The air shifted, and the faint smell of pomegranates tickled Athan’s senses. The murmur of voices grew distinct as the tinnitus from their translocation faded.

“Is not this agreeable, Lord?”

Athan knew that rasping voice. His eyes flew open, and he stared across the throne room, his vision tunneling on the Skia that had killed his girlfriend almost a decade ago.

Darren stood at the bottom of a dais of three steps, his back to Athan. Torches hung in twisted iron holders spaced throughout the cavernous room, casting the space in ominous shadows. Hades occupied an obsidian throne at the top of the platform, and positioned next to him was an intricately carved throne of a deep red crystal, the color of pomegranates.

Hades’s features were a study of contrasts. His hair was cropped just shy of chin-length, and the smooth dark locks shone like polished onyx. His goatee was trimmed short, and the depth of color made the pallor of his skin distinct. His angular features and broad shoulders created an imposing picture.

“Do you believe she is here?” the lord of the Underworld asked. “I have heard whisperings of it, but my Skia have not been able to locate her.”

“Nay, Lord. The Sphinx is just—”

Athan’s movement at the mention of Hope was inadvertent, and Xan grabbed his sleeve too late.

Darren turned even as Hades’s gaze shifted to the two demigods that stood in the shadows.

“Demigods?” Hades stood in a fluid movement.

Darren’s eyes narrowed and then widened in recognition. He grasped at his beltline. There was no time to think. Athan reached for his blades, but Xan was faster. Athan was thrown to the ground as an inky Skia blade whistled past them. Hades yelled a command that was muffled by Xan’s heavy body.

The tension in the room continued to rise, and Athan pushed against Xan’s weight. Had Xan been hit? Was Darren still alive?

Xan rolled to his feet, stood, and extended his hand to Athan. He didn’t even have to look to see if he’d hit his target. Irritation pulsed through Athan’s heart.

“Skata,” he muttered as he brushed away Xan’s hand and looked across the room.

Darren clutched the hilt of the silver dagger protruding from his chest. A perfect throw, the blade was buried to its rubied hilt. Darren opened his mouth to scream, but blinding sunshine poured from his dark depths. The Skia begged his lord with his eyes, pleaded for intervention. The rays seeped from the edges of his wound.

Hades’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing as his servant disappeared, crumbling from within from the exposure to the divine light.

The silver blade clinked on the stone.

Xan gave Athan a once-over. “You all right?”

Athan snorted his disgust. As if he would need to be taken care of.

“My Lord.” Athan bowed to the god.

Xan inclined his head. “Lord Hades.”

Hades stepped down from the dais. His fluid movements were like a predator stalking his prey.

“Son of Ares.” The god of the Underworld pushed Athan away from Xan and continued to circle the demigod. “You do not belong here.”

Xan said nothing, keeping his head down. The muscles in his neck tightened and strained against an unseen force of tension.

“And you, Son of Hermes.” Hades turned his gaze to Athan. “I have always treated you well as a guest, have I not?”

Athan nodded. It was true. The god had always been gracious when Athan had been in the Underworld with Hermes.

“And yet you bring death to my world?” Hades held up his hand before Athan could protest. “Do you know the sacrifices Skia make? Do you understand the necessity of their service?” The god tapped on his chin as if contemplating what more to tell them. “You are young and impetuous, demigods. You would benefit from some depth of understanding.” He waved his hand in a clear dismissal.

Athan felt the floor yanked out from under him.

Cold, like the blade of a Skia, blistered his skin. Athan shook with the sudden change in temperature. The icy air swirled around him in tortuous ribbons of pain. He needed to see if he could get out of the trajectory of the bitter wind. He stepped back and fell over a large boulder.

The boulder grunted.

Athan blinked, trying to force his eyes to stay opened. In truth, he wanted to curl in on himself to avoid the abuse the air was delivering.

“Shite. Where the Hades are we?”

Oh. The talking boulder was Xan. Athan crouched down next to the other demigod.

“Are you all right?” Athan yelled, but the words were swallowed in the maelstrom.

Xan tilted his head to the side and cracked an eye, gaze settling on Athan, and motioned for him to huddle close.

Athan lifted his shoulder in silent question. What good would it do to coil up here? But even as he thought it, the wind continued buffeting him. It was much like sparring multiple attackers at once, and there was no way to avoid the blows. He strained to find a way to escape, but eventually his natural instinct took over and he curled into the fetal position on the ground.

Tortured screams assailed him, the sounds grating against his sanity. The physical pain intensified, and despair pounded in his heart. They would never escape. They would die here. It had all been a waste. He wasn’t strong enough to rescue Hope. He wasn’t strong enough to save Dahlia. He wasn’t there to keep Isa home. He couldn’t save his mom. He was worthless, and now he was going to die in this hell. The worst thing was, he knew he deserved it. Despair filled him, and he wished for death.

“Enough.” The feminine voice was soft, barely over a whisper, but the accent of the divine cut through the tumult.

The wind stilled. The overwhelming emotions evaporated, and three young women sat cross-legged on the dark stone.

Athan unwound his body, stretching his stiff muscles.

Xan eyed the women warily, his hand resting on the hilt of his remaining dagger.

They had not changed. The three girls looked nothing like sisters with their different skin tones, hair color, and even facial features. Atropos wore modern clothing befitting a military assassin today, only shears of varying colors and lengths hung from her utility belt, the only weapons she would ever need. Her skin was ebony, and her pointed features matched her purpose. The Fate responsible for cutting the thread of life offered a knowing smirk, and Athan turned away.

Lachesis laughed and almost dropped her measuring instrument. The long rod was covered in markings running the length of it. The goddess who measured the life of man had warm russet skin, the same color as her eyes.

“Don’t scare him, Atropos.” Her thick auburn curls swayed with her laughter.

The air warmed, and the only sound was the clacking of Clotho’s eternal needles.

“He’s one of the good guys.” Lachesis held up her measuring stick as if to indicate he measured up. “They both are.”

Xan snorted.

Had Xan lost his mind? Athan wanted to warn him, but there was no way to do so without the goddess knowing it. Perhaps they would not find him rude.

Atropos laughed, and when she spoke, the bitterness had disappeared from her tone. “Regardless of how good they are, they are all we have to work with.”

“You are too eager to cut betimes.” Even with the reprimand, Clotho continued her knitting.

Atropos inclined her head. “Perhaps.” She regarded Xan with interest. “Perhaps not.”

Xan narrowed his eyes. “Are you going to kill us then?” His lip curled in a sneer of disgust. “I think not, or you would’ve done so already. Are you trying to break us?”

“Enough,” Clotho said in the same soft tone. Her head tilted up, and her blue eyes gazed at them as she set her needles aside. “We are not your enemies, Son of Ares.”

Xan rolled his eyes. Athan well understood his sentiment. The gods were no one’s friends either.

Clotho touched his knee. “The gods have been unjust to her, and this must stop. You must stop it here. Even now . . .” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her dainty nose. “Even now they are working to thwart her.”

Xan scrambled up and drew his blade. “Where?”

Athan’s focus remained on the youthful-appearing goddess before him. Her golden hair fell in soft waves well past her shoulders, but her worn dress was a testament to how infrequently she took a break from her knitting. Her unlined skin couldn’t hide the depth of wisdom in her eyes.

He’d read most of the Book of the Fates regarding the Sphinx. He knew they’d intervened to help Phaidra after Apollo’s curse.

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

Clotho blinked. “Not all gods are motivated by self-interest. Some have a spark of justice within.” She picked up her needles. “You’d better hurry. Your fate is unfolding.”

Atropos glared at her sister. “You told them too much.”

“Oh, stop. You forget our interest is in their success.” The clacking of needles commenced.

Lachesis helped Clotho stand, and Atropos followed.

“You’re out of Tartarus now, and when you step from our protection, you’ll need to cross Persephone’s garden to enter the palace.” Lachesis exhaled slowly as her gaze measured them. “Your worth is more than one decision; it is the grand sum.”

“Bullocks,” Xan muttered.

Athan glared at him. They did not want to offend the Fates.

But Atropos laughed again, and her sharp features softened. “I like you, Son of Ares. You’re brash but honest.” She pulled a small set of embroidery shears from her waist. The handles were a milky white with silver veins that matched the blades. She handed them to him. “Be very careful how you use them.”

The small pair of scissors disappeared in his palm. He raised his brow and tucked the pointed end into his empty sheath. “Aye. Best not nick my finger on them, too, right?”

Atropos smirked. “You’re welcome.”