Page 7 of Wildfire

In a flash, he was in front of the professor, his arm in Hermes’s grip, the joint bent tight. The professor stared at him, wide eyed and horrified. “Are you a mage?” he asked, breathless.

With pursed lips, Hermes sighed through his nose and shook his head. He could’ve broken the man’s hand, had even said he would, but when had Hermes ever been known to keep his word?

With the professor’s arm raised, Hermes bent his wrist so the man was staring at his own palm. He could do it—break the bone and leave the man injured in a dingy bathroom. Instead, he leaned in and brushed his lips over the man’s knuckles. He had excessively pretty hands, fine bones and long fingers. They were warm, like the fire inside him lived just there, right under his skin, always.

“It’s been a pleasure, Professor.”

Then, he let him go and darted away, rushing toward Union Station, only stopping to grab a Reuben on the way.

Hermes knew all the ways to the underworld, but he couldn’t traverse them as easily as Charon. Moreover, if Rebekah Perry was anywhere to be found, Charon was most likely to have seen her. No one got into the underworld without him ferrying them across the Styx. Or rather, zipping them along through the tunnels.

At Union Station, Hermes hopped on the silver line train going to Crystal City. Most mortals couldn’t see it, didn’t bother looking twice. It wasn’t their route.

But it was always right there when you needed it—once you were dead.

He was on board, and the doors slid shut behind him when he lifted his Reuben triumphantly overhead. “Charon, dear heart, I’ve brought you a snack.”

The immortal ferryman sat up in his seat, his bright eyes gleaming with interest even though most days, the poor sod didn’t bother. He liked a few things—his brother, the bottle, ample coinage. But being stuck on the train all day, every day, took its toll. And not everyone he guided down to Hades was pleasant company.

Hermes dropped into the bench in front of Charon and passed back the sandwich, twisting in his seat to look over at him.

“What do you want?” Charon asked, even as he unwrapped the sandwich.

Hermes’s lips twitched. “I am predictable, huh?”

With a cock of his brow, Charon shrugged. But he took a bite of the sandwich and groaned. Only after he’d chewed and swallowed did he say, “You do favors for favors. So?”

For a second, Hermes chewed his lip. “I just have a question. Have you seen the soul of Rebekah Perry? Nineteen. Pretty girl. Red hair cropped in a pixie cut.”

Charon mulled it over while he took another bite. “Nope. Haven’t seen her. Her soul wasn’t with her body?”

Hermes shook his head. “Completely gone. Third time lately. Hell, second onetoday. Something shady’s going on, and if Dad finds out, I’m gonna be on the hook for it.”

Laughing, Charon shook his head. “Tough break, that. You know, maybe you should talk to Hades. He is purveyor of souls, our tall, dark, and scary leader.”

Hermes had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. There wasn’t a god in the pantheon less threatening than Hades—not because he was incapable. Oh no, when Zeus had threatened his son, Hades had driven the bastard from the underworld in what seemed to be a permanent banishment as they ticked well past their two thousand years since the fallout.

But his uncle had always been a temperate sort of god. It took a lot to rile him; Hermes knew—he’d tried for millennia. Right then, Hermes could use a little temperance.

“That’s not a half-bad idea, really.” Hermes twisted in his seat to face forward, then outstretched his arm. “Onward, dark guide. Move forth your long chariot.”

“Oh gods, I really need better friends.” Charon groaned, but under them, the train started moving.

Just, unfortunately, the wrong way. Hermes had to catch himself to keep from falling against the seat in front of him. Behind him, Charon snickered, and Hermes shot him a grin.

“But you do like watching me fall on my face,” Hermes protested.

“Yeah,” Charon admitted. “A bit.”

Brown on Gray

Four hours.

That was how long Wilder spent being questioned by the police after calling them about his second body of the day.

No, there was no indication of foul play. If someone had killed the victims, it certainly hadn’t been with fire, and Wilder couldn’t imagine another way he’d kill someone.

Better, while he was very good at what he did, he’d never actually killed anyone before. He’d trained himself well in how to kill someone, because that was what his specialty lent itself to. But he’d never been called on to do the thing.

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