Chapter 12

Pebbles crunch under my worn sneakers as Hermes leads me forward. My jeans and T-shirt feel incredibly out of place here.

The others are adorned in flowing gowns of greens and blues, loose togas like Hermes, and the occasional bark-skinned thing strides through completely nude.

I’ve never wondered if tree nymphs have the same…parts…as us, but at least I have my answer now. Unsurprisingly, no. They do not.

As we walk, they stop and stare. Not in a subtle, judging way. In an overt, bowing at the waist while scowling way. I feel like a foreigner walking arm in arm with a beloved prince. There’s no awe in their eyes. It’s spite. Malice, maybe. There’s no warmth in sight.

My neck prickles like I’m being hunted, not just watched. I fight the urge to tuck behind Hermes’s shoulder. I knew Olympus might be cold. I didn’t expect it to feel like I was tracked prey in a land of predators in silk. If they keep staring at me like that, I might throw up again. Not exactly the entrance I hoped to make.

“Why are they looking at us like that?” I whisper, tilting my head up so my voice doesn’t carry.

“They’re just jealous of you,” he retorts too easily, the glint in his eyes betraying his lie.

“Hermes…” I mutter in a low tone, making his lips draw taut.

He lets loose a sharp sigh. “I’m an Olympian,” he says matter-of-factly. “There are certain expectations I’m expected to meet. None of which include a mortal in ripped jeans.”

“My jeans aren’t—” A quick glance down proves that my jeans are in fact ripped. Straight across the knee, probably from the whole collapsing and barfing thing.

He grins a little too eagerly at my disappointment. “Don’t feel bad,” he continues, his pace quickening. “I already made sure Hestia delivered a whole wardrobe of Olympic grade dresses to my room.”

The path curves past a stall where a horned god sells glowing figs to a woman with vines for hair. Another being—glassy-eyed and fish-skinned—glares as we pass, cradling something that looks like a crystal harp. Somewhere ahead, wind chimes trill without wind. A child-like laugh rises and splits into two separate notes, like harmony detached from a song.

My brows draw inward. “Who’s Hestia?” His words finally sink in, and I plant my feet. “When did you have time to let her know I was coming?”

He spins around to face me, his cheeks turning a very human looking shade of pink. “She was an Olympian before Dio weaseled his way in.” He rips his gaze from mine and stares at nothing in the distance. “And yesterday…morning.”

“Yesterday morning?” My jaw ticks as the realization washes over me, chilling my bones. “You knew I’d be coming here.”

“I suspected.” He pulls my arm into his again and continues our trek down the pebbled path. “I’m essentially the god of reading people. It’s pretty much my job to know what you’re thinking before you get the chance.”

“Isn’t that, like, a breach of free will?” I ask, curling my lip at the thought.

“Nope,” he responds flatly. “It would be if I told you I had a vision of you here before we even met.”

“Did you?” My throat tightens as we continue on, the top of a marble statue coming into view over the crest of the hill. “Can you see the future?”

“No, I didn’t.” My elbow digs into his rib just enough for him to lean away from me. “But yes, I can. Not in the traditional Apollo sense.”

My eyes go wide as I try to process what he just said. “You can’t just tell me you can see the future and act like it’s not a huge fucking deal.”

“It’s not,” he says with discontentment. “It’s less vision-y and more like pattern recognition. Think of it like knowing when the seasons are going to change based on the way the air smells.”

“That’s actually extremely unnerving,” I chuckle out despite the shiver running down my spine. “You’re like one of those mediums who gets all their information from Facebook.”

The head of the statue comes into full view. It’s completely white, with curly hair and angry eyes and a big bushy beard. “Who’s that supposed to be?” I ask, pointing in the direction of the giant head.

“That,” Hermes starts with a pompousness that sounds like disbelief, “is Zeus.”

“Oh.” That’s terrifying. I can’t imagine living with a huge set of my dad’s eyes bearing down on me at all times.

The further we walk, the more the path narrows. The stalls become grander, the faces more severe. More heads appear, shorter than Zeus but just as intricate and judgmental. The triangular roof of a long, off-white building stretches behind them, like they’re guarding the doors of an ancient museum.

“Is that the—"

“Shit,” Hermes bites out suddenly, his steps coming to a halt as the sound of fluttering drowns out the jovial hums of the market around us.

The air pressure warps with each beat, sending my brain into a short-circuit. It’s like vertigo and low-blood pressure had a deformed love child, sending the world tilting and blurring as my knees threaten to buckle.

The sound stops as soon as it began, replaced by the gentle scrape of rocks under feet. Hermes’s arm tenses in my grasp, thrusting me upright despite the pulsating ache in the back of my head.

“Hermes,” says a soft, girlish voice. Her accent is unlike anything I’ve ever heard, her vowels soft and consonants rolled and long. Beautiful, in a deeply haunting way.

“Iris,” Hermes responds, his body stiffening.

I open my eyes to find a beautiful fairy of a woman standing in front of us. Her hair is the color of wheat, with gentle waves cascading down to her shoulders. Her eyes are a deep brown, nearly black even in the direct sunlight.

Behind her, four wings sprout from her back. They’re not like Hermes’s. They’re less bird-angel; more butterfly-like in nature. They’re translucent, with all the shades of the rainbow glistening in the sun.

Her eyes flick to me for the briefest of seconds before her pale eyebrows tilt in something like frustration. “You brought her here?” she barks out in a hushed voice.

His shoulders square as his wing wraps around my shoulder, pulling me closer even as I stumble over my own feet. “What choice did I have?”

His voice isn’t the voice I know. There’s no light or playful twang. No delicate accent softening his words. It’s harsh and throaty, like I’m hearing something not meant for my ears.

Iris’s gaze trails down me and settles on my hand before her nostrils flare. “You didn’t even mark her.” Her hand grips Hermes’s arm as she leans in. “You’re going to get the both of us in trouble.”

His eyes bore into her with an intensity I hope I never have to be on the receiving end of. “I’m handling it.”

She doesn’t back down, her silver bodysuit pulling tight across her arm muscles as she squeezes his arm. “Then handle it.”

Her wings flit like those of a dragon fly as she releases her grip on him. Her feet lift off the ground as that same pounding presses in on my ears. Her attention snaps to me as she lifts away from us. “Stay close to your god, girl.” There’s no sentiment in her sharp tone. “You will find this land is much less forgiving than the realm of man.”

The air buzzes as she flies away, a shimmer of rainbow left in her wake. I watch her until she becomes nothing but a glimmering dot in the sky above the statues’ heads.

“Don’t pay any attention to her,” Hermes murmurs as he wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his side. “She’s always been spiteful. Probably gets it from Hera.”

I tilt my head back to look up at him. “Hera? Like, Zeus’s Hera?” Oh god, am I already drawing attention from the literal queen of all the gods already? That’s the opposite of what I want.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

My face apparently gives away my anxiety. Hermes starts walking toward the looming palace of god statues. “Don’t freak out,” he says in a low voice, glancing around us with nervous eyes before offering me a tight smile. “I work for Zeus; she works for Hera. Iris isn’t your enemy; she just has a hard time expressing concern.”

“Concern?” I scoff out. “Is that what that was supposed to be? It sounded more like a warning.”

“Like I said,” he continues in that same calculated calmness, “she has a weird way of expressing sentiment.”

“What did she mean by marking me?”

His jaw clenches for the briefest of moments as he adjusts my bag on his shoulder. “Nothing. It’s not important.”

My eyebrows raise. “The way you said that makes me think it’s very important.”

He huffs out a long sigh, his eyes pressing closed. “It’s—” Not important. I can hear it on his tongue already. His jaw ticks and he runs his tongue across his teeth. “It was an oversight on my part. In Olympus, when a god brings a mortal in, they mark them to show ownership. Kind of.”

“Kind of?” It sounds like a divine version of marriage. Maybe a way to make sure their chosen humans don’t go off flirting with other gods. A bit animalistic.

“It’s a mutual thing,” he continues, his tone clipped like he’s trying very hard to not say something that’ll upset me. “No one else will mess with a marked mortal unless they’re trying to pick a fight.”

Oh. If that’s the case, it feels a little like this is a huge oversight on his part. Am I just going to be prime pickings for the other gods? Not that I’m the most desirable woman, but I don’t want to draw any unwarranted attention by being unmarked or whatever.

A frown drags the corner of my lips as we reach the crest of the hill, my thighs burning from the walk.

“Holy shit.” All thoughts of rainbow wings and gilded threats dissolves. “Where the hell did you bring me?”

“Home,” he says simply, tightening his arm around my shoulders. “The Pantheon.”

Collums as tall as skyscrapers twist like vines from the ground to the roof. It’s all the same yellowed stone color, with cracks and crevices that look older than time. Glassless windows line the walls, the deep blue inner curtains ruffling in the breeze.

The path leading to the looming doors is lined with statues. Some are as tall as the building itself, some human-sized. Zeus’s is at the entrance, seated in a grand throne decorated with jagged bolts of lightning and angry clouds. An eagle perches on its shoulder.

The others are standing or kneeling, some holding weapons, some in intricate poses.

Hermes tugs me forward, toward the line of marble gods. Under each statue, there’s an emblem I can’t read. I’m assuming it’s Greek, but I have no way of translating.

There’s a man with long wavy hair, a wine goblet in one hand, a staff topped with a pinecone in the other. A woman wrapped in what looks like a scarf, her delicate curves accentuated by the scant clothing. A man with a spartan helmet obscuring his features, a sword planted in the ground at his feet.

I stop in front of one of the human sized statues. It’s furthest from the pantheon, across from the long-haired wine drinker.

I can’t read the engraving, but I know it’s him.

He’s crouched like he’s just come off the block of a sprint. He’s wearing the winged hat and sandals, and his actual wings stretch long and tight behind him, like he’s preparing to launch himself into the air.

Unlike the others’ serious expressions, he’s grinning. His blank marble eyes stare into mine.

There’s something incredibly surreal about standing next to a man and his immortalized persona at the same time. Even the Caduceus is identical to the real thing.

I take a step closer to the statue and reach out to run my fingers across his cheek. His smile is frozen in stone, cocky and confident, but it’s missing something. The spark. The softness. The...dimples. “They forgot your dimples.”

He’s silent for a moment before his arm falls to his side. “Come on,” he says quietly, his fingers ghosting over mine. “We should get inside.”

I turn to face him—the real him—and catch a look of sadness before he masks it with a smirk.

“Why is yours so small?” I ask, then glance over at the wine man. “And that one?”

Hermes follows my gaze. There’s a beat of quiet before he speaks. “That’s Dionysus,” he says, and his voice doesn’t quite match his usual grin. It’s thinner. Quieter.

His fingers lace with mine as he pulls me forward, starting toward the Pantheon again. “We deal with mortal affairs more than any of the rest of them.” He motions wide, to the statues as we pass, each one growing in size the closer we get to Zeus’s. “That makes us smaller, symbolically and literally, apparently.”

My lip curls. “That’s one of the pettiest things I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah,” he starts, guiding me up a set of marble stairs. “Just don’t tell them that.”

There’s a long porch, surrounded by columns as wide as trees. The double doors leading into the Pantheon loom like monoliths, sealed tight like the gods are trying to keep Olympus locked out.

This feels wrong. It feels like I’m stepping into something that doesn’t want me.

I guess I am.

Hermes grips one of the long handles and takes a deep breath, tensing like he’s holding all the weight of Olympus on his shoulders. “You ready?”

No. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. Gripping his hand tight enough to feel the ache in my own knuckles, I nod once.

The doors swing open with a surprising ease. There’s no rush of air or glittering gold magic that spills out. Just the smell of something ancient, like a library full of dusty, untouched books.

I step inside after him. I can feel the trembling in my legs and arms and neck as the door slides closed behind us. Even my teeth are chattering.

I’ve never been so terrified in my life. The ceiling is too high, the floor too polished, the fountain in the center of the room too loud. There are no guards, no people, no laughter. Just echoes and expectation.

Every footstep I take feels like it doesn’t belong

Nothing about this feels familiar. Intricate paintings decorate the walls and ceiling, depicting what looks like battles and prayers and romantic gestures. There’s a history here that’s older than anything I’ve learned in classes or read in books.

Even the air is too still.

“Everything okay?” Hermes asks, his voice amplified as it echoes off the walls.

I blink slowly, trying to regain my composure. “I’ve never felt so small in my life.” Even my whisper sounds a thousand times louder, like the building is mocking my trepidation.

He squeezes my hand and tugs me forward, where an intricately carved spandrel sections off a hallway.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says slowly as we tuck into the hall.

The hall splinters off into smaller openings, like caged off worlds that each lead to a door. There’s carved panels above each door with more words I can’t read.

One has an owl scratched in before the print, one with a hammer, another with a trident. There’s twelve; I’m assuming for the twelve Olympians.

My fingers trail the molding as we walk, gathering dust and pinching on cracks.

“Well, I can tell this is you,” I chuckle out, stopping in front of one of the offshoots.

“Really,” he says in a sardonic tone. “How can you fell?”

A wing is carved into the panel above the door, along with a coin. A pair of tennis shoes is discarded at the entrance. The ones he wore when he came along to my mom’s. God, that feels like a lifetime ago already.

I didn’t even say goodbye to her. I didn’t tell my boss I was quitting. I didn’t even let my landlord know I wouldn’t be paying rent for the foreseeable future. I just left everything behind for a world that isn’t meant for me.

The sound of a plucked note steals my attention. A warbling in the air; something like a harp with the twang of a banjo.

Another, and then a melody begins to take shape.

Hermes throws his head back and lets out a long groan. He mutters something under his breath before twisting to look at the door behind us with a quiet, “Seriously?”

I turn to follow his gaze.

The door there is open, revealing a soft interior. I can see a plush carpet, an armchair that looks like it was pulled straight from a designer catalogue, and a man perched on the arm.

He looks so much like Hermes, it’s almost criminal. They have the same soft features, the same golden eyes. But this one shines.

Literally.

A golden glow emits from somewhere under his skin, the same way the streak on my finger does in the dark.

His hair is curled like Hermes’s is, but it flows down past his shoulders in pretty little ringlets. He looks slimmer and longer, with legs that ripple with muscles I’ve only seen in magazines and movies.

In his hands, he holds an instrument I’ve never seen before. It’s shaped like a U with strings that attach at a thicker base. He’s strumming it like it’s a harp, watching his own fingers move like they’re worthy of worship from a god.

To be fair, so am I.

And then, he starts to sing.

My mouth parts as the words flow from him. I can’t understand anything he’s saying—probably Greek or whatever language of the gods Hermes mentioned before. I don’t really care, either.

His song wraps around my chest and dares me to step closer. To lose myself in whatever he’s saying.

Just as my feet stutter forward, his eyes leave his own fingers and flick to me. We lock eyes long enough for his lips to quirk into the softest, saddest smile.

My own smile comes without any input from me.

A quiet breath leaves me as the melody peaks, and I lean into it, letting my vision tunnel around the music.

“Don’t stare too long,” Hermes grumbles in an annoyed tone.

I jump at the interruption, my eyes flying wide as my attention snaps back to Hermes.

Shit.

The look on his face is the closest thing to anger I’ve seen from him.

“Sorry.” My voice is breathless as I wipe my sweaty hands on my shirt.

The music continues as he wraps his arm around my shoulders, glaring at the golden man, who just shoots a spiteful smile in return.

Hermes leans in close as he turns us around. “My brother has an unfortunate tendency to turn his admirers into trees,” he whispers against my cheek. “So, I’d stay clear of him if I were you.”

“That’s—” My neck aches as I twist to look over my shoulder at the open door. “That’s Apollo?”

“In all his golden glory,” he responds in a pinched tone, leading me toward his door.

“The one you…stole the cows from?” I ask, watching him fight a smirk as he grabs the doorknob.

“Yes, Alira,” he sighs out as he pushes the door open. “Now can we please stop talking about my bother and all the ways I’ve done him wrong?”

The door swings open and I half-expect gleaming walls or celestial floating orbs. Instead, I’m greeted by something that looks like a hoarder god’s hideaway.

“Oh my god.”

The clutter has to have its own personality at this point. There’s multiple globes strewn across a desk I can hardly even see under the piles of paper. There’s notes, letters stapled together, pages of books, and just about every other form of parchment taped and nailed to the walls. Trinkets line a shelf—everything from purses and rings to cracked phones and game controllers. Next to it, there’s a wheel that looks like it belongs on a horse-drawn carriage.

Hermes grins as he closes the door behind us. “What do you think?” he asks in a boyish voice, like a little kid showing off a new pair of shoes.

My mouth falls open as I watch him cross the room and flop down on his bed, papers and envelopes launching into the air as the mattress dips.

“And you had the audacity to call me messy?”