Page 86 of Hades and Persephone: Crown of Souls

“And cruel.”

A smile twists his lips. “Are you afraid of orcas, Persephone?”

“Absolutely. I’ve seen what they do to penguins.”

Poseidon laughs, deep and low and deadly. “There is nothing an entire pod of Orcas could do to me. Or to you when you’re with me.”

I eye his tailfin, which, as impressive as it is, can’t possibly be enough to protect him from an entire pod.Maybe he swims faster?

His voice drops in pitch. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Well, I mean…” I shift on his tail. “You’re a merman, Poseidon.”

“I’m a God, Persephone. The God of the Seas to be specific.”

“I just don’t see how you can fight a whole pod of the most vicious creatures in the sea.”

“This is not my Gods’ Form,” he says, sounding almost offended.

I frown, because I’ve heard this term. Slowly, I say, “Demeter changed into—into a monster—um—bird.”

Poseidon nods, as though it’s no big thing. Though, it really is.

“Yes, her Gods’ Form is what modern legend calls a Harpy.”

I swallow hard. Surrounded by black water, I’m not sure if it’s a question I should ask—and yet I can’t help myself. “And yours is?”

Poseidon smiles, but there’s danger in it. “Have you heard of the Leviathan?”

Chapter

Thirty-Four

Persephone

The stone iswarm beneath my feet where I stand at the foot of the massive bed, draped in dark purple fabric woven from the spilled blooms of the weeping pines. Salt from the sea clings to my skin, even though I’ve changed from my gown into the robe of matching deep purple. So deep, it could be mistaken for black in the right light.

If I weren’t so distracted, I would have bathed.

But after leaving Poseidon with a promise to see him again soon, I’d climbed atop Aethon and raced back to the Palace of Hades. The palace that juts up from the black mountainous land with tips of jaggedly pointed stone so sharp, I can think only of claws reaching to tear into the stars tossed into the night sky.

After leaving Aethon to the boy who, I’d come to realize lives in the stables tending to the four horses of the God of Death, I’d raced to the bedroom I now share with Hades. I hadn’t even had the capacity to dress myself in anything other than this robe I now wear after stripping from my wet gown.

My attention since entering this room has been entirely fixed on the massive painting that hangs over the bed.

The painting I’ve thought more than once looks like a demon with veins of magma. The painting I’ve felt both reverence and unexplainable attraction toward since my very first moments in the Underworld.

“You’re back.” The deep pitch of Hades’ familiar rumble calls gooseflesh to the surface of my skin.

Slowly, I tear my study from the painting to the man—the God—who stands leaning into a wall of stone. His hands are dipped into his pockets, and the long jacket he wears hangs open to expose the black shirt that covers his broad chest.

The first few buttons are open, and my gaze can’t deny dropping to the warm-toned skin there.

My gaze drifts languidly from the patch of skin at his chest, up the thick cord of his neck, and finally to land on his face before looking back at the painting. I can’t ignore the flutter of familiarity that strikes me.

For a moment, I am entirely breathless.

Can it really be true?How am I only just putting this together?

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