When the gods need a place to rest, they come to me. Always Hestia to the rescue, to be the voice of reason to Hera, the one who can scold Zeus, the one who offers comfort to the world-weary and takes no shit from anyone. I am home, I am the hearth, I am Hestia.
I whispered a blessing over the little ball of sunlight in my hand, and gently laid it on its bed of olive wood gathered from the wild places of Mount Olympus. My fire was once again burning in the brazier of the gods, and I’m not going to lie, it felt amazing.
The sober-ish one was screaming, trying to reload his gun, dropping bullets in his fear, and the pungent scent of his terror was thick on the air. He managed to get one shot off, which was a mistake. The bullet didn’t even slow Seamus down – but it did piss the rest of them off.
“The fact that I can see your pulse poundin’ in your throat, love,” he purred, and leaned down to give me a kiss. At the last moment, he jerked his head back and licked my nose instead before hopping backwards out of arm’s reach.