Page 2 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“You do not know that—”
“Enough.”
His voice was harsh enough that Demeter, for all her stubbornness, momentarily fell silent.
“You saw her foretelling, just as I did,” Hades continued, his patience wearing thin. “She stood in my realm, wearing my heraldry, a crown of the Underworld on her brow. You cannot deny it.”
“She is bound tono one,” Demeter hissed furiously. “She will live in sunlight, on the earth, and never know the evils of the gods.”
Hades arched a brow. “And when the earth is filled with men?” he asked. “Even now, Prometheus creates mankind. Mortals who will fill the earth with their seed, siring sons and daughters.”
Demeter’s face slackened, uncertainty rising in her eyes. But she turned away sharply. “Return to your kingdom, Hades,” she bit out. “There is nothing for you here.”
He exhaled, the sound nearly a growl. Then he turned away, striding toward the columns and the world outside. “I leave you until she comes of age.”
Demeter’s mouth opened in protest, but he halted abruptly at the threshold, one hand resting against the stone.
“Do not oppose me in this, Demeter.” The warning rose over his shoulder, low and edged in iron. “I will have her.”
PART ONE
THORNS
Chapter 1
A bellow of rage shook the Spartan palace, thundering through stone corridors as servants scattered like windswept leaves. In their wake, a bulky figure staggered forward, a half-empty wineskin gripped in one meaty fist. The golden circlet on his head was askew, slipping down his sweat-damp brow.
The king’s face, flushed with drink and fury, mottled crimson as his lips curled into a snarl. “Where is she?” Menelaus roared.
The nearest door shuddered under his heavy fist, swinging wide on groaning hinges. He lurched into the royal bedchamber, his unsteady steps catching the edge of the rug. Thick fingers pulled the dagger from his belt, its blade glinting as he leveled it toward the servants cowering against the wall.
“You attend her!” Spittle flecked his beard. “Where is my wife?Speak!”
One of the servants dropped to her knees. “She was here last night, sire! She retired as she always—”
“Sire!” A voice cracked the air like a whip.
Menelaus wheeled unsteadily, his bloodshot eyes fixing on his commander, Cleomenes, who stood in the doorway.
Stone-faced, the commander stepped forward. In tow, he dragged a ragged beggar smeared in filth and pungent refuse. With a harsh shove, Cleomenes thrust the man into the bedchamber. “The beggar saw your wife,” he said flatly. “You—speak. Tell the king what you saw.”
Menelaus took a heavy step forward, dagger rising in his trembling grip. “Speak!” he roared, his voice ringing with fury.
The beggar blinked rapidly, his gaze darting to the king’s dagger. “She...she was taken aboard a ship,” he stammered.
“Whichship?” Cleomenes’s voice was sharp as a blade.
He swallowed hard. “The Trojan ship,” he replied shakily. “There were soldiers with her. And... the younger prince.”
The words struck like a hammer to an anvil.
Menelaus’s face slackened, turning pale. His lips shaped a name like a curse. “Paris.”
The wineskin fell. It struck the stone floor with a wet slap, claret liquid spilling against the stone like blood. The thick silence was broken only by the king’s ragged breath.
Menelaus’s eyes hardened, black and cold, and he snarled, “I want my ship ready to sail with the tide.”
Cleomenes’s head jerked a sharp nod. “What course, my king?”
