Page 25 of Wildfire

“You weren’t the only people who needed me today.” Briefly, his thoughts drifted back to Wilder Pratt—how absurd it was to think that the man needed him there, much less relished his attention. He glanced around the imposing throne room and sighed, finally returning his attention to the couple at the bottom of the stairs. Behind them, their daughter Macaria perched on the arm of her father’s throne to listen in.

Persephone stood at the base of the black marble dais, her dress so dark it faded into the floor around her, like she was a part of this place—at least as much as part of it as her husband, whose shining black oxfords stood out from the floor, at least a little.

It was rare to see Persephone all done up. The gods of Olympus joked that those below took themselves too seriously—far too into black lace and crushed velvet for good sense. And for their own parts, Hades and Persephone’s children seemed to lean into that, pale and dark eyed and terrible. Every part of Hermes expected to find them listening to black metal, smoking, and staring forlornly into their coffee—dark as their tortured souls, or whatever.

And there Persephone was, the goddess of springtime in all her frightening glory, a crown of jewels nestled in her golden curls, her gown veritable armor.

Something was seriously wrong.

“How bad is it?” Hermes asked, crossing his arms. When Hades had called, he’d suspected more information about the missing souls, or some assurance that they’d found who’d broken out of Tartarus. But whatever Hades had called him for, it was not assurances or simple answers. It still weighed heavy on the gods before him.

He had to stuff down the urge to run. Whatever danger they were in, Hades wouldn’t have called him here if it were immediate. Shit, this might be the safest room in all of existence.

“You know there was a breakout in Tartarus?” Hades confirmed, his voice cool and temperate. Even though Hermes had been there, even though they both knew it, Hades was the sort of god to go through all the proper channels and show every bit of decorum he could squeeze out of an encounter.

“Yeah,” Hermes said.

“Cronus.” One name—that was all Hades could manage.

He had been the first of Cronus’s sons eaten, had spent the longest time alone in the dark. Persephone’s hand stroked the small of his back, but there was no sign of his distress but the tightness at the corners of his lips.

Drawing in a sharp breath when Hades didn’t continue, Persephone turned toward him. “And others,” she whispered, as if that would make the situation less horrifying. “Atlas, Hyperion, Typhon. The monsters. You need to tell the others. Zeus, Prometheus, Ares. Everyone.”

For a moment, all Hermes could do was stand there frozen. If there was one thing that would unite the Olympians, it was the threat of the Titans rising again.

“How did you miss this?” Hermes snapped. There was a whole world above them that, for centuries, Hermes hadn’t given a damn about. Less than a year ago, he’d been very willing to drown the whole place. But now...

Now, something had changed, and Hermes couldn’t quite place what it was. Perhaps it was Professor Ward, fighting to save his school; Prometheus, holding onto hope that people were still better than they seemed; Lach, so like Hermes himself, who’d found a place for himself in the world, and a family that wasn’t full of backstabbing, arrogant douchebags.

Or maybe it was Wilder Pratt, who didn’t give half a fuck about him, but who was still a surprise. Everything that came out of his mouth, every spark of flames over his skin, was a delight, and Hermes was not sure he was ready to watch him die.

Hades’s lips snapped shut at the rebuke, but Persephone’s hand curled gently around his wrist. “I oversee Tartarus,” she said. “And I was on earth, per my arrangement with Mother.”

At the beginning of spring, Demeter had been throwing a fit, refusing to allow anything to grow. Persephone had had her hands full, no doubt, trying to stave off starvation. And Tartarus wasn’t the sort of place that needed constant oversight. In millennia, none had escaped.

Except Prometheus. Because of Hermes.

He straightened his spine. “And you don’t think I had anything to do with—”

Persephone’s laugh was short and hard. “No. I think sometimes you hate Father, but who doesn’t?”

That was surprising. He’d grown used to people thinking the worst of him, but apparently, that had its limits. He might let the world burn, but not if Cronus was holding the match.

Hermes sucked his cheeks between his teeth and shrugged. He wasn’t sure he hated Zeus so much as he wanted... more from him. More attention, or affection, or—if Hermes had known what he wanted, he would have asked for it, even if he’d known he was going to be rebuffed. All he knew for certain was that there’d always been a hole, and his father had never been enough to fill it.

“You might be a pain in the ass, Hermes, but I don’t think you’re ridiculous enough to think you’d fare better with Cronus than you fare with Zeus,” Persephone said gently. That was, all told, one of the nicest things she’d ever said to him.

“So, that’s it? You just want me to spread the word?”

He watched Hades run his tongue along his teeth and nod. “We’ll need to plan quickly, but I must talk with Zeus and Poseidon.”

“Fun,” Hermes griped. “Everybody loves a family reunion, right?”

He was just about ready to dart off when he paused, one foot bouncing against the other. “You think this has anything to do with the missing souls?”

Hermes didn’t have the slightest idea what Titans would do with souls. But a shadow crossed Hades’s features.

“Cronus harvests.”

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