Not surprising. There was no greater power than knowledge.
“Has he tried locating the Graeae or Medusa?”
He wondered if the god might try to circumvent using the Graeae, since it seemed that the gorgon was his target.
“He has sent the maenads to investigate various channels in the market but has had no luck yet, though it seems many knew he was in possession of the sisters. The bounty’s increased on Medusa’s head. She’s caused quite a stir among hunters. They’re ravenous to find her.”
It was concerning to Hades that no one in the market had yet to snitch.
Usually, it didn’t take much. People in the underground were there because they liked to make deals that benefited them. There were no loyalties, only a good bargain.
Which made Hades think that perhaps the Graeae had moved beyond the market.
“I did ask Euryale as you instructed. She does not know Medusa.”
Strange, Hades thought. He’d expected otherwise, given that they were both gorgons. Perhaps Medusa had not always been a gorgon. Perhaps she had come under some divine curse.
“See what my brother is up to,” Hades instructed.
“Which one?”
“The wet one.”
Poseidon was always scheming, and he was likely working with Hera on her plan to overthrow Zeus. It would not surprise Hades if the god was trying to gather his own advantages and allies.
“Very well,” Ilias said. “Are you ready for the unhappy news?”
“That wasn’t unhappy enough?”
“We’ve detained a man,” Ilias said. “We expected you would want to…
interrogate him.”
“And why would I want to do that, Ilias?” Hades spoke carefully, but his irritation had spiked.
“He threw a glass bottle at Persephone.”
Hades waited, and when the satyr didn’t continue, he demanded, “Did he hit her, Ilias?”
“No, of course not,” Ilias replied. “I would have told you far sooner.”
The rush of fury that had erupted inside Hades quieted, replaced mostly by horror. He wondered what had spurred the attack. Had it been Persephone’s article about Apollo or her relationship with him? Perhaps both. Nevertheless, he’d see that the man paid for his actions.
“Where is he being held?”
“Your office,” Ilias said.
Hades needed no more information, and he teleported to Nevernight, to his office, where he found a man bound and gagged.
He was unremarkable—a pale man with a mop of dirty brown hair and dull eyes that widened at the sight of Hades. To his credit, he did not beg, though he did begin to shake, and a wet spot soaked through his khaki trousers.
“I heard you threatened the love of my life,” Hades said, shedding his jacket. He folded it and draped it over the back of the couch. Then he began to unlink his cuffs. “I’m here to discover why. Though, you should know, there is no excuse—no reason you can give that will end your suffering.”
As Hades rolled up his sleeves, the man began to beg, a muffled cry that Hades could decipher as “Please.”
Hades continued fixing his sleeve, and when he was finished, he removed the bind from the man’s mouth.
“Please, please,” he repeated in a shaky voice.
“Please what?” Hades asked.
“Don’t.” The word was a whisper, a plea, laced with fear.
Hades bent, eye level with the man as he spoke. “Don’t worry,” he said.
“This is not how you die.”
And as he shoved the gag back into the man’s mouth, he drew on his magic, and shards of black glass shot from the floor and speared the mortal’s feet, anchoring him in place. Blood pooled on the floor, and the mortal’s pained screams brought about a different kind of release, a means through which Hades could channel his anger and grief.
With the torture started, he retrieved a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass and dragged a chair from the bar, positioning it before his victim. He sat opposite the man and poured himself a drink, downed it, and poured another before removing the gag from the mortal’s mouth once more.
He moaned, leaning forward in his chair.
“It may do no good, but I will hear you speak,” Hades said. “Tell me why you threatened my lover.”
The man took a few heavy breaths. “It was stupid. I’m sorry.”
“It was stupid,” Hades agreed. “Unfortunate that you did not realize it sooner.”
He drained his glass once more and slammed it on the edge of his chair, gripping a large sliver and jamming it into the man’s thigh. He arched, but the movement only placed more strain on his impaled feet, which caused more pain.
“I am certain you are full of regret.”
The man’s chest heaved, and his head lolled about, an unnatural wheeze escaping his mouth.
The torture continued like that. Hades would take a drink, ask a question, and jab another sharp piece of glass into the man’s body. When he ran out of larger pieces, he summoned his own.
“I don’t…I don’t even like Apollo,” the man said in a breathy moan.
“So you are a sheep,” Hades said. “A follower who thought to rise to the rank of leader with your actions.”
The man groaned, though Hades did not know if he meant to agree or not.
“Let this be a lesson to think for yourself.”
Hades rose and used his magic to dislodge every shard of glass in the man’s body. It was a torture of its own, and as the pieces rose, they disintegrated. In the next second, he sent a surge of magic toward the man, and his wounds were healed.
“Th-thank you,” he said.
“Oh, it is not for your benefit,” Hades replied. “It is for mine. Perhaps I wish to begin anew.”
The man began to sob. The sound grated against Hades’s ears, and to stop it, he shoved the gag back into the man’s mouth. Then he sat back in his chair and finished off what remained of his whiskey.
Some time had passed when Hades rose, and the movement caused the mortal to flinch, but Hades had no intention of continuing the torture. He did, however, intend to threaten his entire afterlife if he spoke one word against Persephone or himself. After he was certain the man understood, he would have Ilias take him home.
Hades fixed his sleeves, secured his cuff links, and pulled on his jacket, but as he adjusted the collar and straightened the lapels, he felt the distinct roar of Persephone’s untamable power. He felt dread and tasted her distress.
It was both cloying and bitter, a conflict of her magic.
He started for the doors when they burst open.
“Persephone.”
There was something devastating in the way she looked at him, an emotion within her eyes that communicated something unspeakable, but Hades knew this pain. His soul recognized it and called to it, familiar with the ache it would inspire within his chest.
“Hades! You have to help! Please—”
Her words dissolved into a choked cry, and all Hades could do was take her into his arms and hold her against him as she shook. He felt helpless, and he hated it because he only ever felt helpless with her. As quick as it had begun, she composed herself and lifted her head from his chest.
“Hades—” she started, and it was then he realized she had noticed his prisoner, though it was hard not to because he had begun to scream, albeit muffled.
“Ignore him,” he said, preparing to teleport the man to a holding cell when Persephone’s hand clamped down on his own.
“Is that—is that the mortal who threw the bottle at me today?”
When he didn’t respond, she turned her gaze on the man. Whatever she saw was answer enough. He was prepared to hear her demand to release him, but instead, she asked, “Why are you torturing him in your office and not in Tartarus?”
The mortal must have expected more of a compassionate response, because his cries grew louder.
“Because he’s not dead,” Hades said. He could only take souls to Tartarus if their thread had been cut. He gave the man a withering look as he added, “Yet.”
“Hades, you cannot kill him.”