A Game of Retribution (Hades Saga #2)(13)

Hades returned to the Underworld, teleporting to his office. He approached the bar to pour a glass of whiskey when he found his cabinet was empty.

Strange, he thought, and surveyed the room, noticing that the door to the balcony was slightly ajar. He approached and stepped out, looking down to find an explosion of broken glass on the cobble-stoned courtyard below.

“What the fuck,” he said under his breath and teleported to the ground.

The glass crunched beneath his feet as he appeared, once again looking around in confusion. It appeared that every bottle of alcohol he owned had found its way over the edge of his balcony.

In all the time he had existed, this had never happened.

The air changed suddenly, filling with a smoky, earthy smell.

Hades turned to see Hecate appear, cloaked in black velvet. The Goddess of Magic often wandered the world at night, wrapped up in various missions of her own making. Hades never questioned her whereabouts, trusting that whatever she was up to was warranted.

Except that today, he suspected she had something to do with the mess at his feet.

“Where have you been?” Hades asked.

The goddess turned toward him, removing her hood, revealing her dark, braided hair. “Meddling,” Hecate replied sheepishly.

Hades had no doubt and indicated the glass littering the ground. “What happened here?”

Hecate let her gaze fall, though Hades suspected she didn’t need to look.

“Persephone and I had a little fun after you left last night,” Hecate answered.

“A little fun?”

The goddess did not even blink, her dark eyes as passive as ever. “We needed to find another way to expend her energy since you couldn’t.”

“It wasn’t that I couldn’t,” Hades grated out.

“So you wouldn’t? Even worse.”

“Hecate,” Hades warned.

“Do not be upset with me when it is you who could not perform.”

Hades snapped his fingers, and pieces of the glass assembled into the shape of a bottle in his hand, full of amber liquid. He took a drink.

“If you are going to continue to question my ability to give my partner pleasure, I would be more than happy to prove otherwise with a detailed account of how I spent my night.”

“Hmm,” Hecate hummed, almost warmly, and answered, “I think I’ll pass.”

“If you’re finished critiquing my sex life, I’d like you to accompany me on a business trip.”

Despite the labor Hera had assigned, the pressing matter of Leuce’s return, and the unrelenting media Persephone would face today—which Hades mostly blamed Kal for—he still had to deal with Acacius, the false oracle who was carelessly offering prophecy without any consideration for the consequences.

“Is that what you’re calling your interrogations?” she asked.

“Do not act as if you disapprove,” he said.

“Oh, I fully support persecution when it’s deserved,” she said.

“This is deserved,” Hades said. “I have reason to believe this mortal has obtained a kind of relic that allows him to see the threads of the present and future.”

“So what has he done to incur your wrath? Tell people when they will die?”

“No,” Hades said mildly. “He’s offering outcomes—athletics, cards, racing.”

Hades had to admit it was unusual. In the past when he had handled a mortal who’d come into possession of a relic with sight, they’d already traumatized themselves and others by offering insight into death dates, lovers, the potential for children.

Everyone wanted to know the future until they didn’t.

“What a waste,” Hecate said, and Hades wondered if she was more upset that there was no particular drama to this case. Then she yawned. “But you know I do not go out in the daylight.”

“Are you saying you would forgo the chance to punish a false oracle who sacrifices cats for divine favor?”

Hecate cringed noticeably. “How criminal. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”



*

Hades did not often shape-shift and rarely had reason to, even when he was confronting those who broke the rules of his Underworld, but this was a special case. He had used this tired, mortal skin upon his initial visit to Acacius a few days prior to the race, begrudgingly approaching the greasy, dark-haired mechanic to evaluate his so-called skills. When he had entered the musty shop, Acacius stood behind a counter, pen in hand, filling out forms. He had not even looked up as he’d asked in a bored monotone, “What can I do for you?”

The man would likely not have been so dismissive if Hades had been in his usual form, but he reminded himself that he was there to bargain. He took a breath to release his frustration before resting a coin on the countertop. Hades pushed it closer, then let his hand fall to his side.

Acacius looked at the coin for a few seconds—long enough for Hades to know he was interested. Obols were not used as currency in New Greece, and while Charon no longer demanded them for entrance to the Underworld, they were a prized form of payment in the black market, one that granted access to Hades’s club, Iniquity.

“What do you want?” Acacius asked.

“The winner of the Hellene Cup,” Hades replied.

Acacius took a moment to respond, and in that brief silence, Hades searched for any signs that he was using a relic. Often, a user had to touch the item to channel its power, but Acacius did not stop writing notes, nor did Hades sense a burst of energy that would signal the use of magic.