Garret grimaced. “Hades never did that. A lot of gods did shit like that, so Hades got lumped in with them, but it's all lies. He and Persephone are in love. It's their love that Hades . . .” He trailed off when he noticed the way I was gaping at him. “Shit. I wasn't supposed to get into this with you until we all got home and could tell you together.”
“Are you saying that you're Hades's hounds, not the Devil's?”
“I'm relieved that you see the distinction.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes. But, please, let's not get further into this until—”
“But if you're—if Hades is—there is no Christian god is there?”
“No. But Indigo, just hold your questions for—”
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “There is no God.”
“Well, there are many gods, just not that particular god.”
“Many?!” The Greek myths spun through my head. “Right. Hades is a god. Does that mean that all the Greek Gods are real?”
“Indigo, please. My packmates want to be there when we tell you about this.”
“They are! They're all real! So, then, Silas is a god after all. Just not the only god.”
Garret sighed. “We believe he is a minor Greek god. We just don't know which one.”
“A minor god?! He brought people back from the dead.”
“There are several gods who can do that. Hades included. Although he doesn't because it's against the law.”
“The law?”
“Ugh! I need to stop talking. I'm totally pulling a Hagrid.”
I burst out laughing. It was the stress and shock but also the hilarity—the sheer ludicrousness—of Cerberus, the three-headed hound, referencing Harry Potter. It was surreal.
“Didn't Hagrid own a three-headed dog?” I asked.
“Yup.”
I laughed harder.
Garret grinned at me. “I love that laugh.”
Once my laughter had run its course—which took a bit, I settled back in my seat and smiled at Garret. Being with him felt so natural. As if he were an old friend. The strain of being around Silas, and even Jake, vanished. I could breathe again. And then Garret pulled into a driveway.
There was modern security in addition to the magical barrier they had mentioned. Mainly, an enormous iron gate within high stone walls. Garret stopped before it, then rolled down his window and entered a code into a standing keypad. The gates parted, and we rolled through. I think I felt a shiver coast over my skin, but I could have been imagining things.
Landscape lighting cast halos around trees in the front yard. If you could call the long expanse a yard. It took us a good five minutes to reach the house. Lights were on inside. It looked as if someone was home. Or maybe the owners had left in ahurry. I glanced at Garret as he parked, imagining him watching me leave Silas's commune on a computer screen, then run out of the room with his three—what did he call them? Packmates?—running after him, no one thinking to turn off the lights. It made me feel . . . something good. How terrible was it that it had been so long since I'd felt good that I couldn't name the specific good emotion right away? Finally, when Garret got out of the car, I realized what it was—valued. I felt valued.
What had Silas said? If they believed I was their mate, they would treasure me. That's how I felt, and I had only just arrived. Was I their mate? To be completely honest, at that moment, I wanted to be. Desperately. Just to feel that way again.
And no, Jake had never made me feel like that. He made me feel appreciated, but that's not the same thing, is it? You can appreciate a superb wine or a book, but the very word “treasure” implies that “good” just isn't good enough. Treasure is priceless. It's something that would break your heart to lose. Would losing me break Jake's heart? It hurt to admit it, but I had never felt that. Jake was too confident. He was one of those guys that was always getting hit on. I assumed he'd move on quickly if we broke up. And the truly terrible part was that it had never bothered me.
Until now.
Garret opened my door, and I got out of the car as I looked up and up and up at the Victorian mansion. It was the real deal. Probably built during the gold rush that hit Helena back in the 1800s. Yeah, I'd been reading up on Montana. Nothing much to do in that log palace other than read and eat while I waited for Jake to come home like I was some kind of 50s housewife.
Thoughts of that lumber monstrosity faded as Garret led me up to the front porch of the most elegant house I'd ever gotten this close to. The posts had carvings of flowers and gingerbread details defined the top corners, where they met the roof. Moldings garlanded the construction, hand-carved pieces primped it, and little paintings finished it, decorating the whole like a Christmas tree. Yes, paintings. On the outside of the house. It looked like something a Rothschild would have lived in. Or Martha Stewart.
