“Will he give us permission?”
“For a price, maybe.”
“And if he doesn’t?” she asked.
“I’ll figure something out. We won’t leave here without him, unless…” Athena slowed.
“Unless what?”
“I don’t know what a dead god is like, Cassandra. He could be awful. A monster. Or worse. We’re close now,” she said. “But we can still turn back.”
Cassandra stared at Cerberus’ massive heads and at the dark tunnel before them. A monster. Or worse. If she looked into Aidan’s eyes and didn’t see him, she didn’t know what she’d do.
“No,” she said. “It’s worth it, whatever the answers. It has to be.”
Cerberus barked and darted around a corner. Athena put her arm out protectively.
“Whatever we find, don’t be scared,” Athena said. “He might be fine. Maybe it won’t be just me protecting you here, but both of us.”
It was a nice thought.
They turned the corner.
Cerberus stood with both heads bowed before a young dead woman, her profile gray, her yellow hair dry as straw. A black dress, dusted with her own decay, hung from her bony frame. She turned to greet them, and Cassandra almost yelped.
One half of her was dead. The other was rotten. Rotten and run through with small rips and tears from flesh that had swollen, burst, and receded again. Her left eye was clear and bloodless. Her right was yellow, milky, and softening. Most of her hair had fallen out on the right side, and most of the scalp skin had gone with it.
“It’s been a long time, sister-cousin,” the dead woman said. Her black tongue moved across her lips.
“It has, Persephone,” said Athena.
Persephone. The goddess of the underworld, who was once so beautiful that all gods wooed her. So beautiful that Hades kidnapped her to be his eternal bride.
“May I offer you something to eat or drink?” Persephone gestured behind her, to a golden table piled with sweet fruit and roasted meat, golden chalices filled with sparkling liquid. Cassandra hadn’t noticed it before, too distracted by the horror in front of them.
Or perhaps it just hadn’t been there. The scent of the food and particularly the drink drifted toward their noses, the first real smells since they’d arrived. All at once she was parched and starving. Athena gripped her arm.
“Not a good idea,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. She nodded politely at Persephone.
“You may offer, cousin. But we must refuse. We’re here to visit, not to stay.”
Persephone smiled. Or she mostly smiled. The rotted side of her mouth refused to obey. It stretched and tore instead. Cassandra stifled a heave.
“Tell me,” Persephone asked, “what news of my brothers and sisters?”
Athena shrugged. “Dying. Or killing each other. Where is my uncle? Your husband, Hades?”
“Venice, last I heard,” Persephone said. “But he could be anywhere, in any city rife with decay. Rife with disease and rot. He has forever been a collector, you know, of dead things and pestilence. He keeps massive houses all over the world, stockpiled with powdered poisons and plague victims in jars. All manner of freak and fancy, every abomination and flesh-eating bacteria. Each one is a treasure in petri dishes and formaldehyde. Precious as leaves pressed in a book.”
“Is he well?” Athena asked. “Is he ailing?”
“He may be ailing, but he isn’t dead. If he were, you would know. He’d have exploded in a cloud of viruses. A city would lie dead around him. One last tribute.” Persephone touched her hair, and it fell out onto the ground. “Hades doesn’t come here for me anymore, Athena. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not the golden flower he once plucked from my mother’s grasp.”
“The god of death understands decay,” Athena replied. “Your dead half was always his favorite.”
“We’ll see when I fade further. When I am one half bone and dust.” She toyed with Cerberus’ dead head. Her fingers twisted the bones like the heavy jewels of a necklace. “How is my mother?”
“Missing you. She mourns your passing.”
“I’m sorry for that. My last summer above was four years ago. Since then I’ve been too dead to move with the spring.”
“But you won’t be apart long,” Cassandra blurted, and Persephone’s dead eyes settled on her face. “When Demeter … dies … you’ll see her again. You’ll be together again.”