some army vehicles riding down the Avenue of the Americas.

 

"Amazing," Hermes murmured. He turned toward me. "Three thousand years, and I

will never get over the power of the Mist . . . and mortal ignorance."

 

"Thanks, I guess."

 

"Oh, not you. Although, I suppose I should wonder, turning down immortality."

 

"It was the right choice."

 

Hermes looked at me curiously, then returned his attention to the Iris-message.

"Look at them.

 

They've already decided Typhon was a freak series of storms. Don't I wish. They

haven't figured out how all the statues in Lower Manhattan got removed from

their pedestals and hacked to pieces. They keep showing a shot of Susan B.

Anthony strangling Frederick Douglass. But I imagine they'll even come up with a

logical explanation for that."

 

"How bad is the city?"

 

Hermes shrugged. "Surprisingly, not too bad. The mortals are shaken, of course.

But this is New York. I've never seen such a resilient bunch of humans. I

imagine they'll be back to normal in a few weeks; and of course I'll be