Last fall, Athena and Odysseus had passed through on their way to Kincade. Strange how close they’d come to another one of their brothers. He wondered what it meant, that Athena hadn’t detected him so nearby. He wondered if Hephaestus had known they were there.
Hermes had traveled north from Kincade in style, hiring a private car and driver, but he’d left them at the edge of the city (the backseat littered with an odd juxtaposition of caviar jars and fast-food bags, champagne bottles and Mello Yello) and walked into town on foot. He’d wasted no time and gone directly to Alexander Derby’s last known address. And he’d waited there on and off for the last two days. Watching and listening to the people who came and went.
Almost no one came and went. Only one man and one woman in two days, both of whom returned with groceries and packages wrapped in brown paper. He’d stood in the shadows for two days watching housekeepers.
And not one time has my god-dar gone off. Not even a blip. And no movement from any of the million windows, either.
He looked up to the top floors, which rose well above the trees. The place looked less like a home than a museum. Several stories of gray-brown brick and white window moldings. It took up an entire corner of a city block.
And all that’s rattling around in there is one god and two housekeepers?
Or maybe no god at all. Maybe he’d come too late, and Hephaestus was already dead. He’d hoped to watch the house and see a well-dressed gentleman walk down the front steps with a silver-handled cane and a bad limp. He’d hoped they would catch each other’s eye and smile. They’d have a drink, and share some food. Talk about old times. And then he’d forge Henry a new shield, a better shield than that flimsy Frisbee Achilles toted around. And Hermes would go home.
Just once, couldn’t it be that easy?
There was only one way to find out. The soles of Hermes’ shoes seemed loud as he crossed the street. He had his hand raised in a fist to knock before he remembered that he was the god of thieves, and broke in.
He stepped into the foyer, feet soft on the marble floor. The interior looked like any other massively expensive house might. High ceilings, walls painted robin’s egg blue, and a striped silk chaise. He moved farther in and sniffed the air. A light scent of iron lingered in the rooms, and his pulse quickened with hope.
As he passed by open doorways he noted the rich furnishings: Chinese vases, long oak dining tables, a study full of books and bronze busts. But his mind galloped ahead to Hephaestus. His old friend. The god that Zeus had deemed the most sturdy. The most reasonable.
He can’t possibly be that pissed about Hera. She kicked him off Olympus because she was ashamed of his shriveled foot.
Hermes swallowed. She had done that. But she was still his mother.
The sound of footsteps made him freeze, then zip down another hallway. But it was only the woman. He heard her humming in what he assumed was the kitchen. He listened to cabinets and drawers open and close, and sniffed the air again. No iron this time, but chicken with sage and butter. Enough for an extra guest? He glanced at his emaciated stomach. Maybe enough for one extra guest, but never enough for him.
Have to hurry. It would be rude to interrupt his lunch.
He darted into the hall and up a set of stairs, following the faint hint of metal in his nose. The farther he got into the house, the less it looked like a house. Rooms grew larger and hallways shorter. They doubled back on themselves. Twice he found himself in the same hallway and three times in the same room. And everything seemed to skirt the outside edges. There didn’t seem to be anything in the center. The architecture was clever; you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t already suspicious and paying too much attention. But all the rooms and stairways he’d been through left a rather large square empty in the middle of the building. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He was close to lost.