A Touch of Chaos (Hades x Persephone Saga Book 7)

“Yes,” Persephone moaned at the press of Hades’s mouth against her. Every part of her body felt raw and open, one whole nerve exposed to the pleasure of his touch. She could barely contain her need for him. It twined through her, tightening her muscles as he worked his tongue over her clit.

She took a deep breath, the pleasure already radiating throughout her body, but then he parted her soft and swollen flesh with his fingers, and she could barely contain her relief at feeling some part of him inside her.

“Yes,” she said again, looking down at him between her legs. He was staring back as he took her clit into his mouth again, sucking gently. “Fuck.”

She let her head fall back against the pillow. With each stroke, she grew warmer and the pleasure that knifed through her body built in intensity.

“Please,” she begged, though she was not completely sure what she was asking for. She wanted to come, to feel her whole body tense with the pleasure of release. She was addicted to it and the way Hades pushed her closer and closer to the edge.

Hades tugged gently on her clit as he released her.

“What do you want, darling?” he asked, his voice a dark whisper. It made her shiver despite the perspiration breaking out over her skin.

She was hot and damp.

“More,” she said.

She needed him fast and slow, needed him to work deeper, and he did, caressing a place inside her that elicited so much sensation, she thought she would die at any moment. And then she did. Pleasure shot through her like lightning, seizing every muscle. She bent forward, body curling into itself as her orgasm crashed through her, exiting her body on a deep and guttural moan.

That was how she woke, to the sound of her release, with her hands between her legs and no sign of Hades.

A hot wave of shame fell on her, and the heat that had livened her body vanished. Cold, she drew her knees to her chest.

Gods, it had all felt so real. She’d felt his weight on her. She could taste him on her tongue, and her lips were raw from his kiss. Now that she was awake, that pleasurable ache in her core turned into something nauseating.

It felt wrong to feel aroused in his absence, even if her feelings had been ignited by his role in her dream. The worst part, though, was waking without him.

This was a nightmare.

She rose from bed and shrugged on her robe before making her way to the balcony in the darkness. Outside, the Underworld felt different. She had yet to figure out the source. Was it their union, Hades’s absence, or Theseus’s violation of their realm that had spurred the change? Either way, it put her on edge. She felt like, at any moment, something might explode—that the magic she’d called on to trap Iapetus might splinter and the Titan would finish tearing her world to shreds.

Because this was all she had left—this and the hope that she would find Hades before Theseus gave him over to Cronos.

She let her head fall into her hands as she braced them against the balcony rail, tears burning the back of her throat, but she refused to cry, blinking fiercely until she no longer felt the threat. Once it had passed, she lifted her head and noticed an orange glow from afar.

She stood straighter.

Strange, she thought and teleported beyond the cover of the palace gardens where she noticed a fire in the Asphodel Fields. At first, a sense of panic overwhelmed her, and she teleported again quickly to the valley below, only to notice that the souls were gathered around it, using it for light. Some bent and carved bows, others were stitching pieces of leather into armor, and some were sharpening blades.

She turned her attention to the main road at the center of Asphodel, noting that every lantern was lit, making the sky look hazy and orange. Those who were not working near the fire were making repairs to their homes from the damage done during the rupture of Tartarus.

“Lady Persephone!”

She shifted toward the sound of her name.

“Yuri!” Persephone said and went to the young soul, drawing her into a tight hug. She had not seen her since the chimera attack and had yet to thank her for distracting the monster. “Are you well?” she asked as she pulled away, studying the soul, uncertain of what she had faced as the battle continued.

Yuri seemed puzzled by the question. “Yes, my lady,” she said. “Are you?”

Persephone opened her mouth to respond, but she still had no words to describe exactly what she was feeling. Instead, she looked toward the roaring flames in the field beyond Asphodel.

“What is going on? Why are you all here?”

Souls did not really need sleep, but they tended to maintain the routines they had while living.

“We are preparing for war,” Yuri said, and while Persephone could see that, she still could not quite comprehend it. “After what happened, we think it is best.”

Guilt tightened her chest. She could not help thinking that they had chosen to do this in part because she had not been able to protect them.

If Hades had been here, things would have been different, though she knew she was not being completely fair to herself. She, Hecate, Hermes, and Apollo had done all they could to defend the Underworld from the threats Theseus had unleashed, and the souls had helped. They likely only wished to be better prepared for the next attack.

“The next attack,” she said aloud, her voice quiet as she looked toward Tartarus.

“What happened, Persephone?” Yuri asked, but Persephone was not really prepared to answer because it meant revisiting the terror she’d faced over the last twenty-four hours.

It took her a moment to meet the soul’s wide-eyed gaze. When she spoke, her voice was mournful. “I am still trying to understand that myself.”

The sound of a hammer on metal suddenly echoed throughout Asphodel, and Persephone’s focus shifted to Ian’s outdoor forge. She had first met Ian when he had presented her with a crown, a gift from the souls. Later she would learn that he had been murdered for his skill and the favor Artemis had bestowed on him. Any weapon the man created ensured its wielder could not be defeated.

Several souls worked alongside him, some forging weapons while others hammered metal into shields and armor.

The thing about those who lived in Asphodel was that their skills matched the century in which they lived. Some had worked with wood and leather, some with iron and steel, but no matter their expertise, they shared one thing—the ability to prepare for war.

Humanity was unchanging, and it had never been more apparent to her as it was right now.

She scanned the souls gathered when her eyes snagged on a woman with a long braid.

Her brows lowered, and her heart hammered.

She took a step forward.

“Zofie?”

The woman looked up from her work and turned to face Persephone, who could not contain her tears. She had watched the Amazon die, taking a blade to the chest. She’d screamed so loud, even now she could hear the ring of it in her ears. It had all happened so quickly.

“My lady,” Zofie said, a smile spreading across her face. She bowed so low, she nearly touched the ground.

“Zofie,” Persephone said again and crossed the short distance toward her, hugging her close as she straightened. “Zofie, I am so sorry.”

The Amazon held her shoulders as she pulled away. “Do not apologize, my queen. You have given me honor in death.”

Honor.

It was the thing she’d sought as Persephone’s aegis, though she still did not know what had caused the Amazon such shame among her people. In the end, though, it did not matter because Zofie had found peace in the way she needed.

Perhaps Persephone could find the same peace, though she was not sure anything would ever remedy the horror of watching her die, even seeing the Amazon so happy in death.

Persephone’s eyes shifted over Zofie’s shoulder to Ian, who stood with the other souls gathered behind him. In his hands, he held a blade.

“Ian,” she said.

“My queen,” he said and bowed. “Allow me to present you with this dagger.”

She stared at the knife, which was sheathed in a scabbard inlaid with the same florals that adorned the crown he’d made for her—roses and lilies, narcissus and anemone. They climbed effortlessly over the hilt too, crowned with a piece of black obsidian atop the pommel.

As she took it into her hands, the dark gems he had set among the flowers glinted under the firelight.

“Ian,” she said again, this time a whisper.

“It is a symbol of your strength,” he said. “The blade is like you, unbreakable.”

She met his gaze, and again her eyes burned with tears. She did not feel unbreakable, but it meant a lot that her people thought she was.

She held the blade close to her chest.

“Thank you,” she said, unable to say anything else, and when she looked beyond the blacksmith and around, she noticed that more souls had gathered outside the smithy.

“All hail Queen Persephone!”

She was not sure who said it, but the souls responded by cheering, and then they knelt, and Persephone found herself at the center of their worship, completely overwhelmed.

Persephone spent a few more hours with the souls as they continued to prepare for battle. As much as she wished it were not needed, she felt it was necessary after what had occurred with Theseus. He had the Helm of Darkness, which meant he could return to the Underworld at any given moment unseen. Would he decide later that releasing Cronos into the mortal world was not enough? Would he seek to release more Titans or other monsters from the depths of Tartarus? Persephone had to hope that her magic would hold, that Hecate could protect the borders until Hades returned.

Pain sliced through her chest, sudden and sharp, before it settled into a keen and constant pressure. It had accompanied her since leaving Hades at Alexandria Tower and had grown worse in the aftermath of her dream. She was tired of this feeling.

Her eyes fell to the blade Ian had given her, which sat on Hades’s desk. When she had returned to the castle, she had come to his office, which felt more like a refuge than any other part of the palace. It still looked like he was here. It still smelled like him. She could pretend he was just away on business.

Hermes’s magic scented the air, and the god manifested near the door. He had changed since their battle and looked far more casual in a pair of khaki slacks and a white button-down.

“Hey, Sephy,” he said, his voice quiet and a little melancholy.

“Any news?” she asked.

“Not about Hades,” he said.

Her heart sank, even though she had expected as much.

“I have come to extend an invitation from Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. She has requested your presence at Zofie’s funeral.”

Funeral.

It would not be the first time she attended a funeral after she had welcomed a friend to the Underworld, but she still dreaded the thought.

“When?” Persephone asked.

“She will be laid to rest tonight,” said Hermes softly.

Persephone swallowed and looked away toward the windows.

“I know I am Queen of the Underworld, but I am not yet a Goddess of Death,” she said. “I do not know how to reconcile having watched Zofie die.”

“You did not just watch her die, Persephone,” Hermes said. “You watched her murdered.”

It had happened so fast. Zofie had found them, and as soon as she entered the hotel room, Theseus buried a blade in her chest. Persephone would never forget how her eyes widened or how she had collapsed to the floor. She would never forget the way she screamed or how it had hurt her throat. She would never forget how Theseus had made her step over Zofie’s body and leave her alone to die.

It did not matter that the Amazon was content. Persephone lived with the horror, and she could not help wondering who else among her friends would fall victim to Theseus.

“Will you come with me?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said. “We all will, Sephy.”

When Hermes left, Persephone made her way to the queen’s suite, anxious for an update on Harmonia. She found Sybil sitting on the bed beside the goddess.

“How is she?” Persephone asked as she moved to the bedside.

“Hecate says she has a fever,” said Sybil.

“Is that normal for a goddess?”

“She didn’t say it was bad,” she said and then looked at Persephone. “Perhaps her body will heal itself.”

Persephone watched Harmonia’s face, both pale and flushed at the same time. While she’d have liked to believe it was possible for Harmonia to heal without magic, she was not hopeful. It depended on how much Hydra venom had entered her veins.

What if Harmonia could not handle this?

Persephone tightened her jaw and pushed those thoughts away.

Losing Harmonia wasn’t an option.

“Any update on Hades?” Sybil asked.

Persephone swallowed around something thick and sour in her throat.

“Nothing yet,” she said.

“He will be all right, Persephone,” Sybil said, her voice a quiet whisper.

“Do you know that or are you just hopeful?”

“I know what I saw before,” Sybil said. “When I was Apollo’s oracle.”

When Persephone had first met Sybil, she had been in her final semester of college at New Athens University. At the time, she’d already caught Apollo’s interest and was poised to have a promising career as the god’s oracle, but he’d fired her after she’d refused his advances. It was a move Persephone had openly admonished only to face backlash from the public. Apollo, for all his faults, had endeared himself to the public, though now, needless to say, the God of Music had also endeared himself to Persephone.

“And now what do you see?” Persephone asked.

“I do not have a divine channel.”

“Does that mean you do not have visions?”

“I cannot ensure accuracy without a divine channel,” said Sybil.

“Would you like one?”

There was silence. Persephone looked back at Sybil, who was stunned.

“I don’t know if I will ever have temples built in my name or worshippers who seek my wisdom, but I must go to war with Helen and Theseus in the media, and I need someone I trust on my side.”

Persephone had yet to seek any news, yet to see what the world was saying about her—the goddess who had masqueraded as a mortal—but she knew Hermes was right. All she could do was tell the truth, and that would start with Sybil.

“Persephone,” Sybil whispered.

The goddess could not place the sound of the oracle’s voice or the expression on her face. Would she say no? She had seemed to lose interest in the position entirely after her experience with Apollo.

Sybil took Persephone’s hands in hers, squeezing.

“It would be an honor to be your oracle.”

Persephone arrived at the gates of Terme with Hecate on her left, Hermes on her right, and Ilias at her back. They were all draped in white robes, the color of mourning—a brightness that would lead souls into the dark. At least that was the prevailing belief of the living, though Zofie needed no assistance finding the Underworld. Still, Persephone dreaded the funeral rites. In some ways, it felt like facing Zofie’s death all over again.

As soon as they appeared, two guards who stood on either side of the gate knelt, bringing their spears to their breasts. Their bronze armor gleamed, ignited like the great flaming basins flanking them. Persephone could feel the heat of the fire, yet she shivered as if cold fingers were grazing her skin.

Movement within the shadowed entrance caught her attention, and from that darkness emerged Hippolyta. She was dressed in dark robes and draped in gold—a belt that cinched her waist, cuffs on her wrists and upper arms, long earrings that cascaded over her shoulders, a crown that rested against her forehead. Her hair was pulled away from her face, though ringlets slipped free from her binds, wreathing her stern but beautiful face.

Hecate, Hermes, and Ilias knelt while Persephone remained standing. It felt strange, but it was what Hecate had instructed her to do.

“Queens do not kneel before queens,” she said.

“Then what do I do?” Persephone asked.

“Whatever Hippolyta does,” Hecate replied.

Persephone held the queen’s heavy-lidded gaze, her eyes the color of prehnite stones.

“Persephone, Goddess of Spring, daughter of Demeter, wife of Hades,” Hippolyta said, and her voice commanded attention though it was not harsh. “Welcome to Terme.”

Then she bowed her head, and Persephone did the same.

“We are grateful for your invitation, Queen Hippolyta,” Persephone said.

The warrior queen offered a small smile and then stepped to the side. “Walk beside me, Queen of the Dead.”

As Persephone joined her, Hippolyta turned, and the gates groaned as they opened, revealing her city, cast in amber light from the torches burning in the night. Despite the dark, the lush terrain of the Amazonian fortress was evident. Thick trees dotted the landscape, sprouting between homes covered in flowering vines and gardens teeming with fragrant flora.

“I did not expect your kingdom to feel so much like home,” Persephone said.

It even smelled like spring—sweet with an edge of bitterness.

Hippolyta smiled. “Even warriors can appreciate beautiful things, Lady Persephone.”

Can you? she wanted to ask. When you hold honor so high?

But that would be an insult, and she was here for Zofie, who, despite how her own people had hurt her, believed wholly in the need for redemption. Persephone would not ruin that with her anger. Besides, it was Zofie’s exile that had brought her to Persephone.

It had also brought her to death’s door.

Persephone could not help the pain that blossomed in her chest as she was once more reminded that she bore witness to Zofie’s murder. It had created a darkness within her, something different than what had grown in the aftermath of Lexa’s death.

She feared how it made her feel, how it had changed her.

She wondered if Hades would recognize that wounded and withered part of her. If it would feel familiar because he had witnessed similar horrors.

That thought gave way to a different kind of pain, an ache she felt deep in her soul. She held her breath, hoping to suffocate every emotion that had risen inside her, and let her gaze fall to her feet. They walked along a dirt path lined with foliage, and as the leaves brushed against the hem of her robes, they seemed to grow taller and thicker.

“You are truly a Goddess of Spring,” said Hippolyta. There was a note to her voice, a sense of surprise.

Reluctantly, Persephone met her gaze, hoping she had managed enough control over her emotions.

“Were you in doubt?” she asked.

“New gods are a rare thing these days,” said Hippolyta.

It should have occurred to Persephone that some might be skeptical of her divinity. The world did not always take kindly to new, full-blooded gods. Such was the case when Dionysus was born. He had to fight to be counted among the Divine, and his battles had been bloody. But Persephone was not interested in proving herself—not to the world, to the Olympians, or to Hippolyta.

“It is curious that death would choose life as a bride,” Hippolyta said. “It is like the sun falling in love with the moon.”

“One cannot exist without the other,” Persephone said. “Just as honor cannot exist without shame.”

The queen gave a wry smile, and there was a tension at Persephone’s back that she knew came from Hecate at her slight.

“True, Queen Persephone,” Hippolyta said. “Though I suppose it is not about one or the other but what comes in between.”

They continued down the path in silence when Hermes gave out a sudden, high-pitched scream. Swiftly, they were surrounded by Amazons, their weapons drawn. Persephone and Hippolyta whirled toward the god only to find his hands balled up beneath his chin and one leg off the ground.

Hecate and Ilias stared too.

It seemed to take Hermes a moment to realize what he had done, and he offered a sheepish, shy grin.

“There was a bug,” he explained. “A big one.”

A few of the Amazons snickered.

Hermes glowered and looked at Hecate and Ilias. “Tell me you saw it.”

Both of them shook their heads in quiet amusement.

Hippolyta rolled her eyes.

“Men,” she scoffed as she turned her back on the God of Trickery.

Persephone raised a brow at Hermes, who mouthed it was huge before swatting at another invisible bug.

They continued down the path until the city center was visible. At the site of the sunken courtyard, Persephone halted. A wooden pyre waited, and at each corner of what would become Zofie’s infernal bed, there was a burning torch, the flames dancing in the muted dark.

Seeing it filled Persephone with dread. How many would burn like Zofie and Tyche?

“This is the nature of battle, Lady Persephone,” said Hippolyta.

It was strange to hear the Amazon queen speak so impassively about the death of one of her subjects, even if it was one who had been exiled, though Persephone realized the greatest honor to this tribe was to die in battle, to die for a cause.

“I did not know anyone had declared war,” Persephone said.

Looking back now, she realized that it had begun the moment Adonis had died.

“That is the fault of your husband,” Hippolyta said. “He has been fighting since the start.”

Persephone met her gaze, brows furrowed, but the queen did not explain.

Instead, she took a step forward. “Come.”

Persephone followed the queen along a winding path to a home caged in ivy. Shoots of pink crocus, purple iris, and yellow narcissus blanketed the lawn, leading to an open door through which Persephone could see Zofie’s lifeless form.

Hippolyta entered with no hesitation, but Persephone found that her steps slowed as she crossed the threshold into the house of death, which was hot and smelled like wax, likely due to the oil anointing Zofie’s body.

The Amazon lay on a high table dressed in white, her hands resting on her stomach, fingers closed over the hilt of her long sword. Her dark hair was smoothed into a braid, and she was crowned with a wreath of golden leaves.

She was beautiful, her limbs glistening beneath the firelight.

“You mourn so deeply, Lady Persephone,” Queen Hippolyta said. “Have you not welcomed Zofie into the Underworld?”

“I have,” Persephone said with a small smile, recalling her first sighting of the aegis. “But does the promise of seeing anyone again ever ease grief?”

The queen was quiet, though Persephone did not expect her to understand, just as Hades had not understood her fear of losing Lexa. Mourning was not just about the person. It was about the world one created around them, and when they ceased to exist, so did that world.

Hecate, Hermes, and Ilias approached, each saying goodbye in their own way—Hecate with a prayer and Hermes with a kiss on Zofie’s cheek. Persephone was most surprised by Ilias, who took his time, his face inches away as he whispered words she could not hear before pressing his lips to Zofie’s.

When he straightened, he met Persephone’s gaze with red-rimmed eyes before stepping away, making room for her.

As Persephone neared, she looked down at Zofie’s serene face, and though she was beautiful, all Persephone could see was how she’d looked in death—stunned by the pain of Theseus’s blade. She touched her hair and bent over her.

“You served so honorably, Zofie,” she whispered and kissed her forehead.

When she straightened, Hippolyta stood opposite her holding a wide leather belt.

“Lord Hades promised to return Zofie once she brought honor to us,” said Hippolyta. “In exchange, I agreed to lend him my belt.”

Persephone’s brows rose in surprise. Hades had never told her how he’d met Zofie, and now she wondered why he’d asked for the belt, though it was not unusual for him to collect weapons or relics.

The Amazon queen extended her hands, the belt held flat between her palms.

“This is the Girdle of Hippolyta, a gift from my father, Ares, a symbol of my rule over the Amazons. Any mortal who wears it will be granted immortal strength.”

Persephone gazed at the belt and then at Hippolyta and shook her head.

“I cannot take it,” she said.

She did not understand the deal Hades had made with the queen, but it seemed wrong to accept such an item without him.

“You must,” Hippolyta said. “It is not a gift. It is a symbol of the promise I made, and I do not break promises.”

Persephone could not argue with that and did not wish to. She accepted the girdle, surprised by how light and soft it was. As soon as she had made the trade, Hippolyta spoke.

“It is time.”

Persephone’s pain flourished again as six Amazons approached. She stepped away, following Hippolyta from the home with Hecate, Hermes, and Ilias in tow. As they emerged, she found the path they’d followed was flanked by Amazons. Some carried torches while others carried weapons, and when Zofie was brought forth from the home, they began to sing a haunting melody. It followed them as Hippolyta led the procession into the courtyard where the women of Terme continued their song while they clashed their spears and swords on their shields, slammed their fists against their breasts, or tore at their clothes in grief.

They did not cease, even as Zofie came to rest on the pyre and the Amazons who carried torches threw them at its feet, not even when the flames rose and caught Zofie’s dress aflame and then her flesh, filling the air with a metallic tang that lingered in the back of Persephone’s throat. Her eyes began to water, and she did not know if it was from the smoke or the sorrow that weighed heavily in her limbs.

Then Hecate took her hand.

“Do not stop your tears, my dear,” she said. “Let them give life.”

At first, Persephone did not understand, but then she felt something brush the hem of her gown, and when she looked, there were flowers at her feet, the petals so white they glowed like moonstones.

She smiled despite her sadness as the blooming bed continued to spread, and when Hippolyta noticed, she turned toward Persephone.

“I suppose what you said is true. Death gives birth to life.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “What will you birth, Persephone?”

“Rage,” she answered without a second thought.