered. “That is your first task.”
Hades could barely breathe hearing her words.
Briareus was one of three Hecatoncheires, unique in his appearance, as he had one hundred arms and fifty heads. The last time Hera had tried to overthrow Zeus, it was Briareus who freed him, earning Hera’s wrath, so while it was no surprise that she would seek her revenge, to execute him through Hades’s hands was another thing entirely.
Hades liked Briareus and his brothers. They had been allies during the Titanomachy and ultimately were the reason the Olympian gods had been able to overthrow the Titans. They deserved the gods’ reverence, not their blades.
“I cannot take a life the Fates have not cut,” Hades countered.
“Then bargain,” she replied, as if it were that simple.
“You do not know what you ask,” Hades said.
A soul for a soul was the exchange the Fates would make—a give or take, depending on the havoc they wished to create.
The Fates did not like the gods meddling in their threads. This would have dire consequences. Hades could feel it moving beneath his skin as the phantom threads of the lives he’d bargained away tightened.
“You have one week,” Hera replied, heedless of his words.
Hades shook his head, and while he knew she did not care, he said it anyway. “You will come to regret this.”
“If I do, then you will too.”
He had no doubt.
When she vanished, Hades stood in the quiet of Nevernight, recalling their exchange. The Goddess of Marriage had been right. This was a game that all gods played, but she’d used the wrong pawns.
Hades would get his way eventually, and the goddess would come to rue the day she decided to test him.
He took another swig of whiskey before hurling the bottle across the room, where it shattered in an explosion of glass. “Fucking Fates.”
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