Page 25 of Love and Death (Tempting the Fates #4)

HADES

I grit my teeth, fury licking up around me in blue flames.

The ascent should have been simple, if not painless, but the Fates appear to be up to their old tricks. Unlike the woods outside Aglaia, this one will not bend to me, nor would it bend to any other god of the Underworld.

Not even Persephone.

Here, I have only the crones to curse.

A half dozen times already, I have tried and failed to make it to the top, the twisting path always leads up, yet brings me right back to the foot of the mountain.

I can hear the crowing of their three-eyed ravens, even from here, as they mock my failure. They will not think it so funny when I make a pyre of their tree. I will make them pay; I will make them all pay once I am God of All the Living and the Damned.

Do they think they can outwit me? That their mountain will protect them from keeping their end of the bargain?

I laugh bitterly at this.

Then they are all the more cowards for it.

If the Moirai hags refuse to let me climb their chosen trail, I will cut my own path to them.

Burn my way to them.

Just as I did before, I reach out to break off a thick branch from one of the nearby trees. My hand ignites in blue flame, slowly consuming the dry stick, burning bright and hotter by the second.

Smiling to myself, I take it in my other hand, lowering the burning end to the ground as I begin to climb again, torching the trees as I go.

This time, I do not give it warning. This time, I will watch the forest burn.

My smile only widens as the fire rages, and I hear their silent, crackling screams rising toward the black heavens. Let them stop me now.

The path forward grows clearer with the crashing of falling trees turning to ash and dust before me. I walk through the fire, my eyes set forward as it licks up around me, devouring all it touches with insatiable hunger.

Only my being is left unscathed as I leave the burning ashes of the woods behind me to walk the cliffside path.

Even the mountain itself no longer dares shift to deceive me; its skirt of foliage laid barren and wasted beneath my power.

Finally reaching the summit, save for the silver key at my neck and the rings around my fingers, I am left naked and bare to all, my clothes consumed by my own fury. My body glistens with the heat and taste of fire, the ashes of the fallen worn proudly across my skin.

I step forward, the three-eyed ravens suddenly silent at perch. Their tree, as of yet, still untouched by the raging fire below, protected by the mountain cliffs.

But not from me.

I stand straighter, my head held higher, daring them to challenge me as I continue on. Striding toward the rotting shrine that is the Fates’ lair, I scowl at it.

Teetering as it is on the very edge of the cliff, I would like nothing more right now than to send it crashing to the depths below. Perhaps, someday soon, I will.

I step up to the stone wall and pound my fist against it.

“You will not deny me an audience,” I roar. “Choose to do so, and I will burn your tree down, ravens and all.”

A split second of silence, and then the stone splits open with a loud rumbling crack, giving me just enough space to squeeze through.

Sideways .

Even so, I feel the stone try to crush in around me as I force my way through. It is deliberate. They are testing their limits, still trying to stop me.

The rough stone scrapes against my skin, digging in to tear into my flesh. Into every last inch of my exposed body, but it only serves to fuel my rage and, in turn, make me harden.

Pain.

Anger.

The pleasure of them.

Fine. Let them see a glimpse of what I can bear. Let them be witness to my every perfection. Let them see all that I am.

Exiting the stone, I step into the circular entryway; thousands of ancient, wax-dripped candles cover the walls, unlit and cobwebbed over with dust and decay.

My lip curls up in disgust.

It would appear they intend to not even grant me the formality of illusion. They are trying to humiliate me with disrespect.

I look down and snort, having now risen to my fullest glory over their futile attempts to turn me away. Let them see what defiance and challenge do to me. Let them see how I revel in it, how it invigorates me.

If humiliation is what they want, I will give it to them.

But it will not be mine.

Descending the stairs, the rotten stench of their decay wafts up to assault me, but I do not falter. I can hear the creaking of their bones, the groan of the loom long before I see them, backs bent and haggard over the working of their threads.

Wretched creatures, one would think they were hanging on to immortality by a mere thread themselves.

I come to a standstill a few feet from the loom. Not one of them rises to greet me, nor even turn to acknowledge my presence.

“You are early.” The voice is disembodied, but I know it is Lachesis who speaks. “You should not be here.”

“We do not want you here,” Atropos hisses, her voice moving from one ear to the next.

“We had a deal,” I say, refusing to be put off .

“A bargain which you have yet to uphold,” Clotho says.

“Me? You think I am the one who has not followed through?” I say, my voice dark with fury.

“We do not think it,” Lachesis says.

“We know it,” Atropos finishes.

“Then you know nothing.”

“We have seen it,” Clotho says, her voice cold and emotionless.

“Then you have seen wrong.”

Lachesis’ eyes flash to my face, her voice sharp in my head. “Our ravens only speak truth.”

“Then your ravens , are blind.”

“The loom corroborates their cries,” Atropos adds.

“Death gave up his soul willingly, as you requested. He is dead. I saw him die before my very eyes,” I snarl, straightening to my full height and taking a threatening step toward them. “The loom lies. Your threads lie!”

“The loom never lies,” Lachesis’ voice echoes in my mind. “Death’s soul still lingers.”

“It is still tethered,” the youngest hag repeats.

“Then, cut his thread.”

“We cannot. We have tried.”

“Did you destroy his body,” Atropos asks, her voice dead of emotion.

“I intend to. Everything is being prepped for the event as we—”

“Prepared?” Clotho scoffs.

“King of the Underworld, and yet you know nothing !” the oldest of them screeches. “You have deceived yourself. You should have torn him to pieces and burned him to ash the moment he fell!”

“His thread cannot be severed until he is unraveled,” Clotho adds, her soulless eyes snapping to me.

I clench my jaw, my hands working into fists at my sides. How dare she speak to me, God of the Underworld, like I am one of her puppets.

What I would give to wring their necks with my bare hands. Did I not bring down Death himself? A feat they could never have dreamed of accomplishing on their own.

I force my hands to relax, force myself not to walk over and toss them from the gaping hole in the wall of this retched place.

I will not forget this slight.

Their time will come.

But, for now … I must have patience. They would not be able to deny me their end of the bargain if there was not some truth to their words. If they need Death’s body destroyed to grant me my power, my throne, then so be it.

“Consider it done,” I saw, jaw still tight.

“We will,” Lachesis says, her soft voice grating its way down my spine, “once it is done.”

An unexpected gasp, more like a hollow groan, draws our attention to Clotho. Her mouth is open wide—empty and gaping—as she points down at the loom.

I step forward and watch as a single shining thread loops once around another.

“What do you see?” I ask.

“The girl.”

“The mortal bane of our existence,” Atropos sneers .

“She has found Death’s tether,” Lachesis says weakly.

“Then I will get it from her and finish what I have started.”

“See that you do,” the pale one says, before all three finish in unison, “or we shall have no choice but to take fate into our own hands.”

My lip curls up at this, and I gift them a mocking bow of understanding in response. I start to turn on my heel to leave when Lachesis calls out one more time.

“If the mortal will not be broken, you must end her. You might do well to call on Cerberus’ loyalty, when the time comes.”

“He cannot be trusted with her.”

“You are right,” Atropos says, “the dog cannot be trusted with her. However, we have decided …”

“To give you a gift,” Clotho finishes.

“How so?” I scoff, knowing full well that the Fates do not give gifts; they force them down your throat and expect payment later.

“You will find a new bond forged,” Lachesis answers, “between your dog and the girl.”

“A fate bond,” the eldest sneers before they all cackle as one.

“And what of his bond to me?”

“Do not fret, my king,” Atropos jeers, a wry smile spreading too wide across her face, “that deal remains intact. The girl has no desire for your dog; the bond will only destroy her. No, go and use this gift wisely.”

I do not respond, only nod my head in feigned obedience.

I take my leave, climbing the stairs and forcing my way back through the gash that opens up, gladly putting their repulsive lair behind me.

The moment the stone wall seals behind me, I let my mask of obliging obedience drop. A snarl tears from my throat—deep, guttural, inhuman.

How dare they speak to me like I cannot hold my own, let alone fate bond the girl to my dog. They should have bound her to me!

No matter, I will break this bond between them, and I will do with the girl as I please, when I please. She will be broken, but not to appease the hags of fate.

The thread-weaving crones have grown too used to their perceived power.

Once Death’s power is finally mine, I will rule fate.

And when I do, I will return—not as a god who serves them … but as the hand that silences the loom, and preferably, them with it.

A dark grin spreads across my face at the thought as I pass under the uneasy weight of several thousand beady eyes perched in the groaning branches above.