Chapter Thirty-Seven Hermes
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Hermes
Once again Hera had called, and once again Hermes had come running.
This morning, she had asked—or rather, commanded—that he drive her to the Vault on Long Island.
As if she didn’t have plenty of mortal chauffeurs for this very purpose.
Still, Hermes had complied, pulling her Mercedes out of the garage beneath her building, saying nothing when Hera got into the back instead of taking the passenger seat.
He was thrilled at a chance to go into the legendary Vault.
“Can’t you speed up this traffic?” Hera asked, breaking the silence.
Hermes gritted his teeth in irritation but did as she asked, casting his powers outward.
Within moments a halo of space surrounded them as cars and trucks ahead of them veered into other lanes.
The stalled highway opened for them alone, traffic parting like the Red Sea.
Far better than the police escort that presidents got, Hermes thought with a touch of pride.
The other drivers would never realize why each of them felt a sudden urge to pull out of his way. They would never dream that Hermes was there, like a spider at the middle of a vast web, quietly shuffling them aside.
“Much better.” Hera nodded curtly, then looked back at her phone. She hadn’t exactly said thank you, Hermes noticed. She’d hardly spoken this whole drive.
“Was there something you wanted to discuss with me?” he asked politely.
Finally Hera put her phone down. “It’s about Julia. You helped her pick out that new outfit, didn’t you?”
Not just that outfit. Hermes secretly couldn’t wait to see Hera’s reaction to Julia’s rehearsal-dinner dress. “I was trying to get close to her, as you requested,” he reminded her. “She invited me shopping.”
“You didn’t need to do quite so much, though. You could have gone shopping and kept your fashion advice to yourself.”
“You know I can’t lie about fashion.” Hermes tried to sound flippant. “And besides, what does it matter if she has a flattering new dress? If she’s going to marry into this family, she needs a wardrobe overhaul.”
“Exactly. If she’s going to marry into this family,” Hera repeated, satisfied. “That’s a very big if.”
“Is this because Julia is immune to our magic? Did you learn why?”
“That was supposed to be your job,” Hera admonished him. “Since you’ve failed, I’m taking matters into my own hands.”
Hermes was surprised to hear himself defending Julia. “This feels extreme. I know she’s not particularly polished, but I think she’s a quick study. Remember, the girl lost her mother when she was only a child.”
“Her mother!” Hera barked out a laugh. “I didn’t expect you to get soft, Hermes. You’re lucky I’m not punishing you over this shopping fiasco. I asked you to spy on her, not give her a makeover.”
They had reached the turnoff for the Vault.
Hermes pulled past the great stone gargoyles that guarded the entrance, perched on either side of a wall that was twelve feet high and three feet thick.
The wall was really just for show, since the building’s magical protections were far more effective than any physical ones.
Two figures emerged from the guardhouse beyond the entrance.
They looked like burly, powerful men, their short-sleeved uniform shirts revealing matching tattoos that snaked down their arms. A human would have thought it was just a lot of ink, in a disorienting pattern that depicted dozens of hands—hands outstretched, hands in fists, hands pointing every direction.
Hermes had never seen these tattoos come to life, and he didn’t care to.
These were the Hecatoncheires, the hundred-handed giants, creatures who were deathly loyal to Zeus.
They guarded the world’s greatest hoard of magical treasure.
Plenty of powerful items were stored in places other than the Vault. The Olympians all possessed artifacts of their own—Poseidon’s trident, Aphrodite’s girdle, Apollo’s staff. But most magical objects, especially the random ones that no one quite knew what to do with, lived here.
Hermes had never stolen anything from the Vault, though he’d been sorely tempted.
Even he knew his limits. So he’d confined himself to stealing from the other Olympians, mostly to prove he could.
Like the time he’d taken Dionysus’s goblet, which never ran out of wine, or Apollo’s harp, which played music that sounded different to every listener.
“You can wait in the car,” Hera commanded, once they were parked by the entrance.
Hermes nodded, inwardly seething. Why had he expected anything else? He was so sick of being sidelined, of doing Hera’s dirty work—driving her, spying for her, digging through the computer history of mortal prime ministers for her. All without a word of thanks.
She needed to stop underestimating him.
As he watched through the car’s tinted window, one of the Hecatoncheires turned the massive bronze wheel on the Vault’s front door.
It looked like something out of a heist movie, except it was all too real.
Opening such a door required immortal strength, and it would slam shut behind an intruder, sealing them inside.
But Hermes wasn’t just any intruder. He was the god of thieves.
Before he’d fully finished the thought, he’d opened the car door and begun running at top speed toward the Vault.
He slipped through the heavy door as silently as a shadow, a mere heartbeat before it sealed shut.
Hermes felt the little sizzle of magic that indicated he was crossing an enchanted ward. These protections were the strongest kind of all, made with blood and bone, sweat and salt—and created by the three strongest gods together, Hades, Poseidon, and Zeus, in a rare moment of collaboration.
Hera and the Hecatoncheires were several yards ahead, turning off a corridor.
Hermes darted past them, so quickly he was nothing more than a blur at the edge of their vision, and entered the main room of the Vault.
A quick scan of its contents revealed that the best hiding place was behind a shiny black Ferrari in the corner.
Hades’s carriage, if he had to guess, in its modern mortal form.
Hades rarely got to drive it anymore—mortals would keep trying to approach, mesmerized, and get trampled beneath its wheels.
Hermes peeked around the side of the sports car.
The Vault was less organized than he’d expected, more like a wealthy and eccentric family’s storage unit than a security vault, but he supposed that there was no need to lock anything away.
What was the point? Anyone who wasn’t supposed to enter this room should have already been dead.
He watched as Hera breezed past a stone wall hung with weapons: enchanted helmets, poisoned arrows, spears that never missed their target.
Several golden apples were lined up on a shelf next to the Golden Fleece, which was looking quite dull.
Hermes saw her pick up Amphitrite’s pearls, which could be worn as a necklace for protection or taken off one by one and thrown to the sea, where they would sprout into horses.
It didn’t seem especially practical to make horses in the ocean, though perhaps you could throw the pearls into the damp sand of the beach?
Sea magic, Hermes thought, always a bit rough around the edges.
Hanging from a hook was Zeus’s massive bronze shield, carved with dozens of small images—all of which, of course, depicted Zeus.
The Aegis. Hermes was surprised to see a nick in its side, as if someone had chipped out a chunk of the immortal bronze.
Really, who was curating all these items?
Couldn’t they send the Aegis in for restoration or something?
Hermes should get back to the car before his absence was discovered.
He slipped out, past a mirror that he’d heard of but never seen.
It had been made as an ill-intentioned gift for Apollo by a man named Aeetes, back when humans were still capable of some magic.
The mirror revealed the future, but only half the time.
The other half of the time you looked into it, it showed you a false vision.
Apollo had nearly gone mad staring into this mirror, trying to distinguish true from false.
The mirror only showed the future, either true or false, if you stood directly before it. Hermes didn’t do that. He angled himself to the side, glancing at it from his peripheral vision.
Which was why he could see the reflection of Hera across the room, picking up a small clay object and tucking it into her Balenciaga tote.
What was she doing with Pandora’s Jar?
It was, in fact, a jar, though John Milton had written the words Pandora’s box in Paradise Lost and forever confused mortals. It resembled any jar of old pottery, but Hermes wasn’t fooled by its humble appearance.
What was Hera planning?
Hermes didn’t waste any more time. He darted into the hallway, slipping outside and back into the car.
By the time she reached the Mercedes, Hermes was in the driver’s seat, scrolling Instagram on his phone with a bored expression. For once, he was glad Hera looked through him without really seeing him. She didn’t notice the sweat gathering at his armpits, the shallow rise and fall of his breath.
“Back to the city,” she said in a clipped tone. Hermes murmured his assent and started onto the main road.
Only after he’d dropped Hera at her building and returned her car to the garage did he pull out his phone and dial Julia’s number.
“Percy!” she answered, sounding pleased to hear from him.
“Whatever you’re doing this evening, cancel it,” he declared. “You and I are going to the Hamptons.”
He heard her beat of hesitation. “I leave for the wedding on Wednesday. I really should be getting organized right now.”
“You can make lists on the chopper,” Hermes insisted. “Come on, Lady Sophie de Hauteville is doing an art installation in Montauk.”
“She’s an artist? I’ve never heard of her….”