It was the second time he had heard that plea tonight, and both times, it had been a lie.
“I cannot make another mortal love you,” Hades said. “You either ask for love or nothing.”
She had glared at him for a while, trying to hold back her tears, before agreeing. He supposed she had decided it was better to be loved by someone in the end. Except that she did not win their game, and upon her loss, Hades met her terrified, watery gaze.
“Cease this pointless desire for your co-worker,” Hades said.
She glared. “I can’t just…stop loving him.”
“You must find a way,” he said. “Perhaps when you do, your eyes will be opened to a new love.”
Hades started to rise to his feet.
“Haven’t you ever been in love?” she asked, and when he paused, her eyes widened with the realization. “You haven’t.”
Hades pressed his lips together. “Careful, mortal. This life is fleeting. Your existence in the Underworld lasts an eternity.”
He started to rise again, and the woman grabbed his hand. “Please! You don’t understand! I cannot help who I love!”
Hades jerked his hand away. “You waste your words and feelings, mortal.”
He could have said more. He could have explained that her love for this indifferent man made her resentful, that the moment she decided to release him from her affections, the better her life would be, but he knew she would not hear him, so he did not speak. Instead, he vanished, retiring to the Underworld.
But not to rest.
He teleported to the Library of the Souls, located in the mirrored palace of the Fates. Hades had gifted the three goddesses a portion of his realm—an island that floated in the ether of the Underworld. It was inaccessible to all but him, and the Fates were unable to leave it.
A gilded cage, Lachesis had called it.
A glorified prison, Clotho spouted.
A mirrored cell, Atropos said.
The Fates may have chosen to describe it as a cage, a cell, a prison, but they knew just as well as Hades it was built to their specifications and for their protection.
“Would you prefer to live among the souls and deities of the Underworld?” he asked them every time they complained. “They would stone you, and I would not stop them.”
None of them liked his reply, and they had responded by demanding that he change the gardens outside the palace—a request they made often, and one he obliged.
There were no windows in the library, save for a glass dome ceiling that let in a greyish light. The walls were floor to ceiling bookcases, full of tomes bound in black velvet. Each volume detailed the life of every human, creature, and god.
Hades held out his hand and called for Demeter, the Goddess of Harvest. The book came to him, landing in his grasp with a thump. As he opened it, a projection of threads illustrated a timeline from the goddess’ birth to the present, which could be read or watched like a film.
Hades chose to watch, following her thread from her battle worn birth to her vengeful existence after Titanomachy, to the creation of her nurturing cult, until her thread branched off, signifying the creation of another life-thread.
“Show me who this thread belongs to,” he said, and the gold broke apart until it formed the image of the girl from Nevernight.
As Hades looked at her, his chest tightened.
No wonder she smelled like Demeter—she was her daughter.
“Curious about your future queen?” Lachesis appeared, dressed in white, her face framed with long, dark hair, her head crowned in gold. She was the middle sister, and in her hand, she held a gold rod with which she measured mortal life.
Future queen. The words shuddered through him, and he had to clench his teeth to keep from reacting.
“Her name?” Hades asked.
He did not look away from her shimmering image.
“She is called Persephone,” Lachesis replied.
Persephone, he mouthed her name, testing it upon his tongue, surprised by how right it felt, how perfect it sounded.
“The Goddess of Spring.”
Hades’ gaze snapped to the Fate. Her dark eyes stared back, bottomless, emotionless.
“You wish to taunt me.”
Goddess of Spring, Goddess of Rebirth, Goddess of Life. How could a daughter of spring become death’s bride?
“Ever suspicious, Hades,” Clotho said, appearing out of thin air. The youngest of the three Fates, she looked no different than Lachesis, clothed and crowned in gold. “Perhaps we wish to reward our favorite god.”
“You like no gods,” Hades replied.
“We dislike you least.”