Page 26 of Love and Death (Tempting the Fates #4)

HAZEL

I wake with a winded gasp, the air clawing its way into my lungs, now pungent with the smell of wet earth and rot.

Blinking, I realize that I’m lying back on the moor in Persephone’s chambers, my cheek pressed against damp moss. I frown, struggling to remember, trying to differentiate between reality and fiction.

Had it all just been a dream?

My finger twitches as warmth spreads through me, sending tingles up my arm as if to remind me of the icy torture I’d endured when last I was conscious.

Father.

My heart thuds in my chest as I remember why I came here in the first place … and what I had been told he was turning into.

That pain, that cold … is that what it feels like to have a wraith feeding on your soul?

I try to push myself up off the ground, but I cannot. My body refuses to move, still distant and heavy, as if it has yet to fully awake.

I can’t even turn my head to see if my father’s body is still lying next to me. I can feel no warmth, hear no sound but the rustle of my breath over the bitter moss.

“Persephone,” I mumble, her name a garbled mess on my lips.

No response.

“Cerberus?” I try again, this time clearer.

Again, nothing.

My mouth goes dry as an uncomfortable flutter starts in my chest, but before panic can fully take hold, the numbness gives way as my soul settles within my form once again.

I waste no time pushing myself up onto my hands and knees as I turn to look at the space beside me where my father’s body should be.

Only, it’s no longer him.

It’s Eros.

The pale god lies motionless before me, somehow more colorless than before.

Long white hair haloing a once impossibly perfect face that’s now stained in blood and grime, and marred with half-healed wounds.

His usual pristine, flowing garments have been replaced with the tattered remnants of my father’s clothes, now little more than old rags, pulled tight across Eros’ godly frame.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and rub, but the pale god doesn’t vanish when next I dare to look. Reaching out a hand, I hesitate for a brief second before touching my skin to his.

Though he is icy to the touch, the image before me doesn’t shatter. Doesn’t change .

I feel no energy, no pain, just the touch of skin.

Eros, what he told me, what happened between us … it was too real, too personal.

Surely, it was more than just a dream?

It had to have been.

It has to be.

Because, if what Eros told me is true, then Death isn’t dead.

Not yet.

Hope stirs within me, determination setting my heart ablaze once again.

I need to tell someone before it’s too late.

Rising to my feet, I spin around to look for Persephone, only to learn that neither she nor Cerberus are anywhere to be found. The fog now so thick, I can no longer see the door to her chambers.

My stomach knots at this.

I’d been so caught up in my own thoughts that I hadn’t stopped to notice that I was alone, or even—

I turn to look around the room, and the ground beneath my feet squelches, stopping me in my tracks as my heart leaps into my throat.

The moor is slowly sinking.

What’s happening here? How long was I asleep?

These questions burrow into my chest, bringing with them a whole new level of trepidation. I could have been gone for minutes, hours … days, even.

For all I know, Hades has already returned.

I have to steady myself against this thought. Regardless, time is running out, and if I can’t find a way out of this moor soon, it may not matter .

Walking to the bank of what’s left of the mossy bed, I peer out through the heavy fog, but it’s impossible to make out anything. I turn to search my surroundings for some means of help, when my eyes catch on Eros’ tattered coat. Father’s tattered coat.

I wonder …

Sloshing my way over to him, I drop to my knees beside his body.

“Please, forgive me for this,” I say, before sticking my hand into one of the jacket pockets.

My brow furrows, crumbs and bits of dirt catching beneath my nails as I dig along the bottom seam.

Empty.

I hurry to check his other pocket, and again, nothing.

Sighing, I sit back on my heels to try to rewrite the plan that was half-forming in my mind when I go still.

Those pants, the familiar remnants of a fraying patch at the knee … they were made by my mother’s own hand. I haven’t seen him wear them since the day she died.

Only half daring to hope, I lean forward and carefully work my hand into the side pocket of the once-loose trousers now pulled far too taut over Eros’ hips.

I freeze as my fingertips brush against something hard and cool to the touch.

Forcing my hand deeper into his pocket, I hear the unmistakable scuff of metal and use my fingers to work them into my palm.

Still, the fabric is so tight that I struggle to remove them as I draw my hand back, but finally manage to do so.

Turning the heavy metal pieces over in my hand, my breath catches in my throat. Five coins rest in the palm of my hand, but these are no ordinary coins.

These are obols .

Coins meant for crossing the Styx. Coins meant for the dead.

But what are these doing in Father’s pocket? And how did he come to have so many?

Turning one over in my hand, my heart skips a beat in my chest as I read the words that are scratched into the back of it, and in my father’s own hand.

Hazel, the light of my life

Swallowing the lump in the back of my throat, I turn over another. It’s blank, as is the next … but the third is also engraved.

Calla, my marigold, my treasure

Tears burn the backs of my eyes, and I am unable to stop them from spilling over onto my cheeks.

This is my mother’s coin. It’s been so long since I saw her name, and written in my father’s hand no less.

My brow knits together as I blink the tears from my eyes. I can understand why he might have mine, as there was no body to bury for my death, but why does he still have Mother’s?

I hold my breath as I turn the last coin over in my hand, exhaling with unexpected relief when I discover that it’s also blank.

My relief is short-lived, however, as a horrible slurping sound draws my attention back to the present. I glance up at the moor and Eros and find myself momentarily stunned.

His body is being pulled under .

Already, he’s nearly half-swallowed by mud from the waist down. The sinking was so subtle that I doubt I would have noticed until he had gone under, if not for the sudden gurgling of the wet earth.

No sooner do I think this, then the ground beneath him groans to open its gaping mouth. The moss tears, water rushing in to hurry him to his grave.

“No, no, no!” I scramble forward, quickly tucking the obols into the bustline of my corset, and reach for the pale god’s hand. “Eros!”

Of course, he does not respond.

He is as heavy as an ox, and, worse still, limp. No matter how much I struggle against the moor, I cannot pull him up, much less free of it.

I dig my heels into the swampy moss, trying to gain leverage, but the ground sloughs away beneath him, jerking me forward with it.

He’s going to drown right in front of me if I cannot save him.

Panic grips my chest as I slip, mud and slime making it nearly impossible to maintain my hold on his skin. The moor begins to devour his waist, and I reach for the tattered lapel of my father’s coat instead. My grip holds this time, and I am able to stop Eros from sinking further, but that is all.

He is still too heavy; the moor too strong.

I cannot hold on for much longer.

I grit my teeth, sweat beading across my brow as I refuse to give up, even as I feel the moss beneath my feet start to give way. My stomach lurches as I realize that it means to swallow me, too .

It always did, but then, something strikes me as odd.

Looking down, I hardly dare to believe what I see. Despite the moss now being fully submerged, I have not sunk with it. In fact, I’m standing on the water as if it were nothing more than soft earth beneath my feet.

Not even the hem of my dress is so much as damp.

I nearly lose my grip on Eros, as startled as I am by this revelation, until I remember.

The obols.

Eros’ body did not start sinking until after I took them, and I had all but forgotten about the dampness and the rising water since taking them in hand. Perhaps these waters are not merely magic, but are drawn from the Styx itself.

And just maybe, these coins can protect us both.

Grabbing one of the obols out of my corset, I hold tight to Eros with my other hand as I search for a safe place to secure the coin to his person. The coat’s pockets are hidden beneath the mud, and I dare not risk the obol trying to pull them out.

I inhale sharply, remembering a small trick my father had shown me on our travels together. Tugging the coat open, I smile at the hidden stitches inside. A nearly invisible pocket, perfect for a wedding ring, and just the right size for a magic coin.

Tucking the obol snugly inside it, I whisper a silent prayer of hope that this will work.

At first, nothing happens, and then I feel the moor groan and shift beneath the water. I fight to maintain balance as the surface ripples and then, with a rumble, breaks, forcing the rest of his body out from its murky depths.

I blink several times, hardly daring to believe my eyes, but nothing changes.

It worked; it actually worked!

Exhausted and trembling, I ease myself down to sit on top of the water with a heavy sigh of relief, but I do not let go of Eros.

I watch him where he floats beside me as I try to catch my breath.

His hair spreads out like frost across the water, his skin somehow paler than I remember, and I wonder how I am supposed to save him.

No, I do not have to wonder.

I have to act.

Find Hypnos, and bring Eros and Death’s bodies to him before it’s too late .

That is what Eros told me to do.

“I can do this. I have to do this,” I murmur in half-hearted encouragement to myself.