The Soul Collector

Epilogue

Theron ground his teeth in fury as he watched her Soul repair itself.

She was a resilient little thing, he had to admit, even though her stubborness was impeding his plans yet again. He had torn her to shreds over and over again, but she still came back, the scattered pieces of her Soul molding back together into that swirl of color and life.

His blood spattered shoes clicked loudly on the stone floors as he stalked to his office. The side of his face burned where the bitch had clawed him, and he was in a royally foul mood.

So when he swung the door to his office open and found Hades lounging in his desk chair, he had to resist the urge to throw the knife he was still holding right through the god's head.

With painstakingly coiffed hair the color of bleached bone and dressed in leather everything, Theron couldn't bring himself to take the deity seriously. Hades grinned at him over a pair of jet-black shades, the two gold rings pierced through his lower lip glimmering in the low light.

"So," he began, ancient Greek accent enhancing the natural allure of his voice, "still no luck with your little blonde harlot?"

"No one says harlot anymore," Theron growled, pushing through a door to reveal a sink. He despised the tacky feeling of blood on his skin.

Scrubbing the Soul-blood from his hands, he asked, "Why are you here, Hades?"

"Well you did destroy my favorite Hound. Sirius was the last of Cerberus' line. One of Arawn's finest creations. You were the one who said he'd be fine. Then your little whore comes along and... well." Hades snapped his fingers, an image appearing in the dark water of the sink. "Have you seen him?"

Theron glanced down at the rippling image of the Hound. Red blood was smeared across his face, slowly drying as he stared at nothing. Shattered, empty eyes met Theron's and he smashed his hand through the image on the water.

Snapping a hand towel off the stack next to the sink, he dried his hands off, turning back to the god. Growling, the demon said, "I don't care about your little pet. Nor do you. You assured me that he would unravel her Soul. You were wrong."

Hades' pleasant demeanor dropped, and Theron's hair stood on end as black lightning crackled through the room. The god stood, towering over him. His deep voice threatening, he said, "You said you were sure she was the key. The other gods are getting restless, Theron. Particularly the Celts. And you know how they can be."

"She is!" Theron snapped. "She meets every requirement. It isn't my fault that magics as old as the Gate Spell need her to be willing."

Hades stalked toward the demon, fisting his hands in Theron's coat before slamming him back into the wall. Flashing his fangs, the god hissed, "Then work faster. We want out, Theron. You promised us freedom, and now you'll deliver, or perhaps we'll put you on the table and give the Hunter bitch a blade."

Theron swallowed, then nodded. With a smile, Hades let go of him, taking the time to smooth out the wrinkles he'd made in the expensive fabric.

The god slid his sunglasses back on. Opening the door, he said, "The old underworld gods are not patient, Theron. Nor are we forgiving. Get her to open the gates lest we... take our frustrations out on you."

Theron nodded stiffly, and Hades finally left. Once he was sure the god was gone, he slumped into one of the chairs in front of his desk, rubbing at his temples with a scowl on his face.

He was not to be blamed for God locking away the more bloodthirsty ancients.

Theron sighed. He never should have asked Hades for help with the spell. He never should have had Arawn create the modern Hellhound.

Now he was bound by oath and by blood to free them from their prison.

The only compensation he looked forward to was that he would be free of this filthy place too.