A Game of Fate (Hades Saga #1)(102)

Like the other suites, it boasted luxury. The windowless walls were decorated with modern, monochrome art. A chandelier dripping with glimmering crystals hung at the center of the room, and beneath that, a set of black leather couches faced each other, a slab of marble made into a table separated the two.

A man occupied one of the sofas. He looked a little rough, his beard not nearly as neat, his suit not nearly as tailored, the gold that had weighted down his fingers gone, and the odor of fish and salt clung to his skin.

In previous weeks, Hades had imagined this moment feeling quite different. There had been more momentum behind his wish to see the mortal imprisoned in his realm, because he was in danger of losing Persephone. He had felt desperate and determined, and he saw capturing Sisyphus as claiming his future.

And he guessed, in a way, that was still true.

This was his future. He was the God of the Dead, a punisher.

“Tell me, mortal,” Hades said. Sisyphus’ head snapped toward him, and he sprang to his feet. “What convinced you to come?”

“My lord, I did not know you had arrived.”

Hades moved to the bar and poured himself a drink. He turned to Sisyphus, whose eyes had not moved from him.

“Well?” he asked.

The man gave a breathy chuckle. “Well, you offered immorality.”

Hades downed his drink and poured another, saying nothing else.

He took a seat across from Sisyphus, who sank into the cushions. Hades manifested a deck of cards. All the cards used here were the same, black and gold, the picture on the back an image of the Fates, spinning, measuring, and cutting the Thread of Fate.

It was a fitting image for the pair.

Sisyphus sat on the edge of the couch, knees spread out, hands dangling between them.

“Blackjack,” he said as he cut the deck and shuffled the cards. He could tell the sound of the cards flicking made the mortal nervous. His fingers were twitching. “One hand, Sisyphus. You have already wasted enough of my time.”

“A fifty-fifty chance,” the mortal responded. “Are you so confident?”

Hades did not reply as he dealt them each two cards. Sisyphus dragged them with his chubby fingers, but just as he started to pry up the edge, Hades stopped him.

“Before you reveal your hand,” he said. “I would like to know why.”

“Why, what?”

“Why did you run from death?”

“You can hardly blame me when presented with the opportunity,” he said.

Hades knew he referred to the spindle Poseidon had given him.

“That is not an answer, Sisyphus,” Hades said. “What hope did you have in extending your pathetic life?”

“Pathetic?” Sisyphus’ face turned red. “I was on the cusp of an empire, and then you came and took it all. Why not defy you? What could it possibly mean in my afterlife? You had already sentenced me to Tartarus.”

“Hmm.” Hades’ eyes fell to the cards before him, fingers poised to flip.

“Why did you ask?” Sisyphus questioned, a note of hysteria in his voice. “Why demand an answer?”

Hades considered remaining quiet, but Sisyphus’ passive fear of Tartarus angered him, so he answered. “Because, Sisyphus, your existence in Tartarus will be everything you’ve ever feared, everything that ever angered you. You will obtain your empire and then you will lose it, over and over and over again.”

Hades turned over his cards—a king and an ace, twenty-one. A perfect hand.

His eyes lifted to Sisyphus’.

“Turn your cards, mortal.”

There was a beat of silence, and the mortal moved, not to flip his cards, but to draw a weapon, a gun.

Normally, Hades found displays like this amusing, but coming from Sisyphus, it enraged him. His eyes darkened, and the gun melted in the mortal’s hand, coating his skin in burning metal. His screams filled the room, piercing and agonizing. He fell to his knees, holding his hand aloft, eyes bulging out of his head.

Hades sighed and leaned forward, turning the mortal’s cards.

A five of clubs and a nine of hearts—fourteen.

Hades stood, drained his glass, and straightened his jacket. Sisyphus cupped his arm against his chest, sweaty and breathing hard. He looked up at Hades, hatred in his eyes.

“Cheater,” he accused.

Hades smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

He snapped his fingers, sending Sisyphus to Tartarus, and strolled out of the suite.

***

A week later, Hades found himself in Hephaestus’ lab. He had put this off for as long as possible, dreading his return to the God of Fire after what he had asked him to make only a few weeks ago.

When the god handed him a small box, Hades peered inside. The ring he had commissioned sat on a pillow of black velvet. It was a beautiful, delicate thing, despite the numerous flowers and gems decorating the band, and it brought with it the pain and embarrassment he felt at losing Persephone. Perhaps if he had not been so presumptuous, perhaps if he had not had this ring made, he would have her now.

“It is beautiful,” Hades said, snapping the box closed. “But I no longer require it.”

Hades met Hephaestus’ gaze, and the god raised his brows.

“I will pay you handsomely for your work,” Hades continued, holding out his hand. He returned the ring to Hephaestus.