Page 10 of Hades

Forty-five years.

Forty-five years of preying on young women who came to him for education and left with scars they’d carry for the rest of their lives.

Not anymore.

“Such a shame,” my mother said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “You had him, didn’t you?”

“I did. Three years ago.”

Professor Halston had been a good teacher. Knowledgeable. Engaging. He knew his subject matter inside and out, could make even the driest health sciences topic come alive in a lecture hall.

He also had a habit of cornering female students after class. Of offering ‘extra credit’ that had nothing to do with academics. He used his position and authority to take what he wanted from women who were too young, too scared, too conditioned to say no.

“Did they say how he died?” I asked, keeping my voice carefully curious.

“Heart attack.” My mother clicked her tongue. “You know, I had him as a professor too.”

My eyes snapped to hers. “You went to college?”

“Of course I went to college. And Professor Halston was one of my favorites.”

I’ll bet he was.

“I didn’t know you were from Texas.” My mother never talked about her past. Never shared her history with me.

“I’m not,” she replied. That was it. Two words, no explanation. My eyes drifted back to the television as the newscaster droned on about Professor Halston.

I realized then that he’d been hunting for years. Decades of young women who’d suffered under his hands, his words, his power.

Wolfsbane worked quickly. Irregular heartbeat, difficulty breathing. By the time anyone thought to test for plant-based toxins, the body had already metabolized most of the evidence.

Wolfsbane was a gift from nature to women like me. Fast-acting. Deadly. Nearly undetectable if you knew what you were doing.

And I always knew what I was doing.

“Well, he was in his seventies,” I said, my voice carrying just the right amount of false sympathy. “Maybe he wasn’t as knowledgeable about health as he thought.”

My mother didn’t catch the edge in my tone. She never did.

I left her to her tea and her news and moved back to the kitchen. Warm water sloshed over my hands as I washed the vegetables, scrubbing away the dirt and grit, then chopping them to add to the pan with the roast I was making for dinner.

It was more than my mother and I needed, but it would keep for lunch tomorrow. Waste not, want not.

I glanced at the clock. One-thirty. Just enough time for my own cup of tea.

I added a little sugar to my cup and stepped out onto the front porch. The air was stifling, thick with heat that pressed down like a physical weight. Most people compared Texas in September to the fires of hell.

I liked the heat. I loved the warmth.

It was a comfort to know that when I died, hell would probably feel like home.

I sat on the porch and watched the chickens peck around the yard, their movements jerky and purposeful. When I’d first brought them outside to their coop, keeping them away from the garden had been impossible. The advice online had been unanimous: Pen them up.

I couldn’t bear to lock them up. They had a coop to disappear into at night, but during the day I wanted them to roam freely. To scratch and peck and exist without bars.

Of course, that meant I didn’t always find the eggs they laid, but with just my mother and me, I didn’t need many. I’d added a second, smaller garden near their coop filled with vegetables they could eat without destroying my work.

There was no reason for them to search out my garden if they had their own.