Son Of Hades

Chapter 13: Greece Adventure’s

My bag? Packed to the gills. More strategically organized than a military operation, I’d like to add. Goodbye hugs with my parents (mostly Dad, Mom was busy checking I’d remembered my travel-sized bottle of artisanal olive oil – priorities, people!). Andie, bless her cotton socks, was practically weeping. I think it was more the envy than the goodbye. “Have fun,” she sniffled, “and don’t forget to send pictures of the ridiculously hot Greek guys!”

First-class was… well, it was first-class. Think clouds of fluffy pillows, tiny bottles of ridiculously expensive wine, and enough legroom for a small pony. I promptly fell asleep, dreaming I was in some ridiculously picturesque valley – think postcard perfect, but with a flowing stream that shimmered like liquid diamonds. I have been here before...

And then *she* appeared. Melinoe. You know, the minor Greek goddess of ghosts and crossroads, madness and mystery, dreams and nightmares of inspiration? The sister to the very Greek god that I shouldn't be thinking about. Not your average travel companion, I’ll grant you. She was all ethereal shimmer and slightly annoyed eyebrows.

"Prepare," she mumbled, her voice like wind chimes in a hurricane, "for the unexpected. Open your mind… a… a… spatula is not a shovel. Got it?"

And then *poof!* She vanished. Leaving me with the unsettling feeling that a spatula-shovel metaphor might held the key to a successful Greek holiday. I mean, seriously?

I woke up with a jolt. "We are now beginning our descent into Athens," a soothing voice announced over the intercom. "The local time is…"

I looked out the window. Athens looked… beautiful! Honestly, it looks like a giant spilled a box of Lego bricks – but in white and beige. I peered out the airplane window, my reflection shimmering beside the breathtaking (or, perhaps, slightly beige-tastic) view of Athens sprawling below.

The flashbulbs popped like tiny, celebratory firecrackers as I sashayed off the runway, feeling like a particularly glamorous sausage in a designer casing. Then I saw *him*. Alister. Think Greek god, but instead of a lyre, he wielded a ridiculously expensive-looking briefcase. His suit screamed “old money” (the kind that probably involved acquiring entire islands), while his eyes, a disconcerting shade of frosty blue that somehow managed to be both glacial and intensely interested, scanned me with a disconcerting level of appraisal.

"Impressive," he drawled, his Greek accent voice a low rumble that vibrated pleasantly through my stilettos. "You walked like you owned the place, even though technically, I do."

I fought back a grin. Technically, he *did* own the place – my soon-to-be-opened museum, which was, to put it mildly, a rather significant source of my current stress levels. “Well, I’m curating it, so it’s kind of a shared ownership,” I retorted, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly. He chuckled, a sound like the clinking of gold coins.

His mansion, perched dramatically on the Athenian coastline, was less a house and more a miniature Acropolis built of marble and impossible angles. The view was breathtaking – a panorama of sapphire ocean and sun-kissed islands – but I was far too busy internally battling the urge to leap onto a nearby chaise lounge and scream, "This is my life now! A modern-day siren! I'm going to need a bigger boat (and a very good therapist)."

"I insist you stay here," Alister said, his arm casually draped across a nearby marble balustrade as though he were posing for a Renaissance painting. "Think of it as… a pre-opening museum retreat. For one exceptionally talented curator.”

"I...I have a small apartment," I stammered, feeling utterly ridiculous. The “small apartment” was, in fact, a glorified cupboard, but the image of explaining that to the owner of what appeared to be a small, private country, was not appealing.

"Apartments are for commoners," he said with a charming smirk that somehow managed to be both arrogant and endearing. “Besides," he added, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I’ve got a rather impressive collection of ancient Roman bath salts. You wouldn't want to miss those, would you?"

The bath salts did sound pretty good... "hmm... ok, you got me with bath salts. I'll stay." I grin with almost pure excitement.

***

The next day, Alister, owner of the museum that inexplicably housed a perfectly preserved artifact’s, he led me on a tour. It was less a tour and more a whirlwind of breathtaking artifacts, paintings, and statues – a surprisingly lifelike terracotta statue of a grumpy-looking satyr, a collection of ancient Greek words meticulously transcribed on papyrus, and a room entirely dedicated to surprisingly well-preserved ancient Greek clothing. I swear, it looked practically new.

“Shall we grab a coffee?” Alister asked, his eyes twinkling with something that could be interpreted as genuine interest or a carefully plotted attempt at corporate espionage.

“Sure,” I replied, suddenly feeling the need to check my personal belongings for hidden cameras. Coffee with the boss. It had the potential to be either wonderfully productive or a HR nightmare waiting to happen.

We ended up at a café that served amazing lattes and delicious and freshly sweet smoothies. Apparently, the barista was a retired designer with their own garden. Over frothy beverages that tasted suspiciously like sunshine, we discussed the glories of ancient Greece.

“You know,” Alister said, swirling his hazelnut latte thoughtfully, “you have a real knack for this. A genuine passion.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, trying not to spill my Chai tea out of pure nervousness. My insides felt like a Greek chorus of butterflies performing a frantic, caffeinated jig.

“You’re a little historian,” he declared, a smile playing on his lips.

My mind did a slow, agonizing loop. *Little historian*? Zagreus, the brooding, slightly sadistic prince of the Underworld, had called me that too. It was a compliment from him, loaded with something almost... tender. But hearing it from Alister, who seemed to be strategically deploying his charm like a well-aimed spear, felt… different.

“You remind me of Persephone,” Alister added, oblivious to my internal meltdown. “She was... intense.” He paused, took a sip of his latte, then said it in a whisper that seemed to travel through the entire cafe and the underworld. “Actually, my Greek mythology teacher from high school used to dress up like her.”

It felt like the cafe froze. Baristas stopped mixing lattes, and everyone seemed to hold their breath for a moment. My Mind froze and reality with it the moment he said, "Little historian", a ring in my ears was loud.

Then a nearby table erupted in laughter. Then my mind went back to now. To reality. I must have disassociated myself from the world for a moment... I didn't mean to. I looked up at Alister, he was still talking. Alister laughed, clearing the awkwardness of my frozen face. "Apparently, it’s a long and storied tradition," he said chuckling as the reality of the situation sunk in.

The mixture of relief and disappointment tasted oddly like lukewarm lemonade. I liked Alister. I really did. But liking my boss while also harboring a bizarre, semi-forbidden love on the literal Prince of the Underworld? That was a plot twist even Sophocles couldn't have predicted. And frankly, it was giving me a serious headache.

"I'm sorry, I am talking too much aren't I?" Alister chuckles "I guess that's because I like you Clio. I..." his words trailed off and his frosty blue eyes synced in with mine.

The chipped ceramic mug warmed my hands, the lukewarm tea doing little to soothe the tremor in my fingers. Alister sat across the small, round table in the cafe, a low hum of conversation drifting from other patrons. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching the shine of light that bounced of his raven black hair – hair the exact shade of Obsidian black I remembered from… from *him*.

“So,” Alister said, his voice a low rumble, “you’re a… historian of obscure mythological texts?”

“Yes,” I replied, my voice sounding strangely distant, even to my own ears. "Specifically, those concerning the Underworld and its denizens." The words felt hollow, a recitation rather than a genuine statement. It was something I picked up more on when I went back to school. I had long to feel close the place that everyone told me wasn't real. To be close to *him*.

He leaned forward, his gaze intense, those eyes… those *eyes*. Deep pools of glacier ice, flecked a cool blue, mirroring the very depths of Tartarus itself. It was unsettling, the sheer familiarity, the sense of déjà vu that clung to me like a shroud. Yesterday, we’d met for the first time at a the runway airport. Now, this.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, picking up a small, intricately carved wooden box from the table. “I have a… personal interest in such matters. A family heirloom, you might say.” He opened the box, revealing a single, smooth, black stone. It pulsed faintly with an inner light.

“It’s… beautiful,” I managed, my voice catching. The stone seemed to hum in response to my gaze, a subtle vibration that sent a goosebumps down my arms.

He smiled, a slow, charming smile that was both comforting and utterly unnerving. “Indeed. It holds… secrets. Secrets I believe you might be able to help me unlock.” He paused, his eyes fixed on mine. “Tell me, have you ever encountered anything… *unusual* in your research?”

“Unusual?” I echoed, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “Many things are… beyond the comprehension of ordinary understanding.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications.

"Then perhaps you understand this," he said, sliding the black stone across the table toward me. The light emanating from it intensified, painting his face in a strange, ethereal glow. The cafe itself seemed to shift and blur at the edges, the other patrons dissolving into indistinct shapes. The air crackled with unseen energy.

"This stone," his voice deepened, resonating with a power that felt both ancient and terrifying, "is a key. A key to something… beyond your understanding. A key to places and times you’ve only dreamt of.”

My mind raced. Alister. Zagreus. The similarities were uncanny. Too uncanny. Was this some elaborate, cosmic joke? A trick of the light, a phantom echo of a past life? Or something... else entirely?

The black stone pulsed again, brighter this time, its light swallowing the cafe in a wave of incandescent darkness. I gasped, instinctively reaching out to touch it, the familiar pull, the sense of recognition, overwhelming me. Was I crazy? Or was this the beginning of something far, far stranger? The darkness deepened, encompassing everything, leaving me alone with the echoing hum of the stone and the feeling of… homecoming?

The next thing I knew, I was standing on a precipice overlooking a chasm of fire, the air thick with the stench of sulfur. Before me, a figure emerged from the swirling mists – tall, dark-haired, eyes blazing with an infernal blue light. He smiled, a smile I knew intimately, a smile that sent a chill down my spine, and said, "Miss me little historian?"