"Officer? Excuse me, Officer—" I took a quick glance at his badge— "I mean, Lieutenant Gilligan. I'm Cassie Sully. I called yesterday to see if I could do some research with your records."

Lieutenant Gilligan, a brusque-looking older man, eyed me with the usual response of the people I encountered: a mix of "hippie" and "Is that Francoise Hardy?" It's not like I could blame him. My outfit (a peasant blouse, bell-bottoms, and worn black Converse All-Stars) screamed anti-war protestor. All I needed to complete the look was a leather thong around my hair and a black armband. The Francoise Hardy look-alike issue was acceptable (and quite flattering), too. Even my own mother found the resemblance uncanny.

"Yes, I do remember your call," he answered distantly, adjusting his rimless glasses. Something about him seemed very familiar. "Our record room is just down the hall. You'll need this key." I took the small key from him and pocketed it. "You said you're researching the Harlem Renaissance and its effect on crime? I gotta admit; I'm a little confused."

I resisted the urge to sigh. No one seemed to understand my project. It had reached the point of annoying and had me questioning whether my thesis was just too advanced or completely idiotic. Nonetheless, I explained halfheartedly, "My thesis is that education, art culture, and crime rates all coincide. During the Harlem Renaissance, citizens of the Harlem area received better education, through schooling or word of mouth. Therefore, the culture of Harlem grew more art oriented. Education and an inclination towards the arts coaxed people away from crime. If your records show lower crime rates in the '20s and '30s, then my thesis has even more support."

Gilligan looked less than convinced. "Maybe you just moved to NYC, but Harlem's crime rates are sky-high, little miss. I don't think the Renaissance did much."

Damn this fool, I thought angrily. I might explode if I had to deal with one more close-minded moron. "It's Cassie." My tone was less than friendly. "And the Harlem Renaissance only lasted through the 1920s and 1930s, as I've already said. The European Renaissance isn't still having a heavy cultural effect today, is it? You know, excluding its discoveries and artistic works. It's the same way with the Harlem Renaissance." Gilligan looked pretty miffed, but hey, I wasn't trying to be nice him. He gave me a gruff "carry on" and gestured down the hall with his chin. It wasn't until I reached the record room that I realized why he seemed familiar. Lieutenant Thomas Gilligan, the man who had murdered 15 year old James Powell just two days earlier. The death had been all over the papers, and the citizens of Harlem were in uproar.

It sickened me to be in the same place (the 28th Precinct) as that man. I couldn't wait to leave. Research, however, was a tedious thing. It was also necessary if I wanted to be accepted into advanced history classes in my senior year of high school. Sighing at what would undoubtedly be a long, long night, I pulled the key to the record room out of my pocket and checked my watch. 2:13 PM on July 18, 1964. I'd be stuck in the cramped, musty record room until at least eight.

My large canvas satchel hit the floor with a thud. It was full to bursting with notebooks, pens, and books that explained how to properly read crime reports. What a way to spend one of my last two summers at home. Hours passed consisting of nothing but searching through reports, categorizing crimes, rewriting every damned report, analyzing case files, and reorganizing every file. By the time I had finished (and become convinced that I had put too much work into something I could have easily faked), it was already nine o'clock. Gilligan was still at the front desk when I emerged. He must've been staying indoors ever since the shooting.

He grinned cockily, "So, how'd the researching go, little miss?"

My hand twitched. It would be wonderful to just get one punch in. I didn't really want to be arrested for assaulting an officer, though. "It went well; I found everything I wanted. Maybe you should just call me 'Cassandra.' I don't particularly appreciate 'little miss.'"

Gilligan chuckled. "Whatever makes you happy, Cassie."

This stupid fuck was really trying to make me angry, wasn't he? I shot him one last smoldering glare and stormed outside to hail a cab. It would have been smarter to call the family chauffeur. I wasn't thinking at the time, though. A cab pulled up in front of the 28th Precinct around the same time that the shouting started. A massive group of people carrying signs and pictures of Thomas Gilligan approached the precinct. Every member was shouting "Justice!" as loudly as possible.

The cab driver cursed and sped away before I could get in. "WAIT!" I screeched as he drove away. A rock flew by my head as the rioters grew even closer. Fight or flight instinct kicked in, and I sprinted down the road. The fight instinct wasn't going to function when it was me versus a hundred people. My years on the track team were definitely paying off as I flew down the poorly lit streets of Harlem. Harlem was relatively empty that night; however, I passed a group of boys about my age. Later on in life, I would look back on that as both the worst and the best thing that ever happened to me.

"Where you headed, sweetheart?" they called after me. I could hear footsteps close behind. My lungs were burning, and I had to find a way out before my legs gave out. Every door was closed, and every alley had a dead end. The sounds of a riot were beginning to echo throughout the area. Men and women chanted "Justice!" even more loudly, and crashes and the roar of fires sounded nearby. Then, like a gift from God, I spotted a fire escape just inside the next alley. Some fool had left the bottom ladder hanging down. If I could just climb it and pull up the ladder, I'd be safe just long enough to get help.

"Help!" I screamed and turned into the alley. The sounds of the riot were growing louder. The boys were still laughing and shouting (drunkenly, from what I could tell) just behind me. "HELP!" The bolts holding the ladder in place gave way as I leapt onto it. I crashed to the ground, the ladder colliding with my head and sending sparks into my vision. A few seconds later, rough hands were pulling me out from under the ladder and across the ground. I kicked out furiously and struggled. The stars were leaving my vision, and I could clearly see five African American boys looming over me. "Get off! No! NO!"

"Where you think you're going, snowflake?" one chuckled as he hauled me up and pushed me against a brick wall.

"C'mon, Jason. Why you always get them first?" another boy protested sullenly.

The one holding me (apparently named Jason) rolled his eyes. "'Cause all of this was my idea and the girls like me better. Ain't that right, snowflake?" Growling, I freed one of my arms from Jason's grip and scratched him across the face. "Bitch, I know you didn't!" His face contorted in rage, and his fist collided with my mouth. Blood welled from my broken lip into my mouth. "Now shut up and keep still."

I spit the blood into his face. "Go to Hell!" A couple of the other boys laughed. The remaining ones stared at me like I had just changed the direction the planet revolves.

Jason pulled a switchblade from his pocket and wiped the blood off of his face. "You're gonna regret doing that, snowflake." My heart was racing. The darkness of the alley seemed darker than natural. The dankness and close quarters were suffocating me. I felt as if I was going to throw up or pass out. The tip of the knife danced over my collarbone, up my neck, around my lips, and continued roaming around my face. "Now, that kind of behavior just ain't acceptable. Where you think I should start on her pretty little face, boys?"

"Cut up those pretty little lips!" one volunteered. "Glasgow smile!" said another.

Tears were streaming down my face. My god, I'm going to die, I thought hysterically. "HELP!" I began screaming incoherently. The blood vessels in my eyes must have burst by the time Jason slammed my head against the wall.

"SHUT UP, BITCH!"

"Just kill her, Jason!" growled the same boy who had suggested giving me a Glasgow smile.

The bare brick behind me was scraping the skin off my arms as I struggled violently. I didn't want to die. I was only seventeen, and I had plans for my life. Then, as quickly as the group of boys had gotten ahold of me, they were gone. Well, they weren't gone. They lay on the ground, each one wearing a gruesome Glasgow Smile with slit throats. An unearthly rumble filled the alley, and as much as I wanted to run, my legs were like lead. The shadows expanded, consuming everything and blackening my vision except for one thing: a man standing in the middle of the darkness. He took my breath away: tall, easily 6'4" (though that was only two inches taller than me); perfect pale skin; piercing black eyes; broad shoulders with a strong build; and the most masculine, alluring face I had ever seen. Despite my sheer terror, I could feel myself melting underneath his gaze.

He smirked. "Hello, Cassandra." My legs finally gave way, and I began to sink to the ground. The mystery man moved with inhuman speed and caught me before I could fall. My breath was coming in sporadic bursts, and I was trembling violently. The man wiped away the tears that were welling in my eyes. "Don't be afraid, love. You're safe now. I won't let anyone hurt you."

His words relaxed me, and I leaned a bit more heavily against his chest. The way his black eyes were locked with my gray ones was a bit disconcerting, though. "Who—who are you? I—what's your name?" I stammered, searching his face to see if there was any answer I could find myself.

"I wouldn't expect a modern woman to know my face," he chortled, brushing a sweaty strand of hair out of my face. I tensed at the contact. "I told you, relax." A crooked grin spread across his face. "My name is Hades."The darkness, the murdered boys, and his inhuman characteristics: they all made sense. I was in the arms of the God of the Dead. My eyes rolled backwards, and reality slipped away.