Page 107 of He Who Ignites The Flame
“No rest for the wicked, right?” I said, glancing sidelong at the four figures occupying chairs, noting each and every one of them.
“Fates spare us,” Atlas said, rubbing his hand over his eyes before grabbing his glass and settling back in his swivel chair.
Laid back on a chaise was Sonya, his ethereal Mistress of Pleasures who oversaw the entertainment in The Underworld. Occupying a small table, cracking small crystals, were the twins; Holland, who oversaw all trade and commerce, and Lupis, in charge of gambling. Their eyes lit up with a rippling greenish glow as they inhaled the essence that rose from the fissures in the crystals in their fingers. The fourth watched from the shadows where she sat—the head of security and enforcer of his rules, Driska—a female who even I would reconsider going toe to toe with.
“Sadly, I have no more rest for you down here. You wanted to see me, which was perfect timing, as I was planning on calling you down here anyway.”
I settled back against the chair, draping an arm over the velvet-cushioned back, and glanced at Santor. “So I hear.”
“I need you to look into something for me,” he said, his voice hardening, smile fading from his lips as he lifted his glass to take a swig, only to pause and look at me over the rim. “And I’m curious to see if our issues align.”
I frowned.
“Word has made its way to me of several murders above,” he said. He knocked back his drink before grimacing and reaching for one of the crystals on his desk.
I held my response, not wanting to give him too much, but if he knew of it, was asking me to look into it...
“The human females who have been murdered by one of our kind,” he clarified, gray eyes sliding back to me briefly.
“It wasn’t one of yours?” I asked, my voice level, as if the murders didn’t bother me.
“It better not fucking be. That shit’s drawing too much attention,” he said as he settled back in his chair. He held the crystal up to the light, inspecting the subtle green glow of the essence within it. “I turn a blind eye to a death here and there, but that many in a short amount of time is too much trouble—too much attention. I’ve got enough on my plate with Hades asking for my help.”
My eyes shifted briefly to Santor as he settled into a chair, helping himself to some of Atlas’ ambrosia liquor.
“Hades is asking you for help?” I scoffed before taking a drink. “Since when do The Twelve ask for assistance from immortals?”
“Something was stolen from him,” he said, dropping the crystal onto the desk, the rock clinking as it rolled to a stop amidst the others. “A magical artifact from his collection.”
“And how would we be able to help him with that?” I asked.
“Because he no longer feels its presence within the Godsrealm.”
I paused, absorbing that bit of information.
“It was taken across The Veil,” I muttered, acknowledging the quiet part, and Atlas nodded.
It would make sense as to why he would reach out to the immortals for assistance, then. He likely hadn’t told the other members of The Twelve, the knowledge of it more of an embarrassment than anything.
But why did he go to Atlas and not Damien?
“What sort of object is it?” I asked, curious as to whether he’d actually tell me.
“An object once in Charon’s possession before he fell.”
I halted the glass at my lips, and my brows furrowed. “The ferryman?”
He nodded. “His necklace said to possess the ability to siphon souls from their true forms.”
That was a powerful object, a dangerous one. Its presence in the Mortalrealm could be disastrous.
“You need help with that as well?” I asked, hoping he might let me in.
Atlas eyed me wearily. “Take care of the murderer, and we’ll talk.”
43
MICAH
