reaching into elsewhere. As it did so, a haze like heat distortion shimmered into being in front of the black frame—a typical symptom of some sort of really heavy-duty encryption. Whatever was at the other end of the spell, Persephone truly didn’t want it finding its way back to her. When the picture came clear, I understood why.
“Oh hell,” I whispered.
“Hades, actually,” said Thalia.
“From where I sit on Hades’ personal hate list, there’s not a whole lot of difference between the two,” I replied.
The frame provided a window into Hades’ office in the underworld. It had changed radically since my last visit. Not surprising since that visit had resulted in the utter destruction of Hades’
headquarters complex. But even though the positioning of the camera—probably a monitor mount—hid much of the room from me, I recognized the place instantly. The presence of the death god in his pretentious office chair was only the most obvious giveaway. Even without Hades as a pointer I would have recognized the horrible deadness of the lands beyond the Styx.
Our view showed the god sitting at an angle to the screen, giving us a two-thirds view of his face. He was nodding thoughtfully. Behind him, a large open window looked over a pier on the river Lethe. As I watched, a young man walked hesitantly out to the end of the pier and stared into the water. He wore a sort of grayed-out version of the T-shirt-and-jeans uniform of the college set, and his shoulders slumped with the classic dejection of the dead.
“That’s very interesting,” Hades said to someone offscreen, drawing my attention back to the foreground.
I realized then that I’d been avoiding looking at Hades. He was snake skinny, with dark, smoky hair that moved on its own and skin drawn too tight over his bones. His flesh had something of smoke to it, too, a tenuous quality, as though it might drift away between one moment and the next, revealing his true self—a skeleton that only played at being a man.
“My principal thought you might feel that way, all things considered.” The voice answering Hades was a woman’s and very tense. It sounded familiar, too, though I couldn’t immediately place it.
“Is the damage really so extensive?” asked Hades, and there was a hunger that lurked just beneath the surface of his words.
“Irreparable,” said a second woman. This one had a faint accent that sounded as though she didn’t have quite the right vocal apparatus for human speech. “She knows she cannot ever properly resume her role and thus must find another to take her throne.” Hades leaned back and steepled his hands, too obviously working at projecting confidence and limited interest. The Lord of the Dead clearly hadn’t had to do much bargaining over the long years of his reign. The immediate question his attitude raised was who had something that he wanted that much.
“I have a hard time imagining her retirement,” said Hades at last.
“So does she,” replied the second woman, the one with the inhuman accent.
“Am I the only candidate?” asked Hades.
“Don’t be an idiot,” replied the first—more familiar-sounding—woman, and I almost knew her then. “You are one of four. This is by way of a preliminary interview for a tough job.” Hades’ jaw clenched. “Whom do I have to convince? Her?” He nodded straight ahead. “Or you?” Again the nod, this time a bit to the right.
“You need to convince my mother, of course,” said the first voice, and I would have had it then even without the edge of a green wing that momentarily slipped into the picture.
Megaera, the Fury with hair and wings of ship-devouring seaweed. In turn, that meant the trio must be talking about Necessity. My back clenched. Every muscle from the backs of my knees to my neck contracted all in an instant at the thought of Necessity handing over her role as the Fate of the Gods to anyone , much less Hades.
It would take
“Oh hell,” I whispered.
“Hades, actually,” said Thalia.
“From where I sit on Hades’ personal hate list, there’s not a whole lot of difference between the two,” I replied.
The frame provided a window into Hades’ office in the underworld. It had changed radically since my last visit. Not surprising since that visit had resulted in the utter destruction of Hades’
headquarters complex. But even though the positioning of the camera—probably a monitor mount—hid much of the room from me, I recognized the place instantly. The presence of the death god in his pretentious office chair was only the most obvious giveaway. Even without Hades as a pointer I would have recognized the horrible deadness of the lands beyond the Styx.
Our view showed the god sitting at an angle to the screen, giving us a two-thirds view of his face. He was nodding thoughtfully. Behind him, a large open window looked over a pier on the river Lethe. As I watched, a young man walked hesitantly out to the end of the pier and stared into the water. He wore a sort of grayed-out version of the T-shirt-and-jeans uniform of the college set, and his shoulders slumped with the classic dejection of the dead.
“That’s very interesting,” Hades said to someone offscreen, drawing my attention back to the foreground.
I realized then that I’d been avoiding looking at Hades. He was snake skinny, with dark, smoky hair that moved on its own and skin drawn too tight over his bones. His flesh had something of smoke to it, too, a tenuous quality, as though it might drift away between one moment and the next, revealing his true self—a skeleton that only played at being a man.
“My principal thought you might feel that way, all things considered.” The voice answering Hades was a woman’s and very tense. It sounded familiar, too, though I couldn’t immediately place it.
“Is the damage really so extensive?” asked Hades, and there was a hunger that lurked just beneath the surface of his words.
“Irreparable,” said a second woman. This one had a faint accent that sounded as though she didn’t have quite the right vocal apparatus for human speech. “She knows she cannot ever properly resume her role and thus must find another to take her throne.” Hades leaned back and steepled his hands, too obviously working at projecting confidence and limited interest. The Lord of the Dead clearly hadn’t had to do much bargaining over the long years of his reign. The immediate question his attitude raised was who had something that he wanted that much.
“I have a hard time imagining her retirement,” said Hades at last.
“So does she,” replied the second woman, the one with the inhuman accent.
“Am I the only candidate?” asked Hades.
“Don’t be an idiot,” replied the first—more familiar-sounding—woman, and I almost knew her then. “You are one of four. This is by way of a preliminary interview for a tough job.” Hades’ jaw clenched. “Whom do I have to convince? Her?” He nodded straight ahead. “Or you?” Again the nod, this time a bit to the right.
“You need to convince my mother, of course,” said the first voice, and I would have had it then even without the edge of a green wing that momentarily slipped into the picture.
Megaera, the Fury with hair and wings of ship-devouring seaweed. In turn, that meant the trio must be talking about Necessity. My back clenched. Every muscle from the backs of my knees to my neck contracted all in an instant at the thought of Necessity handing over her role as the Fate of the Gods to anyone , much less Hades.
It would take
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