After each girl, he tried to fade. And after each girl, another member of the council convinced him to keep going. Murder after murder, body after body, he selfishly allowed another girl to risk her life for him in hope that perhaps this time, they would discover the killer. Perhaps this time, they would win.
They never did.
“How did it happen this time?”
Henry tensed at the sound of her voice, and he tore his eyes away from the lifeless body on the bed long enough to look at her. Diana stood in the doorway, a beacon of calm in the middle of the storm that was his existence, but even her presence didn’t help rein in his temper.
“Drowned,” said Henry thickly, turning back to the body on the bed. “I found her floating in the river early this morning.”
He didn’t hear her move toward him, but he felt her hand on his shoulder. “And we still don’t know…?”
“No.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended, and he forced himself to soften it. “No witnesses, no footprints, no traces of anything to indicate she didn’t jump in the river because she wanted to.”
“Maybe she did,” said Diana. “Maybe she panicked. Or maybe it was an accident.”
“Or maybe somebody did this to her.” He broke away from her, pacing the length of the room in an attempt to get as far away from the body as possible. He hadn’t known Bethany nearly as long as he’d known Ingrid, but the pain still slithered through his body, choking the life out of him. “Eleven girls in eighty years. Don’t tell me this was an accident.”
She sighed and brushed her fingertips across the girl’s white cheek. “We were so close with this one, weren’t we?”
“Bethany,” snapped Henry. “Her name was Bethany, and she was twenty-three years old. Now because of me, she’ll never see twenty-four.”
“She never would have seen it anyway if she’d been the one.”
Fury rose up inside of him and threatened to bubble over, but when he looked at her and saw compassion in her eyes, his anger drained away.
“She should have passed,” he said tightly. “She should have lived. I thought—”
“We all did.”
Henry sank into a chair, and she was by his side in an instant, rubbing his back in a motherly gesture. He tangled his fingers in his hair, his shoulders hunched with the familiar weight of grief. How much more of this was he supposed to endure before they finally let him go?
“There’s still time.” The hope in her voice stabbed at him, more painful than anything else that had happened that morning. “We still have decades—”
“I’m done.”
His words rang through the room as she stood still next to him, her breathing suddenly ragged and uneven. In the several seconds it took for her to respond, he considered taking it back, promising he would try again as he’d done so many times before, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so. Too many had already died, and she knew it. He’d stopped fighting after each death, his thirst for justice growing stronger with each soul he had to usher through the Underworld, but this time was different. This time he meant it.
“Henry, please,” she whispered. “There’s twenty years left. You can’t be done.”
“It won’t make a difference.”
She knelt in front of him and pulled his hands from his face, forcing him to look at her and see her fear. “You promised me a century, and you will give me a century, do you understand?”
“I won’t let another one die because of me.”
“And I won’t let you fade, not like this. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
He scowled. “And what will you do? Find another girl who’s willing? Bring another candidate to the manor every year until one passes? Until one makes it past Christmas?”
“If I have to.” She narrowed her eyes, determination radiating from her. “There is another option.”
He looked away. “I’ve already said no. We aren’t talking about it again.”
“And I’m not letting you go without a fight,” she said. “No one else could ever replace you no matter what the council says, and I love you too much to let you give up. You’re not leaving me any other choice.”
“You wouldn’t.”
She was silent.
Pushing the chair aside, Henry stood, wrenching his hand away from her. “You would do that to a child? Bring her into this world just to force her into this?” He pointed at the body on the bed. “You would do that?”
“If it means saving you, then yes.”
“She could die. Do you understand that?”
Her eyes flashed, and she stood to face him. “I understand that if she doesn’t do this, you will die.”
Henry turned away from her, struggling to hold himself together. “No great loss there.”
Diana spun him around to face her. “Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare give up.”
He blinked, startled by the intensity in her voice. When he opened his mouth to counter, she stopped him before he could speak.
“She will have a choice, you know that as well as I do, but no matter what happens, she will not become that, I promise you.” Diana gestured toward the body. “She will be young, but she will not be foolish.”
It took Henry a moment to think of something to counter her, and when he did, he knew he clung to false hope. “The council would never allow it.”
“I’ve already asked. As it falls within the time limit, they have given me permission.”
He clenched his jaw. “You asked without consulting me first?”
“Because I knew what you would say,” she said. “I can’t lose you. We can’t lose you. We’re all we have, and without you—please, Henry. Let me try.”
Henry closed his eyes, knowing that he couldn’t fight this now, not if the council agreed. He tried to picture what the girl might look like, but each time he tried to form an image, the memory of another face got in the way.
“I couldn’t love her.”
“You wouldn’t have to.” Diana pressed a kiss to his cheek. “But I think you will.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I know you,” she said, “and I know the mistakes I made before. I won’t repeat them again.”
He sighed, his resolve crumbling as she stared at him, silently pleading. It was only twenty years; he could make it until then if it meant not hurting her more than he already had. And this time, he thought, glancing at the body on the bed once more, he wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes, either.
“I’ll miss you while you’re gone,” he said, and her shoulders slumped with relief. “But this is the last one. If she fails, I’m done.”
“Okay,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Thank you, Henry.”
He nodded, and she let go. As she walked to the door, she too looked at the bed, and he swore to himself that this would never happen again. No matter what it took, pass or fail, this one would live.
“This isn’t your fault,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop himself. “What happened—I allowed it. You aren’t to blame.”
She paused, framed in the doorway, and gave him a sad smile.
“Yes, I am.”
Before he could say another word, she was gone.
KATE
Katherine Winters was born on a sunny September morning mere weeks before the autumnal equinox. And as soon as he received news of her birth, Henry retreated to the Underworld for the next several year
s, hiding himself away from the knowledge that her death would inevitably be on his hands, as well.
While Diana had taken on a mortal life to raise her daughter, the council was never far, watching over Kate as if she were their salvation. Though they never spoke about her directly to Henry at his request, he caught snippets of conversation about her progress. About how her birth had gone; her first day of school; about how Diana was living amongst the mortals, blending in as if she’d always been one of them. And despite his distance, even he could tell how happy they were together. Diana finally had the life she deserved, and he could not have been more thrilled for her.
But as pleased as he was that she had finally moved on from her anguish over Persephone, he could not ignore the fact that one day soon, he would take that happiness from her, as well. And the closer they drew, the more he thought about it, and the more he thought about it, the harder he begged Diana to let him go. To give her daughter a life she deserved, one where she could choose her fate. But no matter how he protested, Diana insisted again and again that Kate would have a choice; that she would be the one to choose to be with him, and if she did not want to try, then she would be free to live her own life.
Henry knew better, though. Even if Kate said no when she came of age, the council would find a way to manipulate her into it, and the very thought of her following in her sister’s footsteps made him sick. But the die had been cast, and her fate was sealed. She would be number twelve.
“You should go see her,” said James one evening, as Henry sat in his office with Cerberus slumbering at his feet.
Henry raised an eyebrow and peered at him. “And you should not be here.”
James shrugged. “Gonna be my realm soon anyway, so I don’t see why it matters.”
“Is that so?” said Henry.
“Well, yeah. Unless you think this will work.”
Henry was quiet. He hoped it would work, but deep within his mind, in a place he rarely allowed himself to visit, he knew it wouldn’t. They had done everything they could do to protect Bethany; he couldn’t possibly see what would be different about Kate. “Why are you here, James?”
“To make sure you have the chance I didn’t,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Even if something does happen to Kate, she’s a great kid. And you’re an idiot if you waste any more time avoiding her.”
He narrowed his eyes. “How dare you speak to me that way—”
“How dare you give up on Kate before she even has the chance to try.” James drew himself up to his full height. “She’s stronger than you know, and if she beats this, how do you think she’s going to feel, knowing you spent the first part of her life so sure she’d die that you couldn’t even bother to meet her?”
“I doubt she will care,” said Henry icily. “Considering Diana is raising her as a mortal.”
“She’ll find out who she is one day. We’re all busting our asses to protect her, making sure she’s never without one of us—even Ares is stepping up. But you can’t bother because you’re too much of a coward.”
“I am not a coward.” Henry stood, digging his fingertips into the hard wood of his desk. “I have watched eleven other girls perish because of me, and each one of them hurt as much as the one before. I do not enjoy the thought of Diana’s daughter falling victim to the same fate because of me.”
“Then do something about it. Guide her. Protect her. Help her. Don’t hide down here acting like she doesn’t exist,” said James, and for a moment, his voice hitched. They weren’t only talking about Kate anymore, but any remorse Henry felt for keeping him from his friend all those years ago had long since evaporated. “Even if something does happen to her, appreciate the time you have with her. Don’t ignore her in hopes that’ll make it hurt less. We both know it won’t.”
Henry clenched his jaw. “You have no right to tell me what to do.”
“And you have no right to act like she’s dead already.”
They glared at each other for the better part of a minute, neither willing to budge. A knot of frustration formed in Henry’s throat, rendering him silent regardless, and at last James sighed.
“It’s her seventh birthday today,” he said. “I’m not saying you should stay with her like you stayed with Ingrid, but I am saying it wouldn’t hurt if you went to see her. Diana would appreciate it. After all she’s doing for you—”
“Don’t,” said Henry, forcing the word out through his tight throat. “She is doing this for Kate, not for me. Kate will have a choice.”
“Then go give her that choice,” said James, and he inclined his head. “Central Park. Sheep Meadow. They’ll be there until sunset. Cerberus might appreciate running around and stretching his legs. Can’t imagine he gets much of a chance down here.”
With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of Henry’s office, leaving him in a cloud of self-hatred and uncertainty. What would it hurt, really, to see her? She was a child, yes, but he had no feelings for her other than the unyielding desire to protect her from harm. How could he do that when he didn’t even know what she looked like? And if James was right, if she did question his belief in her when she was old enough to know who she really was…
But what if she too died? The odds were against her. Any connection they formed would put her in certain mortal peril. How could he do that to her, knowing her chances of survival were so slim?
Then again, what better way to protect her than to be with her always?
He was halfway to the surface before he’d made a conscious decision. The warm sunshine hit his face as he appeared in Sheep Meadow, and at his feet, Cerberus shook off the Underworld gloom.
“What do you think?” said Henry, reaching down and giving his dog a pat. “Up for finding Diana and—”
Cerberus let out a loud woof, and before Henry could create a leash, he took off. Swearing, Henry followed, darting between small clusters of people enjoying the late-summer sunshine. No one seemed too bothered by the sight of a huge dog dashing through the crowd, followed by a man dressed in all black. Then again, it was New York.
Another bark, and Cerberus skidded onto a blanket, diving headfirst into a carefully laid-out picnic. Henry swore and hurried over, careful to appear as if he were breathing heavily.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My dog, he slipped his leash and—”
He stopped cold. Sitting on the blanket among the ruins of what had once been a small feast was Diana. And beside her, giggling as Cerberus snuffled into her hair, was a little girl.
Kate.
Her brown hair hung in a loose braid down her back, and her blue eyes and the smattering of freckles across her nose reminded him so much of Persephone that for a moment, he really was breathless. Whether Diana had done it on purpose or not, she had all but re-created the daughter she’d lost. But there was something about her, something he couldn’t describe—something so fundamentally different from her sister that in the space of a single heartbeat, Persephone faded from his mind completely.
Kate didn’t seem to be at all bothered by the fact that her birthday picnic had been destroyed by a dog three times her size. She gave Cerberus a kiss on the nose and turned to look at Henry, her eyes meeting his. He froze.
She may have been seven, but there was something eternal about her gaze. As if she could see all his thoughts, his hopes, his fears, his pain in one look. As if she understood every moment he’d existed. She may have been mortal, but she was without a doubt the daughter of gods.
“It’s all right,” said Diana, her voice warmer and fuller than he’d heard it in eons. “It looks like he managed to miss the cupcakes.”
“Cerberus, come,” said Henry, and he trotted obediently to his side. Henry ducked his head as he hooked a leash up to his dog’s collar, trying to hide his shock. “Again, my apologies. If there’s anything I could do to make it up to you…”
“Really, it’s no trouble,” said Diana, and she wrapped her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “Just an excuse to gorge ourselves on cupcakes, really. We’ll get hot dogs on our way out of the park.”
“At least let me pay for those,” he said, because any mortal would insist on the same, but Diana shook her head.
“If you want to help, you could take a few pictures for us,” she said, offering him a camera. “They never turn out quite right when I take them.”
Henry took the camera, a modern kind that felt lighter in his hands than he expected. “Of course,” he said, and he peered through the lens. Even now, Kate stood out like a beacon to him, as if she were the only flame in a world of dark.
He would protect her. He would kill for her. He would fade for her, if that’s what it took to make sure she had the life she deserved. And even if he never loved her the way Diana wanted him to, he would still show her the affection and respect she deserved.
“There,” he said roughly once he’d taken an entire roll of film. “You both look stunning.”
Kate grinned and tried to lick off the purple frosting that had somehow wound up on her nose. “You’re funny,” she said, fixing that infinite stare on him. “Mommy, can he get hot dogs with us?”
Diana looked at him, and he hesitated. He wanted nothing more than to spend more time with them, but to what end? She was a little girl. It wouldn’t do either of them any good for him to befriend her now, as an adult. And he would serve her better by protecting her from afar.