A Touch of Malice (Hades & Persephone #3)(70)

A hand yanked her hair, pulling her head back, throat taunt, and ripped off her mask. The movement was so violent, she was stunned, and it took her a moment to meet a familiar set of eyes.

“Jaison?”

She hadn’t seen him since Lexa’s funeral. He’d ceased all communication with her—now she knew why. His dark curls were longer and his face unshaven. He looked rough and angry.

“Well, well, well, the favor fuck has come to infiltrate our meeting.”

“Jaison—” she said his name, reaching for his hand to lessen the pull he had on her head. She was surprised when mortal released her, and she stumbled back only to be pushed hard by someone. As she lurched forward, she was shoved again. This time, she managed to stop herself before another person could touch her, but she was surrounded.

She met Jaison’s eyes.

“Why?” she found herself asking.

“Isn’t it obvious? Hades could have saved Lexa. You could have saved her.”

“Don’t you dare,” Persephone said, her eyes watering, burning with fresh tears.

“If you had done it right the first time, she wouldn’t have left. She wasn’t the same when she came back.”

“Because she wanted to die!” Persephone shouted. “She was tired, but you were too selfish to see that. I was too selfish.”

“Do not pretend you care,” he said. “If you did, you wouldn’t marry Hades.”

The circle tightened, and Persephone went rigid.

“Don’t do this,” she said. “You will regret it.”

“We do not fear Hades,” Jaison said.

“It isn’t Hades you should fear,” she said. “It’s me.”

He laughed—and the others joined in, but Persephone’s anger was boiling over. A hand reached for her and she exploded—literally. Thorns burst from her arms and legs and palms. They shot out like blades and cut through the mortals surrounding her, skewering many of them—including Jaison—at which ever level they stood—head or throat or chest or belly. She screamed at her anger, at the carnage, at the pain, but as it died, the thorns retracted, reeling into her body as if they were part of her. Still, she was left broken and bloody, her skin split.

She fell to her knees at the center of her massacre, leaning forward, breathing raggedly. She tasted blood.

Heal, she thought. You have to heal.

Then she felt Hades’ unmistakable presence. She saw his shoes first, then her eyes made the slow climb up his body. When she saw his face, she saw a god—an ancient one full of rage and darkness and death.

It took Persephone a moment to realize why the room had gone so quiet—it was because everyone was dead. Had she done this? Or was this Hades’ malice?

“Hades,” she tried to say his name, but the blood in her mouth was thick and she choked on the word, sending a spray of crimson onto his shoes. Her head spun, and she fell the rest of the way to the floor.

Hades bent and scooped her into his arms. She’d never seen him look this way—haunted, triggered —and she knew he was fighting something horrible and dark. She wanted to comfort him and all she could think is that she hoped he knew how much she loved him.

Then everything went dark.





PART II

“Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.”

– Homer, The Iliad





CHAPTER XIX – THE ISLAND OF LAMPRI

When Persephone woke, she was in an unfamiliar bed. Her tongue felt swollen, but she could breathe, her throat no longer thick with blood. She lifted her arms, her skin smooth and unmarred from the magic she’d used to defend herself in the basement of Club Aphrodisia. She was healed, and yet she couldn’t help feeling like she’d failed because she hadn’t been able to do it on her own.

She sat up, scanning the bright room for Hades. It did not take her long to find him. The balcony doors were open, letting in fresh, salty air which moved the gauzy curtains over the bed. Just outside, Hades sat. She slipped from the bed, wrapped the sheet around her body and joined him.

He wore a black robe and leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, a glass of whiskey caught between his fingers. His features were severe, brows knitted together, jaw set tight. He seemed deep in thought and she was a little afraid to disturb him, but she wanted to see his eyes.

“Hades,” she whispered.

He looked at her, his gaze stormy and she wondered what kind of battle he was fighting inside?

“Are you well?” she asked.

“No,” he said, and the answer made her flinch. He took a drink from his glass and his gaze returned to his feet. Hesitantly, she approached and reached to thread her fingers through his hair. It was wet and smelled strongly of spice. She took a deep breath, comforted by it.

“Hades,” she said his name again. This time, it took him longer to raise his eyes to hers. “I love you.”

She noticed how thickly he swallowed and averted his eyes. She sighed and reached for his glass, sitting in on the table beside him. She managed to straddle him in the small chair, one knee on either side of his legs. She took his face between her hands and brushed her thumbs across his cheeks. He was so beautiful and so broken.

“Will you tell me how you’re feeling?”