A Taste of Greek (Out of Olympus #3)

by Folsom, Tina

  With dread, he looked at the long line that had formed, leading from where he was standing all the way to the dock from which the ferry took off. He’d never seen the line as long, not even during times of war, plague, or famine. Not even then had this many souls been waiting for admittance.

  It could only mean one thing: Zeus’s prediction had come true. The ferry workers were on strike. Sighing, Hermes walked past the end of the line. Maybe he could talk to the workers and settle this thing now. It would save them all a lot of trouble. Maybe then he wouldn’t even have to deliver Zeus’s contract to Hades. And maybe if Zeus saw what he’d done, that he’d taken the initiative, he’d finally recognize that Hermes wasn’t the fuck-up he’d made him out to be.

  “You know who that is?” one soul whispered to another.

  “No, who?”

  “He’s the ferryman.”

  “Who?” the other soul asked.

  “You know, Hermes, the god who ferries the souls over the Styx.” The soul who’d recognized him, a man of about forty-five mortal years, took a step toward him. “You’re here to take us over the river, right?”

  Hermes acknowledged his question with a quick nod. “I’ve outsourced the operation.”

  “But you’re the ferryman,” the man insisted, drawing more attention to them with his rising voice. Several souls took notice and turned their heads, watching the exchange.

  “As I said, I’ve delegated the work. It’s in the hands of capable men.” Well, even Hermes didn’t believe that. He’d had a hard time finding staff to accept the job of ferrying desperate souls over the river. He’d advertised everywhere, and in the end, the only people who’d applied for the positions had been the Greeks. He’d had no choice but to hire them.

  “Capable men?” The man scoffed. “Right! Look at them, they’re on strike again!”

  “Yes,” another soul chimed in. “That’s all they do: they’re either on a break, or on strike.”

  Hermes groaned as he noticed the discontent that seemed to spread more and more among them. “I’ll take care of it,” he promised and hurried past them, hoping that nobody else in line recognized him.

  As the line made a bend, then wound around a corner, he almost bumped into a cart.

  “Churros!” a Mexican called out and held up the sugar-coated deep fried stick. “Hot churros!”

  Several souls crowded around him and handed him money in exchange for the cholesterol-laden, heart-attack-inducing treat.

  “Guess it won’t matter anymore now,” Hermes muttered to himself. None of the souls would have to worry about gaining weight or clogging up their arteries any longer. Nobody could die in the underworld. Once you were there, it was pretty much over. Which didn’t mean that everything would be smooth sailing from here on out. The mortals didn’t call it hell for nothing. And Hades had a special department that came up with new ways to make the souls suffer and keep them in line. The retention department he called it.

  “Gelato!” he heard another voice call out as he continued to walk. “Gelato! Tiramisu! Bene, bene!” The voice belonged to an Italian who was walking up and down the line, a big drum hanging in front of his belly, waffle cones in a bag suspended from the side of it, and an ice cream scoop in his hand. He didn’t have trouble finding any takers for what he was offering. It was getting hotter by the minute, and by the looks of it, the souls had been standing in line for hours if not days.

  Hermes brushed past the ice cream vendor and continued on his way. He could of course fly right over them with his winged sandals, but that would be drawing attention to himself, and it was the last thing he wanted to do.

  From somewhere in the distance, he heard rhythmic chanting, but he couldn’t make out the words, and his attention was diverted, when the smell of beer drifted into his nose. He turned his head and didn’t trust his eyes at first. Was that an Irish pub that had sprung up only a few yards away from the dock? Hermes blinked, but he wasn’t hallucinating. Out of driftwood, the Irish had built a ramshackle hut, and painted a shamrock over the door. In front of it, several Chinese were taking bets. The odds were posted on a board behind them. Hermes took a closer look. Apparently, the odds of the ferry departing in the next hour were a hundred to one. The odds of it departing in fifteen hours looked a little better: thirty-four to one. But clearly, the bookmakers were expecting this strike to be resolved within two or three days. Those odds were one to two.

  Next to the Irish pub, Porta Potties were lined up and a sign warned: No pissen in Styx.

  Ah, the Germans were clearly the ones who’d erected that sign.

  As he walked past it, the chanting he’d heard earlier grew louder, and now he could see where it was coming from. A large ferry, two stories high, was docked at the newly-built ferry terminal. Years ago, it had simply been an old rickety wooden dock in danger of collapsing when too many souls were crowding onto it, eager to board the ferry.

  On deck, a dozen men held up signs saying Strike. They walked in circles and chanted in response to their leader’s questions, who shouted it via a megaphone.

  “What do we want?”

  “More vacations!” the workers called out in unison.

  “When do we want it?”

  “Now!”

  “What do we want?” the leader repeated.

  “More money!”

  “When do we want it?”

  “Now!”

  Hermes rolled his eyes and moved to the front of the line. An arm was thrown in front of his chest, holding him back.

  “Get back in the bloody queue!” the man with the British accent yelled.

  Hermes grabbed the man’s arm and lifted it off himself, then glared at the man. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  The idiot went toe-to-toe with him. “I’m the minder. So, get the bloody hell back in line!”

  “Do you know who I am?” Hermes pressed out between clenched teeth, then pointed to his shoes.

  The self-appointed minder looked down and instantly jumped a step back. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t recognize you. Apologies. Go right ahead,” he groveled.

  Hermes brushed past him.

  “And mind the gap, sir,” he added, pointing his finger toward a sizeable gap between the remnants of the old dock and the new one.

  “Halt!”

  Hermes stared at the two strapping blond men, blocking his way. They stood as straight as if they’d each swallowed a broomstick, their chests puffed out like peacocks.

  “Identify yourself!” one of them demanded in his thick German accent.

  “Hermes, Messenger of the Gods, Patron of Thieves, Commerce, and Travel, you know the rest.”

  The two Germans saluted. “Welcome, Herr Hermes!”

  “At ease,” he demanded.

  The German guards broadened their stance and looked no more relaxed than before. Hermes refrained from rolling his eyes—his overly eager bulldogs wouldn’t appreciate it.

  “What’s going on?” He glanced at the name tag on his uniform. “Hans One?”

  “We can’t allow anybody on the ferry. It hasn’t been cleaned.”

  “Surely a little dirt won’t bother these people.” He motioned to the crowd behind him. None of them had looked particularly clean when he’d passed them.

  “Our standards have to be maintained,” Hans One insisted.

  “May I speak, sir?” the second German asked.

  “Yes, go ahead . . . Hans Two.”

  “We also had to raise the tariff for the boat ride ever since we switched to MasterCard and Visa, in order to cover the fees they levy on us. That’s when the crew started their mutiny, demanding more money and more time off. They believe it’s we who pocket the extra money from the fares.” He pointed to the board behind him.

  Hermes skimmed the text. It laid out the new fees and the methods of payment. Before he’d modernized the ferry service, everybody had paid with coins. But as inflation had risen, the weight of the coins had slowed down the boats and made
them less efficient. Therefore, Hermes had introduced the hand-held credit card machines he’d seen used in Europe, where waiters came to the patron’s table and took credit card payments with their wireless machines, without having to disappear in the back to swipe the card. It was ingenious.

  “Ah, yes, I see.” He looked back at the two Germans, then pointed to the ferry. “Well, I’ll have a word with Hades about it. So, have your men ferry me over, so I can talk to him.” He made a motion toward the boat, but the two guards stepped into his path, blocking him.

  “I’m sorry, Herr Hermes, but the rules are for everybody.”

  Hermes sighed. Great! Why had he ever employed Germans for this job? Couldn’t he have hired Russians? While they would have driven as much fear into the waiting crowd as the Germans, at least he could have bribed the Russians.

  “Very well, then,” he mumbled to himself and kicked his sandals into gear. Without effort, he lifted up in the air. Surprised gasps from the crowd accompanied his short flight over the raging river. He landed softly and walked through the forest on the other side. As it cleared, Hades’ black marble palace came into view. It was a gothic monstrosity he’d never cared much for, but Hades seemed to like it.

  Moments later, Hermes marched into Hades’ antechamber. His uncle sat at the head of a large wooden table, a massive stone fireplace burning behind him, an iron chandelier with lit candles above him. His uncle had an unhealthy love for the medieval time period and refused to give it up. Except for his bathroom. There it was modern equipment all the way from his large Jacuzzi tub to his bidet.

  “Hello Uncle,” Hermes greeted him, approaching the large table. He picked up the decanter of cognac and poured himself a glass.

  Hades grunted. “Took your sweet time getting here, didn’t you, boy?”

  “Sorry, had a prior engagement.”

  “And I’m sure easing your libido was much more important than delivering the agreement that will unclog the bowels of hell.” His voice boomed through the towering room.

  “My apologies,” Hermes offered. “I’m here now.”

  He placed the envelope Zeus had given him on the table in front of Hades, then took his drink and crossed over to the massive stone fireplace. Hades ripped open the envelope and quickly read the letter. He smashed his hand down on the rough hewn table, lifting his plate and utensils in a raucous clatter.

  “What is this? A joke? I’ll never agree to these terms.”

  Hermes held up his hands. “Hey now, just the messenger here. Zeus doesn’t discuss his contracts with me. Hell, he doesn’t discuss anything with me.”

  “And why should he? You’re just a snot-nosed wanker whose only thought is about getting his dipstick wet.”

  Hermes clutched his heart. “Ouch. You wound me.” His uncle was in quite a tizzy. “In any case, don’t kill the messenger, as they say.”

  “You go back and tell Zeus that he can shove this contract up his righteous ass and if he doesn’t like the way I’m running the show down here, he can come down here personally and negotiate directly with me, rather than sending a lackey!”

  “Fine. Do you want me to put that in writing?”

  “Kid, your ass is real close to getting a real good chewing.”

  “Bummer. Problem is, Zeus left for one of his meetings. I don’t know when he’ll be back. He made it sound like it could be a few days.”

  Hades jumped to his feet, his chair toppling behind him with a loud booming thump. He turned every shade of red imaginable before throwing his glass into the fireplace, where it shattered into a thousand jagged crystals.

  “Fine. Then get down to the River Styx and run the ferry service yourself while the workers are on strike. And stay there until Zeus deems fit to show his holiness.”

  “Wish I could, but I’ve got plans I can’t postpone.” Plans to see Penny again as soon as possible.

  “Like hell you do.”

  That was it! Nobody was getting between him and his date with Penny. Not Zeus, and for sure not Hades. “Piss off, Hades. I offered to help. I offered you a little finger, but you want to take the whole hand. Maybe I should have done something else with that finger rather than offer it to you!”

  Hermes lifted his hand, but didn’t get to execute his threat.

  Hades’ eyes bulged, and with a quick flip of his hand, he sent Hermes flying past the fireplace and out of his chamber. The force of Hades’ wrath catapulted him through the forest down to the river. He landed unceremoniously in the cold water and sank to the bottom, being pulled on and held down by the multitudes of souls who’d been stupid and impatient enough to swim across the treacherous waterway rather than wait out the strike.

  “Jerk!” he cursed and swallowed a mouthful of the icy water.

  6

  Penny yawned.

  She’d wracked her brain about what topic could wow the tenure committee for the last hour, but her thoughts were constantly veering off the subject. Instead, she found herself reading more and more about Hermes himself. The god, not the man. Though the man wasn’t far from her thoughts. Her fingers rested on her lips as her mind wandered back to his kiss, sending her reeling head-over-heels.

  “For God’s sake, it was just a kiss,” she blurted out loud.

  But what a kiss it had been.

  Penny gave herself a mental cold shower and pushed the image of dark wavy hair, warm brown eyes, and chiseled cheekbones out of her mind and instead focused on the cold alabaster marble rendition of Hermes in the book before her. Hard stone displayed a physique that was in great form, strong, lean and naked. She stopped ogling the statue and instead read the text. Standard stuff she’d already known about Hermes—messenger to the gods, son of Zeus. Quick, cunning, and witty, he moved freely between the worlds. Protector of travelers. He was athletic, loved sports, innovation, and trade. And of course, he was known for his winged cap and sandals.

  Nothing new there.

  She flipped through the pages. It seemed that as the years went on, different writers had written about Hermes, giving him mystical qualities, even saying he was a god of the underworld and was often invoked to ward off ghosts. Probably professors desperate to find a fresh and interesting angle on an overdone subject. None of it was very helpful in giving her a new idea of her own to win over the tenure committee.

  Nor was it helping her keep her mind on her work and off the handsome man who’d kissed her senseless. She thought back to the moment she’d spotted Hermes’ strange shoes on the waterfront earlier tonight. Why would any man wear sandals with wings on them? She had to have been mistaken. A play of shadows, a trick of the light maybe.

  She’d had too much wine and then there was that kiss. Her chest grew warm just thinking about it. The softness of his lips, the sweet taste of his mouth, the firm grip of his hands. He was a man who knew how to please a woman. She sucked in a deep breath and continued to flip through her book of artist renditions of Hermes and found herself studying his shoes.

  Page after page of winged sandals that looked so much like the ones she’d glimpsed earlier tonight peeking beneath his hem. As if they’d been calling to her. The way they were calling to her even now. She was being ridiculous, becoming obsessed, she knew that. And yet . . . She flipped open her laptop and opened the browser.

  Google showed her many replicas exhibited in various museums. Could it be possible that Hermes had one of those? That he’d stolen them somehow? She shook her head. No, she had to be mistaken. Not everyone she cared about was a thief. And yet, the little she’d seen of the sandals had looked very much like these.

  But that didn’t mean he’d stolen them. Maybe he’d had them commissioned. But who would do that? Was the man she’d had dinner with tonight, the man she’d wanted to go to bed with, purposefully trying to mimic a god? His name? His speech? His shoes? She thought of his comment: “I’m a messenger.” And he spoke Greek. Not just any Greek, but Ancient Greek. No one did that.

  An uneasy feeling twisted her stom
ach into knots. Did he really believe he was Hermes, the Greek god? The thought sent her reeling again, but this time not in a good way. What if he was mentally ill? She should stay away from him. Whatever he was, he could be delusional, and delusional meant bad news.

  A thought pushed into her mind: could he have engineered the meeting with her? Had he planned all this? Had he known before their accidental meeting that she was a Greek studies professor? But what would he have to gain by that? Did he need her to execute some nefarious plan?

  She sighed. Her vivid imagination was taking her on a wild ride again. As if she hadn’t already been on a rollercoaster tonight: the way she’d responded to him, physically, mentally—it was above and beyond any attraction she’d had to a man in a very long time. She wasn’t on her game when she was around him. She couldn’t trust her judgment.

  And if he was delusional he could even be dangerous . . .

  She thought back to the way she’d clung to him, how close she’d come to sleeping with him. A shudder charged through her. No. It didn’t matter how good a kisser he was or what kind of incredible chemistry they had together, she couldn’t call him. She couldn’t go out with him again just to write an article. Logic told her she’d dodged a bullet tonight. She closed the lid of her laptop and leaned back in her chair.

  But what if she wrote an article on the way Greek gods affected people today? a tiny voice whispered. A voice that grew louder and stronger as the thought grew.

  Were there people out there who still believed in the Greek gods? Her heart raced. Her pulse thundered. She stood, her fists pumping the air above her. Yes! This was it. The answer she’d been searching for, the angle she needed. She could interview Hermes, discover the truth, ferret out his secrets. She wouldn’t have to sleep with him. She could be aboveboard all the way. She would view this as an intellectual study.

  She dropped back into her chair and glanced down at the marble statue on the pages—the chiseled cheek bones, patrician nose, veined shaft, and oh-so-kissable lips. She drew in another deep breath. Could she keep it strictly intellectual? Whom was she kidding? Going anywhere near him would be a huge mistake.