Chapter 38
Chapter thirty-eight
ILIANA
Hermes’ eyes on her didn’t make Iliana as uncomfortable as she’d expected.
He always watched her, cataloging every shift in mood and asking after each expression, as if solving a problem. Somehow, it wasn’t unsettling. His teasing chipped away at her barriers with surprising ease.
She was getting too comfortable with him. Iliana wasn’t na?ve. Hermes was dangerous in ways the others weren’t. Thanatos was steady. Anubis, blunt. Hypnos, unreadable. But Hermes was temptation wrapped in smiles and soft touches—the kind of mistake you didn’t regret until it was too late.
She recognized the red flags. She walked away from those relationships before feelings took hold. Yet, here she was, not pulling away as he drew closer.
She sank her teeth into her chocolate croissant. Crisp, flaky layers gave way to buttery softness and silky, bittersweet chocolate. If he kept feeding her like this, she might actually let herself like him.
She’d left three gods behind in various states of tension and anger, yet here she was, letting a fourth one charm her with pastries and Parisian nights as if none of that mattered.
Her parents would’ve loved this place. Her mother would’ve hovered at every stall, collecting stories from the vendors, scribbling them into her leather journal each evening. Her father would’ve been at her side, sampling every dish, charming stall owners into sharing their secret recipes.
They’d talked about Paris, circling dates on their calendar, but they pushed it off to the future. Next year. When things settled. When they had more time.
“Someday,” her mother had said, but someday had run out for them.
Now, here Iliana stood, eating chocolate croissants in a Paris market with a god, and they’d never know. She swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat. The pastry turned to dust in her mouth.
What was she doing?
Her teary gaze wandered toward the remains of the old orphanage that once stood near the market. The only visible trace left was the apse of the church, its rounded back wall—where the altar once stood—jutting from the surrounding buildings.
Hermes had translated the sign for her when they’d first entered the market: Marché des Enfants Rouges, the Market of the Red Children. The name came from the orphans who were once dressed in red to symbolize charity.
I’m just another orphan wandering the streets of Paris.
Closing her eyes, she pushed away the grief threatening to have her gasping for air.
Her parents wouldn’t want her to dwell on their deaths when she was finally living. Not when she was finally experiencing the world they’d dreamed of showing her. There was still so much for her to experience. Something she’d promised herself and their memory to do.
Once she was sure she wouldn’t cry, she forced her eyes open and came back to her surroundings. She took another bite, this time tasting the butter and chocolate instead of the grief, and let herself absorb the atmosphere.
Wafting scents of warm baked bread, exotic spices, and smoking meats from every corner of the world made her mouth water.
The chatter in dozens of languages and the sharp clink of glass at nearby tables.
The vendors’ melodic shouts as they competed for attention. It was all so much. Almost too much.
Or maybe it was exactly what she needed.
After hiding away from the world while grieving, then with the intense gods, being back in the human world was jarring.
The people surrounding them weren’t watching for signs of the curse to reappear.
They were just living. Arguing over the prices of produce, laughing at nothing, or sharing bites of food. Being ordinary.
Even after such a short time away from the world, the sensory overload of being back in it hit hard. But instead of overwhelming her, it centered her. It reminded her that she was still alive, capable of joy even when everything else was falling apart.
She noticed the glances—the way attention followed Hermes.
Eyes lingered on his face, his build, on the way he moved effortlessly through the crowd.
They all looked envious or interested. The only reason she’d ignored the constant attention was that, for once, she was doing something she’d always dreamed of.
“Does it ever bother you?” she asked.
“Hm?” Hermes blinked, having been staring at her. He brushed a crumb from her lip, his touch lingering.
She tried not to over-analyze the shiver it caused. “Everyone is staring at you. Does it ever get old?”
He shrugged, his smile lazy and familiar. “I’m not worried about them. I’m too distracted by the woman trying to bankrupt me with baked goods.” He winked, but his deflection was obvious.
She grabbed his warm hand and tugged him toward the market entrance. When she felt resistance, she turned back, catching the way his eyes moved up and around. Scanning. Searching for something. His smile was gone.
“What is it?” he asked.
She pointed to the glowing city beyond the market. “I figured I might never see Paris again. You’re a god, so take advantage of that. Show me something mortals can’t see. Be a better tour guide.”
His eyes narrowed in mock offense, placing his palm over his heart. “Are you saying I’m a subpar guide?”
She grinned. “I’m just saying, ten pastry stalls in Paris does not a tour make.”
He sighed deeply. “It’s about time we upgraded, anyway.” His eyes glinted. “Ever seen Notre Dame at night?”
Before she could answer, he whisked her into an alley, wrapping his lean but strong arms around her. The embrace lasted only a moment—warm and solid—before he teleported them.
She shrieked the moment they reappeared—nose to old stone and a grimacing gargoyle, its features eroded by centuries of rain.
“Hermes!” she said sharply, her heart beating fast from the embrace and from the teleportation.
“I should’ve recorded that,” he said, laughing. The sound was bright and unrestrained, bouncing off the stone around them.
She swatted his arm, though she couldn’t help smiling along with him, feeling the infectious tug of his joy.
That joy diminished as she froze, staring at the glittering view stretching out across Paris.
The city was all sparkling golden lights, broken by the river winding through the streets below.
Her eyes caught the Eiffel Tower in the distance, its lights outlining the familiar structure, standing out from the rooftops of the endless buildings stretching out farther than her eyes could see.
The wind pulled her hair, making her feel light and unburdened.
Almost as though she were in Thanatos’ arms while flying.
That same sense of freedom, of being above everything threatening to weigh her down.
She wasn’t just a human on the run. She wasn’t only a cursed girl. Not a problem to be protected. She was simply Iliana. Alive and free.
Awareness dawned as she looked down at the old stones under her feet. They weren’t near Notre Dame. They were on it.
This building had survived revolutions, fires, and wars. Its history almost hummed underneath her feet, vibrating up through the soles of her shoes. How many people had had the chance to stand on this roof? To see this exact view?
She nearly believed she didn’t belong there—that someone more deserving should be standing in her place. Not someone who only got the chance because of her connection to a god. Only on account of her curse.
While processing her shock, she reached out, touched the gargoyle, and traced its surface. She felt the limestone, pitted and worn, its features smoothed in places and rough in others. But it continued to protect the cathedral. It still watched over Paris, rain or shine.
Something about seeing the gargoyle resonated.
It had been through so much, but it was still there.
It hadn’t given up and crumbled. Maybe she could do the same.
Perhaps she could survive and still be herself when everything was said and done.
She could return to her normal life. Worn, perhaps, and definitely changed by the experience, but still standing. Still fighting.
Hermes stepped in front of her, blocking the wind. “You don’t like it?”
Tears burned at the backs of her eyes. She blinked them away before they could fall, before they could betray her. “I love it,” she blurted. “I’m just…in awe.”
He smiled and took her hand, threading their fingers together. “Come on. There’s more to see.”
She let Hermes take her away from the gargoyle, holding onto that tenuous hope.
For the first time since they arrived in Paris, he seemed to relax. His shoulders dropped, some of the tightness easing. She wondered how much of that had to do with escaping the eyes of the people in the streets. Did he prefer his solitude?
Rather than bringing up a sensitive topic, she listened to Hermes’ stories about the cathedral’s hidden messages. The symbolism in the carvings, the Philosopher’s Stone that was supposedly hidden in its architecture. He even teased about the hunchback ringing the bells.
When she hummed ‘Hellfire’, his startled and unguarded laughter wrapped around her. She enjoyed hearing it. It was so different from his careful charm. It was real.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and continued walking. Before they could make it very far, he stopped so abruptly she bumped into him.
Iliana caught herself against his chest, looking up at him in concern. “Hermes?”
He glanced down, offering his usual grin, but she caught the worry in his eyes. “I thought you’d want to see the inside,” he said.
She debated asking what was wrong, but held back. If there were a threat to her safety, he would’ve taken her back to the others instead of carrying on the tour of the cathedral. So, she let him take her inside.