Hades flicked a few fingers in acknowledgment of my statement.
“But the thing is, there’s no stories about you doing that. The others could sometimes show capricious temper and did some pretty painful things to people. You didn’t. You had a reputation for justice, and never for cruelty. Except for that . . . that thing with your wife, maybe.”
Fire reflected very brightly in his dark eyes. “How I stole Persephone, you mean?”
“Did you?” I asked.
And regretted it almost immediately. For a second, I wanted very badly to know a spell that would let me melt through the floor in a quivering puddle of please-don’t-kill-me.
Hades stared at me for a long, intense period of silence and then breathed out something that might have been an extremely refined snort from his nose and sipped more wine. “She came of her own will. Her mother failed to cope. Empty-nest syndrome.”
I leaned forward, fascinated despite myself. “Seriously? And . . . the pomegranate seeds thing?”
“Something of a political fiction,” Hades said. “Hecate’s idea, and my brother ran with it. As a compromise, no one came away from it happy.”
“That’s supposedly the mark of a good compromise,” I said.
Hades grimaced and said, “It was necessary at the time.”
“The stories don’t record it quite that way,” I said. “I seem to recall Hecate leading Demeter in search of Persephone.”
That comment won a flash of white, white teeth. “That much is certainly true. Hecate led Demeter around. And around and around. It was her wedding present to us.”
I blinked slowly at that notion. “A honeymoon free of your mother-in-law.”
“Worth more than gold or jewels,” Hades said. “But as I said, I’ve never been the most social of my family. I never asked the muses to inspire tales of me, or visited my worshipers with revelations of the truth—what few I had, anyway. Honestly, I rarely saw the point of mortals worshiping me. They were going to come to my realm sooner or later, regardless of what they did. Did they think it would win them leniency in judging their shades?” He shook his head. “That isn’t how I operate.”
I regarded him seriously for a moment, frowning, thinking. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Words are not my strong suit,” he said. “Did you ask the best question?”
I sat back in the chair, swirling the wine a little.
Hades had known we were coming, and we’d gotten in anyway. He’d known who I was. And there was, quite obviously, some kind of connection between Hades and the Queens of Faerie. I sipped at the wine. Add all that together and . . .
I nearly choked on the mouthful as I swallowed.
That won a brief but genuine smile from my host. “Ah,” he said. “Dawn.”
“You let Nicodemus find out about this place,” I said.
“And?”
“Mab. This is Mab’s play, isn’t it?”
“Why would she do such a thing?” Hades asked me, mock reproof in his voice.
“Weapons,” I said. “The war with the Outsiders. Mab wants more weapons. Why just get revenge when she can throw in a shopping trip at the same time?”
Hades sipped wine, his eyes glittering.
I stared at him, suddenly feeling horrified. “Wait. Are you telling me that I’m supposed to take those things out of here?”
“A much better question,” Hades noted. “My armory exists to contain weapons of terrible power during times when they are not needed. I collect them and keep them to prevent their power from being abused in quieter times.”
“But why lock them away where anyone with enough resources can get them?” I asked.
“To prevent anyone without the skill or the commitment to use them well from having them,” he said. “It is not my task to keep them from all of mortal kind—only from the incompetents.”
Then I got it, and understanding made the bottom of my stomach drop out. “This hasn’t been a heist at all,” I said. “This whole mess . . . it was an audition?”
“Another good question. But not the most relevant one.”
I pursed my lips, and tried to cudgel my brain into working. It seemed too simple, but hell, why not take the direct route? “What is the most relevant question, then?”
Hades settled back into his chair. “Why would I, Hades, take such a personal interest in you, Harry Dresden?”
Hell’s bells. I was pretty sure I didn’t like the way that sounded, at all. “Okay,” I said. “Why would you?”
He reached out a hand to the middle head of the dog and scratched it beneath the chin. One of the beast’s rear legs began to thump rapidly against the floor. It sounded like something you’d hear coming from inside a machine shop. “Do you know my dog’s name?”
“Cerberus,” I said promptly. “But everyone knows that.”
“Do you know what it means?”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. I shook my head.
“It is from an ancient word, kerberos. It means ‘spotted.’”
I blinked. “You’re a genuine Greek god. You’re the Lord of the Underworld. And . . . you named your dog Spot?”
“Who’s a good dog?” Hades said, scratching the third head behind the ears, and making the beast’s mouth drop open in a doggy grin. “Spot is. Yes, he is.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
Hades’ eyebrows went up. He didn’t quite smile, but he nonetheless managed to look pleased. “A rare enough sound in my kingdom.” He nodded. “I am a guardian of an underground realm filled with terrible power, the warden of a nation-prison of shades. I am charged with protecting it, maintaining it, and seeing to it that it is used properly. I am misunderstood by most, feared by most, hated by many. I do my duty as I think best, regardless of anyone’s opinion but my own, and though my peers have neglected their charges or focused upon inconsequential trivialities in the face of larger problems, it does not change that duty—even when it causes me great pain. And I have a very large, and very good dog . . .”
Spot’s tail thumped the side of Hades’ chair like some enormous padded baseball bat.
“. . . whom other people sometimes consider fearsome.” He turned to me, put his wineglass down and regarded me frankly. “I believe,” he said, “that we have a great many things in common.” He rose and stood before me. Then he extended his right arm. “You are here because I wanted to take a moment to shake your hand and wish you luck.”
I stood up, feeling a little off-balance, and offered my hand. His handshake was . . .
You can’t shake hands with a mountain. You can’t shake hands with an earthquake. You can’t shake hands with the awful silence and absolute darkness at the bottom of the sea.
But if you could, it might come close to what it was like to trade grips with the Lord of the Underworld, and to receive his blessing.