Page 39 of Gods and Graves
Vast fields stretch before us, the grass whispering as if breathing. Souls drift through, gray and flickering like candlelight in the wind, their faces calm and vacant.
“This is where all the unremarkable, ordinary souls go,” Krystian chirps. Then, because he can’t help himself, he tacks on, “Like Everett.”
“Fuck off.” The shifter flips him off.
“It’s said that the souls here drift in a mindless state, with no memories of their human life and unable to create ones in their afterlife,” I add.
The five of us all turn to stare at the millions and millions of souls spreading as far as the eye can see. They’re all so close together, they practically collide, though not one expression shifts, caught in a perpetual indifference.
“If this is what the afterlife holds, maybe it’s a blessing that those souls are trapped in the dagger,” Thea says, keeping her voice soft so Charon won’t overhear—though the ferryman seems completely oblivious to any of our conversations, his gaze intent on some unseen destination ahead.
“You don’t mean that,” I tell her.
“Their choices are either torture trapped in the River, torture in the pit, or torture as a zombie,” she says seriously.
“And going insane is better?” I query—not judging her but genuinely trying to understand her thought process.
“No. Yes. Fuck, I don’t know.” She throws her hands up in the air. “Isn’t there somewhere nice in the Underworld? Paradise?”
“Elysium,” Rafe answers.
“It’s said to be located behind Hades’s palace. Only the best souls are allowed access, though,” I add, eager, as always, to show off my extensive knowledge.
“The gods are seriously gatekeeping the afterlife?” Thea asks, incredulous. “That’s so wrong. Let me guess—only those who worship them are allowed entry, right? It doesn’t matter how good of a person you are, only how much money you spend to please the gods.”
Rafe’s lips twitch. “Touché.”
Everett suddenly goes still, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “We’re here.”
Towering before us is the palace of Hades, carved into the very bones of the world.
It shimmers with obsidian and gold, its spires like teeth, its gates currently closed.
The air grows colder the closer we get, but it isn’t the cold of wind or winter—it’s the cold of permanence. The cold of endings.
There are gardens here, impossibly lush—strange trees heavy with jeweled fruit, vines that move while no wind stirs, flowers that open to reveal eyes at their center. I always heard that Hades’s wife, Persephone, had a green thumb. She somehow demoted the Underworld from terrifying to approachable.
“Krystian will cast another glamour on you to hide you from Cerberus,” Everett instructs, easily taking over the leadership role now that a battle is approaching. “I’ll talk to him first. Only engage if we have no other choice.”
He directs the last statement at me, Krystian, and Rafe.
We nod. Well, Krystian and I nod. Rafe simply slices his palm in preparation.
“We have arrived,” Charon booms, the boat slowing to a stop directly in front of Hades’s palace, which is half obscured by towering gates.
Charon stands perfectly immobile, a statue made of flesh, as the five of us exit the boat. Only when the last of us steps foot on land does the ferryman steer the boat away, disappearing into the gloom.
“Let’s do this,” Everett says gravely, stalking forward.
Directly towards the beast guarding Hades’s palace.
Cerberus stands sentinel at the edge of shadows, a hulking mass of muscle and malice coiled tight with purpose. Three heads rise from his broad shoulders like dark monuments—each one a snarl of teeth and unnaturally glowing eyes. His growl rumbles like boulders grinding in a deep, forgotten chasm.
His middle head—alert, commanding—surveys his surroundings with cold intelligence.
The left turns quickly, always watchful, nostrils flaring for the scent of trespassers.
The right twitches erratically, jaws snapping as if there are phantoms only he can see surrounding him.
Around his paws, the earth lies scorched and dead, as though life itself dares not take root near him.
A serpent coils in place of a tail, flicking its tongue in the air, its gaze just as piercing and cruel.
The gates of Hades’s palace rise behind him, carved in bone and obsidian.
All three heads turn in our direction as we approach.
“Hello, Father,” Everett greets coldly, and I know he hates using that name for the monster before him.
He hasn’t been a father to Everett in a long time.
“Son,” the middle head says.
Then, to my surprise, Cerberus’s form ripples and distorts, his arms and legs shortening and his tail retreating into his body. His three heads merge into one, and he stands on human legs.
Where before I was staring at a three-headed monster, I’m now looking at a man who looks eerily similar to Everett. Same light-brown hair. Same sharp jawline. Same hazel eyes.
The man smiles coldly. “I see you brought your team. And…” He trains his gaze with unerring accuracy on Thea, who should be invisible thanks to Krystian’s glamour.
“I see you brought a friend.” His lips lift even farther.
“Did you really think your tricks would work down here? All powers of the living are dampened in the Underworld. You know that, Everett.”
He chuckles, but the noise is a cold, malevolent sound. “So tell me, son. Why are you here? And why are you trying to hide this pretty reaper from me?”