Note: The following is a preview of chapters from House of the Underworld by Cirice Gray as well as a segment from The Persephone Effect, both related to Sister Madalithea. We thought it’d make for a fun experience to present these excerpts from the two books in an integrated way, to be read together. The two books will work as companion novels: while The Persephone Effect tells the story focused on Persephone and the rest of the cast, House of the Underworld will offer some additional context through the eyes of Madalithea and her fellow acolytes to Hades.
MADALITHEA
Nearly half a month has come and gone since I slipped into Lydia’s cot. Weeks of waking distance, of refusing to talk about what we’re doing.
Despite her assurance of a swift reunion, Cedalion and I are reduced to brief, unsatisfying correspondence, the chasm between promise and presence widening each day since my… spectacular unraveling at the Paralos dock.
Herakles passing into the embrace of our Lord Hades has transformed Meténeion with desperate supplication. The King’s retreat into grief unleashed a torrent of petitioners at our doorstep, each pleading for assurance that the fallen champion rests peacefully in our Lord’s halls. The relentless tide of mourning has worn us to the bone. Our corridors are thick with incense and lamentation, our voices hoarse from endless rites, our fingertips stained by consecrating oils.
Yet, it’s thanks to this sanctuary of exhaustion that Lydia and I find it easy to avoid talking about us.
There is no true dawn in the Underworld, but its natives can tell when the shift comes, the way the chill eases just so, the brightening of the limbal aura—too slight for mortal eyes—that is felt rather than seen. I feel exposed in the limbal radiance, an element altered by what my skin recalls of the night.
It’s foolish, but I feel as if everyone can hear the echo of the sounds she made.
“Insufferable,” Cassiphone said last night when we woke her. Again. Her voice made rough by divine augmentation’s toll. The procedures carved strength and resilience into her frame—enhanced musculature, honed reflexes—but recovery exacts its price. “Find elsewhere for… whatever this is. Some of us require actual rest.”
She isn’t wrong, we defy taxonomy. Whatever Lydia and I are doing, it’s getting worse. Or better. I can’t tell. Cedalion’s locket weighs heavier than it used to.
The summons arrived before morning hymns: My office. Bring Sisters Lydia and Cassiphone.
Beside me, Lydia maintains perfect distance. We’re good at this dance—close as we’ve always been, but somehow so far we can’t find each other’s gaze. I feel it when I’m not looking, imagine I hear every breath, every small movement. Last night she had her fingers knotted in my hair, whispering things that make my face burn to recall. This morning we pretend nothing happened.
Again.
I’m watching Cassiphone disappear around the corner ahead when Lydia’s legs give out—just a little stumble. I catch her before thought forms. My fault. Her unsteadiness comes from what we did in the night. We’re both stretched thin by duty’s demand. I knew that, knew we needed sleep. But when she slips into my cot, when we find each other in the dark—every reason to stop becomes insufficient.
“Sorry,” I murmur as she rights herself. She snorts like I’ve said something stupid.
Perhaps I have. I started this—that first night I held some control. But now? It’s nothing like that first tentative exploration. She turns everything around. Reads my body as scripture, pins my wrists when I try to lead, holds me still until I stop fighting it.
I surrender every time.
Lysippa’s office remains just the same as the first time I set foot in it as a child—the same obsidian desk that is part reliquary, part workspace, the same three sparsely cushioned chairs. Around us, raw basalt walls that gain valleys of shadow and peaks of brilliant blue in the Underworld’s ubiquitous radiance.
The Sybil’s countenance is sharp with authority, her eyes holding the weight of a decision already made. It’s an expression I’ve seen many times. Cassiphone’s eyes on me are accusatory, Lysippa bade me bring them both along. Whatever is about to happen is because of me. I swallow hard as we present ourselves. She doesn’t ask us to sit.
“Understand that none of you stand in judgement here; you are all exemplary acolytes no matter what doubts you may harbor about yourselves, whatever undue attention your personal lives may invite.” She doesn’t look at me as she speaks, but we all know I’m the one she’s talking about. “However, the situation has deteriorated. Our breach was worse than we assessed, and the hierophant and I agree that the three of you are under serious threat.”
My stomach drops.
“Sister Madalithea, the interest in you extends beyond tabloid frivolity, and because of that, those closest to you are also at risk.” Her eyes pause on Lydia, focus angling down to the bruise at her throat. I put it there last night, sucked it into her skin while she gasped my name. Guilt burns me, hot and sick.
“I’ll disappear,” I say quickly. “Stop all public duties, go into seclusion and prayer—”
“It was too late for that months ago, Madalithea, I’m sorry.”
The room tilts. I grip the hems of my sleeves.
“We have a solution, and Lord Hades agrees.” I am slow to process her words. “You three will take residence in our Lord’s estate and serve her house. You will be safe there.”
“Leave Meténeion?” I barely get the words out. This temple is the only real home I’ve ever had, the only place I’ve ever really belonged. Leaving feels like exile.
“Sybil,” Cassiphone says, diplomatically, but I can see the anxiety on her face. “I mean to be a Sentinel, my augmentations—”
“Will serve you well in your new circumstances.” Lysippa’s tone leaves no room for argument. “The honor of serving in our Lord’s house is unprecedented. The Lord of the Machine Dead prefers not to interfere in our lives, but she is regent of Elysium in our King’s absence. Her court requires mortal presence. She has never called upon us in this manner, and we will not fail to answer. Sisters of greater experience than yourselves would have been selected, but the situation demands a number of compromises.” She allows that to sink in. “Sisters, you have an hour to gather your things. Give me a moment with Madalithea.”
They glance at each other, then at me. Cassiphone glares with such anger that I am convinced, for a moment, that she’s going to strike me, then she turns in a rush for the door. Lydia’s fingers brush mine as she passes. The door closes.
“Sybil Lysippa, I can’t—”
“You dare refuse?” Her voice goes sharp. She stands tall, moves around her desk to seize my shoulders. “Whatever stands between yourself and the honored pilot must be mended. What hunts you and your sisters cares nothing at all about your dalliance with that Dionysian, or your scene at the docks.”
I gasp at the word hunt, try to speak as panic seizes, but the Sybil places a finger over my lips.
“Listen to me, Madalithea.” She waits until I calm myself. “The very public, very opinionated attention regarding your existence impugns the honor of our worst enemies. It’s clear you think little about this mother you’ve never known. But she and her twin, your aunt, are not nearly so gracious. You love your sisters, don’t you? Care for their well-being?”
My voice is trembling and small when I manage a response. “Yes, I do.”
“Then you will not shy away because you are afraid of facing Cedalion. Embrace this honor as you would embrace and protect your sisters. Do not dishonor them, endanger them, with your failure.” She releases me. I watch her resume her seat, stunned and ashamed.
“Go,” she says, and means it.
I stumble out. Lydia and Cassiphone wait in the corridor. Eyes full of questions and anger.
“One hour,” I say. “We have one hour.”
The walk to our cell is a blur. Each doorway feels like a goodbye, the glimpse of the mirror courtyard as we pass nearly brings me to tears. We pack in silence—folding our spare vestments, neatly packing away the few personal belongings acolytes are allowed. It feels like a burial.
What little I have fits in one small case. The cell empties of our presence too fast, as if we were never here at all.
We reach the mirror courtyard expecting to find it deserted. Instead, we find every Sister who isn’t on the most essential of duties. They stand in the Underworld’s reflection, the dark edges of their vestments blur together as clouds obscuring starlight. The sight stops us cold.
Lydia grabs my hand, fingers lacing tight. We stand at the threshold, and the tears come.
They part for us as we walk. We’re caught up in the reflection, absorbed into the constellation of belonging we’re about to lose.
Sister Tyra intercepts Cassiphone first. The senior Sentinel—guardians and enforcers of our faith—that oversaw her early training pulls her into an embrace that would have cracked ribs before her augmentations. “You’ll do us proud,” she says, pressing something into Cassiphone’s palm. A blade, I think.
Lydia is caught by Sister Iola, our anatomy instructor; Lydia was always her favorite. “Remember,” Iola says, hands cupping Lydia’s face, “steady heart, steady hand.” She kisses her brow, and wipes her tears with a calloused thumb, then presses a worn leather roll into her hands—her own preparation tools.
I believe I’m going to make it through unimpeded; many of my Sisters look upon me with disdain or frustration, some have even accused me of being interested only in ambition. But then little Aspirant Cora pushes through the throng. Barely twelve, all knees and elbows and devotion. Without thinking I set my case down to kneel for her, she crashes into me, spindly arms wrapping as tightly as she can manage.
“Sister Madalithea,” she sobs into my chest. “Who will help me with my corvid? How will I read the bones without you?” I gently urge her back so that I can wipe away her tears with the hem of my sleeve.
“You can do it. Your heart and faith are there already. You haven’t needed me for weeks.”
She sniffs and swallows her tears. “I liked reading them with you.” She stares as if she wants to say something else, then thrusts a small box into my hands and flees before I can open it. Inside—the skull of her first corvid, perfectly cleaned, strengthened at its weakest points with gold lacquer and painted in delicate silver prayers. My vision blurs completely.
We reach the courtyard edge burdened with gifts. Another Sister provides a basket to carry them all: blessed preservative oils, hand-copied hymns and devotionals bound into slim books made of real paper, a pot of honey from our stores. Lydia and I offer to carry the basket between us, but Cassiphone waves us off and cradles the burden against her with one arm as if it is nothing.
The gate of our home opens to noise and chaos.
Bodies press against the line our Sentinels hold around the perimeter of Meténeion’s stair, creating a path to the transport that awaits us. Petitioners, supporters, critics, and recording devices beyond count spoil the sanctity of our gate. Media drones hover above. One darts too close, seizes mid-air, then ignites before spinning away into the street where it crashes away from the crowd. One of our Sentinels must have lost her patience, infiltrated its network, set its components to surge and expire in a heated frenzy.
I don’t understand. I’ve not left Meténeion since the day the Paralos returned. I’ve taken great pains to avoid the network media beyond Champion Herakles’ passing. Sybil Lysippa told me interest in my drama had died in the shadow of collective loss.
Cassiphone bends close so that we can hear her over the noise. “They came from nowhere as soon as our lord’s transport arrived.” Our eyes follow hers to the sleek black vehicle, the very same that carried me to and from our lord’s estate at Cedalion’s call. It’s sharp edged, adorned everywhere in the curling cypress crest of our lord.
A Sentinel breaks rank and ushers us forward, eager to get us through and away. We descend and the noise surges. My lungs tighten, chest constricting. I close a hand tight around my cypress leaf and Cedalion’s love and pray that I’ll not need my inhaler. The anger and awkwardness Cassiphone and Lydia hold for me are set aside as they press close, but there’s nowhere to hide from the eyes, the devices, and the noise.
There are jeers, shouts, I block them all out and recite a prayer under my breath, eyes on the path before us and nowhere else. One shout fights its way through a lull to emerge distinct and clear.
“Your sunblood means nothing! We love you!”
A bouquet—asphodels and crimson poppies, flowers of the dead and blooms of remembrance, some still have dirt clinging to their roots, as if torn fresh from a grave garden—sails over the perimeter to land at the feet of the Sentinel ushering us forward. She kicks it back into the crowd. Petals scatter. The white silhouette in limbal blue, ghostly against the dark stone. The red gleam like fresh wounds.
We are shoved unceremoniously into the transport, the doors are slammed tight, sealing us into silence and privacy. Cassiphone and the basket take the far window. Lydia presses against me because there’s nowhere else to sit, her thigh a burning heat through our vestments.
Despite everything she hasn’t said a single word to me today.
The transport glides away, automated. Meténeion vanishes in the dark behind us. Dread swallows me. Cedalion never talked about her expectations of me, about what was allowed. Who could put limits on an honored pilot like her? She’d take lovers like breathing. It never crossed my mind to even attempt to restrain her. I expected only that she would be as she’s always been. But did she expect me to remain only for her? Will she see Lydia’s marks on me, smell her on my skin, and call it betrayal?
Cassiphone laughs suddenly—almost hysterical. She wipes her tear tracked face.
“Well, do you feel honored, Lydia?”
PERSEPHONE
We return to my lord’s estate to find it uncommonly crowded: at the gates await the Cerberus Cadre and members of Hades’ clergy—they all kneel at our approach, heads bowed. I consider the three priestesses present, all new to me in the sense that I’ve never paid attention to individual devotees to the faith of the Underworld. Two look ordinary enough, a petite woman with bright red hair who kneels close to Cedalion, and a brunette of thin frame and warm brown skin. The third interests me the most, tall for a mortal, muscled in the same way that I am, golden of complexion. If I didn’t know better, I would think I’m looking at a sister, a Mark Two. But she’s a little too mortal for that, without the scent of flowers, and the phenotype is too diverged.
Myia bears a tray of freshly baked tarts, a platter of cured meat, cheese, and pomegranate seeds. It is as though she’s anticipated my caloric needs: I’m suddenly famished, and well I should be given that I had to regenerate most of my skull. I wait for Hades to murmur, “Rise,” to the Cadre and the priestesses before I tear into the food. I do keep it reasonably decorous even as I long to pour the entire platter into my mouth. My body is well-optimized, but even a flawless engine requires fuel.
“Welcome back, Champion of the Underworld,” Myia says.
“Hello, Myia and my Hounds. And who would these be?”
The nymph bows toward the priestesses. “The Meténeion has sent three of their most devout acolytes to serve at the estate, my lady. Sisters Madalithea, Lydia, and Cassiphone.”
A flicker goes through my lord’s expression—she prefers solitude the most, but I can see what is happening: with her risen to Elysium’s regent king, worship of her must now be entwined with statecraft. Much as the Lord of Thunder kept hierophants in her palace, Hades must now don the ruler’s regalia, and that means a minimum of pomp and ceremony in her place of residence. When the other gods and their retinue visit, they’ll see these symbols of station, the trappings of a crown invisible yet undeniable.
“Master of the Underworld,” says the tall acolyte, “the Prince Ascendant Who Reigns Deathless. We place ourselves under your command.”
“Welcome, sisters.” Hades inclines her head, gracious even as her new titles seem to sit poorly with her. “The nymphs will see you to your quarters in the outer wing. My regards to your sybil.”
I lick pomegranate juices off my fingers. Faintly I wonder what the priestesses would taste like. “Why did the sybil not come herself?” Odd to send over mere acolytes, however pious.
The redhead looks up at me—she is so small, only a little taller than Hippolyta—and starts stammering. Once she’s gathered herself, she says, “The Meténeion, as the foremost temple to the lord, has received an unprecedented number of worshipers, my lady.” Then she casts her eyes downward, as though anticipating my wrath.
Meaning the sybil, and other high-ranking clergy for that matter, are much too occupied handling the crisis; it falls to their favorites—these three—to serve the estate in person. Fair enough. I look the redhead over again; she has every sign of prey, even down to her scent. Perhaps her sybil thinks I am in need of emergency rations. “Thank you, Sister Madalithea. You must teach me all the hymns.”
She flushes, cheeks almost as red as her hair, and bows so deeply her head and cypress leaf pendant nearly scrape the grass before Myia escorts her and the others off to wherever they’ll be staying. The Cadre stays behind to take commands from my lords regarding estate security, especially now that we have newcomers. I don’t miss, though, that Cedalion gazes after the departing acolytes a few minutes too long.
Curious, I access the estate’s logs and find that Sister Madalithea has visited on more than one occasion, as Cedalion’s guest. I pass no judgment on my Hounds for how they choose to amuse themselves, but attachment hardly seems like them. I catch her as the Cadre makes to leave.
“Cedalion, that red-haired acolyte—she’s been here before.”
My Hound pauses. Warmth reaches her golden eyes. “Sister Madalithea is very dear to me, Champion.”
I study Cedalion, this consummate instrument of war declaring affection for something so timid and breakable. The acolyte trembled just meeting my gaze, small and so very mortal.
“I see,” I say, though I don’t understand what she could find so compelling about her. “She seems…” I search for the word that won’t offend. Fragile? Ordinary? “Devoted.”
“She is, Champion.” A hint of a smile tugs at her lips as she bows, before turning to catch up with her sisters.
We are soon alone, stepping in among the white poplars. Their pale leaves gather on the ground, little mounds of pretend-snowdrift, alluding to a winter that is impossible and which will never arrive in Elysium, this seasonless habitation dome.
“My lords,” I begin, “I need to tell both of you what happened in Demeter’s estate.”
Gunmetal Olympus / Hades Calculus 