She glanced at him. Did he feel it, too?
Her heart thudded loudly in her ears. Had he heard it?
His gaze fell to her hand upon him. He swallowed, his blue-black eyes peering into hers with fierce intensity. He was displeased. “These are dangerous times, lady. You would be wise to keep your attendants at your side.”
She nodded, her fingers curling about his arm as her gaze locked with his. “I will.”
Breathing seemed a challenge.
His eyes wandered, tracing her brow, her cheek, her mouth, without any hint of his thoughts.
She could not think. Indeed, very little seemed to exist beyond the strengthening pulse they shared. Such warmth radiated up the length of her arm, spreading into her chest. Surely he felt this? He must.
His hand fisted, the muscles of his forearm flexing under her touch. He moved quickly, shaking her hand from his arm.
An ache, new and heavy, filled her chest. Where had it come from? What was happening? She felt off balance, unsteady on her own two feet.
He inclined his head, eyes flashing briefly, and turned from her. “Go now. I have work to be done.” He paused, whistling once. The youngest hound stood, stared alertly at the man, then joined Persephone and her attendants. “He will see you safely home.”
She could think of nothing to keep him, though she sought any guise to call him back. She felt the strangest pull, the need to call out to him, but held herself quiet. He walked purposefully, swiftly, to the tree line. Each step took him further away, making her heart thunder and twist.
“Come on,” Myrinne grabbed her arm and began pulling her from the meadow.
“How did you come to find him?” Crysanthe asked, her words whispered.
“He was doing his duty.” Myrinne kept moving, glancing back over her shoulder with wide, nervous eyes. “He was collecting those that would cross over. Did you not see the meadow, Crysanthe?”
“He must know who you are,” Crysanthe said, hurrying along. “He would never have spoken to you if he thought you a mortal woman.”
Myrinne finished, “Any woman.”
“You
know him?” Persephone gasped, turning to the nymphs. “Who is he?”
They looked at her in surprise.
“Why he is Hades, Persephone,” Myrinne sounded incredulous.
“The Lord of the Dead.” Crysanthe shuddered.
Persephone’s eyes searched for him in the distant meadow, but he was gone. “Hades.” She let his name slip, too warmly, from her lips. She could not help savoring the feel of it upon her tongue.
###
Hades stood astonished. Rarely was the Council Chamber in such chaos. The room, a circular chamber of the whitest marble, echoed and shook from the Olympians’ overlapping conversation. Twelve marble thrones, a rainbow of colors and shapes, faced one another, but all were empty.
Hera, Demeter and Artemis stood together, their murmurs lost beneath the roar of the rest. Hera, Goddess of marriage, would hear many prayers in the days ahead. Husbands, wives, and children alike, all would worry over this war’s toll. He would hear them too.
Demeter’s harvest had been plentiful, easing the concerns over provisions for those fighting and those left behind. But the next crop might suffer, if none remained to tend it… or the Persians burned the fields to ash.
He understood why Hera and Demeter looked grief stricken and concerned. Even wild Artemis looked resigned, holding her bow tightly to her chest.
Hermes, Zeus, Ares and Poseidon carried on loudly, their voices rising and falling to be heard. Athena stood amongst them, more at ease amongst the Gods than her fellow Goddesses.
His eyes swept the room. It seemed only Apollo and Aphrodite were absent.
So he was not the last to arrive. He strode into room, prepared for a set-down from Zeus. But the others were lost in their debate, too embroiled in matters of war to note his late entrance. For that, he was grateful.