Then nothing at all.
Chapter fifty-eight
HERMES
Hermes left the other gods to finish the creatures and stepped into Hypnos’ cave home. “Iliana?”
No answer.
He tried not to worry. She was in the bathroom, scrubbing off dirt and grime. Or sulking because he’d refused to take her back. Either way, it explained the silence.
Hermes moved through the rooms, irritated after everything that had happened in the desert, in Thanatos’ so-called safe house. He gritted his teeth. They couldn’t even keep worms from crawling up through the floor. Thanatos had sworn to protect her but hadn’t even warded the damned foundation.
You should’ve stayed.
He forced himself to stay calm. She was fine. Still here.
At least…she should’ve been.
“Iliana!” Hermes called out sharply.
When she still didn’t respond, he stretched his senses outward but found nothing. No breath. No heartbeat. A terrible sinking sensation filled him. He pushed his senses further.
Then he heard movement, but not from inside the house. From the cavern.
No.
Hermesappeared outside Hypnos’ home, seeing the stalactites extending down, and Iliana below, fighting alone.
She screamed, the sound full of pain and terror as she plunged the weapon he’d given her into Pasithea.
The goddess wailed.
Hermes launched toward them in a panic.
Pasithea’s hand swiped out—the crack making him nauseous. Iliana flew back toward the river.
He didn’t stop. He rushed against time, gravity, and death to catch Iliana before she could hit the Lethe.
Hermes caught her, arms encircling her warm body just in time.
He hit the riverbank and lowered her, already calling for Panacea. For a moment, he thought Iliana was dead. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Then—there was a weak beat of her mortal heart.
She was alive. Barely.
Pasithea gasped behind him. “Help me…”
Hermes heard her plea and the rattle in her lungs. A goddess from his pantheon was dying. One of the Graces that he’d known for millennia. But he didn’t look at her. He kept focusing on Iliana. On her fragile pulse and the blood matting her hair. The coolness of her skin as her body started to fail.
The god-killer had been his offer of protection, an ancient blade stolen from a forge that no longer existed. He knew he might feel something about the goddess’ death at some point. Maybe guilt or responsibility. He might think about the consequences of his actions or Zeus’ fury that would no doubt come down on him.
All of that could wait.
Iliana had used the dagger exactly as he’d hoped: to protect herself.
Pasithea’s death was his fault, and he didn’t give a damn. She’d made her choice when she attacked Iliana.Now, Hermes was making his.Pasithea wasn’t the one who made him feel alive. She hadn’t fought with no hope of winning against a god. She hadn’t fought without backup; without support.
She wasn’t Iliana.
