“Shall we?” The mortal gestured for Hades to walk in front, toward an office on the opposite side of the yard. “Divine first.”
“I insist,” Hades declined.
Despite his power, he was never eager to have his back turned.
Sisyphus' eyes narrowed slightly. The mortal probably saw Hades’ refusal to lead as a form of disrespect, mostly because it showed that Hades did not trust him. Ironic, considering Sisyphus had broken one of the most ancient rules of hospitality—the law of Xenia—by killing his competition after inviting them into his territory.
It was just one of Sisyphus’ transgressions Hades was here to address.
“Very well, my lord,” The mortal offered a cold smile before starting toward his office, the two bodyguards in tow. Their presence was amusing, as if the two mortal men could protect Sisyphus from him.
Hades found himself considering how he would take them out. He had a number of options—he could call forth the shadows and let them consume the two, or he could subdue them by himself. He supposed the only real consideration was whether he wanted blood on his suit.
The two bodyguards took their places on either side of the door as Sisyphus entered his office. Hades did not look at them as he passed.
Sisyphus’ office was small. His desk was solid wood, stained dark, and stacked with paperwork. An old-fashioned telephone sat to one side, and a crystal decanter and two glasses on the other. Behind him, a set of windows overlooked the yard, obstructed by blinds.
It was behind the desk where Sisyphus chose to stand, a strategic move, Hades imagined. It put something physical between them. It was also probably where he kept a store of weapons. Not that they would do any good against him, but Hades had existed for centuries and knew desperate mortals would try anything.
“Bourbon?” Sisyphus asked as he uncorked the decanter.
“No.”
The mortal stared at Hades for a moment before pouring himself a glass. He took a sip and asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Hades looked toward the door. From here, he could see the pools, and he nodded toward them now.
“I know you are hiding drugs in your pools,” Hades said. “I also know that you use this company as a front to move them across New Greece and that you kill anyone who gets in the way.”
Sisyphus stared at Hades for a moment, and then took a slow sip from his glass before asking, “Have you come to take my life?”
“No.”
It was not a lie. Hades did not reap souls—Thanatos did, but the God of the Underworld could see Sisyphus was due for a visit and soon. The vision had come, unbidden, like a memory from long ago. Sisyphus, dressed smartly, would collapse as he left a high-ending dining room.
He would never regain consciousness.
And before that happened, Hades would have balance.
“Then should I assume you want a cut?”
Hades tilted his head to the side. “Of sorts.”
Sisyphus chuckled. “Who would have thought, the God of the Dead came to bargain.”
Hades gritted his teeth. He did not like the implication of Sisyphus’ words, as if the mortal thought he had the upper hand.
“As penance for your crimes, you will donate half your income to the homeless. You are, after all, responsible for many of them.”
The drugs Sisyphus trafficked had destroyed lives, eating mortals up from the inside out with addiction and igniting violence in communities, and while he wasn’t the only one responsible, it was his ships that brought it into the mainland, his trucks that transported it across New Greece.
“Is penance not served in the afterlife?” Sisyphus asked.
“Consider it a favor. I am allowing you an early start.”
Sisyphus used his tongue to pick between his teeth, then he snickered quietly.
“You know they never describe you as a righteous god.”
“I am not righteous.”
“Forcing crooks like myself to donate to charities is righteous.”
“It is balance. A price you pay for the evil you spread.”
Hades did not believe in eradicating the world of evil, because he did not believe it was possible. What was evil to one was a fight for freedom to another—The Great War was an example. One side fought for their gods, their religion, the other fought for freedom from their perceived oppressor. The best he could do was offer a touch of redemption so that their sentence in the Underworld might eventually lead to Asphodel.
“But you are not the God of Balance. You are the God of the Dead.”
It would do no good to explain the workings of the Fates, the balance they strove to create in the world, and so he remained silent. Sisyphus pulled a metal case from the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a cigarette.