Page 62 of Wildfire

Watching Hermes put himself between the monster and his students took Wilder’s breath away.

He wanted them protected, yes, but not at the cost of Hermes.

Banneker had paid enough.

How was he still standing there, thinking about letting the fight go on, if he could stop it? Why wasn’t Athena entering the fray, stopping this before it started?

Because she was the goddess of wisdom and she knew they couldn’t win, a tiny, frightened part of his brain pointed out.

The hand on his shoulder startled him out of his trance, and he turned to find Ward standing next to him. “He won’t keep his word. I’ve studied the titans. They’ll take what they want however they can. Honor isn’t a thing they care about.”

“He promised—”

“He’s working for a titan who ate his own children. Promises are meaningless.” He squeezed Wilder’s shoulder tight. “I wouldn’t trade you for safety, anyway. And neither would they.”

He motioned to the students.

Wilder looked once again to where they were harrying the monster. Not doing any real damage, but holding him off, taunting him into attacking themselves.

And Ward was right. They weren’t here to watch Wilder offer himself up as a human sacrifice. They were here to fight, because it was the right thing to do.

He nodded to Ward, then stepped out of his grip. With a deep breath, he drew the flame inside himself, stoking it in the best way he knew how: with everything that made him angry.

This monster had come for his students. His school. The one place it had been safe to be a mage—safe from a judgmental society, from jealous bullies, and sure as hell from ancient monsters.

This was their place, and the titans wanted to take that from them.

There was only one way to take it back.

“Typhon!” he yelled as the monster stood from the jumbled mess of folding chairs he’d landed on, and the heat growing in Wilder’s belly carried his voice over the taunts and jeers of the students.

Wilder held his arms out to his sides. “I thought you came for me, not to play with Hermes.” He grinned and inclined his head conspiratorially. “I’d rather play with Hermes too, but killing him isn’t going to make you feel like a big scary monster, is it?”

Typhon turned to face him, eyes narrowed, and the students went quiet. “You think you can do better than the weakling children of Zeus?” The monster looked at Athena, still standing on the stage with her sword, away from the fight—was she standing in defense of Wilder? That seemed strange and wrong. She was a goddess of war.

He had the feeling that poison or no, Ares would have been the first to leap into a fight as needed. Perhaps this was the difference between strategy and plain fighting ability. She didn’t think fighting Typhon would help, so she didn’t bother.

Maybe it wasn’t wrong of her, but Wilder used it to feed his flames nonetheless. His students and Hermes were standing alone against an eldritch horror, with claws and snakes and poisoned skin, and the gods who were responsible for it being inflicted upon the world were doing nothing at all. Hermes was there, of course, and technically a child of Zeus, but from where Wilder stood, Hermes was no god. The gods held themselves apart and above, and Hermes was in the trenches, fighting with them. Hermes was one of them.

And no one else was going to help them.

This monster was preying on innocent students, and no one was going to do a damn thing.

Wilder’s father had always told him that the world wasn’t fair when he was trying to excuse his own self-absorbed behavior. But the world wasn’t the problem. His whole body felt as though it were on fire, a burn echoing through his chest, the flames of his anger feeding back on themselves as he thought about his dead students, the absent gods, and Hermes’s brush with death.

“Who cares about Zeus?” Wilder demanded, his voice booming so loud it hurt his ears. “You said you were here for me. Or are you such a coward that you’d prefer to fight someone like Zeus, who’s frightened of you?”

Typhon’s eyes narrowed to slits, and he let out a hiss like a snake. Like the snakes on his arms, now writhing over his skin, and the poison he’d used to murder Wilder’s students. He took a step toward Wilder, and the whole world seemed to hold its breath.

Wilder knew how fucking irritating he could be, so he smirked at the titan. “I knew it. Pitiful monster can’t even bring himself to attack one little mortal, because he’s afraid of fire.”

This time it wasn’t a hiss Typhon let out as he launched himself at Wilder, but a roar.

There was no fear in Wilder any longer. The rage, too, was gone. He saw the scene as though from a distance, detached from the possible outcomes of the fight. His whole body was on fire—literally, he realized as he brought his arms in front of himself, outstretched as though to embrace Typhon.

The flames exploded forward as the monster leapt into him. For a moment, there was only bright, blazing, cleansing fire, and the agonized scream of a dying beast. Burn it out, Ares had said. Like an infection. So Wilder made the flames burn hot and bright, torching everything that dared touch him into ash. The conflagration threatened to consume even him, but Wilder was the master of flames, not their fuel. It only took consciousness, a tiny nudge from his mind, to remind them that he was in control, and bank the fire.

Then there was darkness; his eyes no longer accustomed to the dimmer light of midday. He slammed them shut, hoping they hadn’t been permanently injured by the flames.

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