I could tell as the devil leaned forward, something wondrous and hungry in his eyes, that he’d never come across anything like this bond.
Just then, a woman—demon?—came in with a tray bearing two champagne glasses. Celebratory drinks.
I exhaled, my body relaxing at the distraction.
“Ah, here we are,” Hades said, taking the flutes from the tray and handing one to me.
Mechanically, I wrapped my hand around it.
The woman bowed to Hades and left, leaving us alone once more.
“To us,” he said. He clinked his glass to mine and took a sip. I watched him, fascinated. He drank … champagne. So weird.
I glanced back down at my own glass, twirling the bubbly liquid. “Aren’t I not supposed to eat or drink here?” In the myths, Persephone trapped herself in the Underworld after she ate the food. I may be dense when it came to these things, but imbibing anything seemed like a bad idea.
The devil brought his glass away from his lips and stared at me for a long moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “You’re already here, consort. I’m not trying to entrap you. Just trying to get you drunk while I whisper sweet nothings in your ear in hopes that I might get lucky.”
Ewwww.
I lowered my glass. “I’m too young.”
“To drink? Or to bang?”
“‘Bang’?” I couldn’t stop my scowl.
“Forgive me—to make sweet tender love to your nubile body.”
“Ugh, you can stick with bang.”
I stared at my drink again, until the devil removed it from my gasp. “If you don’t want to drink perfectly decent champagne, I’m not going to force you to.”
“You won’t?” The words slipped out before I could help myself. But seriously, the devil’s M.O. had changed since we were last together.
Take it or leave it, Gabrielle. He’s being decent when he could be bashing your skull in.
The devil’s lips twitched. He had to have heard that thought.
I worked my throat. “What do I call you when we’re not alone?” Which would be always if he kept looking at me like he was.
“Pluto or Hades is fine,” he said, his eyes focusing on my mouth.
He’d avoided his Christian pseudonyms. Those were the especially depraved ones. Interesting.
“And what would you like me to call you in private?” he asked.
“Gabrielle is fine.”
“Not … ‘soulmate’?” He’d clearly said the words to goad me, and damnit if the endearment didn’t lance right through me.
“Do you even have a soul?” I asked.
He flashed me a secret smile, his eye glittering. “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s a mystery I’ll enjoy watching you unravel.”
He rose and pulled me up with him. “Secret names and cordial conversations. It’s not Rome, but it is a start.”
I eyed him warily.
“Soon,” he said, placing a finger at the hollow of my neck, “you’ll crave the chance to say my name. To hear my opinion.” He ran his finger down. There were holes in the webbed lace of the dress I woke up in, and I felt that finger slide over bare skin. “To feel my affection.” His finger kept going, only stopping once it reached my navel. “And my touch.”
Never. I’d never forget all the heinous things he’d done to me and those I loved.
“But until then, there is much you need to know. And while I’d enjoy watching you struggle to learn about your new powers and position, I cannot afford to have you look weak.”
The power he spoke of thrummed beneath my skin. I’d acquired new abilities as the queen of the Underworld. I knew, for instance, how to place a new soul into hellfire and forge him into the devil’s weapon, and I could command the devil’s legions.
“Not, my sweet, without my approval.”
My chest rose and fell, faster and faster. The devil—Lucifer—Hades, damnit—stepped closer, his eyes transfixed on my chest. Either my boobs or my fear pulled him in. Neither alternative made me feel better.
I stared down at my hands, as if they held the answers I sought. “What am I?”
“You’re Gabrielle Fiori, queen of the Underworld.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“I know that’s not what you’re asking. You want an identity when there’s none to give. You’re Ereshkigal, the Mesopotamian queen of the great earth, goddess of the Underworld. You are Hel, the beautiful Norse goddess whose embrace men ran to their deaths for—though, if they were wise at all, they will think twice about that. I don’t take kindly to interlopers.” The way he looked at me when he said that made me feel like I needed another layer of clothes on. He took one of my hands. “You are Mania, the Roman goddess and mother of the dead. And, finally, you are Persephone, the woman I stole from earth and laid claim to.
“You are all of them and not quite any of them. You can cross worlds, drink blood, beguile men with your voice, and reign—second only to me—a legion of souls. You can do all that and more. The power you wield is near limitless because it is bonded to mine.”
I narrowed my eyes at the devil. “You don’t share your power. You’ve said so yourself.”
“I am known as the Deceiver. I have said many things in the past that you should not believe, wife.”
“I’m not your wife,” I said sullenly.