The portal to the Underworld.
Beyond it, Krystian and Everett are waiting for me.
This maze of mirrors is obviously some type of test. It wouldn’t surprise me if Athena herself designed it, given her penchant for mazes.
I take a step forward, and then another, until I’m standing in front of it. My mind is screaming at me to stop and turn away, but my feet move of their own accord.
And before I can even suck in a full breath, I’m falling into the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ZAID
Most people believe that wraiths are synonymous with spirits. Ghosts. Poltergeists. That’s a common misconception that started centuries earlier, before the humans learned the truth of the supernatural’s existence.
But we’re not dead, despite popular belief. I think the legend stemmed from the way we can make our bodies incorporeal and shadowy.
I’ve never stepped foot in the Underworld before.
I hope I never will again—at least, not for a few hundred more years.
It’s beautiful—but in the way a storm on the horizon is beautiful, or a field of poppies grown from spilled blood. The sky above is a dome of smoldering onyx, speckled with dim, unmoving stars. The ground shimmers faintly, veined with lines of silver and ghost light, and pale flowers bloom from cracks in the stone—lilies that release no scent, but turn ever so slightly to follow our steps.
The other three are already there when I step through the portal, Everett and Krystian standing protectively around Thea.
A second later, a rift opens in the middle of the air, and Rafe steps through, looking entirely unbothered by the horror show he no doubt witnessed in the Hall of Mirrors. Then again, nothing seems to ruffle the psychotic blood fae.
Excluding Thea, of course.
“Who knew the Underworld would be so cold?” Thea absently rubs at her bare arms, her gaze flicking in both directions rapidly.
Before I can remove my sweatshirt, Everett does so, passing it her way. She takes it gratefully and puts it on, the material dwarfing her much smaller frame.
“You look fucking adorable,” Krystian says, poking her nose.
She swats him away irritatedly.
“I’m not adorable. I’m a terrifying menace,” she counters, her lips puckering.
“See?” Krystian turns towards us, jabbing his thumb in her direction. “Adorable.”
“Where to next?” Rafe asks darkly, a blade already extended and clutched tightly in his hand.
I point. “There.”
Before us, the River Styx coils like a black serpent, its waters glowing with a blueish gleam. A rickety wooden boat rocks gently at the bank, waiting, its master cloaked in silence, his eyes unreadable beneath his hood.
Charon. The ferryman for the dead.
Trepidation crawls up my spine, and my tongue turns to cotton in my mouth.
“We need to pay the ferryman’s toll,” I whisper to the others as we regard the lone figure.
I can’t distinguish any of his features—not with his hood casting shadows over his face—but he has a slightly hunched back. The hand holding the lantern is pale and covered in wrinkles.
“What is his toll?” Everett folds his arms over his chest.
“And where are all the other souls? Shouldn’t there be, like, a line?” Thea queries, her eyes darting in all directions.
