He opened his eyes to find her standing in front of him, gaze suddenly icy.
The enchantment that had put him at ease ceased, and a jolt of fear struck him hard. The realization he was in danger came a second before all four spirits pushed him under water.
Hermes fought, clawing and kicking at his attackers.
They dug their nails into his flesh and wrapped their fingers in his hair. He returned their viciousness, unable to summon his magic, though he reached for it as his energy and air depleted.
He was going to die here, a victim of nature spirits.
How fucking embarrassing.
This was not how gods died.
He was supposed to go down in a blaze of glory or at the peak of orgasm, either would be better—and much more respectable—than this.
Hermes screamed when he felt sharp teeth sink into his shoulder, releasing all the air left in his lungs. He jerked free of their hold and broke the surface, gasping for breath, but realized, as he looked around, that he was not in a spring or surrounded by deadly, beautiful, fuckable nymphs.
No, he sat in the middle of a muddy pit surrounded by pigs.
“Oh no.” Hermes felt his stomach drop, realizing he’d been drawn into one of Circe’s traps. Worse than facing the witch-goddess, however, was the fact that he had tried to kiss not one, but four pigs.
All he could smell and taste was shit.
“I’m going to throw up,” he said, right as his stomach turned violently and he vomited all over the ground.
A cruel laugh echoed in the clearing and Circe appeared before him.
“Oh, Hermes,” she said. “You should know better than to give in to the allure of nymphs.”
He spit, trying to clear his mouth of the foul taste.
“You’re one to talk, Circe. You fuck every man who happens upon your lonely island,” he spit again. “Unless they reject you and then you turn them into pigs.”
Circe’s mouth tensed. “Bold of you to be so rude.”
“I’m Hermes. I’m the god of bold and rude.” He paused, noticing she had changed, her robes now a deep iridescent purple. The color was striking and made her eyes glow even brighter. “Are those your torture robes?”
Her brows lowered. “What?”
“Torture robes,” he repeated. “Hades has torture robes. His are black, to hide the blood. Are yours purple to match the color of a pig’s anus?”
“Perhaps you can tell me since you are about to spend a very long time as one.”
Hermes pursed his lips. He’d walked right into that one.
He straightened, holding the goddess’s eerie gaze. He was too exhausted to fight the coming transformation; his only hope was that Hecate would arrive and rescue him from his plight.
He watched as Circe stretched out her hand, palm open and…nothing happened.
Even Circe seemed surprised, head turning as she flexed her fingers in an attempt to summon what he assumed was her wand. He had only seen it a few times, and usually from a distance. It was a simple, bronze stick, and apparently it was gone.
“Oh,” Hermes drawled as the realization struck.
Circe’s gaze snapped to him. “What?”
“They’re here,” he said.
“Who’s here?” she demanded.
