Page 21 of The Fifth Gate

Cut off from my worshippers.

Unable to even hear their prayers, much less answer them. My worshippers diminished, and my power base crippled. All because I told that bitch ‘no’.

I was unable to leave. Aphrodite was out of my reach, and I could only occasionally push a message through to Olympus.

For all the fucking good that did.

So, I sat in the dark. And I waited. And I planned. And I plotted.

Centuries upon centuries spent planning my revenge. And now, it all tastes like ash in my mouth.

Hades snorts, and its unexpected enough that I can’t even be offended. I just stare at him.

He takes a drink from his chalice, rolling the wine over his tongue. Just like that, all of his power is folded away again, and he reclines on the chaise that he summoned for himself, a velvet monstrosity that looks as out of place in my shadowed throne room as a moose in the desert.

He smacks his lips obnoxiously, and its only the knowledge that he’s doing it deliberately to get a rise out of me that allows me to keep a rein on my temper. Hades has good council, when he chooses to use his brain for things other than figuring out the placement of limbs for an orgy.

“It might be the only wayyoucan think of,” he says, filling his cup with more wine. He raises it to me in a little mocking toast. “That doesn’t mean that there aren’t other ways, my friend.”

My eyes narrow in suspicion. I’ve known Hades a long, long time. He might play the fool, but I’d still trust him over ninety percent of the vapid masses of Olympus. I don’t think he would betray me, not just to get a chance of having a taste of Aphrodite’s daughter. No, we are too close for that. At least, I hope we are.

“If you know something, speak plainly,” I grit out.

One shoulder left bare by his gaudy chiton rises and falls in a negligent shrug. Hades takes another drink, clearly more interested in his wine than he is in our conversation. My throne makes a sound of tortured metal as my grip tightens enough to rip the armrests free.

Hades shoots me a look that’s somewhere between amusement and something shrewder. “Penelope is in this situation with you, now. You’ve admitted that she is bright, and brave, and determined. Did you ever consider, perhaps, asking her to help you?”

His words land like a solid blow to my body, knocking me breathless for an instant. Because, no, I haven’t. I’ve never asked for help, not since Olympus made it clear they had no interest in exerting themselves on my behalf. There was no onetoask for aid. And it is simply not in my nature to depend on others.

So the question now becomes: which is worth more to me? My pride? Or my freedom?

Eventually, I reluctantly shake my head. “She would not help me.”

“How do you know?”

I shrug. “She would not move against her own mother in such a way.”

Hades stares at me for a long moment, and I cannot read his face. Finally, he nods.

“Yes, of course, her mother. Who would ever move against their own family,” Hades says in a voice that sounds like agreement, and yet I can’t help but feel as if he’s mocking me.

The death god goes to take another sip of his wine, but then straightens up like he’s only just remembered something. “Say, have you noticed the curse that Penelope has been saddled with?”

I frown. “What curse?”

I didn’t look closely. I was concerned for Penelope as a necessary part of my revenge, not as a person in her own right. The thought is uncomfortable now, and I straighten up in my throne to try and quiet it.

“The curse that Aphrodite,her mother, placed upon her in an attempt to control her and force her to return to Olympus and under her mother’s thumb.” Hades takes another sip, obvious enjoyment painted across his features. “This truly is a fine vintage, Ares. Are you certain you don’t wish to try some?”

My head rocks back in surprise. “Aphroditecursed her?”

Her own daughter? I doubt Penelope could have done something worthy of such a punishment. It’s likely exactly as Hades says: an attempt at exerting control, to force her daughter’s hand. Does Aphrodite even truly see Penelope? As a person, and not just an extension of herself?

Do I?

That thought is accompanied by something very close to shame. I haven’t seen her as anything other than the spawn of her mother. Worse than that.

“I hadn’t looked,” I admit quietly. It feels like an unforgivable oversight, now.

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