(Since it's that magical time of year, I've decided to double up on the first part of this book. And I really liked writing this chapter. Contains a bit of real strong language, but it's nothing Oliver hasn't said before.)

-O-

Now that he wasn't running for his quasi-life, Oliver could take in hell at his own brisk, if relatively relaxed, pace. The screams reached him from every angle, and the heat was so intense that he had to tie his new shirt around his head to soak up the sweat spreading across his brow. Still, the falcons who had been chasing him down were dead, so Oliver considered that a victory, if a small one. He eventually came upon the mass of barbed wire that separated his area off from the rest of the underworld, tall as three men and thick as a hedge. He hadn't seen any kind of security on his way to the fence, but he felt it in his bones that it was only a matter of time before someone realized something wasn't right.

Oliver considered the fence with pursed lips. Climbing it was obviously out of the question, as was going around, and he didn't think he had enough time to dig a trench under it on account of his missing arm and a lack of tools. So, he had to go through it. Holstering his handgun and plucking a grenade from off of his new bandolier he bit his lip and estimated the thinnest part of the fence in front of him. Finding it he grimaced. Even the thinnest part was too thick for him to toss the grenade into the fence, it would just bounce off and all that force would be wasted. And if he placed the grenade against the base of the fence from his side, almost half of the power would be wasted, sending fragments in his direction. The ideal position for the explosive would be in the center of the fence, where all of that energy would be concentrated into blasting apart the fence.

And since he couldn't toss the grenade into optimal positioning, that meant manual placement was necessary.

He placed the grenade on the ground and unwrapped his shirt from around his head and pulled it back onto his frame, pulling the sleeve of his good arm as far as it would go without covering his hands. It was thin, too thin to block out barbed wire, but it would have to do. He glared at the fence and wished he had a pair of good gloved, then he snorted when he looked down and realized he only needed one. With a grimace Oliver pulled the pin out of the grenade with his teeth, holding the spoon in place and, with a deep breath in and out, began to reach into the fence.

The heat of hell poured over him, making beads of sweat sprout across his forehead once more, running down his arm and worming into his palm. His shirt clung to him in soggy clumps, and blood roared in his ears, along with the distance sound of beating wings. A quick glance confirmed his fears. A Fury, no mistaking that silhouette, on it's way to investigate the disturbance. With a sound not unlike leaves the sharpened teeth of steel snagged at his shirt and sliced into his hand, turning the metal leaves scarlet in his wake. Even though the pain was exquisite, Oliver just kept his breathing steady and focused. When he was shoulder-deep into barbed wire he took one last breath, held it, then dropped the grenade, the spoon leaping from it's containment with a ping. Letting the breath out in a hiss Oliver moved to pull his hand out and retreat.

The mental clocked began to tick in his head.

Five.

He would've pissed himself, if he had any fluids to spare, when he felt his shirt sleeve catch on the barbed wire.

Four.

Oliver began to yank and pull on his sleeve, desperate, as the sound of the wings grew louder.

Three.

He heard the screech of glee as the Fury spotted him, heard the crack of her whip, felt the heat from it even from the distance between them.

Two.

With a kind of desperate strength, a surge of adrenaline and base instinct that took him out of the equation entirely, Oliver reached back into the fence, wrapped his bloody fingers around the cooking grenade, and ripped his arm free, throwing himself backwards and hurling the grenade at the sound of wings.

One.

The grenade soared past the Fury, who easily dodged the projectile with a swoop, whip aflame in her hand.

Zero.

Oliver barely had time to turn his back when the explosive went off. It hit him like a stiff kick in the back, knocking him breathless. He heard the fury screech in pain and confusion, and the satisfying whomp as she crashed into the ground. He clambered to his feet, the stinging pain blossoming across his arm and hand dulled by the adrenaline surging through his veins. The Fury's left wing was shredded like paper, and her whip was knocked loose from her clawed grasp. She snarled at him, her maw an endless well of yellow, needle-like teeth, before she leaped forward through the air with sudden power, claws spread out wide.

Acting on reflex alone Oliver dove out of the way of the Fury's mad leap. He felt her fly past him, the air in her wake smelling like sulfur, felt her attempt at a slash kiss his neck, and heard her crash into the barbed wire fence. Oliver stood, turned and let out a bark of harsh laughter. Whatever the fence was made out of, it was capable of hurting monsters, it seemed; the bat-hag was tangled in a web of rusty, razor-sharp netting. She had hit the fence with such force that she had actually blown a hole through it, about big enough to drive a very small car into. The monster thrashed on the ground and screeched and tried to free herself, but only succeeded in getting herself further ensnared.

Oliver just watched for a moment, the blood in his ears slowly dying down, his heart slowly returning to a normal beat. And then he started to laugh. It sounded crazy, the laugh of a madman, but he didn't care. It was the releasing of tension, of the tight coil of red-hot panic that had been building in his chest finally unwinding and melting. So, as the Fury roared and screeched in pain, Oliver laughed for his life.

It didn't last long.

As the adrenaline in his veins returned to normal levels, he began to feel the consequences of his mad escape. His shirt sleeve was torn to ribbons, almost soaking in the blood from the myriad of long, shallow cuts that now ran along his arm. In a few places entire stripes of skin were pealed off like a carrot, exposing the bright crimson sinew and muscle to the hot, unforgiving air of the Underworld, stinging as though he had poured lemon juice into the wound. Oliver hissed and, sparing the Fury only a spiteful glance from the corner of his eye, moved to walk through the fence when his foot made contact with something on the ground.

The Fury's whip. It was deactivated, so it seemed to be a normal weapon, maybe seven feet long, made of braided leather with a leather handle. He felt a thrill run through his chest as he picked it from off the ground, could almost feel it's burned cord tighten around his throat, a phantom pain from a thousand lives ago. Though his hand stung with pain, he gripped the instrument of pain tightly, looking at the Fury on the ground. She hissed back at him, but while it held anger, the rage that he had become accustomed to by now, it also contained a note that Oliver didn't think possible for any monster, least of all a Fury.

He heard fear. The fear of a trapped animal.

As he looked at the monster, Oliver felt something in his chest, in his heart. As he remembered what it put him through, something cold and black poured through his veins and soothed the pain in his hand and arm. He thought of the phantom pain around his throat, of the pain the Fury had given to countless others as he considered the weapon in his hand. Then the blackness in his heart made his arm move, made him snap the Fury's whip and coat it in wicked tongues of flame. It made him snarl at the monster trapped in front of him, and it made him throw the whip forward. The weapon seemed to be alive; the cord wrapped itself around it's previous master's throat, releasing a screech of pain from it's maw. The Fury tried to reach up and pry the whip from it's neck, but it was too ensnared in the wire to escape. Oliver yanked back the whip and let the blackness out in a scream, a primal cry of pure hatred that made his blood roar and boil.

The Fury exploded into yellow dust with a final screech of pain, the cord of the whip falling to the ground in a heap.

For a long time Oliver just breathed, taking and releasing ragged breaths as the flames on the whip died down. With a final shuddering sigh he considered the weapon in his hand and, after a moment of thought, crudely wrapped the cord around the handle and shoved it into his pocket. He swallowed to wet his dry throat, set his gaze on the horizon and started walking, carefully picking through the monster dust and tangled strings of barbed wire as the heat of hell bore down on him.

Oliver wasn't sure how long he'd been walking when he came upon the black shores of the Styx. The water, black as ink and twice as thick it seemed, surged along the banks, occasionally splashing up against the sand. Oliver looked east, west, but no sign of the ferryman Charon. He cursed and glanced around his side of the shore, hoping to find something that could help him, to no avail. He felt panic rise up his throat but he shoved it down, his fingers curling into a tight, painful fist that dripped with his own blood. This couldn't be it. No. He refused to believe it, that Gaea would release him with no means of crossing the Styx. Anger swelled in his chest as he shouted across the waters and nothing in particular, voice dry and cracking from so little use, "Gaea! I know you can hear me, I know you're watching," he waited a beat before continuing, "I know you want me to escape, so help me do it!"

The Underworld continued on as normal for a few seconds, heedless of Oliver's cries. But then, from nowhere, the air seemed to chill as a voice slithered into the back of his skull.

Well, aren't you a bold one to say my name like that.

Oliver grimaced briefly at the feeling of Gaea entering his mind. Are you going to help me or not?

The Earth goddess laughed. Of course I am, child.

As though they were waiting for the cue, some black sand began to move and shift, seemingly on there own accord. They pressed together, piled atop one another and eventually compressed into a small, canoe-like shape. The sand shape glowed soft purple for a moment, and the dull whine of magic filled the air. When the light died a small boat made of black stone rested in front of him, the water of the Styx lapsing against the front.

There. Get in.

Oliver, seeing no real other option, clambered into the boat and took a seat on the cold stone bench inside of it. As soon as he sat down the craft surged forward, alive, and began to sail across the Styx at a good pace. Oliver, grateful for the respite, let out a sigh and allowed himself a moment to relax. He wanted to ask the Earth goddess a thousand questions, all at once, but let the idea go. He didn't want to focus on any of that right now. Right now he had to focus on escaping. He looked to the horizon and saw his salvation; an elevator door, shining bright on a hill overlooking the entirety of the Underworld. Despite himself, he drew his handgun out of his bandolier and flicked the safety on and off. A habit, but a comforting one.

He decided to ask his patron one question, one that seemed both reasonable and useful to know the answer to. When I get outta here, what am I supposed to do?

Such confidence, Oliver Irons. Nothing says for certain that you'll escape the Underworld.

Ma'am, will you please answer the goddamn question. Normally, Oliver would've treated the goddess with more respect, but his nerves were fried. He just wanted to be done with all this already.

But again, she simply sounded amused. Polite and rude at the same time. I did chose the perfect mortal, didn't I? If you do escape, you will be retrieved by another agent of mine. A fellow member of your order, seeking to atone for her cowardice.

At that Oliver felt his heart jump in his chest. Another Keeper? God, he thought he was the last one. He glared at the elevator door with new resolve. Alright. I'll-

Before he could get another thought through, the black water in front of Oliver's boat exploded with an ear-grating scream like nothing he's ever heard.

A skeleton, it's bones coated in the thick, inky water of the Styx, clawed it's way up over the bow of the small boat. It's fingernails were claws, it's teeth all sharpened to a razor point, it's eyes burning sockets of purple fire. It grinned at him for a moment before it opened it's jaws to scream again, only to be interrupted the crack of Oliver's gun and a .45 caliber bullet punching a hole through it's forehead and exploding out the back of it's skull. Oliver stood up and turned to scan for more when something slammed into him and sent him to the floor of the boat. He looked up at the skeleton in horror, it's jaws wide and dripping with water that stung Oliver's face, at the clean hole in the middle of it's forehead. It was about to bite down when Oliver regained his sense and shoved the barrel of his gun into the creature's ribcage, slightly angled it upward and emptied the magazine. It's body jerked and spasamed with every trigger pull before it shuddered one last time and dissolved into black water, burning Oliver's skin where it touched and pooling into the bottom of the boat.

Oliver got to his feet and was immediately surprised by another explosion of stinging black water to his right, a little farther away. The skeleton thing damn near flew out of the water, arms splayed out in a disturbingly similar position as the Fury. Without ammunition, Oliver relied on muscle memory and twitch reaction, thinking up an idea as the monster hung in the air, hissing like a broken valve. Just as the monster was about to reach him and sink it's teeth into him he brought his handgun down like a hammer. The weight of the gun combined with the force of Oliver's strike turned it's skull to powder against the black stone of the boat. The thing exploded into the same black water as the other one and sank back into the Styx.

Oliver barely had time to breath when he felt the weight in the boat shift behind him. Before he could turn around he felt two powerful, bony arms wrap around him, claws digging into his chest and shoulder. He heard a dry, grating sound that was too much like laughter before the skeleton sank it's fangs into the area between Oliver's neck and shoulder. It felt like acid was injected directly into the artery, and the searing, almost overwhelming pain nearly made Oliver black out right there. He could only keep on his feet and scream in agony as the skeleton pulled him back, back, back, leaning every further backwards off of the safety of the boat until the entire craft was tipping, threatening to capsize the whole damn thing. Oliver sluggishly tried to bring his handgun up to bear, but all he heard was the click of an empty magazine. He couldn't do anything else with it in his hand. It was useless. He was useless.

He dropped his USP Match, his favorite gun, the one that had seen him through thick and thin into the black, rushing water, and the sound of it splashing into the River Styx would reduce him to tears when he had time to think.

But now was not that time.

With the last of his strength Oliver reached behind him, grabbed the skeleton's protruding collarbone and heaved it forward, compressing his torso and putting every muscle he could spare into the action of flipping the monster over his back. It was fairly light, being mostly bone and air, but the cuts and long strips of skinless flesh on Oliver's arm screamed and swelled and threatened to burst as the monster was sent crashing into the opposite edge of the boat as the craft righted itself. The skeleton was smashed in half, the spine severed by the black stone of the boat, and it melted back into the Styx.

For a long second everything was quiet, the only sounds in the world the lapping of water against prow and the blood in his ears. Oliver collapsed to the floor, leaned heavily on the bench, looked at his arm. It was nasty. The exposed muscle and sinew were almost oozing out of the wounds that had revealed them, and Oliver found the appendage numb and slow to respond to any of his commands. The new wound at his shoulder and neck didn't hurt as much as he thought it should. It was more of a cold pins and needles feeling that was slowly spreading across his entire upper torso. That, he realized, was probably much worse that simple pain.

Despite everything that had just happened, Gaea still retained that pleasant note in her voice. Very impressive, Oliver Irons. You've just earned your rest.

What the fuck were those things?

Oathbreakers. Anyone who goes back against a binding promise ends up as one of them. One of those skeletons you just killed was once called Judas Iscariot, I believe. Quite infamous to a great many mortals, as I've heard it.

Oliver didn't even have the energy to be surprised. He just leaned his head against the cold stone of the boat and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the soft, warm blanket of endless sleep begin to cover him. Then he thought about Marvin, the cage he must be in at Olympus, the time he must've spent in his own kind of hell, and Oliver forced his eyes back open.

"You have a duty, you worthless sonuvabitch," he mumbled to himself as he stood up, the opposite shore of the Styx finally coming into sight, "go do it."

The black sand grated against the boat as it beached, and Oliver drunkenly stumbled off of it, the cold pinpricky feeling reaching his right leg. He barely noticed the boat dissolve back into sand behind him, barely heard the whisper of good luck in the back of his mind before Gaea left him, was barely able to keep his salvation in sight as he stumbled towards it. He half expected a dragon or Cerberus or whatever the hell guarded the entrance of the Underworld to pop out of nowhere and rip him to shreds, but no. Just a barren stretch of red ground about a hundred yards long up a hill where his salvation rested on top of.

Oliver was in a daze for most of it, the adrenaline long since drained from his system. Half of his body was slowly going numb from that Oathbreaker's bite, his only good arm was torn to shreds, and his vision was going black around the edges. When he reached the elevator Oliver just sluggishly pressed the button once, twice, three times before the door opened with a cheerful ding. Like he was in a dream, Oliver stepped inside, pressed the only button on the panel, and promptly blacked out entirely.

When he came to he thought he had died again and was about to start screaming when he realized he was looking out into the lobby of some building, face down in the elevator, sunlight peaking in under the door of whatever building he was in. Oliver was stumbling for the door before he even knew he was on his feet, barely paying attention to the other smoky forms inside the dark lobby. When he opened the door he was blinded by the sunlight. It almost stung him like the waters of the Styx, burning like hell and for an instant of pure fear that he'll never forget thought this was just another layer of the Underworld, designed to trap and catch those few souls who managed to escape.

But then Oliver smelled the fresh, wonderful air, felt the breeze on the skin that wasn't numb, and he knew he was free. When he could finally see Oliver looked out over a city he was unfamiliar with in the middle of the most beautiful sunset he'd ever seen. Until his gaze was drawn to a massive, unmistakable sign in the distance. Hollywood.

He wanted to cry. To shout, to scream to run, everything all at once and then again just for the hell of it. For the first time in his lives Oliver understood what pure joy felt like. He swallowed his tears and looked at the street in front of him, only now noticing the very familiar car parked in front of him. Then he saw the rather small figure walking towards him, and he only managed to say something unintelligible before he tripped over an invisible brick and fell forward. He was caught by a pair of surprisingly strong arms for their frame.

The last thing Oliver saw before his vision went black for the second time in as many minutes was a girl's face, screwed up in a peculiar combination of concern and annoyance. She had short, spiky hair, as white as her skin and bright green eyes surrounded in black eye liner and shadow, making them glow.

The girl started to say something, but Oliver was already long gone in her arms.