Blinding Night

  Blinding Night

  Chantal Gadoury

  Copyright © 2018 by Chantal Gadoury

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Amanda Wright and Jackie Turner

  The Parliament House

  www.parliamenthousepress.com

  Cover Design by Shayne Leighton

  Contents

  Editor’s Forward

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  1350

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  1784

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  1920

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Artwork by Aislinn Honeycutt

  27. Sneak Peek of Gilded Ruins, Book Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Parliament House

  Dedicated to the Dreamers, to Dad and to me – to the 21-year-old who sat in her room one night and started the Hades and Persephone journey.

  Editor’s Forward

  Dear Readers,

  * * *

  Firstly, it was such a pleasure to work with Chantal on this incredible story; the retelling of Hades and Persephone. What was once originally a rewrite, became, on its own, an entirely new story. A story that I am proud to have been Chantal’s editor. I have been a part of the Parliament team for a short amount of time, but in the few months that I have worked alongside this collaborative bunch; I have found a kinship of like-minded, ambitious readers and writers. Sometimes it takes only a small measure of curiosity to drop you into your Wonderland; and that’s what this project has been for me.

  * * *

  “Blinding Night” has something really special, a sort of intrigue that has always drawn me to a certain type of book. Not only do we take a dive under the earth and sneak a peek at the Underworld of Greek mythology, but we also glimpse into the past of recurring lives. I have always been deeply fascinated by the background, I mean, just the mention of a memory or a past we only get a taste of; makes me want more! So, when you read into the mystique of Persephone’s lifetimes, I hope you’ll savor the reflection of a carefully crafted backstory.

  * * *

  What more can I tell you but to pick it up and start reading? What more can I say to convince you, dear reader, that Blinding Night is every bit as good as I claim? You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll blush (your toes will most certainly curl, of that you can be certain), and you’ll fall in love. Gadoury has made it easy for you to enter the Underworld, free of charge (no death required), to experience Summer’s own journey down the rabbit hole. Fear not, dear reader, as Chantal has put you in the very best of hands. Her leading cast of handsome, male Gods will find a way to make your dreams come true.

  * * *

  Welcome to Greece in Gadoury’s eyes! Check into the nicest hotel (you’ll know which one when you read about it, trust me), and be a tourist in a city written specifically for this wonderfully fun story. The cast is lively and the sightseeing is lovely.

  * * *

  Finally, dear reader, I hope that you delight in this new adventure.

  * * *

  A.M. Wright, Editor

  Prologue

  300 BC, Athens, Greece

  * * *

  The first day he laid eyes on her, it was incredibly bright and warm outside. The land above the Underworld, where the humans lived out their lives, was ripe with greenery and speckled with vibrant flowers. Lilies, magnolias, and violets swayed against the cool breeze, filling the air with a sweet aroma. The harsh winter was finally coming to an end.

  The warmth poured over his cold skin like tepid water, creating a translucent mist around him.

  He was never fond of the seasons, or how often they changed in a year, because his realm was not so. The Underworld never changed. In his great palace of souls, Hades was confined to his regal comfort and yet, he longed for the sliver of sunlight. Though he did not know it at the time, there was something different about the ever-changing human world.

  Something new.

  Something unexpected.

  When Hades first emerged from the entrance of the realm below, he had not seen the Goddess right away. He had not noticed the way she kissed the petals of the blossoming flowers, breathing new life into their limbs. He had been too taken with the sun. When he finally spotted her, alerted by her presence only by a sigh as sweet as the fragrance in the air, he was breathless. The very essence of her being was the field of flowers. She radiated with the same vibrant colors as the lilies at her feet.

  This Goddess was unlike his brothers or the others, because she was young and truly pure.

  Her beauty would certainly put the naiads and nymphs at war with one another. The thought of those fickle forest creatures fighting one another caused him to chuckle. She turned at the sound of his voice, startled by his laughter, but made no move to flee. In her eyes, he could see her curiosity winning out over her fear. She wore her questions like the fine silk wrapped around her frame.

  Who are you? Where did you come from?

  The God of the Underworld held out his hand and smiled, “I am Hades.”

  She looked to her flowers then, as if they held the answers she needed. It was a brief conversation that he could not hear, so he waited and when she smiled, he knew she was pleased. Her voice, much like the cool breeze, rippled along his skin and sighed against his ears.

  Her voice was clear and light as she spoke, “I am Persephone.”

  Chapter 1

  May 12th, 2017

  “British Airways Flight 387 is now boarding at Gate 21,” the stewardess announced over the loudspeaker of the crowded airport. “Please have your boarding passes and passports ready for boarding.”

  I turned to look over at my mother, who was nose deep in another one of her Jessica Lacey romance novels. I looked down at her feet where an oversized purse sat stuffed with books. My mother was practically the Mary Poppins of paperback romance. It was the craziest thing, too. She could read one book in the matter of two hours. I once timed her. She was a pro-reader.

  “Mom,” I said as I nudged her elbow. “They’re boarding.”

  “Hmm?” She asked, tearing her brown eyes from the page.

  “They’re boarding our flight,” I repeated as I reached behind me for my phone charger.

  Early on, I had beat a sticky six-year-old with an iPad for this seat. It was one of the only outlets in the whole seating area for British Airways, so I didn’t feel too bad about robbing him of electricity. I’m sure the other passengers waiting at Gate 21 were relieved, too. His iPad was so loud that I think there was a collective sigh of relief when it died ten minutes later. Besides, I had wanted to make sure my phone was fully charged for our ten-plus hour flight. We would be traveling from the Providence airport to Charlotte, North Carolina, then to the London Heathrow Airport, and finally to Athens, Greece.

  “I better text your father and let him know we’re boarding,” she said mindlessly as she turned another page
. I prayed as I stood and stretched that there wouldn’t be any crying babies on our flights; though, it was bound to happen in one of them. Finally, with all of my things gathered, I reached for my mother’s hands and folded the book shut.

  “As spicy as Jessica Lacey’s love life may be, we need to board the plane before they leave without us.” The crowd was thinning quickly and if we got left behind, I wouldn’t be the one to tell dad that mom was too busy drooling over another romance novel to acknowledge our flight. “Please text dad.”

  She dropped her book into her bag with a great huff and pulled her cell phone from her back pocket. I watched as my mother – who was terrible with electronics—began to punch out a message using her ancient flip phone. We tried to get her an upgrade one Christmas, but she refused to step foot inside the Apple store at the mall. She vehemently argued against buying a new phone, especially a touch-screen. I had never seen her react to a purchase like that since we bought our new toaster oven, which was an entirely different war that dad and I won.

  My father was already in Greece. He had flown over almost a month ago to secure a place for us to stay while they worked all summer. I remember when they first told me that they would be excavating some Greek ruins with a team from National Geographic. What I thought would be a summer alone at home turned out to be a summer alone in Greece.

  While the rest of my college friends boasted of spending their days next to the pool, taking selfies on Snapchat and going to the beach with all of their high school friends, I was being dragged to a foreign country, where my parents were going to go dig in the dirt. I just wanted something simple. Netflix and slushies. Barefoot and cool, air conditioned shopping malls. Maybe a movie or two with Johnny Depp. But this was their dream, so after a few fights and one week of finals, I caved.

  “You don’t have to sound so ungrateful,” my mother had said to me over a burger and fries on the way home from college. “I’m sure kids your age would love to go to Europe. It’s a once in a lifetime experience.”

  “I get that,” I said with a sigh, dipping my french fries into a small dollop of ketchup. “But, I just wanted to spend time with my friends. You know, travel to the city, swim in their pools, or go to the beach. Rent movies and eat way too much popcorn. Stuff like that.”

  “Greece has an ocean.”

  “We’re not going to be anywhere near an ocean,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “We’ll be twenty minutes away from the beach, Summer,” my mother replied, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Honey, I know you’re not thrilled... but this is your dad’s dream. This is what he’s worked so hard for. All the time he’s spent away from home has been leading up to this. And me…”

  “I know, it’s your dream too,” I said, nodding. “I know.”

  “Greece won’t be so bad. I promise. Who knows, you might make some friends. And maybe if we have time, we can go see where Mamá Amynta was from.”

  “Your family?” My ears perked instantly. “In Vouliagmeni?”

  “Yeah… In Vouliagmeni. I know we’ve always talked about going to see it.”

  At least that had sounded promising. I had done enough Google searches of the seaside town to fantasize about painting my Magnum Opus while visiting. When I was little, my mom used to tell me stories of her family who had lived in Greece. She kept an enormous hat box packed with old photographs of people I knew only by the names on the back, marked with blue ink. The landscape had always captivated my imagination. In a strange way, it often felt familiar.

  Underneath all the old photographs were crinkled stacks of brown parchment paper, which happened to be unreadable old newspapers. There were treasures in the hat box, too. Some frayed yellow ribbons, a pair of simple cufflinks, and an ominous looking white glove with red fingertips. I hadn't noticed the small specks the first time I found it, but when I did, my imagination ran wild. Mom said that it had belonged to one of our great-great-great-somethings—who had been poisoned by a jealous man at a party.

  I wondered then if it was lipstick. Or blood.

  “Boarding pass and passport?”

  The voice startled me. I lifted my brown gaze to the woman, who pursed her lips impatiently. The way the scanner hung limply in her hand was a clear sign that she was obviously bored and irritated.

  “Oh, sorry…” I muttered, clicking the app on my cell phone to expose my boarding pass. Once it was scanned I handed over the little blue passport book and waited for her to verify my details. It was so simple. I had memorized it weeks ago.

  Summer Mavros.

  Born on March 3rd, 1997 in Providence, Rhode Island.

  Age 20. Brown Eyes. Brown Hair. 5’3ft.

  Insert awkward photo from a delayed flash and you have me in all of my glory.

  “Have a good flight,” she replied. I bit back my embarrassing ‘you too’ reply.

  “Come on, Summer,” Mom said from the entrance to the terminal. Her arms were crossed over her chest, seemingly restless as her fingers tangled with the strap. As I glanced in her direction, I could see a sliver of panic flash in her eyes. As if she were afraid she’d lose me. As if she feared I’d turn and bolt in the other direction. She was strangely overbearing. If I wasn’t anywhere within view, she would lose her mind. Apparently, when I was younger, I would make a game of hiding from her in department stores, tucking myself into the clothing racks. Because I was such an expert in hiding, she’d have a hard time finding me. It took one really good hiding place and thirty minutes of fear induced panic for her to tell the manager I had been kidnapped.

  I couldn’t remember that instance in particular, but she had made sure I never forgot it. It was the reason for her over-protectiveness; the same reason why I spent more time with my dad than her. Dad was a rebel with mom’s rules. He at least let me live a little. When Mom wanted me to stay home and go to a community college, he had been the one to go to bat for me. He knew how badly I wanted to go to the University of Rhode Island.

  “She’s gotta live, Demi,” he insisted over a box of pepperoni pizza. “You can’t suffocate her forever.” But the look on my mother’s face said otherwise.

  To compromise, I agreed to call my mother every other night, unless I was in the middle of studying. There were several nights that I’d text the both of them and lie about having a million tests to study for, just to avoid an hour long lecture from my mother about stranger danger. Then after assuring them I would study hard, I’d walk to the art department and set myself up for a few hours of painting. While I was a part of the Art History department, I explored the options of the art studio more and more. It was a guilty pleasure. I was sure if Mom knew about my night time escapades with oil paints, she would blow a fuse. Becoming a professional artist wasn’t an option and I knew she wouldn’t be thrilled by the idea.

  “You’ll never make money. How do you think you’ll support yourself?”

  But I had my dream—and I was willing to go the distance to make it a reality.

  As we found our seats in the tenth row, my mother lifted her bag to the overhead compartment and shoved it to the far side. She held out her hand for mine and looked at me expectantly.

  “I was thinking about having it by my feet,” I said, hopeful. After all, I brought only a few things to do. She shook her head and tapped the overhead.

  “Come on, Summer. Rules are rules. You can get your stuff once the plane is in the air.”

  I rolled my eyes and yanked my headphones from my bag, keeping my phone firmly in my hand. I shoved the bag towards her and pushed myself as far into the window seat as possible. This was punishment–surely. And then the kid behind me kicked my seat and I had my answer. This was going to be rough.

  “Attitude,” my mom remarked as she sat down beside me. “We have a long few hours ahead of us. I had hoped we could take the time to catch up…”

  “Catch up?” I asked, looking at her a little confused. Hadn’t I been doing exactly that since I had come home from school?

 
“Yeah, about college. Boys… friends…?”

  “I told you about everything already,” I insisted softly. It wasn’t like I hadn’t come home during all the breaks the college had allotted, and even some extra weekends when she had cried to Dad about how much she had missed me. Even on the day she picked me up from my dorm hall, I had spent the few hours in the car talking about my finals, some of my friends, and their summer plans. She asked me every question imaginable, as if she had to know everything, right down to the awkward coed bathroom stories. That had been a long car ride home.

  “I just thought we could have some girl-bonding time,” Mom said with a shrug. “Are you sure there weren’t any boys you were interested in at school?”

  I held my breath and counted to ten. There was no way this was happening–right at the beginning of our flight. Was she really asking me about boys?

  “Not really,” I said, shaking my head.

  “I remember when I met your father at college,” she said with a small smile. “He was really cute. He just had the most…”

  “Mom,” I interjected. “I know you mean well, but… seriously, I didn’t meet any boys that I liked. I don’t think boys are the same as when you met dad.”