Pitchfork

  Pitchfork

  Nicole Scarano

  Copyright © 2019 by Nicole Scarano

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art by Nicole Scarano

  Images Licensed with © Shutterstock

  Edited by Cassandra Chaput

  Created with Vellum

  For My Dog, China.

  She is my Kerberos.

  Contents

  Prologue

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The Oracle of Delphi’s eyes rolled back into her skull; their whites an eerie beacon in the night’s inky black; her growling voice suddenly silenced by her body’s violent spasms. She shook uncontrollably on the cold stone floor, her fingers bloody. Fingernails cracked and splintered. Then as abruptly as the convulsions seized her, they ceased, and with the thud of her skull, the Oracle sprawled to the floor. Eyes flickering in her head, she lay impossibly still, unconscious.

  Her handmaiden hovered in the doorway, feet cemented to the cold ground in consuming terror. She should go to her mistress, should lift her cracked head from the floor, but the handmaiden could not peel the soles of her feet from the icy tiles. So there she stood, paralyzed in silence.

  The handmaiden had been in the Oracle’s service for as long as she could remember. She loved this woman and was honored to serve the almighty gods by serving the prophet, but here in the dark, she could not bring herself to help. She had seen prophecies, seen the Oracle convey the gods’ commandments since childhood, but this trance was the likes of which she had never seen before. This was different. The evil bleeding through the room from the Oracle’s body was palpable.

  Without warning, the Oracle bolted upright, eyes wide and understanding. She had returned her own mind, and frantically she searched the darkened chamber. She knew not where she was, nor why her fingers burned in pain as she stared at the indecipherable symbols her blood had traced on the cold stone. The Oracle’s gaze shot to the handmaiden, but the girl offered no explanation save the expression of fear marring her face, and the Oracle knew. She had prophesied, yet that was not why the maid stood frozen in the doorway. The Oracle understood, and dread crept from the maiden’s eyes into her own heart.

  “What did I say?” The Oracle whispered, her bloody fingers shaking. When the handmaiden failed to respond, she shifted to her knees and stared at the crude etchings carved into the floor. Her body grew cold, gooseflesh disfiguring her skin. “Tell me!” she screamed into the darkness. “By the gods, what did I say?”

  I

  “Wife?” The deep gravel voice intruded her sleep, rousing her to the land of the living.

  “Hmm,” Hades mumbled and stretched out a hand, blindly groping around the bed until it brushed against rough stubble. “Quiet.” She clamped her fingers over Alkaios’ lips, all the while refusing to open her eyes. Alkaios smiled, lips dragging across her skin at the movement, and kissed her palm before peeling it from his mouth.

  “Wife,” he repeated, tugging gently on her hand. “Your dog…”

  “Is something wrong?” Hades bolted upright in search of the beast. Alkaios rolled his eyes. Like a mother, Hades babied the three-headed monstrosity, and he was convinced nothing motivated her like the love of that god-killer.

  Hades blinked the sleep from her eyelids, and Kerberos’ sitting form came into focus at the foot of their bed, all six black eyes staring daggers at Alkaios. She shifted her gaze between her husband and dog and rolled her, flopping back to the comfort of the pillows.

  “Hades!” Alkaios groaned as he nudged her reclined figure. “Please make Kerberos move. It is unnerving when he hovers over me in the night.” In response, Kerberos’ left snout’s lips twitched slightly, baring massive fangs only to yawn wide and dramatically when Hades peeked through heavy eyelids to glimpse him. Innocence peppered his eyes as if he could not possibly be guilty of midnight terrors.

  “Oh, great King of the Underworld!” Hades mocked with outstretched palms beckoning her pet. “You are the keeper of Hell, yet the god-killer terrifies you.”

  “I may be king now,” Alkaios said as Kerberos padded to his mother’s touch. “But that dog cares for only you. All of Hell seems to care for only you. I am a god, but you, my Queen, are the ruler.”

  Hades shifted and clasped Kerberos’ middle head in her hands, drawing his devil’s face to hers. “My darling, I am glad I am your favorite.” With a smile, she pressed a kiss to the dog’s leathery hide before releasing him.

  Hades straightened with the realization her husband’s paranoia was the end of her sleep, but as she sat up, a vicious wave of nausea crashed through her. Her stomach roiled and heaved, and it was all Hades could do to lunge over the bed before its contents spewed to the floor. She retched, coughing as her torso dangled in mid-air. Both Alkaios and Kerberos froze, and for a long moment neither dared to even breathe as alarm coursed through them. Tentatively, Alkaios reached out and placed a rough palm on the flat of his wife’s back. Hades’ muscles spasmed beneath his touch, and he could feel her ribs shudder within her skin.

  “Hades?” Kerberos’s left head looked at Alkaios, disdain replaced by concern, yet Alkaios only stared back, eyes wide and confused as Hades’ body shook.

  “Hades? Are you all right?”

  Hades convulsed and with a ragged cough, pulled herself to sit on the bed.

  “I do not know.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “I have not been nauseous like that since I was mortal.”

  Hades lost the contents of her stomach twice more before drifting into an exhausted sleep. Alkaios sat in the stillness, chin resting in his palms as he watched the soft even breaths fall from her ruby lips. Kerberos crowded his giant mass against the mattress, all three heads leaning on the bed in apprehension, his warm breath caressing Hades’ skin.

  Alkaios looked from the dog to his wife. This new world differed drastically from the life he had been born into, and sitting in the Underworld, concern consumed him. They had been married barely a year, but it was a year of both bliss and worry. Hades had sacrificed her birthright to save him from the Touch of the Gods; abandoned her Underworld’s throne without hesitation, and the Universe had headed her plea. Her request judged selfless, Alkaios rose from farmer to King in a heartbeat, his body consuming power that was once Hades’, but that was not what worried him. No, what plagued his thoughts was how the loss of divinity affected the woman he cherished. Stripped of what was rightfully hers, Hades had been deprived of the power that ran through her veins. It was not legitimately Alkaios’ to wield, and the Underworld knew it. The beasts and the land bowed to him, but not in the way they submitted to Hades. She was what they desired, what they needed. Hence why the massive god-killer, who hovered at the edge of the bed, loved and
respected his wife more than him. The whole of the Underworld craved Hades, taking her words as law. Even the Pitchfork, the divine weapon of the Underworld, still responded to her. One weapon with two masters was unheard of, especially when one master was no longer a god. Yet the pitchfork and all its might obeyed her commands. Alkaios understood why the beasts idolized Hades, perhaps even understood why the pitchfork deferred to her, but when the throne room shifted and groaned, all were astounded and shocked. Since the dawn of time, the throne stood solitary in the darkness. The Titan Cronus, the first great god the world ever worshipped, had reigned on that seat, and when Hades severed the Underworld’s seal, it became hers. The single ruler destined to grace the thrones between Tartarus – the perpetual and winding staircase of torture where vile shades of cruel and evil mortals were punished for all eternity - and Elysium - the vibrant and gorgeous fields of heaven where the pure of heart were granted eternal blessings. For thousands of years, it remained stoically unchanged and alone, a figure of singular reign, but the moment Hades gifted Alkaios her power, the chamber transformed. From the ancient living citadel, a second throne grew beside the original, for the day Hades bequeathed him her divinity, even the Titan Fortress protested. The stone evolved as if to say it accepted Alkaios, but Hades was, and would always be, theirs.

  Watching Hades’ nausea this morning unsettled Alkaios. He was no fool. It was not his place to rule, and it terrified him that losing her power was affecting her. Hades had forgone her birthright, who she was at her core, and Alkaios worried the sacrifice was destroying her.

  A knock at the door jerked Alkaios from his thoughts, and both his and Kerberos’ eyes flicked upward, landing upon the lovely brunette peeking in.

  “Alkaios?” Keres whispered softly as to not wake Hades. “You both should come. They are here.”

  Hades was first to round the corner and enter Charon the ferryman’s bedroom, Alkaios and Keres hard on her heels, and the moment they saw them, all three of them, they froze in reverent silence.

  “By all that is holy, they are beautiful,” Hades murmured, gliding across the floor toward the bed where Ioanna reclined. Two, tiny golden-hair infants were cradled in her arms, their faces angelic in sleep. Charon perched beside her on the sheets with a third blonde babe dozing against his chest. Hades reached out, instinctively craving to hold one of the newborns, and Charon hauled himself to his feet and placed his child in her grasp. The moment her arms grew heavy with the small weight, Hades lifted the baby’s silken head to her nose. She breathed deep the scent of new life and pressed a soft kiss on the lily-white skin.

  “Three girls,” Charon beamed through a wide smile. “The gods are good.”

  “Our god is good,” Ioanna corrected, and it was not lost on Alkaios that she looked to Hades and not him.

  “Come,” Ioanna commanded Alkaios and Keres. “Hold them. I am now a mother of three, and my arms already need rest.” A soft laugh escaped Keres’ lips as she rushed to the bed and settled beside her friend. With gentle care, she lifted a babe. Alkaios followed suit, scooping up the third triplet, and the women smiled at the sight of the massive King of the Underworld cradling one of the smallest infants they had ever seen.

  “You will need a bigger home,” Alkaios observed, eyes examining the room. Charon and Ioanna’s two-room boathouse grew from the River Styx, born from a piece of the ferryman’s boat. After Charon’s resurrection, Hades had severed a chunk from his ferry and plunged it into the river that separated earth from Hell; a body of water so poisonous that it would flay the skin of god and man alike all save for the shades – the souls of the departed traveling to their afterlife. The souls of the dead could pass through the Styx unharmed, although the journey was treacherous until Hades’ rule.

  The detached piece of wood came alive and rose, forming fiber-by-fiber, branch by intertwining branch, until a single plank of rotted timber became a living house hovering over the water. This home was comfortable for the ferryman and his wife, made cozy by Ioanna’s touch, but as Alkaios looked around, he realized that with triplets, two rooms would not suffice. With a nod of his head, one wall began to un-grow. The wood shrank and retracted in on itself until a gaping hole tore through the bedroom, allowing the thick mist to rush in and envelope them. The infant in Hades’ arms squirmed at her first taste of the river that would be her eternal home, the river her father ferried the dead across.

  In a matter of moments, the tear in the wall changed directions as the wood extended farther over the current. Roots plunged down deep into the riverbed, and another room formed next to the bedroom. The expansion did not stop there, though. The walls continued their growth, and the house rose higher still until a second floor evolved into existence. Three rooms for three girls. Then as suddenly as it began, the timber gave one last shudder and returned to its solid state, and Alkaios turned back to the new parents.

  “I can change it however you like, but a larger home will serve your family better,” he said, surprised the power he associated with his wife was his to wield. Alkaios was a farmer, a man who survived off of endless work and despair. This power was not natural. It was Hades who coaxed the greatest responses with merely a nod of her head, not him.

  “It is perfect.” Ioanna gestured for him to come closer with a grateful smile. Alkaios obeyed and settled carefully on the mattress, and Ioanna leaned toward his cheek and pressed a kiss to his warm skin.

  “Thank you.” Charon clapped Alkaios’ back as he walked past to settle behind Hades. His strong and calloused hands smoothed her shoulders, and he peered over her to gaze lovingly at his daughter cradled snuggly in the queen’s arms. Her tiny eyes were clenched shut in peaceful slumber, and her soft cheek pressed comfortably against Hades’ chest. The queen’s heartbeat thundered a rhythmic lullaby against the child’s ear, and the serene beauty on her chubby face defied the Underworld to its core.

  “What are their names?” Hades asked as she twisted to glimpse her ferryman’s profile. Charon’s appearances were that of a young man, but the Titan was thousands of years older than she, and while the birth of his daughters made him a true father, Hades felt he had become one the day she resurrected him. His counsel and love guided her, and Hades trusted him enough to keep him hidden and safe from Zeus’ vengeance. For if Zeus knew Charon lived, he would execute Charon like he did the rest of his Titan brethren.

  “You hold the firstborn,” Charon answered. “Her name is Clotho. Alkaios holds the second, and she is Lachesis. Keres holds Atropos, the youngest of our triplets.”

  Hades nodded, turning her head back to the golden infant she cradled. “Such fates these three are for you. The ending you both deserve after hundreds of years of separation. They are your Moirai, your fates - one to spin, one to measure, one to cut.”

  After an hour, the infants grew inconsolable. Their tiny lungs forced breath out in shrill screams. Their miniscule fists beat the air. The visitors took their leave with soft kisses and promises of return visits, and as Ioanna settled the babes to sleep, the walkway extended from the dock toward the dark shore. Hades moved gracefully to the sand where Kerberos and Chimera hauled themselves up from where they laid in restful waiting. Their paws, large and gruesome, padded after her to flank their mother with loving protection. Alkaios smirked as his wife and beasts continued ahead, and as his soles landed on the riverbank, the plank shriveled back on itself to return the boathouse to isolation.

  “You should give up hope they will ever love you best,” Keres grinned, sidling beside him to slip her arm through his. They watched with amusement as Hades reached out to rest her palms on each of her beasts’ massive skulls. “She is their mother, a bond that cannot be usurped.”

  “I would not dare try,” Alkaios laughed, placing his calloused hand over Keres’ small fingers, but as suddenly as the sound burst from his lips, his laugh froze, voice strangled in the oppressive air. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, skin prickling warily, and his eyes shot to Kerberos. The god-kil
ler had felt it too, his scarred, leathery hide riddled with gooseflesh.

  “Who is it?” Alkaios asked, dropping Keres’ arm. The dog twisted his necks, three sets of glaring eyes regarding the king, but beneath his surly demeanor, something lingered behind his irises. It was a protectiveness Alkaios had never seen the hound direct toward him before, and as Alkaios’ long strides drew him beside his wife, Kerberos angled his neck protectively around the new king.

  “It is he.” Hades lifted her face to the air, feeling the presence born on the breeze, and Alkaios stiffened. He knew whom she meant. The one who bore the message; the one who had betrayed them. Hades had allowed the messenger access to her Underworld, the only god of Olympus permitted past the hellhound, and Zeus had known it. Zeus was the master behind the Touch of the Gods, but it was he who had delivered the eternal death by his fingers.

  “Hermes!” Alkaios spat, voice echoing throughout the ever-changing terrain of the Underworld. In a shimmer of power, the messenger god appeared, far from the god-killers’ reach.

  “I am sorry,” Hermes intoned, unable to meet Alkaios’ burning stare. “I…”

  “What is it you need,” Alkaios interrupted harshly. He knew that Zeus had forced Hermes to carry the soul-shredding Touch of the Gods to the Underworld. He knew he should let the messenger apologize; that deep down, Hermes was not his enemy, but a man caught between what was right and what was all-powerful. His wife cared for the messenger god, and Alkaios would eventually forgive him of his sins, just not today.