A Game of Fate (Hades Saga #1)(75)

“Will I see you later?” she asked, and her blatant hope made him smile.

“If you wish.” He brushed his lips over her knuckles, and her cheeks reddened. He chuckled quietly, thinking she had not been so quick to blush when he had lain between her thighs and drank her sweet passion.

Then, he vanished.





CHAPTER XXII – A BITTER BARGAIN




Leaving Persephone was the last thing Hades wanted to do. If Sisyphus did not still roam free, threatening his future with the beautiful Goddess of Spring, he wouldn’t have, but the fact remained that the mortal was still on the run, and holding the organization’s Magi prisoner had not lured Triad like he thought it might. Hades was unsure of their motives, but he did not feel good about their involvement.

It was inevitable that forces would rise to oppose the gods. They had come in all forms throughout history—scholars and naysayers and atheists and the Impious.

Hades understood the Impious’ resentment of the gods. They resented them for their distance and rejected their rule when they came to Earth, and they had reason to. Very few of the gods had done their job, never offering words of prophecy or importance. Hades himself had never encouraged mortals to believe in a blissful eternity in the Underworld. Instead, they spent their time toying with mortals for their entertainment, pitting them against each other in battle.

Still, Triad was different. Triad was organized and their tactics hurt innocent people. In their early life, they had set off bombs in public places, and in the aftermath, demanded to know why the gods had not stopped them if they were all-powerful. Their goal seemed to be to continue to illustrate how the Olympians remained detached and uninterested in mortal society, and while that was true for some, it was not true for all. Something Triad was about to discover.

Hades appeared on the floor of Nevernight. His intention was to find Ilias to begin their search for Theseus, but instead, the satyr found him.

“My lord,” Ilias said. “There is a man here to see you. A demi-god who calls himself Theseus.”

Hades stiffened at the name, feeling uneasy that his nephew would approach willingly. What was his game?

“Show him in.”

Ilias nodded and left, returning with a man who looked more like a warrior stuffed into a suit. He had dark hair, trimmed short, and a perpetual five o’clock shadow. The only thing he had retained of Poseidon’s were his aquamarine eyes, which looked like two suns blazing against his brown skin. Two men also followed him. They were large and their discomfort obvious. Hades got the sense he did not need these men to protect him, that they were merely for show.

“You are a man of few words, so I will get straight to the point,” Theseus said and, reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he withdrew a spindle—the one Poseidon had given Sisyphus. He held it out to Hades, but the god did not approach to take it. Ilias did, and then handed it to him.

Hades stared at the spindle. It was gold and sharp, and he could feel the Fates’ magic radiate from it, distinct in its smell but hard to describe. It was the scent of life—the smell of wet grass after rain and of fresh air and wood, undercut with the odor of smoke and blood and the tinge of death.

It was a scent that triggered Hades and unearthed memories of darkness, battle, and strife. He handed the spindle back to Ilias, wondering what sort of horrors the relic had managed to pull from Sisyphus, even Theseus.

“That is a start,” he replied. “But only one of two things I want.”

Theseus offered a small smile. “Before we continue, I do believe you have something of mine.”

Hades raised a brow at his choice of words but said nothing, summoning the magi with his magic. He appeared and instantly fell to the ground with a loud thud. He groaned, dragging himself to his hands and knees, then looked up and began to whimper.

“H-High lord,” his voice quivered.

Theseus looked at one of his men, who took out a gun and shot the mortal. He fell, and his blood pooled on the floor of Nevernight. Hades suddenly understood Theseus’ use for the bodyguards; they were here to do his dirty work. The god knew these types of men well—the no blood on their hands type. He had come to think that they believed if they did not pull the trigger or wield the knife, he could not trace their sins.

They were wrong.

Hades maintained his passive expression, but internally, he grimaced. The mortal’s death was not necessary, nor was it warranted. He had given Hades no information on Triad, which was the reason Hades had detained him.

“Interesting. You did not intervene,” Theseus said.

“Were you experimenting?” he asked, raising a brow.

He shrugged. “Just trying to figure out what you are about, Lord Hades.”

He just stared. Perhaps Theseus thought to challenge him as Triad challenged the gods, but Hades would not bite. If Theseus and his men wanted to add to their list of sins and carve their place in Tartarus, who was he to stop them?

“Two of one, Theseus,” Hades reminded, his patience wearing thin.

It was the first time Hades saw the spark of Poseidon’s resentment in Theseus’ eyes. He understood the mortal had come to play, had come to show the God of the Dead that he had power. But Hades was power, and he was not in the mood to entertain this man who played at being a god, even if he was semi-Divine.

Theseus nodded to one of his men, who spoke into a mic. After a moment, a third man joined them, dragging Sisyphus, and dropped him in the space between them. His mouth was taped shut, his wrists and legs bound. He looked like Hades remembered, but older—the result of using magic that did not belong to him.