A Touch of Darkness (Hades & Persephone 1)

Adonis went pale but managed to glare at her. “A wager usually implies I get something in return.”

She shook her head at his stupidity.

“You do,” she said, leaning close, “your life.”

For emphasis she held Minthe—the newly transformed mint plant— aloft, examining its green leaves. “She will make a fine addition to my garden.”

She snapped her fingers, and Adonis’s arms were restored. He floundered for a moment during the transition, but once he was on his feet again, she turned on her heels and walked away.

“Who the fuck are you?” he called after her. Persephone paused, and then turned to look at Adonis over her shoulder.

“I am Persephone, Goddess of Spring,” she answered, and disappeared.

***

Persephone stood outside her mother’s greenhouse. It was just as she remembered. An ornate metal structure covered in glass, nestled in the rich woods of Olympia. It was two stories, the ceiling was rounded, and at this moment, the sun shown in a way that made the whole thing look like gold.

It was a shame she hated being here, because it was breathtaking.

Inside, it smelled like her mother—sweet and bitter, like a bouquet of wildflowers. The scent made her heart ache. There was a part of her that missed her mother and mourned how their relationship had changed. She had never wanted to be a disappointment, but more than that, she didn’t want to be a prisoner.

Persephone spent time walking the paths, passing colorful beds of lilies and violets, roses and orchids, and a variety of trees with plump fruit. The flutter of life was all around her. The feeling was growing stronger and more familiar.

She stopped along the path, recalling all the dreams she’d had when trapped behind these walls. Dreams of sparkling cities and exciting adventures and passionate love. She’d found all of that and it had been beautiful and wicked and heartbreaking.

And she’d do it all again just to taste, to feel, to live again.

“Kore.”

Persephone cringed, as she always did when her mother used her childhood name. She turned and found Demeter standing a few feet away. The goddess looked proud, her face cold and unreadable.

“Mother.” Persephone nodded.

“I have been looking for you,” said Demeter, and her eyes fell to her wrist. “But I see you have come to your senses and returned to me of your own volition.”

“Actually, Mother, I came to say that I know what you did,” she said.

Her mother’s expression remained cold and distant.

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I know you kept me hidden here to prevent my powers from manifesting,” she said.

Demeter lifted her head a fraction. “It was for your own good. I only ever did what I thought was best.”

“What you thought was best,” Persephone repeated. “Didn't you ever consider how I might feel?”

“If you had just listened to me, none of this would have happened! You didn't know any different until you left. That’s when you changed.”

She said it like it was a horrible thing—like she resented who she had become, and maybe that was true.

“You’re wrong,” Persephone argued. “I wanted adventure. I wanted to live outside these walls. You knew that. I begged you.”

Demeter looked away.

“You never gave me a choice—”

“I couldn't!” she snapped, and then took a deep breath. “I suppose it didn't matter in the end. It all happened as the Fates had predicted.”