Her family didn’t see it that way.
But why would a goddess care about the Vespian wishes? It didn’t make sense.
“You may remain here at the temple, dear. You will be protected within these walls. Out there, less so. The eye of Athena isn’t all seeing. But know, should you remain, you won’t complete the task the goddess brought you here for.” Patrick winced. “Let’s just say it may affect where you end up spending the rest of eternity.”
Thinking back to her prison, trapped deep inside a small cage, she shivered.
Greer didn’t have a choice. “Can you point me in the direction of Hera’s domain?”
8
MAN TO FERRYMAN
The moment Eirikr came aboard, the bone boat slowly moved forward without direction. He would much have rather steered it where he wanted it to go, but it didn’t come with a user manual indicating how to remove the autopilot. As the boat seemed to want to head to the other shore, he decided to remain aboard, though he was tense, expecting some sort of problem anytime now.
The river’s songs were both enchanting and horrifying—they were cries of despair from the depths of the river, yet their melody was bewitching. Like everything beautiful, Eirikr supposed. He’d rarely encountered beauty without danger—or at the very least, a fair dose of crazy. Eirikr kept running through the lyrics of long-forgotten songs in his mind, tuning the magics out as well as possible.
He was nearing the center of the river when something knocked into the boat, hitting it hard. Eirikr couldn’t even pretend to be surprised. If trips on the river Styx were smooth sailing, there would be tourist voyages and hot dog stands.
He flashed his fangs reflexively as his gaze shifted to the dark waves. Even with his sight, he couldn’t detect much past the misty surface at first, but the farther he sailed from the shore, the more they came into view. Ugly, misshapen things, the lost souls were greenish skeletons with distorted, open-mouthed faces. They were lost in a tangle of emaciated flailing limbs as they tripped each other over to try to get out. Eirikr hadn’t had nightmares in a while, but he guessed if he did, they might have made an appearance.
A skeletal hand gripped the railing of boat, and as it did, the soul’s bones covered with reddish flesh, rendering it more material, real.
Eirikr kicked it hard, and the soul released its grip with an agonizing scream, but then another soul nearly heaved itself out of the river entirely. Eirikr had to backhand it right in the face to plunge it back to the watery depths. He grimaced, his skin feeling vile and too cold where he’d touched it.
“Fuck!” he cursed, watching the back of his hand dissolve, eaten by some acid. The waters of the river were poisonous to most. He had to avoid getting much of it on him. Vampires could heal from most wounds, but Eirikr didn’t want to test his luck in this world, not when he didn’t know its rules.
More souls clung to both the hull and the self-driven oars, attempting to get on the boat from every side. Fuck.
None of the souls could even remotely match his speed or strength, but they had numbers on their side. Fast as he was in dispatching them, there were millions, billions of souls in the river, and all of them wanted in. Who knew how long they had been trapped down in the river, suffering its burns every moment of forever? The boat was their way into Hades’ kingdom—their way out of this cursed existence. They struggled viciously to get onboard. Soon, Eirikr’s clothes and skin were covered in burns and tears. The boat shook under the added weight on one side and the next. All the souls were going to achieve was pulling him under and turn him into yet another one ready to join their grotesque herd.
The boat inched closer and closer to the shore at what felt like a snail’s pace. Hades’ castle glinted in the distance, too far, inaccessible. Kicking and punching his way through the abrasive attackers, Eirikr wondered how many mortals had attempted to cross then fallen to their death and immortal suffering. If he struggled, no one on Earth could have accomplished this. The boat was a trap.
He wondered about the stories of Charon who was supposed to ferry people to the other side. Was that a lie? Were all the dead condemned to the river?
“Why would Charon help you, young immortal?” a whisper on the wind asked. “Have you ever prayed to the gods? Have you even asked?” It tsked with contempt and disapproval. “Of course not. Your kind feels entitled to everything.”
Eirikr blinked. “Charon?” he ventured, though it was hard to believe that the ferryman of Hades could be…well, a typical, average old, bitter man.
His call was met with nothing but silence.
Eirikr growled low in his throat, taking souls down faster than light. He did not have the time, patience, or inclination to deal with a moron.
The boat swayed a little too much under the weight of one particularly large skeleton. To deal with it, he had to move to its side of the boat, further tipping in on the starboard flank.
He also had no desire to end up at the bottom of the Styx, so he tried. “Oh Charon, noble…” What was Charon again? Not a god, to Eirikr’s knowledge. He’d been made by the Enlightened for the sole purpose of doing the same thankless job for eternity. Come to think of it, maybe Eirikr could understand why the man was pissed. “Ferryman. I could really use a hand to get to the other side.”
“Hmph.”
That was better than silence. “I’m looking for a woman. She was killed yesterday—I have just a few days to bring her back, so I’m on a schedule. I’d truly appreciate some help. Please?”
That was as close as he’d gotten to begging in his immortal life.
“A woman,” the voice echoed. “Is she pretty?” His interest was piqued.
Eirikr could have groaned, but if the ferryman wanted an answer, then he would get one. “Gorgeous.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me more.”
Charon was a perv. Good to know.
“A redhead. Golden skin. Green eyes. Unique in every way. It really wouldn’t do to let her remain dead.”
“I’ve not seen anyone fitting that description for quite some time. Are you sure she’s dead, and in our underworld?”
“Certain, but you wouldn’t have seen her,” Eirikr shouted over the sound of bones cracking and splashing back in the river. “Someone stole her and sent straight to the Asphodel Meadows.”
“What?”
Immediately, a wave of power radiated over the boat. Eirikr could see a green mist dispersing over the Styx, and after being propelled off the boat amid shrieks, the souls fell silent.
A hooded figure stood at the center of the ferry, close to its mast. It wore a tattered cape that flapped around its ankles and face.
Charon lowered his hood, revealing exactly the opposite of what Eirikr would have expected. Instead of a horrifying skeleton or some sort of monster, he faced well, the picture of a Greek god, as sculpted by the old masters. Charon had brown waves and red, glowing eyes. He seemed to wear nothing at all under his cloak.
“Stolen?” The ferryman narrowed his eyes. “No one steals from me.”
Eirikr shrugged. “Athena showed me herself. Greer was in the Asphodel Meadows—or more accurately, silos—floating off-world. She took her to Olympus. Athena let me know that I had to pass through the underworld to get there.”