“Of course,” he replies. “While Charon doesn’t take credit cards, Amazon.com does. And now that I’ve signed up for their Prime membership, I can get everything shipped down here for free.”
I glance over at Race and Jareth, shaking my head in disbelief. Will the wonders of Hell ever cease? “So um, anyway, we were wondering if you could help us out. We need to cross the river.”
“So does everyone else. I suggest you get in line. Don’t worry. The hundred years passes pretty quickly down here,” he says as his troll mage lets loose a rainstorm of frostfire down on his enemy. I have to admit, he’s pretty good. I wonder what server he plays on.
“Yeah. I’m sure it flies by. But you see, we’re not dead. We came down here to talk to Hades about my sister. We need to get her out of here before she’s processed into the system. A hundred years from now will be too late.”
Torrid doesn’t reply, back to his game. I don’t try to press him—after all, I know how annoying it can be to be interrupted during a boss fight. In any case, it doesn’t take long for the big fiery dude they’re all fighting to take a major swipe at the main tank, knocking him to the ground, dead.
“Nooooo!” Torrid screams at the screen. “You noobs!”
The beast turns on the rest of the group—including Torrid’s troll—engulfing them in flames. One by one they fall.
Game over.
Torrid swears, then spins in his chair to face us. It’s then that I realize, for the first time, that he’s actually a troll in real life, too, complete with horns sticking out of the sides of his cheeks. It’s a little unnerving to say the least.
“So what do you want from me?” he asks.
I draw in a breath. Here goes nothing. “I was told that there have been times when Charon has made exceptions to the exact change rule. I was wondering if you knew what those were.”
Torrid nods. “It has been done,” he says. “But it’s very rare.” He gives us a skeptical once-over. “I’m not sure any of you would have what it takes to get him to agree.”
I feel my hackles rising. Who does this troll think he is? “Try us.”
“Well, the first person to do it was Hercules, son of Zeus,” Torrid explains. “It’s said he beat Charon in a test of strength, overpowering him and stealing his oar. Of course, these days the ferryman uses a motorboat, so that won’t help you much. And he keeps the key on his person always. So you’d pretty much have to take him down to get it.”
“Right,” I say, glancing out one of the windows, watching the ferryman busy himself with closing up shop for the night. He doesn’t look that tough. Pretty skinny, actually. Maybe if all three of us got the jump on him…
“Don’t even think about it.” Torrid snorts. “I’ve met Hercules. And you, my dear, are no Hercules.”
Sigh. I suppose he’s right. I turn back from the window. “What else?”
“Well, there was a Trojan hero known as Aeneas,” he continues. “They say he was the son of Aphrodite. He was able to bribe Charon with a golden bough—which is basically like the Willie Wonka golden ticket down here in the Underworld.” He smirks. “I don’t suppose you have anything like that on you, do you? Maybe a Chia Pet, perhaps? The ferryman’s pretty fond of foliage…”
I let out a frustrated breath. “Of course we don’t,” I say. “Come on, there must be something else. Something that doesn’t require god-like strength or landscaping expertise.”
Torrid thinks for a moment. “There was this one other time,” he says at last. “When Orpheus came down to Hades to rescue his wife, Eurydice. He brought his lyre with him and with his music he was able to charm Charon into giving him passage across. As they say, music soothes the savage beast.”
Huh. I consider this. “Well, I don’t play any instruments, but I suppose I could sing,” I suggest, launching into a rousing rendition of My Chemical Romance’s “Welcome to the Black Parade.”
Torrid and Jareth cringe and block their ears. Race puts a hand over my mouth. “We want to charm him, luv,” he reminds me. “Not cause permanent hearing loss.”
“Fine,” I growl, offended by their obviously over-exaggerated reactions to my tuneage. “Well, then what about you, Mr. Rock Star? You think you could make yourself useful? Charm the socks off the ferryman?”
Race grins. “Now you’re talking. Of course it’d have to be a capella. I didn’t think to bring my guitar with me. And I have no idea what a lyre is.”
“You might want to hit up some of the others,” Torrid suggests. “A lot of people on the banks here are dead musicians who were buried with their instruments.” He shrugs. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my game. I only have three weeks left to level cap, before I’m forced to head across the river and face eternal damnation. I need to get moving.” He grabs his mouse. “You can see yourselves out. Good luck.”
Summarily dismissed, Race, Jareth, and I head out of the cabin, closing the door behind us. Race turns to me, his eyes shining with excitement.
“Honey, we’re getting the band back together!”
20
By about three in the morning, Race has somehow managed to recruit a heavy-metal guitar-playing ogre, an Elvin harpist, an imp drummer, and a fairy who must have died circa 1983, judging from his Casio synthesizer. The makeshift band has gathered around the fire and is currently arguing over what kind of tune will best charm the ferryman. There seems to be some debate on whether he digs Goth, classical, or Osborne Family Christmas carols. And unfortunately, everyone seems to be trying to play their best guess all at the same time.