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To soothe him, I stroke his strong neck. Peering up into his glassy onyx eyes, I ask, “You're not jealous, are you, boy?”

A hot puff of air blows my hair out of my face. I bite back a chuckle. “Okay, maybe you are jealous.” He sighs a horsey sigh of pure drama. I fight the smirk that plays at my lips. “I’m sorry. I haven't replaced you; you know?”

Another hot puff, and this time I don’t bother restraining my laugh. My heavy heart feels just a little lighter.

I look to Hecate. “I’d love a ride. Will you ride Alastor?”

Hecate’s pale face pales. “Absolutely not. I'll ride Nycteus.”

“Oh…”

At my frown, Hecate explains, “Alastor is Hades’ horse. The only other soul he would ever allow on his back isyou.”

My eyes flick to Alastor to see that Hecate is not at all wrong.

There is no reception in his eyes that tells either of us that he would welcome Hecate on his back. Me however…

I think I could convince him.

I won't, though. There’s something about his relationship with Hades that feels sacred. I don’t wish to come between them. I am perfectly happy with Aethon—unless I’m riding with Hades, of course.

I rideAethon beside Hecate and Nycteus along the shore of the Marsh. The water is harrowing, of that much I’m aware. It’s not a lake any soul would dare swim. Even the Gods who call the Underworld home don’t venture into the waters of the Marsh. Apart from Charon, the waters of the Marsh are entirely avoided. But there is no denying that even though they are treacherous, they are beautiful.

The Marsh is so still, the surface looks like inky green glass. Surrounding the entirety of the Marsh is the inky blue surge of the River Styx. In the center, reachable only by Charon’s blackboat is a patch of land inhabited by him alone. The midnight green grass surrounding the home with its bone white columns faces the direction of the sea. It is partially concealed by the tall trees drenched in midnight blue that tower over the small abode. And stretching into the still waters is a wooden dock in which Charon’s boat will rest.

The boat is not currently resting. It cuts through the waters with a lethal grace, carrying souls between the shallow walls of the boat as Charon stands, cloaked in reaper black at the bow. The vision is a picture worthy of paint. The shallow walls of the boat swooping elegantly into the high curled stempost that matches the sternpost. It reminds me of something plucked straight out of Viking lore as it sails in the direction opposite the sea in which we travel.

Aethon’s strong body carries my weight, settling me to the core. There is a sweet stability to riding him. Especially now that my memories are restored, and I can call upon the bond of the past. There had been many nights I’d taken to riding with him along the paths that curled throughout the Underworld. He’d ridden hard, my heart galloping in time with the pounding of his hooves into the earth as I loosed the pain of my broken heart into the ether of the Underworld.

Riding had once, long ago, been therapy for me.

And I've been unsettled for weeks now. Since the sinkhole. Since the carvings in the stone. Since finding out I am pregnant.

I can’t escape the feeling that something is coming for me. Hunting me. A future I cannot hide from, no matter how I might try.

I feel like a sitting duck in dark water. I am helpless to swim away from what reaches up from the depths. I am helpless to flee the teeth that will cut into flesh and bone, dragging me beneath to a fate I will inevitably be forced to soon face.

But right now, for the first time since all that, I feel safe. I feel stable.

I pull in a deep breath that swells my lungs before releasing it in a long, audible sigh that draws Hecate’s attention. I don't miss the curl of her lips, small as that sharp twitch of her lips is.

She clucks her tongue and Nycteus slows his pace. Aethon follows suit and we’re soon strolling the shore of the Marsh at a pace that is leisurely and peaceful.

Hecate asks softly, “How have you been feeling?”

I don’t look at her. “Fine. Why?”

“I know human women often struggle with pregnancy.”

I arch a brow. “Have you had much experience with pregnant human women?”

Hecate shakes her head. “I can't say that I have.” Her eyes slide sideways to me. “But I can say that I am a very powerful witch. One of the first, in fact. But I cannot sense the life—the lives—that live in you.”

Her eyes study the frown that pinches between my brow. “Should you feel them?”

She nods soberly. “I should.”

My hand moves from where I’d been toying with Aethon’s deep black mane, something I recall from my ancient, new-to-me memories, that he adores—to cradle my belly. “What does it mean then, that you can't feel them?”