Hotter than Hades Read online

  There had to be some way to shut the bony one up before the story of his wedded un-bliss became fodder for the Underworld gossip pipeline. The last he heard, Charon was dating one of the furies. They’d have the entire palace whispering about Persephone abandoning him before the next load of souls crossed the river.

  “Charon, my loyal servant, did I tell you I received a catalog of Halloween costumes from the world above?” If there was one thing the old bag of bones loved more than gossip, it had to be flattery.

  “Why, no, sire.” Charon’s skull formed something resembling a grin.

  “You’ve become quite a popular costume choice up there.” Hades rested his arms along the back of the bench seat behind him. “A cult figure, you might say.”

  Charon rested a skeletal hand on his chest, the very picture of false modesty. “Who, little ole me? Why, I hardly know what to say.”

  That would be a first, Hades thought with a barely repressed snort. “I believe they’re calling you the Grim Reaper these days.”

  “Well, fancy that. What will those crazy upper world kids think of next?” Amid Charon’s giggled protests against his own renown, they approached the site of Morpheus’s cave. Hades called it to his attention, and the ferryman guided them to the bank.

  “What time should I return for you, sire?”

  Hades stepped down from the ferry onto the riverbank. “Just wait here. I won’t be long.”

  Not if he could help it. This phase of his plan would be short and sweet.

  Very sweet.

  * * * * *

  Hyacinth turned off the television before the late night talk shows began. With a yawn and a stretch, she padded to the kitchen and prepared her coffee pot for the next morning, set the timer, and turned off the overhead light.

  She bolted the front door and went to her bedroom. She never stepped foot in that room without feeling a twinge of pain mingled with frustration. But then, those two words had described her entire marriage to Riley.

  She opened the top drawer of her blond wood dresser, her mind going over ideas for the Peterson wedding. She reached inside for a cotton nightshirt when her gaze fell on the stack of carefully folded lingerie in the back right corner of the drawer.

  A lump of sadness formed in her throat as she ran her fingers over the silk, satin, and lace garments, some with the tags still attached. She’d tried to please Riley and to be pleased by him, to be sexy and sexual, but all it ever earned her was frustration for both of them, and words such as “frigid” being tossed at her like stones.

  For the first time, her sadness turned to anger. How the hell did he know she was frigid? Maybe the problem was his terrible lack of sexual skills. She remembered how he told her she was mousy and boring. Maybe he’d been wrong about that, too. In fact, she’d welcome an adventure. Her life could use a little ... all right, a lot more excitement. She’d welcome some excitement. To hell with Riley and his small-minded ideas about her.

  She snatched the plainest, oldest cotton nightshirt she owned from the drawer and slammed it shut. At least her boring life kept her safe from dealing with love and lust. She’d shut the door on that craziness the instant she signed her divorce papers.

  But was it worth it?

  She turned back the blue floral spread on the queen size bed, which seemed to grow larger and emptier every night, and crawled inside.

  A framed photo of her mother and father occupied the spot on her bedside table between the lamp and clock radio. She missed them so much. Sometimes she felt she’d give anything to have one more talk with her dad, or to see her mother’s smile one last time.

  She’d never gotten to say goodbye. They’d never even known Riley. Thanks to a drunk driver, they hadn’t been alive to see her marriage unravel, to witness her failure as a wife and a woman.

  “Goodnight, Mom and Dad.” She blew a kiss to the photo before turning off the small milk glass lamp above it.

  She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, for dreams to overtake her.

  She punched her pillow and buried her face in it. Too bad reality kept her tethered to the here and now.

  * * * * *

  The cave turned out to be exactly as Hades remembered it.

  Its cavernous interiors were lit with enough candles to supply the Vatican well into the next millennium. Their flames danced, heating the air, filling the space with the scent of beeswax.

  Poppies grew everywhere, their vibrant hue coloring the inside of the cave like living flames. He knew the flower well. It was the opiate of dreams.

  Mirrors hung from the rock walls, reflecting the candle flames and flowers until it became difficult to tell where reality ended and reflection began.

  And in the center of it, on a giant four-poster bed covered with a king’s ransom of red silk velvet, lounged Morpheus himself, god of dreams.

  Hades waded through the poppies and stood a respectful distance from the bed. “Greetings, Lord Morpheus.”

  The god of dreams rolled over to face Hades, leaning on one black velvet clad elbow. His white hair shone stark against the mountains of red and black silk pillows behind him. He narrowed his black eyes and smiled without mirth. “What brings you to my lair, oh great king?” His words were not without mocking bite.

  Reminding himself that he ruled supreme over the entire Underworld, Hades rose up to his full height of six-foot-three. “I require your assistance, my lord, with a dream.”

  Morpheus raised a pale hand and twisted his index finger through his hair. Hades caught sight of the dream god’s long black nails, each filed into a razor sharp point.

  “Interpreting royal dreams is one of my specialties.” Morpheus laughed, the cold sound of it echoing through the cave. “Has this anything to do with her majesty’s desertion?”

  Great Zeus, gossip spread faster than poppy seeds in this place. “Her majesty is taking an extended vacation this year.” Hades cleared his throat and assumed an expression of authority. “And I require nothing in the way of dream interpretation.”

  “Then what need have you of my services?” Morpheus sat up a little, looking slightly less bored by the proceedings.

  “I need to send a dream.” Hades paused, seeking the right way to phrase his request. “An erotic dream.”

  “Who is the intended recipient?” Morpheus’s eyes glittered with speculation.

  “My future queen.” That ought to get his attention, Hades thought with satisfaction.

  “We’re to have a new queen?” Morpheus sat up, ramrod-straight. “Is she of the royal house of Olympus?”

  “No, I can say with pleasure, she is not.” Hades broke into a grin, remembering the golden haired beauty destined to be his bride. “She’s mortal.”

  “Mortal,” Morpheus repeated in a shocked whisper. He closed his lips over his fangs.

  “It’s hardly unheard of. The gods of Olympus have taken mortal brides since time immemorial.”

  Morpheus recovered himself with a snort. “With varying degrees of success, I might add.”

  “It matters not. She’s destined to reign beside me as queen of the Underworld. Circe herself located our future queen. Her fate is sealed.”

  “So it is, so it is. If Circe declared it, it must be so.” The dream god tapped his black talons against the nearest bed post. “And you wish to send the future queen an erotic dream this night?”

  “Indeed I do.” Deciding a little buttering up wouldn’t hurt, he added, “With your consent, of course, oh master of dreams.”

  Morpheus leapt to his feet. “I’d be delighted -- delighted -- to assist you in procuring the favor of our new queen.” He led Hades through a door carved into the wall of the cave. “It’s not as if I lack the time to create a specific dream, what with sleeping pills, melatonin, and such cutting into my business these days.” He threw his hands up. “And don’t get me started on that damned Ambien ...”

  The door led to another room, smaller and less opulent than the main chamber. A little round ta
ble draped with a red velvet cloth sat in the center of the room, with a black crystal ball centered on its surface. An ebony cabinet occupied most of the back wall. Beside it stood a matching table, covered with tubes, vials, mortars, pestles, and bowls.

  A few torches provided dim lighting. Hades realized he’d entered the workshop where dreams were made.

  “An erotic dream, you say?” Morpheus opened the cabinet and began rifling through its contents. “Do you wish to be included, sire?”

  “Is that possible?” Hades leaned against the wall of the cave near the door.

  “Indeed, it is.” Morpheus retrieved a jar of red powder from the cabinet. “Aha!” He bared his fangs in a grin. “Powder of Eros,” he said by way of explanation to Hades.

  Hades watched in silence as the god of dreams selected another jar, this one containing a fiery orange-gold power. “Dust of Aphrodite,” Morpheus mumbled. He added a brown bottle to the table. “Vanilla,” he said, and took out a jar of red rose petals. Finally, he removed a clamshell from the bottom shelf of the cabinet, and closed it.

  “We’ll need just one more ingredient.” Morpheus removed a pair of golden shears from his table. “A lock of your hair, so you may enter the dream.”

  “By all means.” Hades bent low so the shorter god could clip a few strands of his black mane.

  “Now.” The dream god held Hades’s hair in his hands and laughed again. “To mix the potion and send a dream across the waters of time.”

  He measured spoonfuls of the various powders and petals and extracts, mixing them all inside an ebony bowl marked with ancient symbols Hades didn’t recognize. At last, he added Hades’s hair to the mix and poured it into the clamshell.

  “What is the young lady’s name?” Morpheus stood over the table, holding the clamshell over the crystal ball.

  Hades felt heat creeping into his face. “I have no idea. Circe wouldn’t tell me. She had a bit of an old score to settle with me on behalf of her friend, Minthe.”

  Morpheus tapped himself on the chin with a long black nail, deep in thought. Finally, he said, “I know of but one way to do what you ask.”

  “Anything.” Hades grew more desperate to reach his queen by the second.

  “Come with me, back to the bed chamber.” The king fell in step behind Morpheus. When they reached the bed, Morpheus indicated that Hades recline on it.

  “This bed carries its own magic, a powerful dream enchantment, and whoever sleeps on it can travel to their desired destination as they sleep.” Morpheus waited until Hades had arranged his tall form on the bed to continue. “Picture your intended queen in your mind. Focus your intent upon her, and you shall travel to her, bringing the magic of this dream potion to her.”

  Hades closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the bed, the most comfortable one he’d ever experienced. The sumptuous velvet and piles of pillows created an unparalleled level of bliss.

  “Flame of Eros

  Fire of Aphrodite

  Passion of roses

  Your power is mighty

  Carry your magic

  Inspire a dream

  Sensual and unbound

  For Hades’s new queen!”

  With those words, Morpheus sprinkled the contents of the clamshell around Hades, who opened his eyes long enough to see a glittering red cloud form above him. Drowning in the perfume of roses and vanilla, he called the phantom face to the forefront of his mind, and drifted into a deep sleep.

  * * * * *

  Hyacinth stirred in her sleep, sweat making her nightshirt cling to her skin like gauze.

  What was happening to her? It was as if she were locked in some netherworld between dreaming and wakefulness. Her mind felt sedated, drowsy, filled with fogged images. But her body hummed like a tuning fork, waiting to burst into an aria of desire.

  She drew in a ragged breath through dry lips and caught the scent of another person nearby -- and not just any person. The scent could only be described as spicy, exotic, and undeniably male.

  The heat of a hand skimmed just above her breast, hardening her nipple to a sensitive peak without coming into actual contact with her skin. She arched toward the touch, which lingered so tantalizingly out of reach, and found it hovering above her other breast, performing the same act of torment, tracing circles around the tip of her nipple.

  Her breasts had never been sensitive before, much to the frustration of her ex-husband and herself. But now they were practically singed with heat, burning to life as erogenous zones she’d never imagined possible.

  She writhed on her back, wanting more of this dream lover. He complied, his touch feeling more like pure energy than a human hand as it roamed over her belly, around her hips, between her legs.

  “Please.” She reached out, daring the dream to end, defying the spell to be broken. “Don’t stop.” She sought him with her hands, finding only a solid mass of charged air in the shape of a flawlessly sculpted male.

  She felt the same electric warmth making small circles on her inner thighs, moving upward inch by inch. Tension coiled inside her, pulsing for release, demanding satisfaction.

  Nothing like this had ever happened before. She’d never come close to orgasm -- in fact, she’d been convinced she couldn’t have one. And now she teetered on the edge of a freefall into mind-bending pleasure, all the result of a dream she could neither touch nor hear, despite the fact that she could feel him with every fiber of her being.

  But maybe she could see him. Feeling him certainly didn’t seem to be a problem. A gasp wrenched itself from her throat when he focused his efforts on the juncture of her thighs. Only the thin barrier of her panties stood in the way of ultimate release.

  But not for long. Casting aside her fear of awakening, she pushed her panties down and kicked them off, then pried her eyes open.

  His muscular form knelt between her legs. Around six-foot-two, with wide shoulders and a chest so broad she could use it as a pillow, he was masculinity personified. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could make out his chiseled face, the ebony hair just grazing the collar of his black shirt, and the most haunting pair of black eyes she’d ever gazed into.

  Something bloomed inside of her other than the urgent need he’d evoked. A feeling of looking into her own soul through those eyes, that the missing piece she’d always sought, as if the answer to every question had finally arrived.

  “My queen.” His voice flowed over her, indescribably sexy and masculine. The love in his eyes was unmistakable.

  She answered him without words, parting her legs further and giving him access to her body, unashamed. He followed her lead, bringing his hand to her core, finding the hub of her desire and touching it in his own inimitable way.

  Hyacinth closed her eyes, giving herself over to sensation. There had never been such bliss.

  He found her clitoris, bringing it to pulsating life, the way he’d done with her nipples. He teased it, promising one kind of touch and delivering another. She felt her own wetness, wanted him inside her when she finally came -- because, for the first time, she knew she would come, and soon.

  “Inside me,” she whispered, unable to open her eyes, feeling nothing but his fingers on her clit and the pounding of her own heart. “I’m going to ...”

  “Come,” he rasped. “Come for me now.” He intensified his touch on her clitoris, and she exploded, wave after wave of pleasure rocking her, shaking her, and leaving her weak and too spent for words when it subsided.

  She went limp against the mattress. She’d been married for five years and had never known ecstasy until this.

  His touch against her lips brought her back to earth. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she found his face inches from hers.

  “Stay with me.” She reached for him, feeling the outline of him with her hands.

  “I will find you and bring you home.” He stroked her bottom lip with his finger. “Wait for me.” And like a flash of lightning, he was gone.

  Hyacinth woke up with a star
t, sitting straight up in bed. Her breath came in gasps. A sheen of sweat covered every inch of her body.

  What the hell had just happened?

  The room looked the way it always did, empty save for her. The clock radio’s green digital numbers told her it was 4:17 AM.

  She commanded her heart to slow down, and patted the bed around her. It was damp, the way it would’ve been after a session of lusty lovemaking.

  But the only lovemaking had been in her dreams. She verified with a single glance that her panties had been kicked to the floor beside the bed.

  A blush flamed in her cheeks. She must’ve had a wildly erotic dream, tossed her panties aside, and brought herself to orgasm -- something she’d never done before, but recalling the earth shattering pleasure she’d experienced, something she might have to try again.

  But then the memory of her dream lover came back to her, his hands roving her body, his fingers on her lips, telling her to come, promising her he’d find her and bring her home.

  Home? Where was home, if not there in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania?

  She tried to dismiss it as merely a dream, but nothing had ever seemed more real than the emotion flooding through her when she’d looked into his eyes.

  She fell back onto her pillow and stared up at the ceiling. She had to get back to sleep, and fast, before she lost his image in the slew of her subconscious. She’d finally found the man of her dreams -- literally. What could be safer than love with someone who didn’t exist? If she could conjure him up again, experience him in the confines of her dream world, she’d have everything and risk nothing.

  Risking her heart, she reminded herself, would never again be an option. Dream lovers were the only kind she could ever hope to have.

  * * * * *

  Cyndi walked into the back room of Flower Power, a box of donuts in one hand and two take out cups of coffee balanced precariously in the other.

  “What a night.” She took a frosted donut covered with colored sprinkles from the box before setting it down on the table where Hyacinth was midway through creating a “get well” balloon bouquet.