Page 30 of Hades and Persephone: Crown of Souls

“Sin is not measured quite the same way in Christianity, as it is measured in the Underworld. At the end of a life, when a soul finds themselves in the Underworld, they arrive in Souls Landing. It is a piece of land surrounded by the River Acheron, the Marsh, and the mountain range that borders the Western side of the River Phlegethon. It is an unclimbable mountain range from which the House of Judgement sprouts. It is connected by this same range, to the River Phlegethon, which no soul who enters can escape without my aid.” His hold around my waist tightens. “This is why you must not dare entry into Tartarus, Persephone. Your soul would be ravaged beyond repair before I could hope to reach you—to find you amid the torment.”

“I understand,” I tell him softly. I don’t know why I am unable to promise him that I won’t go, however. Thereis something drawing me to the burning pits of torment. Something that I can’t explain. It is deeper than curiosity. And although it frightens me, I can’t ignore it.

“When a soul arrives in Souls Landing, it is instinct to drink from the River Acheron. Some souls will feel a pull to enter the river—they are usually the ones with no coin. Others will walk the land.”

“Why would the souls with no coin feel pulled into the river?”

“For direction. Those with a coin simply know the way to the House of Judgement. Those with no coin are truly lost. They are confused. At times, they are angry. When they enter the River Acheron, the current takes them where they need to go.”

“And where is that?”

“All souls pass through the House of Cerberus, whether in the river or on land.” His arm tightens around me as he continues, “The truly evil souls—the ones beyond any form of redemption—whose souls are so dark they leech the acrid sins of their mortal lives into the space around them—those souls are scented and captured by Cerberus. They never make it to the House of Judgement. The first entrance into Tartarus—into the Pit of Tartarus—is through the House of Cerberus.”

“What is the Pit?” I have a feeling I know, but I need to hear it. I need confirmation.

“It is where the most evil souls are placed. It is where I kept the Titans.”

I have two questions: How could a soul not be given their time to stand before the House of Judgement, and what does he mean hekeptthe Titans in the Pit?

“Shouldn’t every soul have their chance to stand before the House of Judgement?”

“If a soul cannot pass through the House of Cerberus, they have no right to stand before the Crown of Souls,” Hades says simply, and it’s like that thread in the back of my mind istugged.Crown of Souls. I’ve never heard it, and yet it rings with familiarity. “Cerberus has never made a mistake,” Hades assures me. “The souls Cerberus carries to the Pit are deserving.”

“Does a soul ever get to leave the Pit?”

“Are you asking me if the most vile of souls ever reform enough to be granted reprieve from eternal torment?”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes.”

“No.” A shiver climbs to the surface of my skin at the absolute way he says it. “I’ve never granted forgiveness to the souls who find themselves in the Pit.”

“Why?”

Hades shifts behind me on Alastor. “The Pit is reserved for the souls who choose to harm children in their mortal lives. It is for the serial killers, for those who hunt other people, stealing their lives in brutal, gruesome ways. Who harm for pleasure or capital gain. There is no reformation for such souls. For the pain they inflict in their mortal life, they earn themselves an eternity of torment. And it is my pleasure to see it through.”

Well, when he puts it like that…

“I understand.” My voice comes out quiet and raw.

“But do you agree?” Hades presses gently.

“Absolutely.”

I can’t be certain, but I think he smiles. I don’t know how I know it, but I sense it.

I’m about to ask my second question when Alastor crests a hill, and a land of sweeping blue diamond’s glitters under the starlight.

My breath snags in my lungs and a chill prickles the length of my spine. Around the knob of the saddle, my fingers grow numb.

Rolling hills of blue glittering stones stretch so far into the darkness, I can’t see the end, but what I can see takes my breath away. The stone garden is dotted with polished benches crafted of the same blue stone that blankets the land. There is not a treein the entirety of the open blue expanse that is ringed, as far as I can see, by a crystal-clear water that rushes over the same blue stone. It sings a melody of sighs and whispers with every rapid that sweeps into the surging rush of water before it. Blue crystal bridges wink under the shimmer of stars, calling to me even as something deep inside the core of me repels it.

The garden of blue is exquisitely, tragically beautiful. I don’t know how I know it’s tragic, but I do. Perhaps it’s intuition. Perhaps…

The vision—the memory—slams into my mind with the viciousness of a freight train.

It is the first thing in the Underworld that I recognize, I realize.

The River Lethe.

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