Page 6 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows
I’ve known my fair share of torment, but I’ll never have to suffer the ordeal of Tartarus. Between my dad’s mercurial moods and unrelenting expectations, I’ve got my hands full.
With him nowhere to be found, I sit in a chair that’s as old as the kingdom, my fingers drumming on the carved armrest. I take deep breaths and wait, eager for this encounter to be over. I have a bad feeling about this.
My father’s study traps you. Walls towering. Bookshelves sagging. Air suffocating. It hasn’t shifted in the slightest—locked away, untouched, forever.
Only the giant clock’s muffled tick echoes, a constant reminder of time’s relentless march. It sits in the corner, another borrowed artifact from the human world. Not that it affects us since nothing ever changes. But we deal with humans, so somehow staying rooted in their time-bound reality by a shred is vital to my father—he revels in embodying the visage that mortals recognize.
“Zagreus, myboy.” Hades’s baritone voice startles me. He materializes before me. Composure intact, he regally sits behind his dark desk, his dark beard trimmed to perfection, his robe a dark cascade of fabric. Every inch of him screams darkness—he is, after all, the King of the Underworld.
Frowning, I snap, “I haven’t been aboyin a long time, Father.”
“You’ll always be my boy, son,” he cajoles. Since when does he play nice? I have my answer when he catches himself and snickers. “And when you dress like this, your petulant nature reminds me of a young boy. Why do you stubbornly refuse to blend in here and prefer to stick to humans’ ridiculous trends? You are not one of them!”
I glare at him, tempted to refresh his memory for the umpteenth time about my last journey on Earth back in the 1980s. A journey he demanded I take, which jumpstarted my obsession with a particular show: Miami Vice. The aesthetic inspired my style ever since. Comfortable suits. Pastel colors. Soft fabrics. Why should I care that he hates it? It might even be a bonus! Consequently, I purse my lips to swallow back the spite that threatens to explode from them.
Blend in? I refuse to be a stereotype, preferring to embrace my true self unapologetically. But Father sees it as defiance. His loss.
“Who knows if it’s still in fashion there nowadays?” he insists. His daring eyes prove how much he enjoys the barely hidden humiliation.
I do not care if humans continue to dress this way or not. I like it. It makes me feel happy and more confident. I fantasized over Sonny Crockett for so long, and I’m not ready to give up his wardrobe.
I don’t voice my thoughts.
Schooling my features, I sit straighter and paste a fake smile on my face before I say coolly in an attempt to shake off his oh-too-familiar sour mood, “You requested my presence to discuss fashion?”
“I did summon you.” Ohhh, big word! Who summons their son? Does he think I’m a demon of some sorts? I let out a frustrated breath. “I need you to handle something for me.” His tone is steady but edged with that unnerving weight of authority. “Something tricky.” The man simply cannot sayplease. Always needs something. Always a request. Always a command. “Nobody can know about this, you understand.”
I shrug, trying to play it off like the walls aren’t already closing in. “What’s the problem this time?” I mutter; I’ve been Father’s little soldier for way too long. Strike that, pawn would be more accurate. How he enjoys using his family however it suits him!
He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. “An unexpected stranger. He appeared at the bank of the River Styx this morning, causing quite the stir because he shouldn’t haveaccessed my kingdom. Atropos alerted me about this when she wasn’t able to cut the thread of his life.”
“What do you mean she wasn’t able? How is that even possible?”
“You tell me!”
What? I frown at his words and open my mouth to speak before deciding against it. How am I supposed to know when the sole person responsible for the job doesn’t have an answer? As one of the Fates, only the mighty Atropos has the power to end lives by cutting that precious thread. If Atropos or Father had any sense of humor, I’d ask if it was April Fools’ Day. Tension knots my shoulders.
Hades then explains that the man’s thread returned to its previous state, over and over again, until the stranger arrived. Seriously? This can’t be! “So, your beloved Charon is privy to the… incident. Thankfully, he managed to appease the human but suggested you check him out.” His eyes bore into mine.
Despite the gravity of the situation, I can hear his unspoken words. Loud and clear. Charon, the ferryman of the dead. Charon, who transports souls across the River Styx to the Underworld. But most of all, Charon, my trustworthy childhood friend and occasional lover. It’s nobody’s business but ours, and yet, ever since Father saw us lip-locked, he’s worn a mask of contempt and disapproval around us. Why does he care anyway? I scrunch my nose, bringing back my attention to Hades, who’s all business now.
“Charon said the mortal doesn’t belong, although the man claims he does.” If a human’s caught between realms, something bigger is at play.
“Doesn’t belong?” I repeat, arching a brow. “We’re not a tourist destination, Father. I thoughtno onewas supposed to come here without your… permission.”
His gaze sharpens. “Exactly. I keep a thorough daily record of the souls that are ready to enter the Judges’ Hall. Charon claims that the young American isn’t on the list… but his name kept popping up and disappearing in the blink of an eye.”
“Odd…” I supply, rubbing my chin thoughtfully.
“I’m not sure what this is all about, but I refuse to bother Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus with someone who doesn’t belong here. Something’s going on on Earth, again… That’s why I’m asking you to take care of it and deliver him wherever he belongs.”
The wordaskingfeels generous. I sigh, rising to my feet. “Fine. But if this is another one of your wild goose chases, I’m billing you for my time.”
He stares at me. He doesn’t laugh. He never does.
Asshole.
Chapter Three
