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

“For no god may undo what another god has done.”

—OVID, METAMORPHOSES

Theseus stood on the porch of his mother’s home, the House of Aethra, which overlooked the entirety of New Athens.

Parts of the city were in ruin.

The Acropolis, once the tallest building in New Athens, an icon of the city, was no more, toppled by his father’s earthquake. Its collapse was perhaps the greatest symbol of his triumph, but it was marred by the presence of Hades’s abhorrent club. He had hoped it would fall during the earthquake like Alexandria Tower, but it had not even cracked.

Seeing it made him angry, and for a moment, he almost forgot that he should be celebrating today’s success. Nevernight might be a stain on his city, but it would soon be eliminated.

Everything will come in time, he assured himself.

What was it mortals said? Sometimes things had to break to be rebuilt?

And he was just getting started.

Tomorrow, when morning came, he would purge the city. He would drag every priest and priestess from their temples and slaughter them in the streets. What was not destroyed by earthquake or flood—every business and building, every sacred garden and grove—would go up in flame.

He would destroy every holy place until no sign of the Olympians remained.

Until then, the city slept, oblivious to the horror that would befall them tomorrow—the horror that would begin tonight.

“All communications are down,” said Helen. “How do you expect me to share your accomplishments beyond New Athens?”

“Do you not trust me to give you what you need, Helen?”

He looked at her, but she said nothing.

“From this day forward, you are responsible for how the world will see my creation. It will be you who shares the beauty and prosperity of New Athens under my rule. Your words will bring people from all over New Greece to witness the paradise I have created. It is you who will ensure I am worshipped.”

“You have put a lot of faith in my words,” she said.

“I have faith in them because they will not be yours,” he said. “They will be mine.”

Her mouth tightened. “Then you do not need me,” she said.

“Every god needs a mouthpiece,” he said.

He sensed that she stiffened, but he was not sure if it was from his comment or the fact that the dust had begun to stir, swirling until it took the form of a god. He was tall and broad, exceeding Theseus in size and height. He wore nothing save sheepskin around his waist. He had chosen to look neither young nor old, but he could not hide the depth of his ancient eyes, which carried a madness only present within those who had lived a long, terrible life.

“So you are the son of my son,” said Cronos.

“Your grandson,” said Theseus.

The Titan tilted his head, and there was a gleam in his eyes that Theseus had sometimes seen in his father’s, a menacing amusement. “Do you think the blood of my blood means anything to me?”

“It was you who brought up my parentage,” said Theseus.

It did not matter to him who Cronos was—grandfather or not, god or not. He only cared that he agreed to aid him in his battle to conquer the whole of New Greece.

A smile cracked across the god’s face. “A wise one,” he said. “You must take after your father.”

“You did not know my mother,” said Theseus.

Silence followed, a heavy and solid thing. Theseus had a feeling Cronos wanted him to shudder, to show some sign that his presence unnerved him, but he didn’t.

Cronos’s stare was steady.

“What do you want, blood of my blood?” he asked.

“An alliance,” said Theseus. “Your power over time.”

“And what would you do with my power over time?”

“I will end this world and begin again,” he said.

Rebuild what was broken.

He would bring about his dream of a golden age, and he would begin it in New Athens, and when word spread of its beauty and property and the fairness of its ruler, people would fall to their knees to worship him.

“If I destroy the world, you cease to be. Only gods endure.”

“I am the blood of your blood,” said Theseus. “I will endure.”

The corner of Cronos’s mouth tipped upward, but Theseus did not know if he was amused or impressed. What he didn’t like was the doubt blooming in his chest.

“I do not need an alliance with you,” said Cronos. “So what are you offering that might entice me?”

“I will give you worship,” said Theseus.

“Mortals dread the passing of time like they dread the coming of death. I do not need worship.”

Theseus had suspected as much. He tilted his head back just a little.

“A sacrifice then,” he said, and from the dark doorway behind him, two of his men emerged with Hera.

“Release me at once!” she demanded, unable to hide the alarm in her voice. She might have fought, but she was draped in the thin veil of a net and had no ability to resist. They left her on her knees between him and Cronos.

“How dare—” she began, but her words were cut short when she looked up into Cronos’s eyes. “Father,” she whispered on a shuddering breath.

Theseus had never heard her take this tone before. It was almost meek. He found it revolting.

Cronos stared back, not a hint of feeling in his face.

“On your feet, Daughter. Are you not queen of this world?” He reached for her and drew her up by her shoulders as if she were nothing more than a doll.

“Do not touch me!” she scowled. If she had the ability to move, Theseus imagined she would have jerked away from him. Instead, her eyes flashed with a familiar fury.

Cronos chuckled, a gravelly, unsettling sound. “A queen indeed,” he said. “Demanding, even with no real power.”

Theseus lifted the scythe he had been holding, letting the blade rest in his palm.

Cronos eyed it but did not take it.

“How dare you,” Hera hissed, her eyes narrowed at Theseus in visceral hate. “You would be nothing without me!”

“Do not take this to mean I am ungrateful,” said Theseus.

Cronos stared at Theseus. “You have given me a gift, blood of my blood,” he said. “I will choose to see this as a favor and grant you one in return.”

Theseus’s jaw clenched. It was not an alliance like he wanted, but for now, it would suffice.

The Titan took the scythe and gazed at Hera.

The goddess, who was usually cloaked in a facade of cold grace, looked stricken, her eyes wide and haunted. “Father,” she said again, her voice trembling.

Cronos’s lip curled. “All things end, Daughter,” he said, but instead of using his weapon, he took her by the throat and lifted her off her feet.

His hand spanned the entire circumference of her neck, and because she was draped in the net, she did not even fight. She just hung there, choking until she was silent. It was then he plunged the curved blade of his scythe into her.

Behind Theseus, Helen gasped, but Hera—she did not react.

She was already dead.

Cronos jerked the blade free and let her crumple to the ground before turning to Theseus.

“Until next time, blood of my blood,” he said with a nod, his blade dripping with Hera’s blood.

Then he vanished.

Theseus stared at the space where the Titan had been, his jaw tense. Their first interaction had not gone according to plan, but a favor was a favor. He would just have to ensure that by the time he collected it, Cronos had a reason to join his side.

Theseus caught movement from the corner of his eye, but when he turned, he found that it was only Hera’s dark blood pooling on the stone.

His gaze shifted to the two waiting demigods. One was Damian, and the other was a new recruit named Markos.

“Have you recovered my son?” Theseus asked.

“He waits for you inside along with his mother,” said Damian.

There was a pause.

“And Ariadne?” Her name felt thick on his tongue.

“She waits for you as well.”

Theseus tried to control his reaction to the news, but a warm heat had already ignited low in his belly.

When his father’s earthquake had ravaged New Athens and the resulting tsunami had cut it loose from the continent, Dionysus’s tunnels had flooded too.

Flushing out the vermin, he’d thought. A much-needed cleanse of the world.

Though a few maenads had managed to escape drowning in the tunnels, they found themselves at the mercy of demigods who had been ordered to slaughter them on sight. He had only ordered that three mortals be left alive—his son, his wife, and her sister.

He let his gaze fall to Hera, whose skin looked gray in the moonlight.

“Cut her into pieces,” Theseus ordered. “Tomorrow, we will feed her flesh to her followers.”

They each gave a curt nod, and he moved past them into the house. As soon as he entered the doors, he could hear his son wailing from somewhere in the house. The sound was grating and made his skin crawl.

“Someone do something about that child,” Theseus snapped.

“You could go to him,” said Helen. “You have yet to meet him.”

“I have other engagements,” he said.

“You mean Ariadne?” Helen asked.

“Do not get jealous, Helen. It is not becoming.”

“I am not jealous,” she said. “I am disgusted that you would choose a woman over your son.”

“Master,” said one of his servants, sweeping down the hall to meet them. “May I take your coat?”

He said nothing, but he slipped out of his jacket and handed it to the old woman. Helen did the same.

“Do you require anything? Dinner? Perhaps some tea?”

Helen started to speak, but Theseus cut her off. “No.”

The woman smiled. “Of course. Good night.” She whirled and disappeared down the hall.

Helen turned to him. He thought that she intended to berate him, but the words never left her mouth as his hand closed around her neck. He pushed her into the wall, lifting her off her feet. Her fingers clawed at his hands and chest. She even tried to gouge his eyes, but he felt none of it.

“You live and breathe by my command,” he said. “Remember that when you decide to have an opinion.”

He released her, and she fell to the floor. As she gasped for breath, he straightened his collar and the cuffs of his sleeves and left for his chambers.

For the briefest moment, while he had held Helen’s life in his hands, he had not been able to hear his son, but now, the sound of his wailing had returned. He thought that it was louder, or perhaps he was just nearing it. Either way, by the time he came to his chambers, every muscle in his body was on edge, wound tight with anger, and while he did not mind anger, it did nothing to encourage the swelling of his cock.

He took a few deep breaths and managed to ease the set of his jaw before he opened the doors to his room to find Ariadne.

She was seated in a chair, her arms and legs bound, her mouth gagged. Other than the restraints, she was in pristine condition. Not a single scratch or drop of blood marred her skin.

When her eyes lifted to his, they were full of hatred and fear, and he smiled, closing the door behind him.

“I have thought about this moment often,” he said. “It is exactly as I imagined.”

As he moved toward her, she slid her feet against the floor and her body into the back of the chair.

He chuckled at her attempted retreat.

When he was close, he withdrew a knife and cut the gag from her mouth, slicing her cheek, though to his disappointment, Ariadne did not react. Instead, she glared at him and spit in his face.

Still, he laughed—and he had every reason to. She had nowhere to go. She was his to control, his to punish.

He gripped her face, his fingers pressing into the bloody wound on her cheek. Her pained yelp sent a thrill straight to his cock.

He held her harder. “You know how I like a good fight.”

“Where is my sister, you bastard?”

He studied her. It wasn’t the name-calling that angered him but the worry over her sister.

“You should be far more concerned about what I have planned for you,” he said.

“You think I’m afraid of you?” she asked.

“You will be,” he said. “Until then, remember that you are afraid of what I can do to your sister.”

He pressed his mouth to hers, his fingers digging so hard into her skin, he felt as though he were holding her skull, but then her teeth sank into his lip, and he pushed her away, her chair tilting back until she crashed to the floor.

“You keep fighting like you think it will deter me,” he said, standing over her. “But really, it just makes me want to fuck you.”

He bent and cut the ties that held her to the chair. Her arms and legs were still bound, but she managed to resist, thrashing about. Finally, he managed to throw her over his shoulder and carry her to his bed.

“No, please,” she said, her voice rising with hysteria. The sound made him want to groan, his cock throbbing with pleasure.

“And now she begs,” he said as he straddled her, forcing her hands over her head, hooking her bindings to an anchor in the wall.

“Don’t,” she breathed. “Don’t.”

He paused as she begged, his face inches from hers.

“You could have had a day to adjust,” he said. “But you chose this.”

His words made her fight harder. She jerked beneath him, trying to throw him off, but her efforts were useless. He shifted down until he came to her legs, keeping them bound until he had one secured and then restrained the other.

With her secured and spread before him, he cut away her clothes, and while she cried beneath him, he devoured her body.

When Theseus left Ariadne an hour later, he discovered his son was still crying. The sound had a visceral effect on his body, both because of its keen pitch but also because his wife had failed to subdue him.

All the tension he had managed to release on Ariadne suddenly came back. In a rush of anger, he made his way to Phaedra’s quarters, which were down the hall from his own.

“Phaedra!” he shouted. “Shut him up. Do you hear me? Shut him up!”

When he reached the door, he found it was locked.

“Unlock the fucking door!”

He could feel his face burn as he yelled, and still his son cried.

“You bitch,” he said as he stepped back, kicking in the door—and froze.

He had expected to find Phaedra attempting to console Acamas. Instead, he found her sitting slumped on the floor at the end of her four-poster bed, a sheet wrapped tightly around her neck.

She was dead.