Page 38 of Gods and Graves

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ZAID

M ost people believe that wraiths are synonymous with spirits. Ghosts. Poltergeists. That’s a common misconception that started centuries earlier, before the humans learned the truth of the supernatural’s existence.

But we’re not dead, despite popular belief. I think the legend stemmed from the way we can make our bodies incorporeal and shadowy.

I’ve never stepped foot in the Underworld before.

I hope I never will again—at least, not for a few hundred more years.

It’s beautiful—but in the way a storm on the horizon is beautiful, or a field of poppies grown from spilled blood.

The sky above is a dome of smoldering onyx, speckled with dim, unmoving stars.

The ground shimmers faintly, veined with lines of silver and ghost light, and pale flowers bloom from cracks in the stone—lilies that release no scent, but turn ever so slightly to follow our steps.

The other three are already there when I step through the portal, Everett and Krystian standing protectively around Thea.

A second later, a rift opens in the middle of the air, and Rafe steps through, looking entirely unbothered by the horror show he no doubt witnessed in the Hall of Mirrors. Then again, nothing seems to ruffle the psychotic blood fae.

Excluding Thea, of course.

“Who knew the Underworld would be so cold?” Thea absently rubs at her bare arms, her gaze flicking in both directions rapidly.

Before I can remove my sweatshirt, Everett does so, passing it her way. She takes it gratefully and puts it on, the material dwarfing her much smaller frame.

“You look fucking adorable,” Krystian says, poking her nose.

She swats him away irritatedly.

“I’m not adorable. I’m a terrifying menace,” she counters, her lips puckering.

“See?” Krystian turns towards us, jabbing his thumb in her direction. “Adorable.”

“Where to next?” Rafe asks darkly, a blade already extended and clutched tightly in his hand.

I point. “There.”

Before us, the River Styx coils like a black serpent, its waters glowing with a blueish gleam. A rickety wooden boat rocks gently at the bank, waiting, its master cloaked in silence, his eyes unreadable beneath his hood.

Charon. The ferryman for the dead.

Trepidation crawls up my spine, and my tongue turns to cotton in my mouth.

“We need to pay the ferryman’s toll,” I whisper to the others as we regard the lone figure.

I can’t distinguish any of his features—not with his hood casting shadows over his face—but he has a slightly hunched back. The hand holding the lantern is pale and covered in wrinkles.

“What is his toll?” Everett folds his arms over his chest.

“And where are all the other souls? Shouldn’t there be, like, a line?” Thea queries, her eyes darting in all directions.

I can’t help but agree with her. The silence here is…eerie. Unnatural. It makes my senses heighten and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Is it possible that Thea has reaped so many souls that the Underworld has no new arrivals? No…that can’t be true. She hasn’t reaped a soul—excluding the oracle—in days. There should be hundreds of thousands here.

“Stay close,” I warn the others, taking the lead.

Everett may be in charge of all things physical, but I know where my talents lie. Bartering? Making deals? That’s my domain.

As we approach the boat, Charon turns towards us, his eyes glowing an eerie shade of purple beneath his hood.

“You must pay the toll for admittance.” His voice is a deep, booming baritone, surprisingly youthful considering his frail appearance.

Charon considers us. His unnerving gaze jumps from face to face, lingering on Thea for a longer moment than necessary.

“One memory,” he decides on at last.

“No,” Rafe snarls.

“Absolutely fucking not!” exclaims Krystian.

“You may choose the memory,” Charon continues, ignoring my brothers’ outbursts. “But it must be important to you. The River will know if you lie.”

An important memory?

I swallow down the nail that got hammered down my throat.

I have an entire childhood of memories, and more from my time at the compound training—though those are few and far between, due to the deep sleep I was put in. The most important memories, however? The ones that took place over the last couple of days. I refuse to give any of those up.

“All right,” I agree for the group, ignoring the withering glares the guys throw my way.

Only Thea appears unperturbed, her hands fiddling with the bottom of Everett’s hoodie.

“I’m not doing it,” Rafe snaps.

“You are,” I counter easily. “For Thea, you are.”

I level him with a serious look, reminding him of everything we have at stake. Namely, her.

“You don’t have to,” Thea cuts in quickly. “I can go on my own.”

“Not fucking happening,” Everett snaps, scowling.

“It doesn’t have to be a current memory or even the most important one,” I tell the others. “Think of something from your past. A dinner with your family that made you feel safe. One of the times we played a board game during training.”

“The memory doesn’t have to be happy either,” Thea points out, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. “Sometimes the most important memories can be ones you want to forget.”

I wonder if she’s thinking of something in particular, and the thought causes my breath to hitch.

The guys all exchange solemn looks and then step forward.

“Perfect,” Charon says.

I can’t see his face, but I have the distinct impression he’s smiling beneath his hood.

He turns to me with a wrinkled finger extended. “Think of a memory, but be very, very careful. Whatever you think of is what I’ll steal.”

I nod to show him I understand and tune out the rest of the world. In my head, I envision our first battle after we awoke from our comatose states. The first man I ever killed.

Charon places his finger against my forehead, and his eyes glow with a strange, preternatural light, the color luminescent in the monochromatic world.

He slowly pulls his finger away, and a tiny sliver of light follows, resembling a worm on a hook.

He tosses the light into the River, where it disappears.

And I have no idea what I just lost.

“The River feeds on the memories of the lost,” Charon says, turning to Thea. “Now it’s your turn, darling.”

I nearly lose my shit when he touches Thea—and I’m considered the level-headed one.

Rafe grips his blade so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and Everett continually growls.

Krystian merely narrows his eyes at the spot Charon touches our reaper, as if he’s mentally obliterating the finger in his mind.

Then, one by one, Charon repeats the process for the rest of us.

“Five memories. Five tolls. You may enter the boat.” Charon steps back to allow us to board, which we do so.

The tiny boat rocks and sways at our combined weight but holds.

Thea sits down, and I immediately claim the spot beside her, tingles spreading through me where our bodies meet.

We don’t say a word as Charon aims the lantern straight ahead, the simple movement somehow propelling the boat forward.

At first, it’s quiet. Unnaturally so.

Then ghastly, guttural moans slice through the air.

“What the fuck?” Thea whispers, peering over the edge.

I follow the direction of her gaze and go still.

Within the River’s murky depths, countless souls writhe in agony—half seen, half formed, their translucent faces twisted in eternal torment.

They reach upward with skeletal hands, their voices a chorus of anguish, rising in shrill, wordless screams that echo through the cavernous gloom.

Their cries for help are lost in the endless churning of the river, swallowed by the current that offers no mercy and no escape.

Each soul is a fragment of a life once lived, now condemned to drift in the cold, slow-moving waters of oblivion.

“Is this what happens to a soul once they die?” Thea whispers in horror.

I shake my head wordlessly, struggling to speak. “No,” I say at last. “Only souls too terrified to face Hades and receive judgment. Over time, the souls become…trapped.”

“Some prefer this over being sentenced to Tartarus,” Krystian adds from in front of us, swiveling on his bench.

“Tartarus?” Thea asks.

It’s sometimes easy to forget how little she knows of this world.

“Over there.” I point to the right of us.

From a distant ridge, the pit of Tartarus yawns like a wound in the skin of the world.

The edges are black and jagged, seared as though fire has licked them for centuries without rest. Foul vapors drift up in slow, curling tendrils, each one carrying whispers no ear should catch—too soft to understand, yet heavy with malice.

A faint red glow pulses deep within, not like firelight but like the heartbeat of something slumbering and hateful.

Even from afar, the air tastes of ash and iron, thick with despair.

And the screams…

God, the screams…

They’ll haunt me, even knowing the majority of the people trapped inside of it deserve their fate.

“It’s an eternity of torture and suffering,” Everett deadpans, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

“Probably where I’m going to go when I die,” Rafe adds casually.

Thea whirls on him. “Don’t fucking say that.”

“But isn’t it the truth, little bird? I did some fucked-up things over the years.” He shrugs one shoulder, exuding nonchalance.

Thea’s fists clench, and her face turns red. “You did those things to people who deserve it—just like the souls in the pit. You deserve nothing but good things, Rafe, and if you ever say shit like that again, I’ll…I’ll…”

She can’t seem to come up with a scary enough threat.

“You’ll what?” Rafe’s lips twitch, even as his eyes glimmer with something soft.

“You don’t want to find out,” she says at last, huffing.

And I have a feeling that’s the truth. Thea can be terrifying when she wants to be.

The boat glides through the water for a few more minutes, the pit disappearing behind us.

“You see over there?” I point to the left of Thea. “That’s the Asphodel Meadow.”