The Search for Juno

Chapter XX

After the tour—Angie had pretty much lost interest the second an eight-eyed street vendor had tried to sell her some dried demon toes (Persephone: "Hades makes this excellent soup with them, oh you must try it")—Persephone led them back to the skyscraper, which the locals called the Palace. A strange feeling flooded Angie when they walked into the lavish, marble-floored room and she noted the two separate queen-size beds: something that felt sort of like disappointment.

    Persephone left them with a grandiose twirl and a polite curtsy. "Don't hesitate to let me or Hades know if you ladies need anything! We're right upstairs. And don't you worry your pretty little heads about Herm-Herm. He'll be just fine!"

    For several long moments after the goddess left, Angie was still trying to figure out how someone so sunshiney could fall in love with as gloomy a man as the God of the Dead. And when her head started to hurt, she took a nap instead.

    When Angie awoke, it was night. She wasn't sure how she knew; there were no windows in the bedroom, and nor was there a sky to see, anyway. Maybe it was something intrinsic, an unnamed intuition that spoke of white-hot stars and silent houses.

    She sat up, scrubbing her hands through her curls, which were now flat on one side. As she fluffed them out again, she turned her head; Clio was an immobile lump underneath the covers, nothing but a spill of black hair visible from above the satin comforter. Angie's heart did a strange flip in her chest. She wondered what Clio looked like when she was sleeping.

    But that was creepy.

    So she slung herself out of bed, hesitated at the door, and slipped out into the hall.

    She knew now why she was awake. Something had come back to her, a memory, a brief exchange of words between Artemis and Hermes she'd overheard one day that changed everything. Angie slumped through the dark hallway, arms hugged to her chest, a film of goosebumps rising on her arms. Either option, she realized, was hellish. Whether it was the Olympian twins behind this—which she knew it was not, at least not entirely—or the twins she'd grown up with, either made her head and her heart hurt.

    Here was one misconception about the Underworld that Angie had quickly debunked: it was not hot at all. In fact, it was freezing, and considering Angie's summer wardrobe consisted of mostly discount tank tops and self-distressed jeans, she was extremely ill-prepared. As she walked, bare feet soundless upon the tile a harsh white light revealed itself up ahead. She was relieved to discover it was coming from a vending machine, with a small coffeepot beside it, a full lounge complete with chairs and a settee and a coffee table. But Angie stopped dead in her tracks when she noticed the tall shadow looming right at the vending machine's edge.

    He turned his head as Angie reached the lounge, his face suddenly thrust into the washed light. "Angie," said Hades, his eyes narrow with what could have been suspicion or concern; Angie wasn't sure. "Couldn't sleep?"

    Angie hesitated, then shook her head.

    Hades faced her squarely. He was out of his business attire now, clad instead in a dark sweatsuit, longish hair mussed and glasses smudged. "Is it Herm-Herm?" he said. "He's recovering, you know. Hasn't woken up yet, but his vitals are steady."

    Angie shook her head once more.

    Now Hades's eyebrows quirked with interest. "I see," he said, then knocked a pale fist against the vending machine's glass. "You want something? It's on me."

    Angie shrugged and stepped forward, giving her selections a thorough examination. When the most appealing options were gorgon gummies (made with real gorgon!) and olive-flavored sandwich cookies, Angie pointed at the coffee pot. "That one isn't broken, too, is it?"