A Game of Retribution (Hades Saga #2)(17)

“There is no room for mistakes, not when it comes to her safety.”

“Not everyone is a threat to her well-being.”

Except that anyone who was a threat to him was a threat to her—and that very nearly included everyone.

Hades was doubtful, and then Hermes leaned across the bar so far, his chest almost touched the counter, and he whispered, “Has anyone ever told you…you need therapy?”

Hermes had, in fact, told him often.

“Pot, meet kettle,” Hades replied.

Hermes straightened and narrowed his eyes. “Since when did you start using mortal expressions?”

“I thought you might appreciate it.”

“Well, I don’t,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, but after a moment, he dropped them. “What does it mean?”

“It means,” said Hades, “that you are a hypocrite.”

“Rude! That’s twice in one conversation, Hades.”

“Perhaps you should stick to what you do best, then.”

“And what is that?”

“Fuckery,” Hades replied and downed his drink.

“Are you saying that’s all I’m good for?” Hermes asked.

It was a trick question, and Hades did not bite. Instead, he was quiet for a moment before he asked, “How long has it been since you visited Bakkheia?”

Bakkheia was one of Dionysus’s nightclubs. Of those he owned, it was considered rather tame, but it was just as difficult to gain entry into as Nevernight.

“Dionysus’s club?” Hermes asked. “Why would I go there?”

Hades raised a brow. “Orgies.”

Hermes’s mouth opened and then closed before crossing his arms over his chest. “I was there last week. Why?”

“I’d like you to go again,” Hades said.

“You’re…asking me to have an orgy?”

“No,” Hades said. “I’m asking you to take Dionysus a message.”

Hermes sucked air through his teeth. “Can’t you send an email?”

“These words are better delivered in person.”

“Hades!” Hermes whined. “You’re going to get me kicked out.”

“I am certain you will have no lack of orgies in the future,” Hades replied.

“Tell Dionysus I’d be happy to chat about his recent acquisition at a time that is most convenient for him.”

“No one talks like that anymore, Hades.”

“I just did,” he replied.

“And look how long it took you to get a girlfriend.”

Hades glared.

“You know what I think you should do?” Hades did not reply, but Hermes continued anyway. “Just castrate him.”

“Castrate him?”

“Think about it, Hades. Who’d mess with you if you started chopping off balls?”

“Nothing good comes from castrating gods,” Hades replied.

Divinity could still be born from the flesh of the gods, as his grandfather, Uranus, had demonstrated with the birth of the Furies, giants, nymphs, and Aphrodite after his testicles were dropped into the ocean.

“It’s just a suggestion,” Hermes said and made his way to the door. “One you’ll want to keep in mind once I deliver this message to Dionysus.”

Hades was aware of Dionysus’s difficult personality, and despite the fact that the God of the Vine was in possession of the Graeae, Hades still had the advantage.

Hermes paused a moment, as if he’d just remembered something, and faced Hades. “Be patient with Sephy. She tries so hard to be independent, she thinks relying on anyone is a weakness.”

Then he left.

Hades gritted his teeth against Hermes’s words. He didn’t like how the god acted as if he knew Persephone better. Hades understood her need to be independent, knew that it stemmed from Demeter’s overprotectiveness, but this was different. People were unpredictable, obsessive, and cruel. He did not trust them, and perhaps it was because he saw the impact of one bad seed. It took one man or woman to turn against a culture, and after a few well-delivered words, a nation was suddenly at war.

Persephone was just now learning the world she would battle, and it was nothing like the one she was used to, because it was his and there was nothing in his life that did not become darkness.

Hades sighed and polished off what remained of his drink before taking the small box out of his pocket. He sat it on the bar and stared at it, unopened. It was tempting to use its magic. Just holding the eye would reveal his future, though Hades knew it was ever-changing, hinging always on the threads the Fates wove into the world.

And if they discovered his use of the eye, he knew they would retaliate, but there was only one thing they could take from him that would damage him beyond repair: Persephone. And while the Fates were vengeful, they were not rash. Even if they considered taking Persephone away, they’d weigh all possible futures, and once they perceived how each ended—in death and fire and darkness—they’d leave their threads entangled.

He opened the box.

The eye that stared back had a large, black pupil, and it was misshapen and gelatinous. He stretched his fingers on the table and curled them into a fist—even gods were not immune to curiosity. Zeus was obsessed with the future, with prophecy, constantly using his oracle to determine who was a threat to his throne.