He led her to his office, which was secluded and sound-proofed against the thudding techno of Pandemonium's lower floors. From the corner of his eye, he saw Thanatos, smirking at him. Inside, he sat on the couch and let slip a groan, feeling the beginnings of a migraine coming on. He shut his eyes. It was hard for him to look at her: his vision doubled, tripled, even, seeing who she had been across time.

"You okay?" she asked him. Her hand touched his brow and he sighed. He laid his head in her lap, earning a surprised 'oh' from her.

"Just a headache," he said, rubbing his eyes. "It'll go away."

"Maybe I should leave," she whispered, running her hands through his hair. It triggered a memory in him, ancient, where they sat together in her garden. She was braiding his hair; binding it in coils of gold and silver, in the fashion of the time. He sighed, feeling overwhelmed by the image, the sensation of it, like he was losing himself to a past that wasn't his.

"No, please," he said, touching her chin. "Stay with me. I want to talk to you."

Logan didn't really believe he was Hades, Lord of the Dead. Instead, he was actively trying to function with a form of schizophrenia that had hit him rather hard and rather suddenly. Just another way he resembled his pops, the fucker. He tried clozapine for about two days before the medication made him feel like shit and decided he would just tough out his mental illness, like he had toughed out everything else in his life. Look how well that's gone for you, he chided himself.

He opened his eyes, looked up at her, and his breath hitched. Despite everything, she was smiling down at him, touching him, unafraid. Treating him like a person...like he wasn't a monster. He clenched his jaw to keep from shuddering as she cupped his cheek; it was a touch so unlike what he was used to.

"It's so funny," she said, tracing the tips of her slender fingers along his lips. "I look at you, and I feel like I know you."

"I feel the same." He held her hand, kissed the tops of her knuckles. Man, if his boys could see him now, how soft he was being with this girl. He'd never hear the end of it. Not like he could help himself, though...and not like he wanted to, either.

"You don't seem like such a bad man, Mr. Black."

Sweetheart, he thought, you have no idea. He shivered. "I am," he said, jerking away from her suddenly, like her words had scalded him. 'Bad' wasn't powerful enough of a descriptor—'evil' was probably more appropriate. There'd be no changing that; there'd be no denying that. He liked her, but he knew he wasn't good for her. He put his head in his hands, and trembled when he felt her touch his back.

"My mom says you've killed people."

God, she could be wearing a wire. Cassandra Porter wasn't beyond using underhanded tactics to get what she wanted; he'd seen a few, less careful rivals get taken down through similar means. But to use her own daughter? Fuck, man. Stella's arms wound about his waist, drawing him from his thoughts, and he felt her head lean against his shoulder. "Are you...are you a killer, Logan?" she asked him, the hesitation and fear in her voice breaking any resolve he had.

"Y-yes," he said, in a choked admission that was almost a sob. He could see blood soaking his hands; could smell iron on his skin. He wanted to scream.

A killer; a low-life; a scoundrel; a gangster; a no-good, rotten, very bad man—the fucking Antichrist, sending men to their graves for being late on a payment. That's what he was. That's who he was.

"I've...I've done some really, really bad things, Stella," he said, his voice wavering. He wasn't going to cry in front of her. "Your momma and Henry—they're right about me. You should stay away. I'm sorry...I'm sorry for steppin' into your life at all. Wasn't right of me."

She didn't move away from him, even as he heard her breathing accelerate at his admission. Fear, he supposed. She was right to be afraid, and he pushed her away like he pushed away everyone else; everyone he ever cared about. His brothers; his sister. Sofie, he thought, shutting his eyes. You were right.

Just a few days ago, his sister had slapped him, open palmed, followed by a backhand, after she found out he had woken up from his coma; good ol' sisterly love. She was the only one who came to visit him there...although, she may have been the only one who knew, besides his boys. Hallucinations of Death or his supposed nephew didn't count.

"You fucking asshole," Sofie said, slapping him a third time. He grabbed her wrist to stop her, gentle as he could. She was making his face hurt.

"What the hell, Sofie?"

"I fucking hate you," she murmured, real low, so he could barely hear her. Then she threw her arms around his neck, started sobbing into his shoulder, and he was at a loss. "I thought you died," she cried, the sobs wracking through her in powerful waves.

He felt bad. No, worse: he felt guilty. He didn't like to feel guilt; it was an emotion he pushed down below everything else, because if he let it sit too long, it paralyzed him like nothing else. Couldn't afford to feel guilt as an enforcer—and even less so as a boss. "I'm okay, Sofie," he said, rubbing her back in soothing circles, holding her like he did when they were children. He used to be her protector, in those days. Now, he only seemed to cause her pain. He felt nauseous. "See? I'm okay. Don't cry."

She sat back from him, rubbing her eyes. She was still furious. "You're not okay," she said, pointing at all the wires the hospital had him hooked up to. "You have no idea what I went through, seeing you like that. The doctors weren't sure if you'd ever wake up. You asshole." She slapped him again, with a resounding smack, and this time he let her.

"Sofie…" he said, trying to reach for her. She pulled away from him. "Sofie, I'm sorry."

"God. We are so beyond, 'sorry,' Logan." She laughed, exasperated. "Every day I wake up, thinking I'm going to get a call from some cop saying that you've been found dead in a ditch somewhere, or at the docks, cut up into little pieces. I lived with that fear every day you were deployed, and then you got out, and I thanked whatever higher power exists because you made it back, hurt but alive, when others didn't. But the fear didn't end when you got back. I still fucking live with that crippling fear now, because of your choices."

"Sofie, I—"

"Shut up, Logan. Just shut the hell up, for once. Fuck." She ran her fingers through her hair, ruffling her short pixie cut. She took a deep breath, started again. "I know you think no one gives a damn about you. Peter is still angry with you, and Will is…Well, Will is Will. But I do give a damn about you, Logan. And maybe I shouldn't, because Lord knows, you've done some unforgivable things. But I love you, and I can't keep sitting by, watching you slowly kill yourself. You—you can't keep putting me through this." She sniffed, wiping her soulful brown eyes. "And the worst part about it all, about everything that you've put me through? It's that I'm afraid of you now, Logan. You fucking scare me."

Hearing her say that hurt something fierce. His stomach churned; he felt hot and dizzy. "You're afraid of me?"

She laughed again, pitch black and completely devoid of humor. "Is that so hard to believe? You've got no self-awareness at all. Fuck, you're...you're so much like Dad: your rage, your violence. You're even starting to look like him."

"Don't say that to me," he growled, cold as ice. He had done a lot of bad things...but he wasn't his father. Could never hold a candle to that monster. No. Please, no. "Don't ever say that to me."

"Logan, Jesus, just listen to yourself. Do you hear how you sound? I love you, I love you so much, but I can't keep doing this," she said, kissing his cheek. "I'm...I'm moving out of this damn city. Retiring from all the misery and pain."

He gaped at her. She couldn't be serious. He needed her. "What are you saying, Sofie?"

"I'm saying goodbye, brother. I'm saying if you ever want to see me again, you'll stop going down this path, because I can't follow you anymore."

"You're abandoning me," he stated.

"No," she said, shaking her head. She gathered up her purse, pulled on her sweater. "I'm giving you an ultimatum."

"Just go," he said, through gritted teeth. He looked away from her, even as she kissed his temple. "Get out."

The interaction left him feeling cold and empty. And what was worse, was that she'd hadn't been lying about leaving, either: her office was abandoned; her house put on short sale; her number disconnected. His sister had completely cut herself out of his life, and the sting wasn't going to go away anytime soon.

He thought about using other, less savory means to find her. He could do it; he had the connections. But he suspected that there was a certain amount of trust she was putting in him: a little bit of faith that, despite everything, he would respect her boundaries, even if her self-imposed disappearance had stuck a hot knife into his belly. So he dropped it—and let the realization dawn, dig in, and fester that, yes: he was now utterly alone in this world. Alone, except for his thoughts...and his hallucinations.

Turned out, chatting with Death wasn't so bad. He was smart, for one; didn't annoy Logan like the rest of his rock-biter crew did sometimes. 'Course, he'd blather on and on about some war, about New Gods trying to pick off his kind, one by one, and how Logan really needed to wake the fuck up, and blah, blah, blah. Long as Logan didn't take another trip down below to the Underworld, he found that he didn't so much mind Than's loquacious company.

"What's that drink on the table?" Stella asked suddenly, as if she were in a trance. Her soft voice pulled him from his dark thoughts.

"Drink?" He lifted his head from his hands, following her line of sight, content that she was still there; content that she still seemed to like touching him, despite his admission. He chose not to believe the very real possibility that it was simply fear that kept her rooted next to him: fear that he would hurt her, somehow. He once again felt bile rising in his throat. "What drink—oh." When he finally saw the bottle, he felt his mouth go dry.

"It's...a gift," he said, sitting up straight. So it was real. It was sitting there, right on his coffee table, like it was his old bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. "From my nephew...Apollo."

She scooted closer, picked the bottle up slowly. Her movements were odd, he noticed, like she was sleepwalking. "What kind of parents name their kid Apollo?"

"The eccentric kind, I reckon. Stella, are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine," she said, smiling at him, her well-placed fear of him suddenly forgotten. "Why do you ask, Mr. Black?"

Because you were having a normal reaction to me admitting I'm an honest-to-God murderer, Stell. And now you're acting like nothing's changed.

"You're actin' strange on me all of a sudden," he said, placing the back of his hand to her forehead. She did feel warm. "I think you might have a fever, sweetheart. Here, gimme the bottle." He reached out, touched the neck of the glass, and immediately felt his skin heat up. It was definitely the bottle Apollo had given him, no denying it now. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Thanatos was firmly a hallucination. Logan knew that without a shadow of a doubt. No one else saw the guy; no one else heard him. He popped in and out of Logan's vision like a ghost. But Apollo? Well, Apollo was another story. Apollo really seemed to exist...which is to say, Logan saw other people interacting with him in the hospital, chit-chatting with him like he was supposed to be there, doing some real doctorin'. Ergo, it was impossible for him to be just a figment of Logan's broken psyche. His name tag even read 'Apollo Archer, M.D.,' and the nurses addressed him as such. And, to be fair, most of Logan's conversations with the man were usually about his treatment, y'know, normal conversations between a doc and their patient...that is, until the nurses would inevitably leave, and then the weird shit would start.

On Logan's last day before being discharged from Kino, Apollo entered his room and shut the door, locking it. Alarm bells sounded off in Logan's head, but he forced himself to stay calm, told himself that he wasn't experiencing anything real at the moment; he was off in Wonderland again.

"I want you to take this," Apollo said, handing Logan a bottle of iridescent liquid. It glittered like gold, and radiated warmth.

Logan licked his lips, mesmerized. "What is it?"

"Ambrosia, uncle."

"Food of the gods…"

"Indeed, and it is a rare delicacy—now more than ever. Take it. It'll help you regain your strength."

"Right."

"It was difficult for me to procure, but you are family. Only a few sips a day, mind; too much, and it'll destroy your mortal shell."

Logan gulped, staring at the finely-crafted bottle in his hands. "Why are you here...why are you helping me?"

"I miss my family," Apollo said, simply. "I know certain...others prefer this arrangement, with so few of us to step on each other's toes now, but I do not. Ah, I can see I've spoken too much already—I do apologize for causing you this new migraine, uncle."

"I'm fine. It's just a headache." It was not just a headache: Logan had to fight to keep his eyes open under the harsh fluorescents of his hospital room.

Apollo tutted, putting on a show of sadness, but Logan could tell that the young man was greatly amused. "I sincerely do not wish to overwhelm you. I recognize that...that this is a significant amount to take in and understand, and that your mind is desperate for answers. Unfortunately, I cannot explain everything at once to you. Your short excursion to the Other Side and its effects are proof enough that too much at once could very well be your undoing. So for now remember, only a few sips a day. And when the time comes...do be careful with my brother, would you?"

"Brother?"

Apollo smiled, brilliant as the sun. "But of course you didn't recognize him, how silly of me. He's like you: dormant. I'll give you a hint—he's a detective."

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. "You've got to be shittin' me."

Naturally, Logan didn't believe that the bottle was real; thought it would disappear, much like Than did when he got annoyed. Logan also didn't believe that Detective Henry Fucking Olsen was the dormant Messenger of the Olympian gods, even if he had teased the kid about it earlier in the club. But the bottle was there right now, sitting on his coffee table, very real, and very much taunting him. Fuck.

"Looks expensive," Stella said, sounding husky. She was staring at the golden liquid, enraptured. His neck was burning, and he felt vaguely feverish. Have a sip, he thought. Should be good. Should be tasty. You're a god, she's a god. It'll be fine.

That's right: Stella was supposed to be Persephone, the wife he absconded with back before antiquity even began. His hand was on hers now, touching the bottle. He was sweating.

"Let's crack it open," he said, feeling strangely out of control. She nodded, eager. He poured a shot for her, and one for himself.

"Down the hatch," he said, his words sounding muffled and distant to his own ears.

"Down the hatch," she repeated, smiling. They clinked their glasses together and he knocked his shot back. Its effect was instant, launching him like a rocket ship to the tallest high he'd ever known. Around him, the world seemed sharper: the colors were more vibrant. And he felt good—he felt, really, really good. Strong, like he could pick up a truck with one hand. The persistent ache in his leg was gone too.

"Look at you," he heard her say, dreamy. He looked back down at her, right into her eyes, because the sight of her didn't cause his vision to blur anymore, and my, was she a lovely picture.

"Rather look at you," he said. She giggled, and the sound made his heart thunder in his ears. "C'mere," he said.

"No," she teased, smiling. "You come here." She grabbed his wrist, pulling him towards her until he was on top of her. His mind felt slow and sluggish, like the cogs in his head had been mucked up with molasses.

He felt something press against his lips. She was kissing him, he realized. Softly, oh so softly. He kissed her back, moaning as her tongue found his. It was a deep kiss, one that sent heady desire straight to his groin.

"You're so beautiful," he said, moving down to kiss her neck. She sighed, and all he wanted to hear was that sound. "God, Stella, you make me feel like a caveman." He heard her breathy laugh, tried to stop the desperate mewl in his throat as her hands ran through his hair again. His skin was burning. He sat up from her quickly, removed his button-down just as fast. She followed his lead, pulling her tube top off, along with her skirt. She got on her knees to kiss him as he started working on his belt, and her quick, clever hands did the rest of the work, so all he had to do was kick off his shoes and socks. He picked her up, placed her on his tall desk.

Her hands were roving over his stomach, over his chest, like she couldn't get enough of touching him. He ran his tongue over her nipples, relishing how she arched against him, relishing her soft whimpers of pleasure as he took each sensitive bud into his mouth. He moved his hand down to cup her and—

"Fuck, you're so wet," he said, unable to keep the moan from entering his voice. Absolutely soaked, coating the whole of his hand. His index and middle fingers entered her easily. "Do you get this wet for everyone?" Something was happening to him. His head was swimming and he didn't...he didn't feel like himself. His skin still felt like it was burning.

She turned away from him, blushing. He crooked his fingers in her, making her gasp. "Answer me, my sweet flower," he said, in a voice that wasn't quite his.

"No," she gasped, rocking her hips against his hand, absolutely shameless. He drank in the sight of her, committing it to memory: the soft curves of her breasts; the way she moved; the way she fondled her nipples; the soft 'o' her luscious lips made as he slid his fingers in and out of her; the way she bit her bottom lip as he rubbed his thumb against her clitoris with increasing pressure. A vision. He'd keep her burned behind his eyes like this forever.

"Has anyone ever made you this wet before?" he asked. She didn't answer, instead sending him a look of defiance that made his dick throb. "Don't be coy, sweetheart. I already know the answer," he said, languidly stroking himself for relief. He increased the pace of his fingers, the rhythmic pressure he put on her clit. "But I want to hear you say it." He crooked his fingers inside her again, in that spot he found so quickly during their last coupling, and smiled with pure male pride as he saw her curse silently. "Tell me."

She didn't answer. He did it again.

"Fuck," she cried, arching her back off the desk. He felt her walls squeeze around his fingers, and he backed off, but only just. He didn't want her finishing, not yet.

"That ain't a proper answer, darlin'," he said, feeling less like his head was swimming now...but still not entirely in control of himself. "I wanna hear you say it."

"You're—the—only—one—who's—ever—made—me—this—wet," she sputtered, crying out the words all at once. He stilled his hand in her in response, grinning wide and wolf-like. She was glaring at him now, not happy with how he brought her close to the brink and then denied her.

"Good girl," he said, teasing, starting the rhythm up again. She couldn't maintain her glare; he felt her pussy clamp around him, saw the involuntary way she shut her eyes. "Do you want to come?"

"Yes," she moaned. "Yes, please. "

He was hungry for her, ravenous for her, but he wanted to hear her say the words. His body was burning, his prick was aching; all he could think about was her, and how he wanted to bury himself inside of her, right to the root of him. "How badly?"

"Please," she begged, lustful and lost to the sensation of his hands. "I want you inside me," she said, circling her hips in a way that made his mouth water.

"I'm already inside you," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He curled his fingers to accentuate his point, making her gasp. "Be more specific. What is it you really want?"

She opened her eyes, looked at him directly, daring him. "I want your cock inside me," she said, purposefully squeezing herself around his fingers. "I've been thinking about you for days." She sat up, started kissing his neck, the shell of his ear. "I've been thinking about how no one has ever fucked me as good as you." She trailed her hand down to his hard prick, wrapping her fingers around the shaft, and he shut his eyes. She pulled his shaking hand out of her, sucked on his trembling fingers in a way that made him almost come then and there.

With her other hand, she positioned him so that he pressed against the soaked folds of her entrance, and he hissed as she slowly ground herself up against him. "You've made me so fucking wet," she breathed. "I always get so wet when I think of you."

"Stella," he panted. "You feel so good—"

She kissed him, hot and full of desire and completely in control of him, and trailed her searing lips along his jaw, back to his ear. "Now," she said, nibbling on his earlobe. His breath caught. "Fuck me."

He pressed inside of her in one smooth motion, causing them to both gasp in unison as he filled her. He could already feel the heat in his stomach uncoiling, his impending orgasm rushing through him with a power all its own.

"Don't move," he said, digging his fingers hard into her hips. His legs were shaking with the strain of keeping still, and it didn't help that her lips had found that sensitive spot behind his ear. She was having a grand old time there, wasn't she, teasing him with kisses. "I've been waiting to feel you inside me," she whispered, low and sultry. He shuddered, right on the edge of losing control.

Slowly, he steadied his breathing, kissing her collarbone as he felt the growing heat in his belly simmer down just enough. "Are you ready now?" she teased, moving her hips in a circular motion that sent sparks flying behind his eyes.

He didn't say a word, only kissed her deeply as she pulled on his neck, crashing his mouth onto hers. Her nails scratched at his back as he moved, his hips pistoning in and out of her. He pressed as close to her as he could, instinct telling him that the more he pushed into her, the closer they could get to becoming one. His skin was completely aflame now; every part of him felt scalded by her touch, but still he stayed inside her, listening to her moans turn into desperate cries, feeling her pulse around him in orgiastic glee.

He moaned into her shoulder, saying a litany of names that he deliriously hoped she couldn't hear. "Persephone," he called her. Persephone, Persephone, Persephone.

Suddenly they weren't in his office, but instead in a field: a glade underneath the night sky, and she continued to cry out, locking her legs around him, keeping him close. Darkness enveloped him, made him shiver, even as it gave him strength. He picked up his pace, punishing the both of them as he pulled all the way out of her and pressed himself back in, to the hilt, over and over again. Reveal yourself, he thought, delirious, lost in the pleasure of her body.

"Say my name," he commanded, sounding strange and tinny to himself.

"Logan," she panted.

"No," he said, whispering into her ear. "Say my name, Persephone. Say it."

"Hades," she cried, gasping and clamping hard around him as he thumbed her clit. The name sent a shock of pleasure pulsating throughout his body. The flowers that cradled her beneath him grew more resplendent, combating the darkness that had begun to envelope them both.

"Again," he ordered, panting. He was so close, right there, and he could feel that she was close, too. "Hades," she repeated, cupping his face, pulling him down for a tender kiss that made him whimper and sent him careening over the edge with her as she rocked her hips up with his, shuddering as her orgasm burned through her. When he opened his eyes again, they were back in his office, and she was naked on his desk, looking bewildered and unsure.

"You...you okay?" he asked her, shivering, kissing the top of her head. She looked...afraid.

"No, I'm not okay," she said, and her voice shook in a way he hadn't heard from her before. She moved away from him, and immediately started putting her clothes back on. He felt strangely shy and vulnerable in front of her, and began dressing himself as well, only managing to get his boxer briefs on by the time she was fully clothed.

"Will you at least tell me what's wrong?" he asked. This was new territory for him, and he wasn't exactly sure how to navigate it. Whatever he felt when he was inside her, whatever that dark voice was, that heat on his skin—it did fuck all now for his confidence. "Did I do somethin'?"

"Everythin's wrong. And yes, you did do somethin' —a lot of somethin' ," she said, mocking the accent he let slip when he was around her. She started tying her hair back.

"Stell, please—"

"First of all," she said. She turned on him, furious, poking her finger into his chest until the backs of his knees hit his desk and he was forced to sit down on it. "I'm not 'Stell' to you."

"Stella."

"Second of all, I didn't come here to have sex with you. I came here to end things. But you pulled some weird Mafia seduction on me, and we fucked—"

"Pulled some weird Mafia seduction on you? " A part of him—a very dark part of him, one that he was ashamed of, but one that was no less powerful—started to become enraged at her. Who the hell did she think she was, poking him in the chest and bringing him to heel, like he was a dog who needed to be disciplined? Nobody had the audacity or recklessness to treat him like that. Nobody. "You misunderstand who you're talking to, sweetheart."

"I know full well who I'm talking to. What, am I making you mad —are you gonna hurt me?"

"For the record, yeah, you are pissin' me the fuck off," he growled. Inside, he felt like his spirit was breaking apart."'Specially insinuatin' that I'd put my hands on you." Yeah, push her away like you pushed away Sofie. Make her afraid of you, you fucking asshole.

"Boo-hoo, Logan. You came in me," she continued, seething, furious. His eyes went wide. Oh. Yeah. He definitely did do that. He looked at a particularly interesting piece of lint on the ground. His cheeks felt hot. "And I'm mad at myself for letting you do that, when you straight up admitted to me that you've killed people, Logan. What's physical abuse to man who's got a body count, hmmm?"

"It's not the same," he said, gasping like a fish out of water. He didn't have an answer for her, leastwise not one that she would accept. Couldn't tell her that he watched his daddy beat his mom silly when he was a kid and it made him fucking sick to his stomach to even think he could do something like that. His sister's words cut right through him: you're so much like Dad now. "I'm not like him," he said. "I'm not."

"Not like who, Logan? And what's with this 'Hades' stuff? That your gangster name or what?"

Hearing the nickname now, from her mouth, and not in the throes of ecstasy, instantly gave him a piercing headache. "Something like that," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. The room started to spin. Make it to the couch, just make it to the couch. "I need to...go...lie down," he groaned, pitching forward.

A surprised, "oh shit," was the last thing he heard before his vision turned black.