The Deep End of the Sea (8 page)

My throat is so dry. “Swear?”

“I swear,” Hermes answers. Fingers interlace in mine; for such a recent occurrence, his hand in mine feels like it’s always belonged there. “Open your eyes, Dusa.”

My heart runs a marathon, and fear invades my body, but he has yet to ever lie to me. So I do as he asks, and open my eyes voluntarily, without a shield, in the face of others for the first time in ages.

I am in an ornate bedroom, in a canopied bed that could fit twenty people. Hermes is sitting next to me, his own blue-green eyes filled with concern. Behind him is a stunning woman holding a cup. Sitting a few feet away is Hades, perusing something on an iPad.

“They’re hazel,” Hermes says, and he sounds awed.

“Beautiful hazel.” The woman, surely a goddess, glances back at Hades. “The perfect mix of green and brown. Don’t you think?”

He puts down his iPad and grunts. But he doesn’t look fearsome, not like I once imagined him. At least, not in this moment.

“Drink this.” She nudges me with a cup.

I don’t take it. Not just yet. “You’re all alive,” I whisper.

“Of course we are.” Hermes lifts our conjoined hands and presses a quick kiss against my skin. A roar of heat streaks up my neck. “I told you we would prevail. The curse was reversed.” With his free hand, he pats me on my legs—

LEGS.

I have legs! I attempt to sit up, but the woman pushes me back down.
No longer is half of my body reptilian.
A few experimental wiggles of my toes promptly sends me into a fit of tears.

“What is it?” Hermes exclaims. He grips my hand harder. “Do you hurt? Did she do something to you we didn’t catch yet?”

“No, no.” Bending my knees produces a fresh set of tears. “It’s just, I have legs, and ...”

My friend laughs the same relieved exhale I’ve come to know over the years. “Stars above, Dusa. You scared me.”

“I wouldn’t have put such a trick past Athena,” Hades mutters in the background.

I need to see these legs.
My
legs. I go to rip the sheet off, but the woman stops me.

“File out boys.” She motions with her free hand toward Hermes and Hades. “Let’s let Medusa get dressed and fed before we do anything else, hmm?”

It’s then I realize I am completely naked under the sheet. If I’d thought I was overly warm a minute ago, I was quite mistaken, because now I am completely enflamed.

“Persephone, be nice to her,” Hermes warns. He squeezes my hand and reluctantly gets up.

She blows him a kiss. “I will pretend you didn’t just say that.” And then, amazingly, both gods exit the room.

I wipe away the lingering tears. “You’re ... Persephone?”

She smoothes back some of my hair; her touch is tender against my sensitive skin. “Yes, darling. You’re currently in my home in Olympus. Hermes thought it best you recuperate somewhere comfortable.”

And this is where he chose? Yet I lick my dry lips and promptly thank her for taking me in.

“I am delighted to do so. Oh! Hold on a second; there is someone who wants to visit.” She goes into a sitting room just off the bedroom and returns with Mátia. “This little man has missed his mama.”

I take my kitten and press kisses all over his soft face. So, Persephone is the favorite aunt Hermes trusted with my baby. “Thank you,” I tell her once more, letting gratitude coat my words.

She presses the cup she’d been offering earlier into my hand. “We’ve wanted to meet you for some time. Obviously, Hades and I have ... intimate knowledge ... of your characters over the years. Outside of what our beloved nephew tells us.”

I nearly choke on my drink. “You mean, from all the poor souls I’ve sent to you.”

“Yes, that,” she says with a wry smile. She is her husband’s opposite—light where he is dark. “Do not be ashamed, darling girl. Death comes for a person when it is exactly their time. Be rest assured, we are fully cognizant of the details of your situation.” She smoothes my hair once more. “Besides, how could we dislike anyone who has so thoroughly earned Hermes’ trust?”

It is odd to hear her refer to Hermes as her nephew, or me as a girl, as Persephone barely looks a day over twenty-five herself.

She goes to an armoire nearby. “Come. Let’s get you up on your feet and dressed.” She motions to what appears to be a depthless array of clothing. “Would you like modern or traditional?”

Over the years, I’ve developed a secret love for fashion despite the lack of ability to truly indulge in it. I poured over magazines and websites, marveling over just how artful clothing has become. But now, faced with a choice of practically anything I could ever want, and legs and a body to fit into such luxuries, I have no idea what I want.

If Persephone is bothered by my lack of answer, she doesn’t show it. She extracts a billowy pale gray dress from the closet and holds it out. “How about this one? It’s a little of both. Greek styling,” she fingers a threaded silvery pattern on the waist, “with modern sensibilities. Let us see if those legs are working yet.”

My legs tremble like a newborn foal’s, but I manage to get out of the bed. She has to help me immediately, as outside of the sheets, I am exposed, raw: new, pale, pink flesh shivering weakly in cool air. But Persephone acts as if this—me—is nothing out of the ordinary. She holds onto me as I pull the oh-so-soft to the touch silk dress over my head; it floats around me like a cloud. Something in my memory, deep and long repressed, stirs—an image, a sensation, of me in a dress not quite so fine, running through a golden field.

“Perfect,” Persephone murmurs. She carefully leads me a short distance over to a vanity and helps me sit before a modest sized mirror that looks out of place in such an opulent room. “Your hair is lovely.” She lifts the matted mess up in her hands. “An auburn I haven’t seen before, and with a natural curl to boot. No wonder Athena thought to replace it with snakes. She must have been out of her mind with envy when she saw how exquisite you were.”

I stare into the mirror and see nothing but a stranger. The girl before me is pale; her face is thin but unblemished. Her hair is tangled and wild, her eyes an unstable cross between brown and green. I lean closer and stare harder. I ought to recognize this face, shouldn’t I? Didn’t I wear it before, even if it was for a tiny sliver of my life?

But I don’t. And it’s unnerving, because if I can remember running through a field, wearing a dress, I ought to be able to remember my face.

Persephone holds up a brush. “Do you mind?”

A goddess asking me if she can brush my hair? How has the impossible become so possible lately? She goes to work once I agree, methodically yet carefully brushing my hair free of tangles. I continue to stare in the mirror, searching for clues or memories, but they are worse than elusive.

They simply do not exist.

Persephone’s touch is gentle, and I can’t help but greedily hold onto the pleasure a simple gesture such as having one’s hair brushed brings. When she’s done, she brandishes the brush above my head like a magic wand in a fairy tale book. “What do you think?”

There are perfect, barrel-sized curls circling the girl in the mirror’s head. Not snakes. And for a moment, sorrow and loneliness press against my heart so strongly that it’s hard to breathe. The snakes—my Girls—were constant companions. It’s not like I chose them; in fact, I’d resented them more often than not during times such as sleep (they rightfully hated when I leaned my head down at certain angles and squashed them) or when I had headaches and they buzzed about me with minds of their owns. But they’d been there with and for me more years than not. And now ... they’re gone. And it wasn’t like they’d died, and I had their bodies to grieve over.

They simply didn’t exist anymore.

It’s incredibly messed up how much I already mourn their presence. “The curls are lovely.”

Persephone leans down until her strawberry-golden hair presses against my darker curls. “Hermes is so right about you. You are a wretched liar.” She hugs me tightly; once more, I revel in her touch. Two embraces from two gods in less than two weeks.

It’s yet another miracle sprung into my existence.

Even still, I’m dismayed she might have taken offense at my words. I quickly correct, “I do like them; they’re beautiful, and I appreciate your help ...”

“I know you do.” She gives me another squeeze before standing up. “Believe it or not, I can well imagine how overwhelmed you are in this moment, and we three have been hovering over you for days when all you probably want to do is take a moment just to breathe.”

My eyes jerk away from the mirror, up to hers. “Days?”

Persephone sighs and puts the brush into a drawer. “Athena is not always the kindest of souls. She did as Zeus requested, but she ...” Her full lips purse together. “Well, I think she wanted to ensure everyone knew she was displeased with being reprimanded.” She pats my shoulder. “We’ll talk more about it later, but let me encourage you to keep your distance from that one from now on.”

Like I ever plan on interacting with Athena again. I am no longer her disciple. “As she and I will no longer have any reason to cross paths again, I cannot see how that’ll be a problem.”

I try not to squirm as Persephone studies me. I am a Gorgon, the most feared in history. I froze men and women by simply, albeit unwillingly, looking at them. But when this goddess looks at me with her green eyes, so pale they are nearly colorless, I am the one to freeze in utter anxiety. She murmurs, “That may be difficult, considering ...” But then she doesn’t finish the thought. “Let’s go meet the boys. There is much to discuss.”

“About?” No matter how nice she’s been to me, Persephone is still a goddess, and I’ve learned the hard way that goddesses are temperamental creatures that need to be handled delicately.

She holds out her hand and helps me up. “You, of course.”

Hades is an enigma to me. On one hand, he resembles what many people think the so-called devil ought to be like: a magnificent temptation of a man, all dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. On the other, he doesn’t appear nearly as fearsome as the stories I’ve heard of him over the ages. I suppose I expected someone as hideous as I had been, but Hades is the opposite of that. While he certainly has the propensity toward the visage of a brooding hero from some Gothic mystery, he also has a kindhearted smile. Plus, his eyes crinkle at the corners when he shares that smile, so—even though he scares me, I also can’t help but feel there’s something more to him than legends claim.

It is obvious he and Persephone are deeply in love, which is yet another surprise. Like most everyone, I’ve read the stories of how he’d kidnapped her and held her against her will half the year in the Underworld. Only, Persephone doesn’t act like a kidnapped victim ought to act; that, or she’s an excellent actress who suffers heavily from Stockholm syndrome. She dotes on his words, as he does to hers. They are constantly near each other, if not actively (or, perhaps, unconsciously) touching.

“Are you truly all right?” Hermes asks, pulling my attention away from the couple. I’ve been unabashedly staring, which is embarrassing, indeed. Clearly, I need a crash course in social niceties now that I’m around more than one person at a time.

“Yes. I’m ... it’s just a lot to take in. Forgive me for not being better company.”

He smiles and sits down next to me on a chaise lounge. We are on a sun porch, and the warmth on my legs is delightful. Although Persephone had said we’d discuss my situation, so far, they’ve treated me warily, not rushing into anything other than ordering an early dinner—linner, she called it—since “such conversations are best suited to full-bellies.”

I’m not going to be the one to argue with the Queen of the Underworld.

Hermes’ head tilts toward mine. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are always perfect company for me.” My chest swells in pleasure before he adds, more seriously, “Dusa, I wanted to—”

“Thank you,” I blurt out. I hate interrupting him, but it demands to be to be said. 

His eyes widen in surprise. “There’s no need to—”

“Stop,” I tell him, and I place my hand over his lips. It feels sinfully good to be able to touch him like this, touch him in any capacity now that I have no fear for disgust over my skin. Do people get addicted to touching one another? I think I could, easily. And just the thought of that causes heat to rise once more up my neck, forcing my fingers to drop away. “Let me finish, please?”

I swear, true twinkles appear in the green parts of his eyes. “By all means. Who am I to prevent one such as you if you wish to offer me gratitude?”

“Stop,” I repeat, giggling at the feigned innocence he attempts to tease me with. “It’s just ...” My laughter fades away. “You don’t understand how indebted I’ll always be to you. I was terrified to even give this a chance, but you—you took a huge risk for me when you didn’t have to. And, it worked out. All those years, all those fears ...” I shake my head; my hair, still so foreign upon my head, swings around me. “I can’t believe ...” I motion up and down my body, then run my hands across the length of my thighs to knees. “I never thought I’d ever be anything other than a monster again.”