“Why are you angry with your mother?”
She considered this question for a moment, and then said, “Because…she wants me to be something I cannot.” Persephone dropped her gaze to the cards, and then said, “I don’t understand why people do this.”
He tilted his head, as if questioning. “You are not enjoying our game?”
“I am,” she said. “But…I don’t understand why people play Hades. Why do they want to sell their soul to him?”
“They don’t agree to a game because they want to sell their soul,” he said. “They do it because they think they can win.”
“Do they? Win?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does that anger him, you think?” The question was meant to remain a thought in her head, and yet the words slipped out between her lips.
He smirked, and she could feel it deep in her gut.
“Darling, I win either way.”
Her eyes went wide, and her heart stuttered. She stood quickly and his name slipped out of her mouth like a curse.
“Hades.”
His name on her lips seemed to have an effect on him, but she couldn’t tell if it was good or bad—his eyes darkened, and his smile lines melted into a hard, unreadable mask.
“I have to go.”
She spun and left the small room. This time, she didn’t let him stop her. She hurried down the winding steps and plunged into the mass of bodies on the main floor. All the while, she was highly aware of the spot on her wrist where Hades fingers had touched her skin. Was it an exaggeration to say it burned?
It took her a while to find the exit, and when she did, she pushed through the doors. Outside, she took a few deep breaths and then let the force of what she’d done hit her.
She’d allowed Hades, the God of the Underworld, to instruct her, to touch her, to play her, and question her.
And he had won.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
No, the worst part is that there was a side of her—a side she’d never know existed until tonight—that wanted to run back inside, find him, and demand a lesson in the anatomy of his body.
CHAPTER III – NEW ATHENS NEWS
Persephone checked the mirror to ensure her glamour was in place. It was weak magic because it was borrowed magic, but it was enough to hide her horns and turn her bottle-green eyes mossy.
She reached up to apply a touch more glamour to her eyes. They were the hardest to get right, and it took the most magic to dull their bright, abnormal light. As she lifted her hand, she halted, noticing something on her wrist.
Something dark.
She took a closer look. A series of black dots marked her skin, some smaller, others larger. It looked like a simple, elegant tattoo had been inked on her arm.
And it was wrong.
Persephone turned the faucet on and scrubbed her skin until it was red and raw, but the ink didn’t move or smear. In fact, it seemed to darken.
Then she remembered yesterday at Nevernight when Hades hand had covered hers to keep her from leaving. The warmth of his skin transferred to hers, but when she fled the club later, that warmth turned to a burn which only intensified when she went to bed last night.
She’d turned on the light several times to inspect her wrist, but found nothing.
Until this morning.
Persephone lifted her gaze to the mirror and her glamour rippled from her anger. Why had she obeyed his request to stay? Why had she been blind to the fact that she had invited the God of the Dead to teach her cards?
She knew why. She’d been distracted by his beauty. Why hadn’t anyone warned her that Hades was a charming bastard? That his smile stole breath and his gaze stopped hearts?
What was this thing on her wrist and what did it mean?
She knew one thing for certain: Hades was going to tell her.
Today.
Before she could return to the obsidian tower, however, she had to go to her internship. Her eyes fell to a pretty embellished box her mother had given her. It held jewelry now, but at twelve, it had held five gold seeds. Demeter had crafted them from her magic, and had said they would bloom into roses the color of liquid gold for her, the Goddess of Spring.
Persephone planted them and did her best to nurture the flowers, but instead of growing into the blossoms she expected, they grew withered and black.
She would never forget the look on her mother’s face when she found her staring at the wilted roses—shocked, disappointed, and in disbelief that her daughter’s flowers grew from the ground like something straight out of the Underworld.
Demeter had reached forward, touched the flowers, and they flared with life.