This was Macaria’s body now and would be forever more.
Protesting the unfairness of the situation wouldn’t change what had happened. Patrick could only move on from the past, no matter how recent it was. Every step he took brought him closer to a freedom that had cost far more than he ever could have realized as a child.
Walking through the veil felt like falling, with no sense of where the ground was. Patrick couldn’t see anything through the thick fog that surrounded them. Even Hermes faded from sight sometimes, the god wrapped up in gray nothingness before reappearing. The only constant was the faint glow of what was left of Hannah’s soul as it kept pace with them.
Patrick couldn’t feel his twin in his soul, the same way he could no longer feel Jono through the soulbond. Whatever lingering connection that might have existed between his sister had been severed with Hannah’s death. All that remained was the memory of the child she’d been, the barest structure of a life lost. It had been enough, in the end, to require payment for passage to the afterlife.
Hannah had been alive enough all these years to experience a horrifying, lingering slide into nonexistence, and Patrick knew he’d never forgive himself for that. But she was free now, and he hoped that could give her some peace, even if he’d never find his own over what was done.
Patrick swallowed, dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He was about to channel Wade and ask how much longer they had left when the fog started to finally thin out. He could actually see the ground rather than just feel it, the soles of his combat boots sinking into black dirt. When the fog finally peeled away for good, he found himself walking beside the River Styx, the cold wind of the Underworld howling through the air.
The full-body shiver that ran through him made his teeth clack together, nearly catching his tongue. Patrick blew out a breath, hunching his shoulders against the wind. The Underworld had always seemed inhospitable the few times he’d visited, and that hadn’t changed.
Hermes led him to the edge of the river, and Patrick wasn’t surprised at all to see Charon waiting for them at the shore, the ferryman’s boat made out of bones ready for them to board. Patrick hesitated, brackish water lapping at the tips of his combat boots.
Hermes, as if sensing Patrick’s unease, glanced over his shoulder and tilted his head in the direction of the boat. “You are allowed to ride. Payment was already made.”
Patrick steeled himself and waded into the water, struggling a little as he tried to climb on board with a baby held in one arm. Hermes reached for her, as if to take Macaria from his arms, but Patrick only held her tighter.
“I have her,” Patrick said, glaring at the god.
Hermes could say payment was made all he liked, but until Patrick handed Macaria back to Persephone, he wasn’t letting her go. Hermes laughed at him, the sound ringing through the dead air, before vaulting onto the boat, making it rock wildly. Patrick scowled and waited until it settled enough in the water to get on board. It took some balancing, but he managed to do it without letting go of Macaria.
Hannah’s soul floated over the water to settle in the space beside him on the cold wooden bench, never leaving his side. Charon pushed his pole against the bottom of the river, freeing the boat for the current to take. He steered them deeper into the River Styx, angling the prow downriver rather than across.
The fog of the veil lingered against the water, less thick than it had been in the fringe they’d walked through. The Underworld was a cold, desolate place, and Patrick hunched over Macaria, trying to shield her from the wind. He clenched his teeth together when they started to chatter, wondering if he dared try to set a heat charm again on his leather jacket. The remnants of broken fae magic still lingered on the material, and he was loath to risk Macaria.
So Patrick remained cold on the long ride down the River Styx, staring into the gloom that was ever present in the Underworld. He kept his eyes on the water, wary of the things that swam below the surface, shadows that followed the boat for miles and miles.
The River Styx grew wider as Charon steered them to their final destination. Eventually, Patrick couldn’t even see the shore, the fog obscuring it. Macaria shifted in her makeshift swaddle, and Patrick tugged aside the collar some to get eyes on her. She blinked owlishly up at him, her thatch of strawberry blond hair the only color around it seemed like.
“Almost there,” Patrick said tiredly.
He couldn’t begin to know how long the boat ride was, but the fog began to thin at some point, rolling away from a massive cave that looked as if it was capable of swallowing the River Styx whole. Charon directed his boat toward that darkness, the light in the skull on the prow illuminating their way into the vast tunnel.
The only sound in the dark was Patrick’s breathing and the splash of water against the hull of the boat. Charon knew the way, though, and guided the boat with a sureness that came from an eternity of ferrying souls to the Underworld.
A speck of light bloomed in the distance, growing larger and brighter as they drifted toward it. Patrick realized too late it was hellfire, burning in an arc against the end of the tunnel that opened up into a huge cavern. The heat of it was almost scorching after being so cold for so long, driving feeling back into the tips of his fingers.
Patrick straightened up once he caught sight of the welcoming committee standing on a stone ledge the River Styx lapped against. Charon poled the boat closer until the bones that made up its hull brushed against stone. Hermes stood and leaped easily to dry land. Patrick couldn’t do the same, not with a baby in his arms, but he wasn’t about to ask for help.
He managed to stand and get out of the boat without falling on his ass, but it was a near thing. Finally standing on solid ground, Patrick stared at where Persephone and Hades stood on the shores of their kingdom, watching him with a hunger in their eyes that was all for the infant he carried.
What did you look like before?Patrick wondered to himself as he glanced down at Macaria.Who will you be after this when you find your voice again?
He had so many questions that he knew would never be answered, simply because Patrick knew better than to go prying into other people’s traumas, even when they were so intricately twined with his own. Macaria didn’t owe him that, even though she was payment in full of the soul debt he owed Persephone.
“One weapon, as you requested,” Hermes said with an overindulgent bow to the rulers of the Underworld.
“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick muttered.
Hermes flashed him a smile before stepping aside, allowing Patrick to face Persephone and the end of everything he’d lived for since she’d taken him off that spellwork in Salem all those years ago.
“I brought your daughter back,” Patrick said into the cold and the quiet that surrounded them. “I want my soul debt cleared. Tell me it’s done. That I’ve paid up and you don’t own me anymore.”
He couldn’t quite keep the desperation out of his voice and was too tired to really try. The gods would do what they liked, they always had, but he’d played fast and loose with their rules and finally finished what had been asked of him. Persephone owed him his freedom, and Patrick wasn’t leaving the Underworld this time without it.
Persephone approached on quiet feet, her gown more traditionally Greek in style than anything she’d worn as of late. Patrick tightened his grip on the baby, not willing to give her up without assurances. Macaria still didn’t make a sound, though she wriggled more than she had on the long journey through the veil to this moment. Persephone’s gaze dropped to the infant, the love in her eyes impossible to miss.
