They followed the river. Athan figured there would be more souls closer to a dock, so they walked into the crowd and down the shoreline, hoping to run into a port for the ferryman, Charon. But the number of souls diminished and then disappeared until it was only the three demigods and the spirit of the patient.

“Please tell me we aren’t walking in circles,” Xan said.

Athan looked at his watch. They’d been in the Underworld for more than fifteen hours. Athan’s eyes ached with fatigue. He’d passed tired several hours ago, but he refused to give into exhaustion.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” Xan stopped walking and crouched to the ground, his movements graceful like a panther. He pulled his pack off, and careful to keep contact with it at all times, he opened a pouch and pulled out a protein bar. He tore the wrapper off and dropped it on the ground, watching as it blinked out of existence. After taking a big bite, he looked up at Athan. “What? Don’t tell me you’re not famished.” Xan held out another bar to his cousin. “Dahlia, you want one?”

Athan turned away from the snacking and stared out at the Acheron. He was doing something wrong, or rather, not doing something right. He could feel it.

“It’s all right to admit you don’t know.” Dahlia held out her half-eaten bar.

Athan waved it away.

She spoke between bites. “Xan’s just pissy because he hates not being able to fix something. But I reckon you remember that about him.”

No. In fact, he hadn’t remembered. Like so many memories he’d pushed to the recesses of his mind, he’d forgotten. Athan closed his eyes and listened to the water lap at the shore. He probably should eat something. He let his mind wander, ignoring the grumbling from his stomach.

Hadn’t Charon been waiting when they’d come to the river?

“Skata,” Athan muttered. His eyes blinked open, and he looked out at the endless gray river melting into the horizon. He dug into his pocket, grabbed several drachma, and strode to the water’s edge.

“Charon,” he yelled. And then he threw the coins. The money broke the surface of the Acheron with several pilps and plops . Athan gritted his teeth and waited.

“What. The. Kracken?” Dahlia breathed from behind him.

A small skiff cut through the murky fog. The square bow appeared weathered by elements that didn’t exist in the Underworld, at least not that Athan had seen. The worn wood was pocked and splintered, and the imposing figure standing at the stern pushed the ferry through the water with a long, dark pole.

Athan looked around for the dead man, but he was right there, his gaze riveted on the approaching vessel.

“Holy Moirai,” Xan swore. He stepped next to Athan and then pulled away with a shudder. “The dead bloke is right there, isn’t he?” His hand went through the man’s shoulders before connecting with Athan.

Athan’s jaw hung loose as he faced Xan. “You can feel him?”

Xan frowned. “Aye.”

The dead patient stepped away from the living, pulling back behind them. Athan turned and grabbed the man by the wrist. “Don’t think you’re going anywhere. We need you to cross.”

The man leaned away and his mouth moved rapidly, but still there was no sound.

“That’s creepy—”

The boat scraped up onto the shore, and all four of them turned to the sound.

Charon remained at the back of the skiff, his black robe almost completely covering him. His hood hung low over his face, and his chin and neck were hidden in shadows. The ends of the garment puddled on the bottom of the god’s ferry. The sleeves, however, gaped open over pale thin wrists, and clutched in his bony fingers was the dark wood pole he used to push through the river Acheron.

Charon pulled the shaft from the water and knelt as he reverently set the rod in the skiff. With movements fluid and oily, he floated out of the boat and onto the rocky shore.

“Why are you here?” His voice rasped from inside the hood.

Athan pushed down his panic. “I’ve come to deliver this man’s soul.”

Charon laughed, the ghostly chuckle an unnerving cacophony of sound that chilled Athan’s bones.

The river seemed to swell, the mists surrounding the Acheron darkened, and the scent of carrion and rotten fruit ballooned around them.

Dahlia swore, and either she or Xan retched. Athan’s stomach flipped and turned, and he was glad he hadn’t eaten the protein bar after all.

“Liar,” Charon hissed. “Your father has not required this.”

The trick to lying was telling as much of the truth as possible. “I never said he did.”

The air pulsed with energy. A magnetic force pulled Athan’s gaze toward the god. He willed his features into neutrality, but Athan’s heart pounded in fear. “Do you require more than an obol per person for passage?”

Faster than a pulse, Charon’s bony fingers clutched the collar of Athan’s shirt and pulled him close. The coppery smell of fresh blood wafted from under the god’s hood, and when he spoke the sharp tang became stronger. “Don’t toy with me, Son of Hermes. I owe you nothing.”

Athan’s heart thrummed a racing tempo of fear. The ferryman of Death had unnaturally pale skin, similar to that of the Skia. His irises and pupils were as dark as pitch. His prominent cheekbones jutted out, making him appear malnourished and gaunt. But most disturbing were his lips. Stained the color of fresh blood. And then his tongue wiped—no, licked the blood off, as if his dessert had been interrupted and he’d taken a hurried last bite that had smeared across his lips.

“You are in my domain right now. Don’t tempt—”

“We’re here for Hope.”

Charon sneered. “There is no hope in the Underworld.”

“No,” Xan corrected, coming forward. He tapped Charon’s bony hand with the tip of his immortal dagger. “We’re here to get Hope, the Sphinx, out of the Underworld. She’s not dead, so she doesn’t belong here.”

Charon’s sneer became a smirk. “Yes, she was here, this monster of whom you speak.” He pulled his hood off to reveal a pasty, bald head, eyes sunken deep in their sockets, and skin pulled tightly over his bony skull. “Is she why you’ve come?”

Athan shot Xan a look, trying to tell him to shut up.

Xan didn’t even look his way. “Yes, Lord. We would petition for your aide.”

Athan wanted to hit him. You didn’t petition gods for aide. Gods were selfish. It was always a bargain when dealing with them.

“I see.” Charon looked back and forth between the two demigods. And then his eyes lighted on something behind them.

Athan turned to see Dahlia staring at the divine ferryman. Her eyes were dilated, and her lips parted as her breath came out in shallow gasps.

“She has been marked by Thanatos’s guard. You will have a difficult time getting her out of the Underworld.”

Xan sucked in a low breath. “Nothing that happened would require her death.” His voice was low, as if to spare his cousin the words.

“True, but Death has called her for some time.”

What was he saying? Dahlia?

“What of the Sphinx?” That was why they were here. Everything, everyone else, would have to wait. Even the rest of Athan’s team.

“Yes. Your riddle.” Charon licked his lips and turned his dead eyes back to Athan. “She crossed here. Thanatos was her guide. I do not think things will end well for her.”

Thanatos, the god of death. Athan had seen him rip the soul from Hope’s mother. Why would Thanatos help Hope? And why would Hope allow Thanatos to help her after he killed her mother?

“We would like to stop him.” Athan remembered the animosity between the two gods of the Underworld.

“Aye,” Xan agreed. “Will you help us?”

Charon frowned as if mulling over the proposition. “You have a soul?” He pointed to the dead man in the hospital gown. “Did you bring him through the portal?”

Athan nodded. There was no need to tell him about the Skia they’d fought.

“Then you may pay me for passage. I will take you across the river Acheron.” Charon turned and glided back to his ferry.

Athan grabbed the dead man, and Xan went to get Dahlia.

The boat rocked as they climbed aboard. What had appeared as a small skiff, large enough for one, elongated and easily accommodated the five of them.

Xan sat on the only bench, just below Charon’s feet, jaw clenched. The dead soul stood at the bow, staring over the edge, his milky eye frozen on the deadly water. Dahlia stood behind him.

Athan braced for the movement as Charon pushed back, the bottom of the boat scraping along the rocks until the river sucked it away. A painful moan bubbled through the water, and a claw-like appendage broke the surface and scrabbled at the edge of the boat.

With a crack, Charon smacked the already mangled fingers, and they released their tenuous grip before sinking back into the darkness.

“Don’t fall in,” Dahlia told the soul and pulled him back from the edge. She held his wrist loosely, as if abhorring the touch but knowing the necessity of it.

Charon hissed something unintelligible from under his hood.

Foreboding clawed its way up Athan’s chest into his throat, making it difficult to catch his breath. Something about Dahlia being cut by a Skia blade. And now she was able to see and touch the dead? That wasn’t right. Xan would never forgive Athan if something were to happen to Dahlia.

The fog rose from the river and swirled around them in small eddies. Charon pushed his pole through the dark water of despair, and the scraping continued. A faint scratching that made Athan’s skin crawl. How had he not heard the scraping before?

Charon delivered another thwack to an interloper, and bile burned the back of Athan’s throat as he watched a mangled head sink below the surface.

“Someone say something. That grating is going to drive me insane,” Dahlia said.

“Those monsters are the creepiest things I’ve ever seen.”

Dahlia snorted. “That’s not really helpful.”

Athan looked between the two of them. “I’ve never heard it before, not until this trip.” He glanced back to Charon. “Why is that? And what are those things?”

“The dead,” Charon said.

Athan gritted his teeth against the snappy reply. The god said nothing more, and Athan wanted to rip the hood from his head and yell at him. Why was he being so obtuse?

“But why are they in the river?” Xan asked.

The boat rocked. Athan shuffled to try to regain his footing. Dahlia screamed, but the sound was cut short by a large splash.

“Shite!” Xan scrambled past Athan to the edge of the boat.

Dahlia thrashed in the water as hands, arms, and bodies clamored over each other, clawing at her. She screamed, but the sound was cut short once again as the pale-fleshed monsters pulled her under.