Chapter Five Hermes
Chapter Five
Hermes
Hermes checked his reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator and nodded, pleased.
His button-down looked fantastic with his dark-wash jeans—tucked in, of course, to reveal the pewter H of his Hermès belt (an affectation he never could resist).
If he could have worn a Birkin bag with impunity, he would have.
When he reached the level marked Penthouse, the elevator deposited him directly in the two-story foyer of Zeus and Hera’s apartment. Moments later, Hestia appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hermes! We haven’t seen you in ages!” she exclaimed.
Poor Hestia. She looked so drab, almost leached of color.
Her mousy brown hair fell in wisps around her face, which was lined and weary in a way that made her seem more mortal than goddess.
It was shocking to recall that she had once been a member of the Olympian Twelve—the goddess of the hearth and home, quiet guardian of laborers and travelers. Then Aphrodite had entered the mix.
Hestia had been unceremoniously demoted to make room for Aphrodite, her powers distributed among the other Olympians.
Hestia was still technically the goddess of the hearth and retained a few minor powers, like the ability to conjure up a flame or bless a mortal’s threshold.
But Hera was now the symbol of domesticity, and Hermes the protector of travelers.
Hermes wondered, sometimes, whether Hestia resented the goddess of love. If he had been demoted, he would surely have plotted revenge. But he never saw anything on Hestia’s face except the same placid, detached calm.
“Is Hera here?” he asked, handing Hestia an overpriced bouquet from a Park Avenue floral shop. “I texted, but she didn’t answer.”
“She’s out.” Hestia accepted the flowers and pressed her lips together, a telltale sign that she wanted to say more.
“Oh—I have something for you, too, all the way from Shanghai.” Hermes withdrew a parcel from his shoulder bag, gratified at the light in Hestia’s eyes. The other Olympians never realized how much could be gleaned from a touch of kindness, especially to someone like Hestia.
“You shouldn’t have,” Hestia exclaimed, unwrapping the package to reveal a set of celadon salt-and-pepper shakers.
Hermes tried to sound nonchalant as he asked, “Do you know when she might be back? I need to tell her something important.”
That was the reason he had come, as always. To deliver information to Hera.
Once upon a time, before humans began to worship at the altar of iPhones and emails, Hermes had been the gods’ messenger.
Now the gods all texted one another. Yet the Olympians still needed his help with other, often frivolous things.
They sought a relic from across the globe, they wanted to track down a mortal descendant (or a mortal lover), they needed help stealing something from a rival, they wanted to spy on another god.
Which was why Hermes always knew what everyone was up to. Knowledge was power, especially among the Olympians. They were a family constantly at war—with the rest of the world, sure, but mostly with one another.
Hermes couldn’t wait to deliver this particular bit of news.
It was so important, so personal, that Hera would surely grant him a real reward—money, or perhaps even real estate.
The other gods thought him crass for wanting such things, but Hermes adored all the inventions humans had created to help them forget their own mortality: heated tile floors, de Gournay wallpaper, four-hands massages.
And if you were going to deal in human objects, you needed human currency.
The problem was, no matter how often Hermes got his hands on a bit of cash, he seemed to spend it almost instantly. Or lost it gambling.
Hestia paused. “I don’t know when she’ll be back. She’s been preoccupied ever since last week. There was…an incident at the office.”
Again, Hestia hesitated. Hermes said nothing, sensing that silence would draw out more secrets than any words.
“It was his second assistant. A young woman named Olivia.”
“Ah,” Hermes said softly. He’d never understood why Hera forgave her husband’s incessant cheating. It felt wrong that Zeus, who already lorded it over all of them—whose dominion spanned the skies and all the earth—should be callous to his wife in the bargain.
“Please let her know I stopped by. I’ll see you soon,” he told Hestia.
When he reemerged into the afternoon sunlight, Hermes hesitated, shuffling in place like an athlete at the starting block.
He had no desire to return to the small apartment he kept in Brooklyn.
Maybe he should head to Times Square, or better yet, to LaGuardia.
He always felt slightly powerful, hearing the mortals mutter about their travel woes: Let this be an express train or I need to make my connection.
Perhaps the words of mortals did strengthen him, Hermes thought.
Perhaps those pleas were the modern version of prayers to him, the god of travel.
Of course, Hermes was also the god of thieves, and trickery, and lies. Which probably explained why he liked casinos so much.
Before he could decide which way to go, a hand closed over his arm.
“Hermes. I’ve been looking for you.” A man in a trench coat stood before him, tall as a monolith, with a thick neck and hands like slabs of meat.
Hermes glanced down the sidewalk, heart racing. He wasn’t all that surprised to note that for once, Madison Avenue was empty. If he could just twist away from the goon’s grip, he could start running—
“Oh no you don’t. None of that nonsense.” The goon wrapped a shackle around Hermes’s wrist. It was thick, made of a metal that looked like bronze, though he knew it was something far stronger. Something forged by Hephaestus.
Hermes gritted his teeth against the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. “I don’t have the money, okay?”
“You’ll have to take it up with your uncle,” the goon said ominously. “He’s waiting.”