Red Rover
Then a voice behind us goes: “Damn! If I wasn’t in such a hurry, I’d have to join the two of you. Unfortunately, time is of the essence.”
Arya and I launch apart, both of us half-shifting in a heartbeat.
Standing in our kitchen, looking about as smug as a cat in a henhouse, is a teenage-looking boy with curly blonde hair, a toga, a winged helmet, and winged shoes.
Arya snarls. “Who the fuck are you?!”
“Hermes. Messenger of the gods. God of crossroads and travelers,” he says, casual as hell.
I snarl, ready to rip the damn wings off his sandals. “What the fuck is a Greek god doing in our house—watching us fuck?!”
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