“He breathes if I say so,” Hades replied.
Persephone did not respond immediately. Instead, she approached the soul, pausing a few feet from him. Up close, he looked like a wax figure that had grown too soft under the heat, slouched and frowning. Still, he was solid, and all-to-real.
Before she had visited the Underworld, Persephone had thought souls were shades—shadows of themselves—instead they were corporeal, as solid as the day they’d died, though that had not always been the case. Once, the souls of Hades’ realm had lived a bland and crowded existence under his rule.
Hades had never confirmed what had changed his mind—why he’d decided to give both the Underworld and the souls color and the illusion of life. He’d often said that the Underworld merely evolved as the Upperworld did, but Persephone knew Hades. He had a conscious, he felt regret for his beginning as King of the Underworld. He’d done those things as a kindness, as a way to atone.
Despite this, he would never forgive himself for his past and it was that knowledge that hurt her heart.
“Does it help?” she asked Hades, unsure if she wanted an answer. “The torture?”
She looked at the god, who still stood where they had manifested, hair unbound, horns on display, looking dark and beautiful and violent. She could not imagine what being here did to him, but she remembered the look on his face when he had found her in Pirithous’ lair. She had never seen his rage manifest in such a way, never seen him look so horrified and broken.
“I cannot say.”
“Then why do you do it?” She walked around Pirithous, pausing behind him and meeting Hades’ gaze.
“Control,” Hades answered.
Persephone had not always understood Hades’ need for control, but in the months since they’d met, she was starting to desire that very thing. She knew what it was to be a prisoner, to be powerless, to be caught between two horrible choices—and still choose wrong.
“I want control,” she whispered.
Hades stared at her for a beat, and then held out his hand.
“I will help you claim it.”
His voice rumbled in the space between them, warming her chest. She approached him again and he drew her close, back to his chest.
Suddenly, Pirithous inhaled. Persephone’s heart raced as she watched him stir. His head lulled and his eyes blinked open, sleepy and confused.
Again, that fear of seeing his gaze slashed through her, shaking her insides. Hades gave her a reassuring squeeze about the waist, as if to remind her that she was safe, and dipped his head; his breath teased her ear.
“Do you remember when I taught you to harness your magic?”
He was referring to their time in her grove, after Apollo had left with this favor from Hades and a promise from Persephone that she wouldn’t write about him. She had sought comfort among the trees and flowers but only found disappointment when she could not bring life to a parched patch of ground. Hades had come then, appearing like the shadows he bent to his will and helped her harness her magic and heal the ground. He had been seductive in his instruction, lighting a fire wherever he touched.
Her body pricked with chills at the thought and her words hissed from between her teeth.
“Yes.”
“Close your eyes,” he instructed, lips grazing the column of her neck.
“Persephone?” Pirithous’ voice was hoarse.
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, focusing instead on Hades’ touch.
“What do you feel?” His hand drifted down her shoulder, the fingers of his other arm, firm around her waist, splayed possessively.
This question was not so easy—she felt many things. For Hades, passion and arousal. For Pirithous, anger and fear, grief and betrayal. It was a vortex, a dark abyss with no end—and then the demi-god said her name again.
“Persephone, please. I—I am sorry.”
His words struck her, a lance to her chest, and as she spoke, she opened her eyes.
“Violent.”
“Focus on it,” he instructed, his hand pressed into her belly, the other laced with her fingers.
Pirithous remained slouched in his metal chair, restrained and jaundiced, and the eyes she had feared stared back now, watery and afraid.
They had switched places, she realized, and there was a moment when she hesitated, questioning whether or not she could hurt him. Then Hades spoke.
“Feed it.”
With their fingers twined, she felt power gather in her palm, an energy that scorched her skin.
“Where do you wish to cause him pain?” Hades asked.
“This isn’t you,” Pirithous said. “I know you. I watched you!”
A roar started in her ears, and her eyes burned, the power inside her a heat she could scare contain.
He had left strange gifts, stalked her, taken pictures of her in a space that was supposed to be safe. He had taken away her sense of security, even in sleep.
“He’d wanted to use his cock as a weapon,” she said. “And I want it to burn.”
“No! Please, Persephone. Persephone!”
“Then make him burn.”
The energy pooling in her hand was electric, and as her fingers slipped from Hades’, she imagined the magic gathered there blasting toward Pirithous in an endless lava-hot stream.
“This isn’t—”
Pirithous’ words were cut short as the magic took root. There was no outward indication that anything was wrong with him—no flames leapt from his crotch, but it was clear he felt her magic. His feet dug into the ground, he bucked against his restraints, his teeth were clenched, the veins in his head and neck popped.
Still, he managed to speak through gritted teeth.
“This isn’t you.”
“I am not sure who you think I am,” she said. “But let me be clear—I am Persephone, future Queen of the Underworld, Lady of Your Fate—may you come to dread my presence.”
Crimson dripped from Pirithous’ nose and mouth, his chest rose and fell rapidly, but he did not speak again.
“How long will he stay like this?” Persephone asked, watching as Pirithous’ body continued to arch and strain against the pain. His eyes began to bulge from their sockets and a sheen of sweat broke out across his skin, making him look green in color.
“Until he dies,” Hades replied simply, watching with an expression of disinterest.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t feel, didn’t ask to leave until Pirithous was silent and limp once more. She considered her earlier question to Hades—does it help? In the aftermath, she had no answer, save for the knowledge that a part of her had wilted and that if she did this enough, the rest of her would wither away.
CHAPTER II – A TOUCH OF GRIEF
“How is the wedding planning going?” Lexa asked. She sat across from Persephone on a white quilt, embroidered with blue forget-me-nots. It had been a gift from one of the souls, Alma. She’d approached Persephone on one of her daily visits to Asphodel, a bundle in her arms.
“I have something for you, my lady.”
“Alma, you shouldn’t have—”
“It is a gift for you to give,” she interrupted quickly, wisps of her silver hair floating around her round, rosy-cheeked face. “I know you grieve for your friend so here, give her this.”