Broken Kiss (a Teen Wolf story)

Part 15

        He didn’t remember it being so quiet. The last time he was in the underworld, it was to attend a market, a day when the dead could barter the possessions they’d brought with them. Sometimes it was the things they’d had with them at death. Lots of weapons – obviously not as useful as they’d hoped – and dented shields and helmets, that sort of thing. Keepsakes, small items they’d kept close to their hearts. That was a bummer, watching the dead weep their gray tears over their gray faces. If they liked their trinkets so much, they should have just kept them.

            Peter shifted on the cold stone. Light flickered through the slats in the metal door, bright yellow and orange. Color meant he was in the Great Hall, Hades’ home. It was the only place the god permitted it, out of consideration of his wife, Persephone. Persephone, the embodiment of grace and replenishment. She’d also been the one who’d sent the band of hideous thugs to snatch Peter. Generally he admired a woman of action, but this…

            He tried to stand and the heavy chains tugged at his wrists and ankles, pulling him off balance. His talons lengthened, what remained of them. He’d already tried to claw his way free, but earthly werewolf claws were no match for Olympian-forged steel. He could chew through his arm, but he’d have to break it first and he wasn’t quite that desperate.

            Still, it was very quiet.

            “Has nobody else committed a heinous crime and been tossed in the dungeon?” he called out. His voice echoed through his small cell, and through those around him. He was the lone occupant of a subterranean dungeon. Alone, with only his thoughts.

            There was a reason he was drawn to Derek’s pack of teenagers – Scott McCall’s, now. They were loud, always in motion, and their feelings were always on the cusp of overwhelming them. They were alive, which he needed after the coma, after going so long without being sure that he'd ever return to a real life. Those long, lonely, painful years...

            His heart began to pound. Whispers filled his head, not the voices of others, but his own voice – incoherent and full of rage. He grasped for something to focus on, to keep himself in control.

            And then there was Lydia, miles beyond her little clique. Her dark, clever eyes saw more than the rest of them. Her quick mind grasped connections that others never would. Peter could spend hours, days, listening to her connect the dots on some small thing that was her whole world in that moment. He wanted her to focus on him like that, wanted her to purse her lip as she tried to figure him out. She would keep trying until she did. And then, if she were feeling charitable, maybe she would tell him what she saw. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as images of Lydia replaced the threat of madness darkening the corners of his mind.

            Where was he? Oh, yes. Her lips. Her mouth, well, that was just sweet temptation. And her hands, so small and delicate, clawing at the grass as she tried to escape him… He didn’t like that. His wolf didn’t like that, stirring sleepily in agitation.

            “You’re rather internally focused for a wolf,” a woman said.

            Peter’s eyes flew open. He looked up, disoriented and angry, to find a statuesque blonde peering down at him.

            “You’d make a terrible watchdog,” she said. “Oblivious, and whimpering in your sleep.” She crouched, her violet gown flowing out around her as she smiled a merciless smile. “What’s got you so upset, wolf?”

            He raised one arm, making the chain jingle. “I’m not overly fond of this.”

            “Then you should not have attacked my husband with it.” She stabbed something into the center of his palm, and Peter shouted and tried to pull away. The chains held him fast and he gaped at the tiny sliver of wood burrowing into his hand.

            “What the hell is that?” It burned, and the sensation was traveling, creeping up his arm.

            “It’s wood from the Chair of Forgetfulness.” Persephone stood, smiling radiantly. “Don’t worry. It’s only a small piece, so it isn’t going to empty your entire mind. I’ve had it modified. It will only take the memory of the thing you hold most dear.”

            Lydia. He needed to make things right between them. He needed to make things good between them.

            “Get it out,” he snarled, his fangs lengthening, his eyes glowing. His wolf didn’t like the captivity. He didn’t like the pain.

            “No. Peter Hale, this is your sentence for attacking the one who is dearest to me. I could have made this much worse on you. What’s a single thread of memory compared to lifetimes of torture? Be glad that I am merciful.”

            Fire clawed through his veins, scraping across nerve endings as it reached into his mind. Peter gritted his teeth, thrashing. The cuffs bit into his wrists. His hands slicked with hot blood. Persephone turned, her gown billowing out behind her, and sailed forth from his cell. She didn’t even bother closing the door behind her.

            “No,” he growled, straining against the cuff. He could not lose her, could not lose a single memory of her.

            Her hair, red like a startled ember. The bone cracked in his left arm and he jerked, breaking it clean through. The way she twisted her shoulders when she flushed, her entire body reacting to his words. He worked his arm up, took a deep breath, and bit deep. Her eyes, long lashes trembling as he lowered his mouth to hers. He shook, sweat breaking out across his neck. He couldn’t remember the exact color of her eyes.

            “Lydia.”