For the Love of Hades (Loves of Olympus 2)

The hounds whimpered as two men ran after the injured soldier. Swathed in layers of colored silks and veils, these men were no Greeks. Persians, Persian messengers or spies, were gaining ground.

He searched the trees for some sign of reinforcements.

“Is there no one to help him?” she whispered.

But he could see no one. This soldier was likely a survivor from the battle he’d tended earlier. And wounded as he was, Hades doubted the soldier would survive the day. Still, the terror lining the young hoplite’s face grieved him.

Hades felt his fear. It churned in his stomach, demanding he act.

“Can you…” she paused. “I beg of you, sir. Help him.”

He turned, his eyes traveling her face. She did not know what she asked of him. But he did, and he would suffer the consequences, later.

His hands throbbed, a spark of frigid cold scorching his palm and numbing his fingers. He fisted his hands, grasping for control. His hounds followed, their jaws snapping as they went.

He had a choice to make. Fight them, or use the gift the Fates bestowed upon him. He shook his head, bracing for the fight without thought.

He walked to the first Persian, blocking his path. The Persian, no small man, did not hesitate with his sword. Hades evaded the blow, turning to the side as the man rushed by. He threw his elbow back, landing a well placed blow to the Persian’s side.

The man grunted, turning with his sword at the ready.

But Hades saw the other Persian, too close to the wounded hoplite, and knew he had no choice. This fight was done. His hands loosened, releasing the power as he met the advancing Persian.

He grasped the villain’s shoulder firmly and pulled. The sound, a heavy rending of flesh, wet and fluid, filled the air. His grip tightened, his arms and chest taut. The tearing gave way to a scream, one that gargled and choked but would not end.

The pain, the agony of this man, filled him. He could not escape it, or ease it. He could only endure it as it went on. With a final tug, he parted soul from flesh.

He gasped, drawing in a deep breath.

He was vaguely aware of the girl’s horrified cry as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

The pain began to fade. The Persian’s bloodied and mutilated body fell to the ground before him. The wraithlike shadow of the soul writhed in his grasp. Flickers of life, of the souls remembered sensations, seared his fingertips. He released it, uncaring where the wind took it.

The second Persian stood frozen, holding his hands in front of him to ward off such evil. He spoke rapidly, backing away from the meadow in surrender.

Hades turned, hoping the Persian’s fear would carry him quickly from this place. He glanced at the girl, prepared for the horror he would find there.

Instead she cried out, frantically warning him, “Look out!”

Hades ducked, but not far enough to avoid the smooth slip of the dagger across his shoulder. He drew in a deep breath and grabbed the Persian.

Chapter Two

Persephone crouched on the ground, covering her ears and pressing her face to her knees. She could not listen, she would not watch, not again. There was little doubt that what she’d witnessed would haunt her dreams long after this day was finished.

She dared lift her head only after the grass beneath her assured her all was well. Peeking between her fingers, she saw him. He stood, breathing heavily, in the waving grasses. For an instant, he trembled. There was no pride or satisfaction about him. He seemed, to her, defeated. Yet the bloody evidence of his victory lay on the ground by his feet.

She turned away, her stomach roiling. Terror and disgust, astonishment and awe, sadness and relief, all warred within her.

There was no mistake; he’d done as she asked. And now he searched, following the trail left by the wounded soldier.

Did the soldier live?

Persephone stood, the fate of the fallen soldier taking precedence to all else. She scaled slowly down the hill, on unsteady legs, to aid the man and his hounds in their search.

Her eyes lingered on the broad line of his shoulders, the play of muscles beneath his pale skin commanding… and, she knew now, most lethal. Who, or what, was he?

For all that he was capable of, he was not a thing of evil.