My life is one big fucking joke.

  I’m standing in my kitchen, pouring two glasses of cheap box wine, next to a man with golden wings.

  Hermes is leaning his weight against the counter, his fingers thrumming against the metal sink. He hasn’t stopped moving since he got here, always tapping his feet or shifting his weight or clacking his fingers against something. Can gods have ADHD?

  “So,” I say slowly, watching the glass fill up with deep red wine that’s probably been in my fridge since I moved in, “who’s Dionysus?”

  Hermes bounces on the balls of his feet as he drags his gaze around my kitchen. “The god of wine,” he says plainly, like he’s already bored with me. That would make two of us. “A chaos infused alcoholic, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  I hum in response, screwing the lid back on the wine. Hermes plucks a glass from the counter, and I take the other. “What is a god of wine?” I ask in a posh accent.

  He raises the glass to his lips, then pauses, his lips curving downward into a deep frown. “What, in the name of all things holy, is this?”

  “Wine,” I say flatly, taking a sip. A shutter runs through me. Okay, he has a point. This is really bad. Not the worst I’ve had, but far from good. “Below average wine,” I clarify with a shrug.

  “This is blasphemy,” he says in an exasperated tone, setting the glass back down. “You should be ashamed.”

  My mouth pulls into a thin line as my patience pulls even thinner. “I’m just trying to relax, man. I had a really shitty week, and I just want to pretend there’s not a Greek god of whatever you are standing in my kitchen. Again.” He raises his eyebrows as I take another sip. “Don’t antagonize me.”

  “Duly noted.” His hands wrap around the edge of the sink again as he leans back. “I; however, will not be partaking in your boxed monstrosity.”

  I drain the rest of the wine from my glass and quirk an eyebrow. “Do whatever you want. Just try not to be a total asshole while you’re at it.”

  He breathes out a laugh, then his eyes spark with something I can’t place. “Ooh!” he exclaims sharply, clapping his hands together. “Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”

  Before I have the chance to respond, the wind is punched out of me, and the room explodes into shades of gray and gold and an impossible pressure that makes my ears ring.

  And Hermes is gone. Again.

  Taking a deep breath, I lean forward to rest my hands on my knees. What the hell is with the teleportation bullshit? Why can’t he just use door like a normal human?

  Right. Not human. Whatever.

  Once my lungs are sufficiently oxygenized, I go about pouring myself another glass of wine. This time, I don’t skimp out for appearances, filling it to the brim. The smell of terribly fermented grapes makes me want to barf. I don’t even like wine. Too much Sangria during college made my taste for it turn into complete disdain. The only thing worse is tequila. I hate tequila.

  I’m halfway through chugging down my second glass of atrocity when the room lets out an awful snap! I whirl around to find Hermes next to my fridge, holding up a bottle of something much more civilized looking than my wrinkled box of bad dreams. And smug as hell about it.

  “Will you stop doing that!” I shriek, instinctively reaching out and smacking him on the arm.

  His expression falls from innocent excitement to feigned offense as he gapes at the offending hand. “How dare you,” he mocks. “I brought you god liquor, and you assaulted me.”

  A smile cracks my composure. “You broke into my house and assaulted my peace. I think we’re even.”

  He strides past me with a long sigh through his nose and sets the bottle down next to the wine. “This is Nectar.” He takes a step back and admires the bottle. “It’ll make your wine seem like complete shit.”

  “Wow.” Leaning forward, I take a closer look at the bottle. The liquid is as gold as Hermes’s eyes, with little stars sparkling around through it like it’s somehow alive. “Is this going to kill me?”

  “Probably not.” He reaches forward and twists the lid off of it. Steam or smoke or vapor—whatever this thing is putting off—floats up into the air. The scent of apples and vanilla fills my nostrils immediately.

  “Holy shit, that smells amazing.” I take another whiff and catch a hint of something tangy, maybe lemon? “What’s in it?”

  He sucks his lips into his mouth as he dumps out his untouched wine. I follow suit with mine and hold out my glass for him to fill. “That is not for your brain to know,” he says too casually as he tips the bottle against my glass. “Don’t drink that yet, mix it with some water first.”

  “Ew,” I breathe out, swirling the liquid around in my cup as I inhale the flavors once again. “Why would I mix water with my alcohol.”

  He tips his glass and takes a long drink of the Nectar. It leaves a faint glimmer on his lips. “You don’t have to. But this stuff isn’t meant for your little human body. It’ll make things get very strange very quickly.”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  My eyes flick to the bottle on the counter. “This is already super weird.”

  “No,” he laughs out, his voice booming around through his glass. “Actually weird. Hallucinations, delusions, probably some heavy contemplations of death. Very bad things happen when mortals drink Nectar straight from the bottle.”

  “Sounds delightful,” I say flatly, but turn toward the sink anyway. It feels criminal to mix tap water with such a pretty liquid, but I also don’t want any grand hallucinations of death tonight. I fill the cup the rest of the way with water, then swirl it around to mix it up. “Good?”

  His smile grows as he holds his glass out toward me. “To…” he pauses, puckering his lips. “To change.”

  My own smile feels a bit too fond to be comfortable as I knock my glass against his. “To change.”

  Tipping the glass against my lips, the Nectar floods my senses. Sweet and sour and everything in between dance around my tongue in a flavor I can only describe as ecstasy. My eyes slip closed as I swallow the golden liquid, my belly filling with a comfortable, but very strange, warmth.

  “Good, right?”

  Ugh. The sound of Hermes’s smug voice rips me out of my delusional harmony. “Delicious,” I respond, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth.

  He takes another sip of his own, then sets the glass down on the counter. The beat of silence has me taking another drink, desperate to not let the awkwardness overwhelm the comfort of finally having someone not look at me like I’m a burden on the world’s oxygen.

  “So,” I continue, licking the remaining Nectar off my lips, “what does the Herald of the gods do, exactly?”

  Smacking his lips, he thrums his fingers against the countertop. “I think the better question would be as to what I don’t do.” He laughs, but it sounds hollow. Like a withering tree caving in on itself.

  “Okay,” I drag out, crossing my arms across my chest. “Then humor me with a story. Like, the most ridiculous Hermes story you have.”

  He hums, his eyes darting around the kitchen as he thinks. “Okay.” He turns back to me and his eyes light up with something mischievous. “When I was around twelve hours old, I snuck onto my brother’s farm and stole his prized cows.”

  “Oh my god? Twelve hours? Even in god terms, isn’t that, like, absurd?”

  His laugh fills the room with something like divine butterflies or shimmering stars, and I bite back a smile with another drink.

  “Twelve hours,” he reiterates. “And yes, it was very much frowned upon. Anyway, he got mad, obviously, and sued me.”

  “He…sued you? Like, Judge Judy but Olympus?”

  “He brought me to Zeus—I’m assuming you know who Zeus is—and he thought I was hilarious. Made me the Herald. And then I went home, invented music, lying, and a delivery system worthy of the gods. Then, the gift of my sweet tunes earned back Apollo’s trust, and now he’s a muse with daddy issues.”

  “Hold on.” Setting my glass down, I scrub my hands over my face. “You’re so full of shit.” He chuckles, holding his hands up in innocence. “You’re trying to tell me that you invented music? And lying?”

  “Well, not technically music as a whole. Modern music though, absolutely. I made a lyre out of a tortoise shell and goat guts.”

  “That’s disgusting,” I breathe out through a laugh. “And what about the lying thing? Are you saying you’re just a big ol’ liar?”

  His smile deepens as he watches me fumble with my drink. “I did tell the first ever lie, believe it or not.” I don’t. “But, not in a malicious way. Just gentle little white lies.”

  “Like stealing my phone?”

  His lips purse inward, the tips of his wings twitching at his sides. “Like stealing your phone then giving it back.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Turning away from him, I grab my drink and make my way to the living room, where I recline back onto the dusty yellow sofa. “What about the wings?” I call back to him as he saunters around the corner into the dining room. “Can you fly? Because, biologically speaking, they’re way too small to actually hold you in the air.”

  His mouth falls open in offense. “Are you…mocking my wingspan?”

  My smile cracks open as he places a hand against his chest. “I’m just saying that by mortal standards, you’ve got a relatively small set.”

  As if on cue, his wings fold closer into his back, like an angry flamingo. “My wings happen to be very normal in size,” he says with an eye roll. “And yes, I can fly, and yes it’s very cool.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure it is. Like a divine fairy.”

  Taking another sip of my drink, my head begins to swim. Wow. I’m way more intoxicated than I should be. Like, heavy eyelids level of tipsy. Enough that golden boy is becoming way more attractive than necessary, especially when his lips quirks as he catches me staring.

  Shit. I am a fucking mess. A hot mess, but still a mess.

  “You look tired, Alira,” he says with too much softness for my Nectar-infused brain to handle.

  I lean forward to set my drink on the coffee table. “You never told me how you know my name.”

  His brows draw inward as he watches me sway in my seat. His mouth parts just enough to give me a look like I’m the stupidest person he’s seen today. “I listen to prayers for a living,” he says with a tinge of something like sadness, “and you’re wondering how I know your name?”

  “Yeah,” I say through a yawn, “I didn’t pray my name to you.”

  “Mmm, you’re right.” He leans a hand on the table. “I suppose you just look like an Alira, then. It’s in the cheekbones.”

  Snorting out a laugh, I stretch my arms up above my head. My back lets out a few satisfying pops before I settle back against the cushions. “So, do you just hear prayers all day? Is it like a constant flow of people’s voices?”

  He tilts his head to the side, his curls falling into his eyes from under that ridiculous hat. “I suppose it’s more subconscious than that. A gut feeling, to put it in human terms.”

  “Ooh,” I coo, my eyes slipping shut. I don’t know when I got so tired. I guess Nectar is as potent as he said it would be. Stupid. I was just starting to enjoy myself. “Interesting.”

  My head lands on the arm of the couch, and I don’t have the willpower to sit back up. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relaxed in my life. Maybe god alcohol is like a human sedative. Hopefully, I wake up after this. He could totally have just poisoned me and I guess that’s fine because this is so cozy.

  The scratchiness of one of my cheap blankets wraps around my shoulders. “Get some sleep.” God, I could live in that voice. Not deep and angry like my father’s was, but not gentle either. Something different, something comforting.

  “You’re leaving?” I’m not even sure if my words are coherent, my mouth hardly moving under the weight of the Nectar.

  He doesn’t answer, but I can feel the familiar warbling in the air. The feeling of him summoning whatever weird wind portal he uses to move between spaces in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

  “Are you coming back?”

  His voice is still close, like he’s standing just behind the couch. I can imagine those dumb sandals and stupid hat. It’s almost enough to make me laugh. If I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d probably say something. “Do you want me to?”

  No.

  Yes.

  Definitely. Absolutely. I don’t want to have to go back to work and not have something to look forward to again. It’s not him, probably, it’s the change in routine.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  He doesn’t respond. The air cracks with tension before settling back into a normal pressure. Like he was never here.

  I hope he comes back.