Chapter Three

"Gods? Like Hercules and Zeus and those gods?" His eyes darkened at the mention of the only two Greek gods I could remember and his lips puckered ever so slightly before he caught himself and reigned in whatever displeasure he experienced. "You can't be serious. And what makes you think I'll eat anything that you've cooked?"

Poison was a good reason to stay away from his food—even if it did smell deliciously edible. Rohypnol was another. Pride another still.

"You want answers, you'll eat. It's just that simple really." He waved his hand towards the chair before him, less an invitation now and more of a demand. It was the seat to the right of the head of the table; the Right Hand Man's chair. I sat wordlessly because, let's be honest, I wanted answers. As much as I wanted to go home and pretend this whole day had just been a really bad, really lucid dream, I knew that there would always be that lingering 'what if' thought if I never so much as listened to him.

Or if I never figured out the right questions to ask. Remember how satisfaction brought that cat back to life? If the curiosity killed me I had hope that what came next would revive all signs of life in my corpse.

And that eventually I could go home, because at some point I had stopped trying to convince myself that this was a dream.

I stalled, feigning interest. "Why don't gods need to eat?"

"Gods feed on energy and ambrosia, not peanut butter and jelly."

A snort escaped my mouth before I could stop it. "Is that the best combination you can come up with?"

He did not answer.

The room we stood in was the most ornately furnished room I had ever had the privilege of entering, a dining room worthy of kings and queens and all manner of nobility: intricately-carved chairs and a ten-foot table, tapestries depicting a world far greener than anything I'd ever seen; a chandelier made of a million light-catching gems hung in the center of the room, not attached to the ceiling, just floating on its own. The carpet under my feet looked brand new—it squished with each step—the newest adornment in the room when compared to the silver place settings and the wall hangings.

In sixth grade we took a trip to the Chicago Art Institute. Sarah dragged me around to see the Van Gogh exhibit and we lost the rest of the class. These paintings, tapestries, candlesticks, even the carpet, looked like they belonged in the museum, carefully behind glass with wide perimeters rather than within arm's reach. I had an odd urge to touch every single piece just because I knew I shouldn't. Instead I looked at the only other living entity in the room, accidentally into the brown eyes that hadn't looked away from me. He belonged here, somehow; it wasn't an obvious fit, but I had the distinct feeling that he would be out of place in, say, a mall or rock concert or a high school. Maybe it was the air about him, or the way he carried himself, as if he had been the subject of one of the portraits. I tried to ignore him in favor of the artwork surrounding us.

"Your entire place looks like the Renaissance threw up in it."

"Thank you. I think." He cleared his throat through his pleased smile, vying for my attention. I wasn't exactly sure my comment was a compliment but he seemed to enjoy the way I appreciated his art.

Pride oozed from him; pride in his decorating skills and pride in me, though misplaced. Should I forget how Mysterio kidnapped me I would never lose the mental image of the way he looked at me.

Hungry. Proud. Excited.

Not that I would claim to understand him: first he kidnaps me, then he offers me food, he takes me to a museum where I'm allowed to touch all of the ancient pieces I want, and he pulls out my chair. Chivalry is not dead! But what kind of crazy person steals someone away only to treat her with kindness?

Since I wasn't tragically slain at the hands of my captor, I turned my attention to the table. The cutlery was silver, shining against the deep stain of the wooden table. My host sat at the head, a single wine glass sat empty in front of him.

My plate was yet untouched. "What the hell is going on?" I asked again. I had hoped for menacing, but my skepticism was stronger than my anger. My heart was busy trying to catch up to my churning mind; who was he, how did it work, to what purpose? But first, something he said tickled the back of my mind. "What are the right questions?"

Just the hint of a smile graced his features, lighting up those dark eyes. He reached to his left and picked up a bottle of red wine that I hadn't noticed before. He filled the glass in front of him and set the bottle back on the table, a deliberate show of control. Taking his time, he swirled the glass, he took a sip, he placed the glass back on the table all the while paying me no mind at all. As the liquid settled back in bowl of the glass, I realized that it was thick, not like wine at all. More like paint or pasta sauce or blood.

"You should eat something," he interrupted my gory thoughts. "I'm sure it's been a while since you've had anything in your stomach and travelling between your world and mine is enough to make anyone ravenous." He drank a little more of his wine, watching me.

Now we're getting somewhere. "Your world and mine? First you're a god—don't think I forgot about thatcomment—and now I'm supposed to believe that we're not on earth anymore?" I leaned forward in my chair, elbows on the table, wine and food and cutlery forgotten, my chin resting on my hands. The picture of an attentive audience and the opposite of a well-mannered young lady.

"Now there's the first good question you've asked all night. Eat first." An order delivered almost playfully. But then again, didn't most predators play with their food before they ripped into its delicate flesh?

The plate in front of me looked delicious, but I wasn't about to tell him that. "If I eat, will you answer my questions? Even the wrong ones?"

He nodded. I looked down at the full plate between my perched elbows, colorful and vibrant and deliciously aromatic. Putting aside all of the reasons it was a bad idea I decided, at this point, I didn't really have anything to lose.

I loaded up one of the silver forks to the left of my plate and brought it to my lips. Don't think about what is or isn't in the food. Just choke it down and get your answers. You can do that. Flavor wrapped itself around my tongue when I shoveled the bite unceremoniously into my mouth. I chewed and swirled the masticated bits around for a sec. I didn't, couldn't, swallow.

My skin tingled all over, a slight shock, like touching metal after rubbing my feet on the carpet. I shivered and set the fork down. The fork was then exchanged for a napkin from the table setting in front of me, and into that I spit the chewed up bite of food.

"I've had better." I gave him an ugly look, a there's-a-strange-taste-in-my-mouth-that-I-wish-I-could-forget kind of look. "I think I've made better, actually." I laid the crumpled napkin on the plate.

"I doubt that you've eaten better," he started.

"You've never had my grandfather's cooking."

He continued as if I hadn't spoken, "And I know for a fact that you've never made better. You're most famous for making scrambled eggs and my specialty is Italian. Well, my specialty is everything, but my favorite is Italian."

I ignored him, pretending that he wasn't correct about my immature abilities as a chef. "Your turn. I want to know who you are, where you've taken me, and why. And then we'll talk about this "god" business, because considering the last couple hours, that's not the craziest thing I've heard all day."

"A deal is a deal." He paused a moment, not hurt that I claimed to not enjoy his food and not pleased at the sight of my confusion; his confidence never wavered. "Presently, you are in Hades—otherwise known as the Underworld, the realm between Tartarus and the human world—and you are here to fulfill your destiny. A trip into my realm spells certain death for humans, unless of course they are already dead when they arrive. The Fates have worked for centuries to bring about your specific life thread and we have all worked very hard to ensure your being here, now, in this exact moment. Granted, they probably disapprove of my methods in bringing you here, but it's not as though it's never been done before. The sisters cannot spin the life threads of the gods so I worry little in regards to repercussions."

He raised his glass to me and jovially explained: "You are Autumn, half-blood Fury, and I am Hector, the new Hades, ruler of the Underworld. Does that answer all of your questions?"

Not even close; I had a hundred thousand questions left. Many of them why—why me, why now—and a few what's—what does any of this mean—but when I couldn't make my mouth form any word, question or otherwise, Hector tipped his glass to me, a triumphant, proud smile gracing his features.

"Welcome to hell."

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