Page 61 of Wildfire

Hermes had never seen much point in fighting to keep anything. But he’d fight to keep Wilder Pratt.

Athena, up there on the stage, had stood. She pulled out her short sword—a traditional xiphos, easier to hide than a spear—and hissed. “Banneker will never belong to Cronus.”

But that wasn’t her choice to make. She might be the patron goddess of wisdom, a fine teacher and trainer, but Banneker wasn’t made up of gods and goddesses. It’d been founded by Benjamin Banneker, a free Black man in the eighteenth century who’d used his formidable magical power, his understanding of the world around him, to pass knowledge along to future generations.

This place wasn’t Olympian. It was for the mortal teachers and students who filled the halls and who shared their knowledge. They could side with Cronus.

Hell, Hermes had no guarantee that Cronus wouldn’t win this war. If it weren’t for the cost, it might be the wisest choice for them to make—try for peace and hope that his interest never focused too directly on the school.

Of course, if he was going to consume the souls of mages to recover his power, Hermes would bet every smartphone in existence that he’d eventually return to eat them all.

Wilder was staring down at the podium, his cheeks hollowed as he considered his options. Or... or maybe he was concentrating—building power for his attack. Gods, Hermes hoped that was it.

“Fuck you!” Olivia snapped, rising from her white folding chair. Wind whipped around her, lifting her hair. She flung out her hand, and a gust shoved Typhon back. He staggered, and the students jumped out of their seats and descended on him.

“You’ve taken too much from us already! You’re not taking Professor Pratt!” someone else shouted.

For these students, it wouldn’t be a victory to gain safety and lose Wilder. Even if he was an ass, they loved and trusted him. They’d fight for him. And the faith his students showed him was stronger than mortals had shown to any Olympian god in centuries.

Those with powers that could keep Typhon away stood closest. They kept him uneasy on his feet and surrounded him. And as Hermes watched, he realized something: it wasn’t just the faith mortals had in gods that made Olympians powerful. There was something in this faith they had in Wilder, in themselves. They could believe in Hermes, and he grew stronger for that.

But maybe... maybe he was stronger when he believed in them too. Gods weren’t islands, independent from the world in which they moved. He needed their help, and they needed his.

Typhon lunged for a young man, only feet between them. And no one else was quick enough to stop him.

But all at once, Hermes feltfast. He snatched power from these incredible mortal students and zipped across the field, throwing his shield up between them.

The metal hit Typhon with a clamor and he stumbled back.

Hermes grinned over the upper edge of his shield. “Hey, bud. Glad you got all my sick out of your hair. Nice to see you.”

With all the students circled around the monster, Wilder couldn’t attack without risking hurting them.

And frankly, Hermes wasn’t sure he wanted to try Wilder’s commitment. Maybe he’d attack, and he’d become immortal, and they’d live happily ever after with Melly. Or maybe Wilder would diffuse the situation, hand himself over, and Hermes would be lost.

But these students had faith in their professor. Athena had faith in him. And when it came right down to it, Hermes did too.

Typhon rushed in, and Hermes barely had time to lift the shield before Typhon’s long claws snatched harmlessly against Hephaestus’s forged shield.

He zipped around to Typhon’s other side, and the monster swung around after him.

From there, Hermes could see the stage, and Wilder. He stood rigid, concentration furrowing his brow. Hades’s sagging balls, already he looked like a god, shining and perfect andstrong.

He’d do this. Because Hermes needed him to survive. Banneker needed him to survive.

With one short, deep breath, Hermes returned his attention to Typhon—and rushed him.

Just before they collided, Hermes crouched. He shoved the shield up, slamming into Typhon’s chest and sending him flying into the air, over the heads of students. Between the crowd and the stage, Typhon crashed into the chairs set up for their fake graduation.

And Wilder had his shot. Hermes just had to trust that he’d take it.

He caught Wilder’s eye and smiled, a nervous little twitch of his lips.

“You’ve got this, hot stuff,” he whispered.

Because Wilder Pratt—the arrogant, impossible, selfless, incredible douchebag that he was—could do any goddamn thing.

Cleansing Flames

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