A Touch of Malice (Hades x Persephone #3)(99)

Demeter’s lips curled. “Oh, righteous daughter, this is beyond you. I will take down every Olympian who sided with Fate, every worshipper who holds them in high regard, and eventually, I will kill them, too, and when I am finished, I will tear this world apart around you.”

Persephone’s anger shook her body.

“You think I will stand aside and watch?”

“Oh, flower. You will have no choice.”

It was then Persephone understood there was no reclaiming the Demeter beneath the surface. That goddess was long gone, and while she appeared ever so often—when she smiled at children and when she recalled her trauma, she would never be that person again. This is who she thought she had to be for survival.

She’d lost her mother a long time ago and this…this was goodbye.

“The Olympians are looking for you.”

Then Demeter offered a horrible smile. She looked as if she were about to speak when she was interrupted.

“Ms. Doso!” A child called and Demeter turned, her twisted mouth and narrow eyes vanished, replaced by a smile and sparkling eyes.

“Yes, my darling?” Her voice was quiet and cool—a tone reserved for sweet lullabies.

“Tell us the story of Heracles!”

“Of course,” she offered a laugh that sounded silvery. Her gaze shifted to Persephone and once again her false facade melted away, and she spoke. “You should fear their search for me, daughter.”

Then the Goddess of Harvest turned, dismissing Persephone without another glance.

Demeter’s words were a warning, and it cast a horrible shadow over her heart. Persephone took a deep breath, hating how her throat filled with the taste of her mother’s magic, and left the museum.



CHAPTER XXVIII – A TOUCH OF TERROR


Persephone did not return to work after her visit to the museum. Instead, she teleported to the Underworld and went in search of Hecate, finding the goddess in her meadow, waiting. She was dressed in black robes today, matching Nefeli who sat, poised behind her, like an omen. She slowed upon seeing them, anxiety erupting in her chest. Hecate never waited for her—she was always doing something—gathering herbs and mushrooms, making poisons or cursing mortals.

She halted at the edge of the meadow and stared at the goddess.

“I felt your rage the moment you entered the Underworld,” Hecate said.

“I am changing, Hecate,” Persephone said, her voice broke.

“You are becoming,” Hecate corrected. “You feel it, don’t you? The darkness rising.”

“I do not wish to be like my mother.”

It was her greatest fear, something she’d thought about since the night she’d asked Hades to take her to Tartarus so she could torture Pirithous.

“I do not flinch at torture,” Persephone said. “I wish for vengeance against those who have wronged me. I would kill to protect my heart. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You are Persephone,” Hecate said. “The Fated Queen of Hades.”

Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

“You should not feel ashamed of hurting people who hurt you,” Hecate said. “It is the nature of battle.”

They had spoken of combat and of war—they were words that had been threaded through conversations over the last few months—battle with Demeter, war with the gods.

“But does it mean I am no better than those who hurt me?”

Hecate offered a sarcastic laugh. “Whoever said so has never been hurt—not like you have and not like I have.”

Persephone wanted to ask Hecate more questions—how had she been hurt? But Persephone also knew the kind of sorrow those questions unleashed, and she did not wish to bring that upon the goddess.

“Your mother wages war on the world above,” Hecate said. “Do you wish to defeat her?”

“Yes,” Persephone hissed.

“Then I will teach you,” Hecate said, and her words were followed by a terrible surge of power as black fire gathered into her hands, casting shadows on her face. She looked terrifying, her face ashy and drained of color.

“I will fight you like your mother will fight you,” she said. “You will think I never loved you.”

Before Persephone could think too long on those words, Hecate unleashed her shadow-magic. When it hit, she was thrown back, into the trunk of a tree. The pain was unbearable, a sharp ache that made her feel like her spine had broken into pieces. She couldn’t move, so she immediately called up her magic, working to heal herself, but Nefeli’s sudden bellow turned Persephone’s blood to ice. She’d forgotten about the grim who barreled toward her.

She wasn’t completely healed as she rolled to her feet and flung out her hand, using her magic to teleport the creature to another part of the Underworld. Across the meadow, Hecate stood still, and for the first time since Persephone met the Goddess of Witchcraft, she realized she had never truly felt Hecate’s magic. She’d sensed it in bursts—like ghostly lights igniting in the dark, guiding her intermittently and smelling of sage and earth. This magic, the kind she’d summoned to fight was different. It was ancient. It smelled bitter and acidic like wine but left a tang in the back of her throat—a metallic taste akin to blood. Sensing it left a feeling of dread embedded in her heart and suddenly, its irregular pounding was the only thing she could focus on—that and Hecate’s rapid approach.