Wide-eyed, Demeter shook her head and took a step back.
“I will send you to the place where they are, Demeter. Strike him with this.”
“You want me to attack Hades? A god? Are you out of your . . . ” Remembering whom she was addressing, Demeter’s words trailed off and she ended by clearing her throat.
“If you want her back, his hold on her must be broken. My scythe will accomplish that. She cannot leave his realm otherwise.”
Demeter could not move. Not only was the goddess offering up Her scythe, She intended for Demeter to wield it.
“Only this will save your granddaughter. Take it.”
Demeter mustered her courage and reached shaking hands toward the scythe. Hecate’s hands slid from farther down the shaft, allowing Demeter to assume a firmer grip. “Do you have it?”
Demeter nodded.
Hecate released the scythe.
The long blade was unexpectedly heavy. The tip crashed down, embedding in the muddy shore. Demeter maintained her hold, and grasped the shaft more firmly. She bent slightly as she tried to heft the blade from the mud. It shifted but she could not lift it. There was strength in her hands, in the dragon’s blood on her skin, but her arms remained weak.
Hecate’s hand rested on Demeter’s shoulder. “Falx portare.”
As the words were spoken it seemed to Demeter that she had become the axis point on which the world spun. Dizziness engulfed her. She leaned on the scythe for balance and concentrated on breathing. When the motion stopped, she opened her eyes and found she was standing on the dais of a great throne room.
Before her blazed a ring of fire. Within the circle of flames, a man and a woman lounged, embracing and locked in a passionate kiss. Hades and Persephone.
They didn’t seem aware of her presence. The fire must have been blocking her out.
Or maybe the kissing is just that good.
Steeling her resolve, firming her grip, she readied herself to lift the scythe and charge forward. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself doing it. She saw the scythe rising, the point taking Hades in the back.
“You are so beautiful, my sweet,” she heard Hades say.
Demeter rolled her eyes. Her granddaughter was not going to follow in the footsteps of the goddess for whom she was named. Hades had tricked her, too.
Demeter murmured, “No way in Hell. Or any underworld,” raised the scythe, and started forward.
• • •
As Lydia fell, Johnny grabbed her arms. Wax splattered across the linoleum as her candle wobbled this way and that. He never stopped chanting as he adjusted his stance so she could lean against him. She managed to lock her knees and maintain her hold on the candle and the lighted orb, but without his strength she wouldn’t be holding either aloft. “Not much longer,” she whispered.
Suddenly a blinding light emitted from the center of the circle. In its midst, engulfed in brilliance, were two figures. Were they Demeter and Persephone? Johnny had to shut his eyes against its radiance and for a moment he thought Lydia’s weakness had broken the circle. Still, the other witches chanted on, so he did, too. The sensation of power and energy did not change. Surely, he hoped, that meant the circle remained strong and intact.
Blinking repeatedly, he willed his eyes to recover but he continued to be blinded by the glare. He heard the rush of wind from within the circle and he discerned Demeter’s silhouette, hunched over but slowly standing straight. He squinted to see her better and realized that within the shaft of illumination Demeter was to his right, and Persephone—seated—was to his left.
There was a third figure, Pershephone was with someone. A man. Now Demeter was holding something aloft. Something large, raising it high.
A scythe.