Chapter Thirty-Two Hermes
Chapter Thirty-Two
Hermes
“I’m so glad you suggested we go shopping,” Hermes told Julia as their Uber Black turned onto Lafayette Street. “I was starting to think you’d never ask.”
Julia laughed self-consciously. “Is my look that bad?”
“What look?” Hermes teased. “I thought your personal style was a pair of jeans and the top T-shirt in the stack.”
“That was way too accurate,” Julia admitted. “But don’t I get some credit for dressing up at the engagement party?”
“Julia. You looked like you were auditioning to play the dowager aunt in an Oscar Wilde play.”
Her smile fell at his words. “I was auditioning, all right—to enter the family. And I’m still not sure I’ve made the cut.”
Hermes was surprised by her vulnerability, and even more surprised by the burst of sympathy he felt. He knew that feeling of inadequacy far too well.
Julia sighed and glanced out the window. “I have to admit, I thought you would want to go to Bergdorf’s. Or Saks.”
“Oh, god no. Saks is for tourists who come in from the Midwest to see Hamilton and splurge on a single flashy handbag.” Hermes gave a dramatic shudder. “I haven’t set foot inside a department store in years, except for the time Tara sent me to Bergdorf’s for a limited-edition Chanel.”
Of course, Hermes easily could have taken Julia to Saks, let her try on a few nondescript dresses while he pumped her for information.
That was why he’d agreed to join her today, wasn’t it—because he was spying for both Hades and Hera?
Honestly, given the whole Victorian-era look Hera had foisted on the girl, he suspected she wouldn’t want Hermes to actually help Julia at all.
He’d seen the flicker of unease in Hera’s eyes when he related that Julia couldn’t be touched by magic. Hera was clearly as confused by Julia as Hermes was, even if she wouldn’t say so aloud.
Hades, on the other hand, wasn’t all that surprised to learn that Julia was impervious to magic. Perhaps he knew something that Hermes didn’t.
Their car pulled to a stop, and Hermes led Julia to the gleaming glass doors of a boutique, tucked between the storefronts on either side so discreetly that you might not even see it was there.
Most mortals didn’t see it. Their eyes skimmed right over the entrance, sliding from the boutique that sold hand-poured candles on one side to the narrow wine bar on the other side.
Hermes saw Julia scanning the storefront for a name, but she wouldn’t find one. This particular boutique was unmarked.
“Percy,” she said hesitantly, “you know I don’t have the budget for anything too fancy—”
“First of all, you certainly do,” Hermes said, cutting her off.
“Second of all, you are no longer allowed to use the word fancy, all right? If you’re trying to give a compliment, then the correct term is nice, or perhaps lovely.
If you want to convey that something is too much, then you can call it excessive.
It’s not enough to look the part,” he warned. “You have to speak it, too.”
“Thank you, Professor Higgins,” she said sarcastically, but Hermes could tell she’d been listening.
The moment they stepped inside, a woman with auburn hair and square-framed glasses emerged from the back. “Hermes, darling!” She pulled him into an airy European double kiss, then squinted at Julia. “Who did you bring me today?”
“Peitho, this is Julia. Ares’s fiancée,” he explained, then turned to Julia. “Peitho is the best personal shopper and stylist in New York.”
Peitho, the goddess of physical appearance and seduction, was underappreciated among both gods and mortals.
On the rare occasions she was depicted in Greek art, it was as a handmaid to Aphrodite, holding a ball of thread.
(This also meant that she was often confused for Ariadne, who was famous for telling Theseus how to use thread to escape the labyrinth.) Peitho was certainly not in Aphrodite’s service.
If anything, the two goddesses were in quiet conflict, both so tied to the physical, to beauty.
“Ares’s fiancée.” Peitho sniffed. “Fine, I shall help. But next time, make an appointment!”
“Thank you,” Hermes breathed, though he hadn’t doubted that Peitho would agree. She could never resist the chance to piss off Aphrodite. And supporting Ares’s new love interest was a surefire way to earn Aphrodite’s anger.
Apparently, Hermes wanted to piss off Aphrodite too. He was surprised how annoyed he still felt about the stunt she’d pulled in London. It was a dirty trick: shape-shifting into Julia’s mortal friend, setting her up for paparazzi shots.
Not to mention that he was the one who’d paid the price. He hadn’t exactly enjoyed digging through the prime minister’s nasty internet history so that Tara could slip it to the editors at the Sun.
Peitho walked around Julia, studying her the way Julia probably studied statues in her art history classes—not judgmentally, but impartially, the way an artist sees only line and form and possibility. Then she clapped.
Two assistants, wispy young women who looked like they worked at Vogue, appeared from the back room.
“Start pulling gowns in a size four,” Peitho instructed them. “I want the new violet Oscar, the off-the-shoulder Elie Saab, the entire new collection of Giambattista, and Jason Wu. You are in dire need of Jason Wu,” she told Julia solemnly. “What size shoe do you wear, a seven?”
“I do.” Julia sounded impressed.
Peitho waved in the direction of her two assistants. “Pull several pairs of Jimmys in a seven. And someone call Pierre, tell him we need on-site highlights this afternoon.”
At the mention of highlights, Julia’s brow furrowed. “I’m really just here for a couple of new outfits,” she insisted. “I don’t need highlights.”
“Oh, but you do. You need it all,” Hermes said cheerfully.
Julia looked like she wanted to protest, but the assistants had already come forward with a hanging rack of clothes.
Hermes gave a little sigh of contentment and began sorting through the dresses, sliding them one by one along the silver rod.
Occasionally, he paused to touch a particularly lovely bit of embroidery or a well-stitched seam, relishing the simple joy of expensive fabric.
He loved beauty for the sake of beauty—loved things that were unnecessarily, pointlessly elaborate. Mortals were just so good at them.
Julia stepped behind a Japanese folding screen printed with whimsical cranes. There was something old-fashioned about the scene, as if there might be a lady’s maid behind it, about to lace her into a corset.
Hermes’s phone buzzed with an incoming call. Hera. He debated ignoring her, then decided it was safer to answer.
“Is everything all right?” he murmured, turning aside so Julia wouldn’t overhear.
Typically, Hera ignored his attempt at conversation. “Come over now.”
“I’m a little busy at the moment. Doing something for you, actually—”
“Where are you? In Manhattan, surely?” she demanded.
Normally, Hermes gave in to all her demands. When Hera asked him to come, he put on his winged shoes and ran through the streets so fast the mortals couldn’t even see him.
He was growing weary of her summons.
“I’m with Julia,” he hissed. “Are you sure you want me to leave? I’m finally making some progress with her.”
There was a beat of silence before Hera said, “Fine. Keep digging.” And then she hung up without another word.
“Everything okay?” Julia emerged from behind the screen wearing a dramatic red gown with a plunging V-neck.
Hermes tucked his phone away and turned to Julia. “Take that off! You look like Jessica Rabbit.”
“Really? I was going for slutty firefighter,” Julia said lightly.
Hermes was startled into laughing. “That gown does deserve to be set aflame.”
Julia rolled her eyes but smiled as she disappeared behind the screen.
The morning went on like that, with dress after dress punctuated by Hermes’s running commentary.
When Julia stepped out in a long sequined gown, Hermes threw a hand over his eyes, pretending to be blinded by the reflected light.
When she emerged in a halter neckline, he ooohed.
“You have fantastic shoulders and arms; you should show them off more.” When she came out in a bright blue dress with pink accents, he scoffed.
“God, you look like a baby shower invitation for twins. Or a 1992 Lilly Pulitzer photo shoot. I can’t decide which is worse. ”
Eventually, Julia emerged in an all-lace Dolce—a long-sleeved one, but with a shockingly short hem and a wide boat neck that skimmed over Julia’s shoulders. Hermes gave a slow clap. “Now, this is exactly what I meant! Old-world princess, but with an edgy twist.”
Peitho handed Julia a pair of iridescent opal earrings. Then, with practiced hands, she pulled Julia’s hair into a chic low bun.
The opals seemed to blaze against her deep brown hair, making her eyes gleam like a cat’s. She no longer looked like the athletic girl-next-door type Hermes had first met. She looked strong. Glamorous. And a little bit dangerous.
“It’s just a dress,” Julia breathed. “How did it change me like this?”
Peitho shook her head. “It’s never just a dress. It’s magic.”
The moment was broken by Hermes’s phone buzzing again. He glanced down at the screen and sighed in resignation. Hera, of course.
Peitho disappeared into the back, muttering something about Julia needing casual options and more footwear.
“Do you need to take that?” Julia asked, her eyes on Hermes.
“It’s Tara. I’m doing her a favor, and she’s…”
“Not very grateful?” Julia supplied.
“I was going to say impatient. No one is ever grateful, not in this family.” Hermes tried to sound flippant and careless, but Julia must have heard the hurt behind his words. She stepped forward, the lace skirts of the Dolce swishing as she moved.
“It’s not fair of them to take you for granted, Percy.”
Hermes shrugged, his eyes still on his phone screen. “They can’t help it.”
“What, rich and powerful people can’t be expected to say thank you?”
“I just mean, this is the way of things,” Hermes tried to explain.
“Bruce and Tara ask for favors, and I help. I don’t exactly have the strongest position within the family.
” That was how it had always been, among mortals just as much as gods.
Power was concentrated in the hands of a few, while everyone else jostled along the hierarchy for what was left.
“You can’t keep letting your family walk all over you, asking you for ‘favors.’ ” Julia put little air quotes around the phrase to imbue it with sarcasm.
“I know how it feels, thinking that you’re lucky just to be part of it all.
But I, for one, am done trying to win Tara and Bruce’s approval, acting like someone I don’t recognize on the slim chance they’ll decide I’m good enough. I already know that I am.”
Hermes stared at Julia. What had happened to the mortal he’d met in Greece, the one Ares had to run after because she’d fled when things became too much?
This woman wasn’t running anywhere. She was staying put, fighting for what was hers—and making Hermes feel like he could, too.
Julia shook her head. “Tara might be obscenely rich, but that doesn’t give her the right to treat you like the help. You’re her family! You should stand up for yourself. You deserve more than the scraps from their table.”
“If I stand up to Tara, I’ll lose what I do have,” Hermes said quietly.
“Maybe you will,” Julia agreed sadly. “But maybe in the process, you’ll find something better. There’s a whole world outside of the Ellenes, and you’re stronger than you think.”
Their eyes met—one pair human, one divine—and a beat of understanding passed between them.
This was the moment when Hermes was supposed to pry information from Julia. He could ask more about how she’d met Ares, try to find out why Julia was impervious to magic. Hera would expect him to.
But Hermes was so tired of doing what Hera expected, and more important, he wasn’t ready to cheapen this moment of connection to Julia. He didn’t want it to be an act. He wanted their bond to be real.
Maybe it was.
Hermes looked at her again. He’d always thought of Julia as vulnerable—because she was trapped in that mortal body, because she had no idea that she was in the presence of gods. But she didn’t look so frail anymore.
In that Dolce dress, her expression intent and fierce, she looked as formidable as any goddess.
“I’m rooting for you, you know,” he told her. And shockingly, he meant it.