Page 64 of Love and Death
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.
18
HAZEL
Iwake 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.
Ithasto 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.
