Dead Beautiful (16 page)

“Sorry,” she gasps, shaken. “I’m a bit tired lately. Maybe I’ve been overdoing the new job.”

“Here.” I help her to a chair. She sinks into it. “Something to drink,” I call, snapping my fingers, and instantly a carafe of water appears. “Not water,” I say. “Mead.” The water is replaced by a jug of orange juice. “Not juice. Mead.” The juice disappears, a pitcher of milk materializes. “Not milk —” A thought occurs to me. I turn to Persephone and scrutinize her closely.

“How are you feeling?”

She waves her hand. “A bit tired is all. This new work…”

But she looks altered, paler than usual, with dark circles under her eyes. Her hair is different, too, less curly, it hangs in long waves, framing her face.

“Have you had breakfast?”

“Didn’t have time.”

“I’ll order you something.”

“Ugh — no — I couldn’t.” She claps a hand over her mouth.

I begin to understand.

“Persephone —”

“Hecate says mum’s upset,” she interrupts. “She says, ‘Fire, flood, famine — disaster upon disaster.’ ”

“Hecate?” How did she come into this? The rhetoric doesn’t surprise me — Hecate always had a histrionic streak.

“She popped in just now. She says I can work upstairs and down here, just like her.”

“I don’t know about that. Not many can. Going back and forth somewhat defeats the purpose —”

“But I could go see mum?”

“You know, we need to talk about your mother —”

“But I could go see her?”

“Is that what you want?” I ask, something tightening in my chest.

“I don’t know,” she says, and bursts into tears. “I don’t know what I want.”

When the tears ease, I help her to our bedroom, convince her to lie down and rest. Within seconds she is deeply asleep, her hair spilling over the pillow like a cloud.

I sit beside her, watching, following the steady rhythm of her breathing, watch her eyes flutter beneath her eyelids. She groans at one point and shifts, turning onto her side, away from me.

I set invisible watchers around her. Do nothing, I order. Just watch.

In my office I pace back and forth. She’s pregnant. And now she talks about going back to Demeter, back to the world of sunlight. Is this how it goes? If she leaves, is that goodbye? I guess some part of me always suspected things would play out this way; that eventually she would leave. What is there to hold her here? Gold, jewels, riches — beyond the gifts I gave her during courtship, she’s never shown the slightest interest in those things. Maybe love, but our time together has been so short. I know how I feel — I’d do anything for her. Whether that feeling is reciprocated I have no idea.

And the pull of the upper world is strong. I saw the colour rise in her cheeks when she spoke of her mother, her eyes danced at the thought of seeing Demeter again. She is my wife, but I would not hold her here unwillingly — that would make her more a prisoner than a partner.

If she’s pregnant, though, I don’t want her zipping around. It can’t be good for her or the baby. Going back and forth will tire Persephone out. No, somehow she must be persuaded to stay.

Demeter

“I thought you knew.”

“I never —” Zeus replies.

“How could you not know?”

“Spheres of influence,” he mutters. “I respect his and he respects mine. Did Hermes say I knew? Because I didn’t. It was as much a surprise to me—”

“Hecate knew. I thought you did, too. I thought it was some deal you set up with your brother—”

“He’s not my brother.” A distant rumble sounds ominously.

“Don’t you thunder at me,” I growl. “You want thunder?” The air coalesces, a loud muttering begins. “You want lightning?” A sharp crack splits the air. “Don’t pull that stuff with me —”

“I think we all need a drink.” A cool, silvery voice slips smoothly between the words Zeus and I are throwing at each other. I round on Hera.

“And you — ” I start.

“Don’t,” she raises a hand cautioningly, “say anything you might regret later.” Her eyes are steely. “As my husband told you, we knew nothing of this.” She claps her hands; a gold tray bearing three gold chalices appears. “Here,” she hands me one, “From our own vineyards. A spectacular vintage. Now, let’s all calm down and discuss this like adults.”

I glance at the chalice. Can I trust her, or is there something in the mead and I’ll wake up in two days chained to a rock with an eagle showing up daily to lunch on my liver?

“No, no, no.” Hera frowns, shakes her head. “We would never do that. The whole incident was exaggerated. We were happy to let humans have fire but they needed to be taught how to use it properly. Prometheus just handed it to them with no instructions. The next thing we knew, we had a rash of deaths and injuries. You’d be surprised how many people thought they’d save money by burning their hair off rather than going to a barber. I do not joke. There were fireballs all over the place, people screaming, dying horrific deaths. Our numbers plummeted until we sent him back to show them how to handle it safely. And we never chained him up. The whole eagle story was promulgated by the anti-Zeus Titan faction. Prometheus is on our side — why would we want to alienate an ally? We just explained that burning oneself might feel as painful as, say, having your liver ripped out by an eagle. He got the picture.”

I take a sip. It is good. “I want my daughter back and I want Hades punished,” I tell Zeus. “I want him turned into a constellation.”

“I can’t do that. He’s family.”

“We’re all family,” I snap. “When has that ever stopped you?”

“Demeter,” interrupts Hera, “we’re not exactly happy about this ourselves. I was hoping Artemis and Hades might get together. That would have been splendid — a pairing of two of Olympus’s greatest figures.”

I stare at her. Artemis? What’s she talking about? Doesn’t she know about the midnight field hockey games with all those dryads? Maybe not — she’s rarely earthside. Or maybe she’s in denial; I thought that particular information was general knowledge. Well, I’m not going to be the one to break it to her.

And what’s with this two of Olympus’s greatest figures nonsense — my daughter’s not good enough?

“I want my daughter back.”

“I understand that,” Hera replies. A glance passes between her and Zeus. They seem to reach a decision. “We’ll send Hermes to Hades and ask him to send Persephone back.”

“Good,” I say.

“Now, about the crops and —” Zeus begins.

I set down the chalice. “Not until I have my daughter back.” And de-materialize.

Cyane

The word is Pers is on her way back. Or something like that. I heard it from a breeze, who heard it from a tree that used to be a nymph. The nymph caught Hades’ eye before he hit it off with Aphrodite and when Hades and Aphrodite got together, Aphrodite took care of anyone she thought might be competition (it’s a downside of Aphrodite you don’t hear much about). It’s also one of the downsides of having anything to do with the Olympians and their crowd, and I have to admit, it’s got me thinking. I don’t think Pers would turn me into anything but you never can tell.

Should I cool it with Darryl? We’ve been seeing a lot of each other lately and we get along really, really well. He’s so kind and patient. Not the swiftest arrow in the quiver, but that’s not always a bad thing. Uncomplicated, willing to take direction if I phrase it right. He was a real help at home recently. Mom’s been having drainage problems and Darryl installed these weeping tile things and — voila! — problem solved. No more mould in the bathroom, no more funky smell.

I really, really like him. I think the best thing is maybe to keep a low profile for a while. We can still go out but we’ll avoid the hot spots, Pan’s Bar and Grill, for instance, and the Aurora Night Club. It’ll give us a chance to spend some quality time together getting to know each other really, really well. That way he’ll have a much clearer idea of who he’s really interested in — a spoiled, self-centred Goddess-on-probation, or a sweet, kind and thoughtful water nymph.

Persephone

“You think so? You think I’m pregnant?”

“Coffee?” Hades offers, snapping his fingers. Instantly a burnished pot appears on the bedside table and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee fills the room.

My stomach lurches. I fight the urge to retch. “Well, now that you mention it, I have been tired lately, and sort of off my food. I thought it was the work I’d taken on.”

“Work doesn’t usually cause morning sickness.”

“No, that’s true.”

I’m sitting propped up against the pillows; Hades perches beside me on the edge of the bed. “That would explain other things, too, like bursting into tears like that,” I continue. “I never cry, except when I get my period. I’ve just felt so emotional recently, stretched thin. I thought it was the move, the work.”

He leans over and kisses me, a long, lingering kiss that communicates desire, pleasure, sweetness and something else, some sadness. Then he pulls back and gives me a long look.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you unhappy about this?”

He smiles, takes a deep breath. “No, I’m delighted.” He rests his hand gently on my middle. “I couldn’t be happier.” Our eyes meet and I see this is true; a fierce fire burns there. He turns away, stands and walks over to the window. “It’s just that —” Silence wells up into the room, then he continues, his voice quiet, “Hermes was here. Your mother wants you back.”

“Mum!” The word bursts from me involuntarily. Immediately I see the brilliant blue of a cloudless summer sky, leaves shading from the new gold of spring to light green. I hear the wind sighing through the fields, smell wet soil, the fragrances of my flowers.

“And I can go?”

“I think it can be arranged.”

But in an instant the situation becomes more complex. Goddess of fertility and fecundity, yes, but things are different where her own daughter is concerned. “Oh.”

I look up to find Hades’ eyes on me; shadows shift there, currents of emotion I can’t read.

“Did you tell your mother about us?” he asks.

I look away, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “I meant to. I was going to.”

“So it wouldn’t be inconceivable that she might think, perhaps, that I abducted you and brought you here without your consent? Held you here against your will?”

I hear an undercurrent of anger in his words.

“She might think that,” I answer.

“Then you have done me a disservice,” he says. “And not just me — humans are suffering because of your actions, Persephone. We must find a way to make things right.”

“I’ll go back. I’ll explain everything to her.”

“That’s a good idea, but it’s not so simple. What about the baby?”

“The baby?”

“Travel between here and there is rare — me, Hecate, Dionysus, now you — we are the select few who can undertake this. Orpheus, a few other humans have done it, granted, but only with an enormous amount of help. No one knows how it would affect a baby.”

Instinctively I wrap my arms around my belly. “Do you think it might be harmed?”

He turns away. “I don’t know.”

I think for a minute. “Can Mum come here?”

“No. This is not my decision, it’s simply how it is.”

“I see.” A great wave of sadness sweeps over me. I hadn’t realized how much I have been missing my mother, the upper world. Without thinking, I assumed that somehow, sometime we would be reunited. Why I thought this, I don’t know. It wasn’t thinking, really, not analysis. It was just a supposition, as simple and unexamined as breathing. I close my eyes and see fields of flowers stretching, stretching in all directions. I long for them.

Hades

For days after our conversation Persephone gets up, goes out in the morning, returns in the evening, has a small meal, and falls into bed. I sit beside her in the evenings, hold her hands and ask her how her work goes. She smiles, answers me in a weak voice. Too soon she says, “I am tired.”

Then I kiss her cheek, rise, dim the lights, and return to my office where I sit and think.

Day after day I watch her grow paler and more silent. I see her slipping away, becoming one of the shades in this place of shades.

Her laughter grows fainter, her light is dimming. Finally, when I can stand it no longer, I summon Hecate. I prefer her to Hermes. Hecate and I understand each other.

“You called?” she says, materializing as I sit by the fire in my office at night (it is always night here now). A bat flies through an open window and settles on her shoulder.

“Would you take a message to Zeus, please.”

She grimaces. “I don’t like it up there on Olympus. Too noisy, too bright, too crowded. All marble and gold. It’s uncomfortable.”

“Persephone is dying.”

She has been gazing into the fire as if reading something there. At my words she turns and looks at me, hard.