Page 33 of Wildfire

In a few long strides, Wilder came around to Hermes’s side of the island. When Hermes twisted on his stool to look at him directly, Wilder’s hands settled on his knees and squeezed, like the physical pressure was the thing that would get him to bend, and not the hot, desperate look in Wilder’s night-sky eyes.

“You know more about Typhon than any of us. Than any mortal. I can’t leave my students defenseless. I need your help to protect them. I’mgoingto protect them, and you promised to protect me.”

Hermes swallowed. He had, and at the time he thought that’d be easier. He’d thought he could whisk Wilder away and leave the entire world to burn, but he wasn’t so sure about that anymore. He didn’t think he could handle the hatred in Wilder’s eyes if he ran like he always did.

“Yeah,” Hermes whispered. “I promised that.”

“So, are you going to help me?”

Hermes’s shoulders slumped. He could feel his will bending, and it wasn’t for Athena or to beat back the threat of rising Titans; it was because Wilder was asking. Hell, practically begging. “Are you going to bake me some brownies?”

“Excuse me?” Wilder started, rearing back a little.

Hermes began to smile, glancing up at him from under his lashes. “If I’m going to train a bunch of misfit elementalists in how to fight primordial fucking evil, then I’m going to need a tray of brownies. Do we have a deal?”

He held out his hand for Wilder to shake, but the man batted it out of the way. Instead, Wilder’s fingers curled around the back of his neck, and he pushed in to claim his lips, his tongue sweeping in, hot and demanding.

Hermes gasped when he pulled back, his head spinning.

“Deal,” Wilder growled, his breath brushing across Hermes’s wet mouth and making a shiver run down his spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the high likelihood he was going to get torn apart.

A Bigger Boat

Brownies.

Wilder thought maybe he was starting to understand Hermes. Instead of stepping up and doing what he’d promised to do—what he clearly wanted to do—the man had felt a need to make a deal.

Chocolate was clearly not worth a life, no matter how much Melly mewled and begged when Wilder had it in the house.

No, Hermes thought of himself as selfish, therefore he couldn’t do anything without at least the excuse of a selfish motive. It was a little sad, but Wilder was no therapist, and he didn’t have time to break through millennia of self-hatred right then. If that was what it took to protect his students, Wilder would do it.

The other thing he needed to ask Hermes for, well, that was a little more complicated. Wilder was precisely the opposite of smooth and ingratiating. He had no ability to sweet talk or convince people he was harmless, so trying to use his words was counterintuitive.

He waited until he was driving to bring it up, so they wouldn’t have to look each other in the eye. “This monster, Typhon. He’s been imprisoned for a long time, because he was an ally of the titans.”

“Yeah. There was a huge war, everyone took sides, no fun was had, and the losers got imprisoned in Tartarus. Forever, supposedly.” Wilder had to stifle a smile. Even in this serious conversation, Hermes had to inject jokes. Maybe about things people weren’t supposed to joke about. Wilder had never been much good at figuring out which subjects were acceptable and which were taboo, so it didn’t make a difference to him. That was also why he didn’t often make jokes.

He nodded, stopping at a red light and turning to gauge Hermes’s mood. He didn’t seem particularly tense, no stiff shoulders or glare for Wilder. “Considering how long ago this war must have been, I’d say Tartarus worked rather well.”

“Yeah,” Hermes agreed, his nose scrunching up. “But then the cultists decided they were gonna raise Cronus.”

“A prison break initiated from the outside.” That being the case, and as powerful as these titans must be, Wilder suspected that meant Tartarus had been plenty secure. Humans just ruined everything.

Hermes sighed and slumped against the side of the car. He was quiet for a while, but just as Wilder was about to give up and move on, he spoke. “I was there. That night when they raised Cronus. Chanting, white-robed cultists, hoping they were about to rule the world.” Wilder gave a shudder, but what could he say about that? There was no response adequate. “I didn’t stop them in time.”

At that, Wilder snorted.

Hermes shot him a wounded look. “What? I—I tried to—”

He decided to cut to the heart of the self-blame. “Is there anyone in the world faster than you?”

“No.” The single word sounded petulant, and Wilder realized, a second too late, that Hermes thought it had been a condemnation.

“So,” he began, loudly in the silent car. “What you’re saying is that you’re the fastest man alive, and you couldn’t do it. Would you prefer someone else have been responsible for stopping what happened?”

“No one else could have fixed it either, so why—” Hermes stopped, staring at his hands. “Right. I, uh, guess that’s a good point.”

Wilder pulled into his reserved parking space at the school, then turned to Hermes. “Just because you didn’t succeed at something impossible doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.”

---