friends. Harpies cluster together in groups, next to Cerberus. They’re obviously on good terms. Minotaurs with silver-spiked maces and war hammers, their muscled torsos covered in scarlet robes stand in the middle, stamping their feet, ready to march. In the forefront, basilisks entwine with each other, their heads hooded with leather helmets which they lift by inflating their scales beneath, just enough to unleash their deadly gaze.
“Let’s go,” I say, raising my spear in the signal to leave.
Cerberus takes the lead, and as he sniffs his way deeper into the caverns, more feet join us the further we go. They follow out of loyalty to Prometheus, and it’s humbling.
We descend, deeper inside the mountain, and as we enter the level where I’d found Cerberus, I see him giving his chains a wide berth. They were indeed long enough to venture further below.
We keep spiraling down and down, the roof of the passageway growing shorter with each step. I’m on the verge of getting claustrophobic when I think I hear the sound of running water. A few feet further and I’m sure of it.
“Water?” I ask.
“We’re so deep, it might be one of the rivers of the Underworld,” Ladron’s baritone rumbles from close behind me.
“It’s Phlegethon,” Mirk says with conviction.
Of course, with Hades being his father, he’d know.
“Phlegethon, the River of Fire,” I say, recalling all the stories I’d read on Earth. “It leads to Tartarus where the dead are judged, and the Titans are imprisoned, right?”
Mirk gives me a one-syllable answer. “Yes.”
We enter a cavern and here, the stench of sulfur is overpowering.
“So, this is where you came,” I say to Cerberus as I join them.
Cerberus sniffs, and then takes me to a high archway leading into a larger, more open area.
I catch a glimpse of the river and hold my breath.
It’s gorgeous, a glowing blue, even bluer than the bluest photoshop version of the Caribbean Sea.
“The River of Fire, where Demeter turned Askalaphos into a screech owl,” I whisper in awe. This is where Askalaphos lost his human form after telling the story of how Hades tricked Persephone into eating four pomegranate seeds so she would be forced to return to the Underworld four months each year. Demeter had been so furious that her daughter had been so cruelly tricked. She’d demanded Askalaphos answer her summons, and when he did, she’d thrown a bowl of water from the River of Fire right on him. He’d turned into a Screech Owl, a symbol of ill omen. Though why she’d taken out her anger on Askalaphos and not Hades had always made me curious. But then, I suppose she knew with Askalaphos, she’d succeed.
“It’ll be tricky crossing here without burning our souls,” Ladron says as he steps up beside me, his gorgeous eyes locked on the river’s far shore.
“What do you mean by burning our souls, exactly?” I ask. “Will we spontaneously combust or something if we touch the water?”
He nods. “If the stories are true, then we will burn, yes. And there will be no reincarnation. For any of us. Not even you. The fires will destroy our souls.”
I drop my gaze to the water and then back to the monsters forming our army. There’s so many of them. They’ll never be able to cross without dying.
My army is ready…only, they’re stuck on the wrong side of a burning river.
“Is there another way?” I ask, but I already know the answer. It’ll be too late to head off or catch up with Clay if I backtrack. I’m stuck forging ahead.
I stare at the flames dancing in the water. “No,” I murmur. “We just need to remove the fire from the water, just enough to get across.” No Aloe Vera here to make a body-cooling gel. “Got a lot of salt and ice?”
“Salt?”
“Salt helps lower the freezing point of ice, like an ice-cream maker.
He’s looking at me like I’m kind of crazy. Maybe I am.
Something about the flames catch my attention. They’re beautiful. Mesmerizing. Playing with the water, running under the surface, impervious to getting wet.
A memory from Prometheus stirs, and in my mind, I see him coming to this very river, carrying the famed giant stalk of fennel, the vehicle with which he’d given humanity the gift of fire.
Slowly, he kneels before the river and runs his palms over the water. A blue flame rises from the surface to kiss his fingertips and then play over his hands.
The fire is alive. It’s dangerous, yet.
He dips the stalk of fennel to