The hull of Charon’s boat wedged itself against the shoreline nearby, the brackish waters of the River Styx splashing against the old gray bones that made up the vessel’s shape. The prow of the boat was formed with skeletal hands, thin finger bones curled together, as if climbing out of the dark waters. At the top of the prow sat an old skull gripped by bony hands, a soft, eerie glow floating behind broken teeth and within dark eye sockets.
The ferryman was shrouded in ragged black robes, cowl pulled low over his face, casting him in shadow. Charon’s gnarled hands and bony fingers held an ancient wooden pole topped with a human skull. It, too, held light within the empty eye sockets and gaping jaws. The skin of the immortal’s hands was gray and pulled taut over his bones, almost desiccated in appearance.
Persephone rose up on her tiptoes, cupping the back of Patrick’s head to pull him down within reach. She pressed her lips to his forehead, the gentle touch a benediction he wanted no part of.
“Fight for us. Return Macaria to me. Do your duty and you may yet find your freedom,” she murmured. “You may yet find peace.”
Peace was a gift this war had yet to offer. Patrick couldn’t accept what no one else had.
He walked away from Persephone and the tricky, slippery promises immortals always offered in exchange for a life.
Patrick pulled out the second to last Greek coin rattling around in his pocket and slipped it between his teeth. He held it there, tasting metal on his tongue as he splashed through brackish water and climbed into Charon’s boat. He sat down on the bone bench, staring at the ferryman with defiant eyes.
One bony hand lifted off the pole to reach for him. Icy fingers brushed against his lips when they pried the payment from Patrick’s teeth. The ferryman brought the coin to his own mouth, shrouded in shadow, and swallowed the payment whole.
Patrick didn’t look back as Charon gripped the pole and separated his boat from the shore with a strong push. They glided forward over the depths of the River Styx, Charon ferrying him to the other side. Fog rose up to white out the world so completely Patrick could barely make out the ferryman after a while. Fog clung to the boat and his wet clothes, sliding into his lungs with every breath he took.
Only when the boat hit against the opposite shore, rocking him on the bench, did Patrick feel like he could breathe again. Charon made a wide gesture with one arm, one finger uncurling to point beyond the boat. Patrick clambered over the side and splashed into the calf-deep water. His combat boots felt waterlogged as he trudged out of the River Styx and into the edges of the veil.
Three strides got him past the water’s edge. Two more strides and Charon disappeared. All that surrounded Patrick was thick gray fog that went on forever. He couldn’t orient himself at all, and panic began to settle in his chest.
Then long fingers wrapped around his wrist, dragging him forward up the sudden sloping ground and into an iron jungle.
“This way,” Hermes called out.
Rain melted the fog away, pounding down on Patrick’s head and shoulders as they stumbled into the middle of Times Square. The wind hit him hard enough to drive him back a step on the famous meridian. The illuminated red staircase was behind them, empty of tourists. Patrick tried to blink his vision clear, but the bright lights of the famous intersection made his vision worse.
The usual crowds had disappeared in the face of the reactionary storm, leaving behind strangely empty streets only a handful of taxis braved. Some of the stores and chain restaurants were open, but many more were shuttered against the vicious weather.
Patrick looked up at the night sky and the black clouds hanging low and angry over New York City. “Tell me it’s still Monday night.”
“You went across the veil. You know I can’t tell you that,” Hermes said, his faded dyed blue curls pressed flat against his skull from the downpour. Unlike Hades, he didn’t seem to care if he got drenched or not. “It’s summer solstice.”
Which meant Patrick had lost a day, because it was Tuesday night and he didn’t know what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
He didn’t know if Jono was still alive, and Patrick desperately needed that answer to beyes.
“Where is everyone?”
Hermes smiled grimly. “Where do you think?”
A faint tremble ran through the ground. North of them, bright above the jagged skyline, Patrick could just make out an orange glow that seemed to flicker like a pulsar star. Patrick didn’t need his magic to know what was coming. He grabbed Hermes, barely getting the warning out in time as a powerful wave of magic rolled over Manhattan.
“Shield!” Patrick yelled.
Hermes might not have a coven worshipping him into a shadow of what he once was, but he was still a god. He still had magic at his command. Hermes raised a hand, eyes sparking gold as he formed a shield between them and the metaphysical power crashing through Manhattan.
Hell-tainted magic broke over them in a hit that seemed to freeze time. The rain stilled in its fall, trillions of drops just hovering in the air around Times Square, refracting the neon lights around them like crystal. In the clouds above, lightning crawled to an unimaginable stillness. It lasted only for an instant before the magic was sucked after the leading edge of the wave, causing the rain to fall back down to earth again with a roar.
That wasn’t the only thing that came down.
The air crackled with static, the sharp smell of ozone burning hot all around them. Patrick instinctively ducked as a massive bolt of lightning cut through the sky toward the earth. It struck the famous tower of screens behind them with enough force the ground shook. Thunder nearly deafened Patrick as crackling blue light exploded away from the ruined electronics, glass shards flying through the air like shrapnel.
The wind spun metal and glass through the air with frightening force. Patrick spared a single glance over his shoulder at the now-darkened and damaged tower of screens. An ugly black scorch mark three stories tall was seared down the front of the wall of electronics. Whatever electrical fire might have started from the strike sputtered out in the deluge from the storm.
Hermes’ shield held steady against the onslaught. He dragged his attention away from the sky to meet Patrick’s gaze. “It’s starting.”
“No fucking shit,” Patrick snapped. “I need to get to Central Park.”
