For the Love of Hades (The Loves of Olympus) (2 page)

A shout went up, startling her again.

He turned as the hounds leapt to attention at his side. The hair between their muscled shoulders rose on end. Their ears flattened, and teeth, dangerously pointed daggers, flashed as the three growled as one. They were no longer alone on the meadow.

The clash of metal reverberated, then another cry.

He stepped in front of the girl as a hoplite soldier ran from the trees and into the field. His gait was awkward, as if one leg was too heavy to move with ease. Hades sucked in his breath when he saw why. His leg was cut, near hanging from the knee joint.

The hounds whimpered as two men ran after the injured soldier. Swathed in layers of colored silks and veils, these men were no Greeks. Persians, Persian messengers or spies, were gaining ground.

He searched the trees for some sign of reinforcements.

“Is there no one to help him?” she whispered.

But he could see no one. This soldier was likely a survivor from the battle he’d tended earlier. And wounded as he was, Hades doubted the soldier would survive the day. Still, the terror lining the young hoplite’s face grieved him.

Hades felt his fear. It churned in his stomach, demanding he act.

“Can you…” she paused. “I beg of you, sir. Help him.”

He turned, his eyes traveling her face. She did not know what she asked of him. But he did, and he would suffer the consequences, later.

His hands throbbed, a spark of frigid cold scorching his palm and numbing his fingers. He fisted his hands, grasping for control. His hounds followed, their jaws snapping as they went.

He had a choice to make. Fight them, or use the gift the Fates bestowed upon him. He shook his head, bracing for the fight without thought.

He walked to the first Persian, blocking his path. The Persian, no small man, did not hesitate with his sword. Hades evaded the blow, turning to the side as the man rushed by. He threw his elbow back, landing a well placed blow to the Persian’s side.

The man grunted, turning with his sword at the ready.

But Hades saw the other Persian, too close to the wounded hoplite, and knew he had no choice. This fight was done. His hands loosened, releasing the power as he met the advancing Persian.

He grasped the villain’s shoulder firmly and pulled. The sound, a heavy rending of flesh, wet and fluid, filled the air. His grip tightened, his arms and chest taut. The tearing gave way to a scream, one that gargled and choked but would not end.

The pain, the agony of this man, filled him. He could not escape it, or ease it. He could only endure it as it went on. With a final tug, he parted soul from flesh.

He gasped, drawing in a deep breath.

He was vaguely aware of the girl’s horrified cry as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

The pain began to fade. The Persian’s bloodied and mutilated body fell to the ground before him. The wraithlike shadow of the soul writhed in his grasp. Flickers of life, of the souls remembered sensations, seared his fingertips. He released it, uncaring where the wind took it.

The second Persian stood frozen, holding his hands in front of him to ward off such evil. He spoke rapidly, backing away from the meadow in surrender.

Hades turned, hoping the Persian’s fear would carry him quickly from this place. He glanced at the girl, prepared for the horror he would find there.

Instead she cried out, frantically warning him, “Look out!”

Hades ducked, but not far enough to avoid the smooth slip of the dagger across his shoulder. He drew in a deep breath and grabbed the Persian.

Persephone crouched on the ground, covering her ears and pressing her face to her knees. She could not listen, she would not watch, not again. There was little doubt that what she’d witnessed would haunt her dreams long after this day was finished.

She dared lift her head only after the grass beneath her assured her all was well. Peeking between her fingers, she saw him. He stood, breathing heavily, in the waving grasses. For an instant, he trembled. There was no pride or satisfaction about him. He seemed, to her, defeated. Yet the bloody evidence of his victory lay on the ground by his feet.

She turned away, her stomach roiling. Terror and disgust, astonishment and awe, sadness and relief, all warred within her.

There was no mistake; he’d done as she asked. And now he searched, following the trail left by the wounded soldier.

Did the soldier live?

Persephone stood, the fate of the fallen soldier taking precedence to all else. She scaled slowly down the hill, on unsteady legs, to aid the man and his hounds in their search.

Her eyes lingered on the broad line of his shoulders, the play of muscles beneath his pale skin commanding… and, she knew now, most lethal. Who, or what, was he?

For all that he was capable of, he was not a thing of evil.

The man stopped, staring down. His shoulders, all of him, drooped, revealing much.

Her chest grew heavy as she ran forward. The soldier lay, the blood from his near severed leg soaking the ground at his side. It was not his only wound. His stomach was pierced as well. His chest rose and fell, but it was labored and unsteady.

“He has little time left,” the man murmured. “His wounds are too great.”

She nodded, fighting panic. If only she were Apollo, she would heal him.

The soldier, a mere boy, moved. His hands contracted, claw-like fingers seeking some sort of anchor in the earth beneath him. She knelt by the soldier, taking one grasping hand in hers and leaning over him.

“You’ve honored Greece,” she whispered.

The boy turned murky eyes upon her, fading already. “Have I?” His hand tightened about hers. “I fought. But…there were so many… I ran…”

She smiled brightly, hoping to ease him. “You will have glory.”

“In Elysium?” the boy gasped.

She squeezed the boys’ hands, wishing she could do more.
Hades, hear me
, she prayed silently. “I’m sure of it.”

The boy nodded once. His body seized, tightening awkwardly, sharply, before gradually relaxing. A faint smile crossed his face as his grip loosened upon her. His chest stilled then fell slowly, his final breath a hiss of air that wavered and stopped. His eyes cleared, the lines bracketing his mouth relaxed, and a thin stream of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

He was gone.

She sat back, tears falling freely down her face. She sniffed, placing the boy’s hand gently upon his chest. She heard the tremor in her voice as she asked, “Will he?”

“Will he?” His voice was softer than she’d expected.

She looked up at the man, astonished to see pain and anguish within the depths of his blue-black eyes. When his eyes met hers, his face stilled, becoming remote and distant once more.

She sniffed. “Reach Elysium? Will Hades find him worthy, I wonder? He is a child yet, too young to have earned true glory, too young to have fallen alone.”

“This boy died for the honor of his country. That is worthy of Elysium, is it not?”

“Yes? Surely it is…” She blinked, wiping her tears with an unsteady hand. “I hope so. But I am not Hades.”

The man’s mouth twisted sharply, surprising her. “No, you are not.”

She turned back to the soldier. How still he was. Her tears fell, landing on the grass. A carpet of tiny blue flowers sprang up, embracing the boy in the thick, fragrant blooms. Her tears moved the grass and the earth, or perhaps this boy’s sacrifice moved her friends as well. She touched the ground, murmuring her thanks at such kindness. This was his memorial.

She picked one, placing it upon the boy’s chest.

“He must have a coin to pay the ferryman.” She’d given her word that he’d reach Elysium. But she did not have the one thing he needed to make such a journey. She stared up at the man, pleading, “Do you have a coin?”

The man’s face remained impassive, but his eyes were riveted upon the tiny blue flowers that continued to blossom. But she could not worry over it now. Who she was seemed of little importance next to this boy’s eternal fate.

She scanned the boy’s body, finding a small pouch tied to his belt. She reached for it, pausing to look at the man. “Can I?”

The man’s brow rose. “You seek a coin for his crossing?”

She nodded. “I do.”

The hard set of his face remained, but his eyes held no censure when they met hers. “He would thank you for it, I’m sure.”

She pulled the pouch free and poured the contents into her hand. Two coins, a smooth rock and a very thin, pointed stick were inside. She took a coin and placed the rest back in the pouch, tying it back to the belt.

She stared at the boy, her hand shaking as she touched his cheek.

The man moved forward, kneeling at her side. He closed the boy’s eyes, took the coin and placed it under the dead soldiers tongue.

He handed her his cloak then, looking pointedly at her hands. She took it, startled by the amount of blood that covered her fingers and palms. She swallowed, her hands trembling fiercely. She wiped the cloak across her palms, wincing as it smeared and streaked her arm. She continued rubbing her hands and arms until her skin felt raw.

She glanced at him. “I am indebted to you.”

His eyes seemed to pierce hers, holding her gaze. He was both curious and… angry. With her? But he said nothing.

“My thanks,” she continued, somewhat breathless, “for coming to his aid.”

His gaze shifted, settling on her mouth for the merest of moments. His jaw clenched. He stood, breaking his hold on her. And, suddenly, he was moving away from her.

She stood too, awash with such sensations, such feelings.

She stared at his retreating form and then ran after him. She followed him back to the edge of the meadow, careful to avoid the bodies of the other men. She would not look upon them.

Images of the battle, if it could be called a battle, of what he’d done, flashed in her mind’s eye. But what he’d done, what she’d seen. What did it mean? His actions were not those of a mortal man, none she’d ever heard of.

“You… How…” She paused, thinking of the fallen soldier. Mortal or not, he’d done it to help her, to help this boy. “I thank you.”

He stopped, turning to face her once more. There was an edge to his voice, “You thank me? For this?”

The weight of his gaze pulled hers to him. Oh how her heart leapt in her chest.

“Persephone?” Was someone calling her name? Surely it was a trick of the wind. She ignored it, wondering at the darkness of his eyes and the almost braced stance he took.

“Persephone?”

No trick of the wind, then. It was Myrinne, one of her attendants, calling.

She glanced at him. Would he know who she was? Would he know her name?

His brow furrowed, and then his blue eyes widened. Yes, he did.

“Persephone? Are you finished yet?” Crysanthe joined in.

His eyes swept over her slowly, from the fiery red tresses atop her head to the bare toes peeking from beneath the hem of her robes. When his gaze found her again, his lips were pressed flat and his eyes… His gaze was haunted, suffering. Yet something lingered in his dark eyes, calling to her.

“Come on.” Myrinne was closer. “Your mother will be angry if we’re late again.”

“Persephone!” Crysanthe yelled, closer now.

She answered, “I am here,” but she could not pull her gaze from his.

“We found all on your list,” Myrinne said.

“Your mother will never know what you were up to,” Crysanthe laughed. “Or where you ventured…”

They were smiling as they reached her, but fell silent when they saw him. She was faintly aware of the nymphs as they stared, wide-eyed, at this man. They should stare. Had they ever seen such a man before? Even in her limited experience, she thought not.

“You would do better not to leave your mistress so ill-attended. Demeter would see you punished for such carelessness with her daughter.” His words were sharp, demanding their attention and commanding their acquiescence.

The nymphs stared at him, their eyes growing round before they quickly bowed.

“I sent them on their way,” Persephone spoke, surprised by their reaction to this man.

Stranger still was her own response. What was this inexplicable need to touch him, to ease his temper? She did not deny herself, but moved forward to place her hand on his arm. Her tone was soft, soothing as she assured him, “They’ve done nothing wrong.”

He was surprisingly warm beneath her palm. She stared at his arm, watching the shifting sinew in his forearm, the black hairs sprinkled across his pale skin… She felt the strangest pulse, a heady, consuming pull, where her flesh met his.

She glanced at him. Did he feel it, too?

Her heart thudded loudly in her ears. Had he heard it?

His gaze fell to her hand upon him. He swallowed, his blue-black eyes peering into hers with fierce intensity. He was displeased. “These are dangerous times, lady. You would be wise to keep your attendants at your side.”

She nodded, her fingers curling about his arm as her gaze locked with his. “I will.”

Breathing seemed a challenge.

His eyes wandered, tracing her brow, her cheek, her mouth, without any hint of his thoughts.

She could not think. Indeed, very little seemed to exist beyond the strengthening pulse they shared. Such warmth radiated up the length of her arm, spreading into her chest. Surely he felt this? He must.

His hand fisted, the muscles of his forearm flexing under her touch. He moved quickly, shaking her hand from his arm.

An ache, new and heavy, filled her chest. Where had it come from? What was happening? She felt off balance, unsteady on her own two feet.

He inclined his head, eyes flashing briefly, and turned from her. “Go now. I have work to be done.” He paused, whistling once. The youngest hound stood, stared alertly at the man, then joined Persephone and her attendants. “He will see you safely home.”

She could think of nothing to keep him, though she sought any guise to call him back. She felt the strangest pull, the need to call out to him, but held herself quiet. He walked purposefully, swiftly, to the tree line. Each step took him further away, making her heart thunder and twist.

“Come on,” Myrinne grabbed her arm and began pulling her from the meadow.

“How did you come to find
him
?” Crysanthe asked, her words whispered.

“He was doing his duty.” Myrinne kept moving, glancing back over her shoulder with wide, nervous eyes. “He was collecting those that would cross over. Did you not see the meadow, Crysanthe?”

“He must know who you are,” Crysanthe said, hurrying along. “He would never have spoken to you if he thought you a mortal woman.”

Myrinne finished, “Any woman.”

“You know him?” Persephone gasped, turning to the nymphs. “Who is he?”

They looked at her in surprise.

“Why he is Hades, Persephone,” Myrinne sounded incredulous.

“The Lord of the Dead.” Crysanthe shuddered.

Persephone’s eyes searched for him in the distant meadow, but he was gone. “Hades.” She let his name slip, too warmly, from her lips. She could not help savoring the feel of it upon her tongue.

###

Hades stood astonished. Rarely was the Council Chamber in such chaos. The room, a circular chamber of the whitest marble, echoed and shook from the Olympians’ overlapping conversation. Twelve marble thrones, a rainbow of colors and shapes, faced one another, but all were empty.

Hera, Demeter and Artemis stood together, their murmurs lost beneath the roar of the rest. Hera, Goddess of marriage, would hear many prayers in the days ahead. Husbands, wives, and children alike, all would worry over this war’s toll. He would hear them too.

Demeter’s harvest had been plentiful, easing the concerns over provisions for those fighting and those left behind. But the next crop might suffer, if none remained to tend it… or the Persians burned the fields to ash.

He understood why Hera and Demeter looked grief stricken and concerned. Even wild Artemis looked resigned, holding her bow tightly to her chest.

Hermes, Zeus, Ares and Poseidon carried on loudly, their voices rising and falling to be heard. Athena stood amongst them, more at ease amongst the Gods than her fellow Goddesses.

His eyes swept the room. It seemed only Apollo and Aphrodite were absent.

So he was not the last to arrive. He strode into room, prepared for a set-down from Zeus. But the others were lost in their debate, too embroiled in matters of war to note his late entrance. For that, he was grateful.