Not Your Average Hot Guy Page 2

  On-screen, Mag holds up a finger at the group and then goes back behind the counter and bends down. My phone buzzes a moment later:

  Mag: They don’t want to sign the waivers.

  Me: They have to. But you can let one sign for the whole group.

  Mag: kk.

  Mag informs them of this, and a tall thin man steps forward and scribbles on the sheet. I have the weirdest feeling when his mask angles directly up at the concealed camera in the corner.

  I feel like he sees me.

  I send Mag another message: Ask who they are.

  Mag humors me, and I strain to hear the man’s response. “The name is on the form.”

  Mag tosses a frustrated squint at the camera, then glances down at the paperwork. “Okay, Mr. Solomon Elerion.”

  The man looks up into the corner again. And then …

  The others follow his lead. They all look right through the lens, at me. Like they know I’m here. It must be a trick of the masks, right?

  Except no.

  “Of course they know I’m here. Duh.” I laugh at myself. I doubt it’s the first escape room rodeo for people who come in dressed as plague doctors of the night. “A few capes and masks and a refusal to chitchat and I start to lose my chill, Bosch. Don’t tell anyone.”

  But I don’t look away until the group finally stops staring up at me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LUKE

  THE GRAY KEEP, KINGDOM OF HELL

  I’m presently sitting at a desk not unlike any other. It’s oblong and wood, the usual desk kind of thing. The only distinguishing characteristic it possesses is its location.

  I’m in Hell. Not the figurative kind, the literal kind.

  I’m sure you’re curious. What’s it like, then? Your feet toasty warm? Pitchfork poking your butt cheeks? That’s what you’re thinking.

  I can’t say I blame you. I’m told my butt cheeks are quite something. The early twenties are the peak butt years, or so the demonic laundress and tailor horde would have me believe.

  At the moment, my long-suffering tutor, Porsoth, head and wings of an owl, body of a pig and the size of an overlarge child, walking upright and wearing a long black robe, is droning on about the history of demonic pacts with humans. “While the rules do apply, they apply more to human beings than our breed, who are in possession of an ability to create excess loopholes,” he continues, stopping to fuss with his wide scholar’s collar.

  I won’t bore you with what he says next. So … what lies beyond this drafty stone room in the managerial branch?

  Outside, the vast plains of Hell are bordered by mountains with a million pointed peaks of jagged glass. The infamous rivers section off various parts of the kingdom. My favorite, the Phlegethon, a river of flames, circles and slashes through the territory, burning all who dare touch the fiery flow and offering no oblivion to those who dive deep seeking escape. Gates of rickety bone and charred metal keep forfeited souls in or out of various torments and delights, as the demons overseeing their punishment intend. In the center of it all is my father’s castle. The Gray Keep rises with spindly turrets and branching walls, forming the shape of a giant, gray-black tree reaching ever upward toward the overcast sky.

  If you were here, however, you wouldn’t necessarily see—or feel—the same things I do. Hell is accommodating in a very specific, peculiar way for humans. It and its demons know you better than you know yourself.

  If you were here, maybe you’d look out on a great sea of jowly men in business suits telling you what to do, or maybe really sad dogs that you couldn’t help make unsad in any way, or perhaps clowns would set fire to your clothes and then cream-pie your face over and over again (there’s a rumor this one happened). It would all depend on which circle you’ve found your way to. The bottom line is: you know your despair kinks better than I could ever guess and so does Hell …

  I will tell you that Hell is rarely other people. More often it’s the lack of other people.

  This isn’t my Hell, though it might as well be—and maybe I’m wrong about that. Father, aka Lucifer Morningstar himself, rules this kingdom, and one day he intends for me to do the same. The screams of the damned are but a distant echo from here in the Keep, where I’m enduring another lesson from my tutor while waiting for the demon in charge of my internship to show up and be disappointed. Again.

  “It’s always good to start with the corruption of your peers,” my know-it-all, unholier-than-thou supervisor Lucifuge Rofocale, He Who Flees the Light, likes to say. “That’s how your father got where he is today.”

  The implied critique being that I’m not going to get much of anywhere if I don’t improve. Thus, Porsoth’s focus on interactions between demons and humans, at Rofocale’s order.

  I’ve been reporting to Rofocale for months now. The first few weeks involved shadowing him. Then I graduated to popping on and off Earth to find groups of people at bars and score some immortal souls. Every time I return, Rofocale asks for a number. At first, he was hopeful. No longer.

  It’s always zero. I haven’t managed to seal the soul deal even once.

  In fact, I haven’t come across anyone who motivates me to reach for more than the shallowest depths of depravity. The other people my age I meet—both the rare demonic ones I’m kept separate from and the ones on Earth—seem like aliens. Once you win a soul it’s yours to look after, by which I mean harvest and torment, and who wants that kind of responsibility? I’m supposed to, but I don’t. A hazard of my childhood, maybe, of having a father with an actual god complex. Anyway, it’s past time for me to just get over it, locate some humans to get to know and trust me, and then enjoy manipulating them into eternal damnation so I can come back and spit out a respectable number to Rofocale.

  Anything would be better than sitting here behind this literally god-damned desk contemplating the future all mapped out for me in nine hellacious circles.

  But I can’t quite muster the energy. I’m not good at doing what I’m supposed to. It’s a thing. My father has noticed it, which no good can come of.

  Amazingly, when Rofocale’s steps sound in the hall, moving fast, my motivation also materializes.

  “He’s coming,” I say, sitting up straighter.

  Porsoth blinks those big owl eyes at me and fidgets. “Prince, you might want to—er, possibly it would be best if you were not…” He raises the slender hand at the end of his wing.

  For once, I have the same thought as my tutor. There’s nothing grand or particularly dashing about the way I leap to my feet and look around in search of a way to seem like I wasn’t occupying his desk as Rofocale marches into the room rocking some scaled-out gray skin and a crimson suit that fits him like it was made by the underworld’s second best tailor—which it was. He’s like some kind of flashier demonic Darth Vader.

  (Vader is based on one of Hell’s own, someone who made the infernal deal with a devil or lesser demon. When deals with the devil go out of fashion in Hollywood, Hell will have truly achieved blizzard conditions.)

  “Porsoth,” he says with a nod.

  “Sire.” My tutor looks at the floor, even though they’re not of dissimilar ranks.

  “You may leave us,” Rofocale says. Without protest, Porsoth leaves, hooves clicking as he goes.

  “Prince of Hell.” Rofocale pauses to moue his lips with distaste as he considers me.

  Yes, I’m aware of how you loathe me; it’s mutual.

  “Report, please,” he says. “How many souls have you gained since we last spoke?”

  “None … yet.” I play it casual. “But I’m just about to head out for some extremely effective tempting and corrupting.”

  Rofocale narrows his eyes. Black, obviously. With pinpoint red pupils, because he’s never heard of overkill. He looks skeptical, which hurts …

  Not at all. Rofocale couldn’t hurt me if he wanted to.

  Except, perhaps, in the literal sense or by tattling to my father about my extremely ineffectual efforts.
<
br />   Either would be bad. I suspect that my father’s management team, especially Rofocale and Sathariel, and their attendant demon hordes, think me a poor prospect from a noble bloodline. They’re probably already planning to overthrow me when the time comes. Whatever the case, I don’t want those two looking at me with their creepy eyes and horned visages and plotting, whispering together.

  My father is difficult enough to deal with as it is.

  “Luke, I understand you’ve been encouraged in this lack of focus. Your tutor is too soft on you. But it’s well past time to get serious. You have a responsibility—”

  “‘As the heir,’” I chime in before he can finish.

  His forehead becomes an actual thundercloud. How does he do that? Before I can ask, he says, “I’ve had enough of this. Your behavior is unacceptable. You interrupt me. You … you … sit behind my desk when I’m not here.”

  “Oh, is this yours?” I put in, giving the wood a tap with my fist. I know I’m going too far but that’s my specialty. Other than getting souls.

  I should know to worry when there is a pause lengthy enough for the thundercloud forehead trick to fade. Rofocale tilts his head, black-and-red eyes narrowing again. Not skeptical this time. Speculative.

  I move from behind the desk, gesturing that it’s all his. “I apologize, sir,” I say to lay the contrition on thick. “My father…”

  “Your father,” he says, letting the words linger as he passes me and slides into the chair. He repeats the words, probably knowing how unwelcome they are. “Your father has asked for a progress report on you in two moonrises, with the aim of promoting you. You have two days. Or he will see you for the failure you are. You may think yourself unique and thus protected, but you aren’t. He’s already troubled by your continued lack of wings.”

  That hurts, as I’m also troubled by it. Most demons grow their wings as children. I’m into adulthood and nothing so far.

  Rofocale’s eyes go unfocused for a beat, although I thought he was getting into a good lather. Me? My heart beats slower, my blood grows cold. Two days until he makes a report to my father. I’m well aware that I don’t know what the old sire is capable of. Or, I reconsider, I’m well aware that his limits are boundless. Loyalty? Not a strong suit. Bloodlines? Blood is cheap.

  And then there’s the part of me I pretend doesn’t exist. The part that wants to make him proud. To surprise him in a good way for once. To be worthy.

  In this home for the unworthy.

  Rofocale continues his tirade. “I encourage you to finally get serious this evening—”

  He breaks off again, distracted.

  I’ve seen Rofocale’s unfocused look on Dad’s face before. Rofocale is tuning in to another frequency, another realm or plane of existence. Something is happening that caught his attention, even here, even while angry with me.

  “What is it, sir?” I ask, figuring respect is a good bet here. I stand straight, hands clasped before me, and with my feet at a position on the stone floor that might be military or diplomatic—I remember the stance from some lesson or other of Porsoth’s.

  “You can tell something is wrong?” he asks, surprised, paying attention to me again.

  “That your awareness changed.”

  “There might be hope for you yet.” Rofocale sighs. “I don’t care if you succeed or fail, but I do care if you fail on my watch. So…” He stops again, grimaces.

  I say, “If you need to be somewhere else, I understand.”

  He peers at me to see if I’m being a smart-ass. I’m not.

  “It’s a cult,” he says. “They sometimes invoke my name in addition to your father’s. They’re about to get their hands on a grimoire.”

  I whistle. “A real one.”

  “Yes, which means I’m about to be summoned.”

  “This cult,” I ask, my mind racing. “Admirers of our kingdom?”

  He nods. “You could say that.”

  One thing I do remember from my assigned reading—I don’t always tune out Porsoth—is that cultists and witches and warlocks and proactive Satanists and the like often get harvested en masse. It’s easier to get them to make the bargain when they have a big ask—they also tend to believe their devotion will result in less torment. Believers in the devil are always trying to outsmart the devil.

  I’ve never been summoned, obviously, as a lowly intern, even if I am the prince of Hell. But an ideal solution to my immediate problem puts itself together in my mind.

  “You want me to harvest souls ASAP, correct?” I ask.

  Rofocale says, “As we’ve established.”

  Perfect. “Let me answer the summoning instead.”

  “What?” He blinks, taken aback. “Why?”

  “They’d only be summoning you if they wanted to ask for something. Right? Something they’d offer up their souls for?”

  “I don’t know about this,” he says, taking my meaning. “These situations can get tricky.”

  Details, details. “But how many people in the cult?”

  “Thirteen total,” he says. “And, yes, they will offer up their souls for the boon they require.”

  “If I brought them all in, that would be a decent number.”

  “It would also make up for not being pure souls of innocents,” Rofocale says, mulling it over. Finally, he shrugs. “I hate summonings, and you need numbers. Just be careful. Don’t screw this up. Remember, you have two moonrises. Then I report. Don’t keep me waiting.” He pauses. “In his dark glory.”

  “Let us reside,” I respond. Then I wait. He pulls out a thick hide-bound ledger and runs his fingers down the columns. Names and numbers and notations are side by side in neat rows. He adds a few words to one. Astonished, I realize he’s working.

  I set a hand on the desk in front of me. “Um, what now?”

  He doesn’t so much as glance up. “Now we wait for the summoning and then I send you in my stead. It shouldn’t be long.”

  For once, I’m eager to get moving.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CALLIE

  These guys are weird. Even beyond the staring and the masks.

  I can tell by how quickly Mag rushes through the rules that they must be even more disconcerting up close. Soon enough, they’re shut into the alcove outside the Chamber of Black Magic. I designed this outer area to appear as a ye olde English graveyard. The players’ goal is to find the hidden entrance to a crypt used by a coven for dark magic rituals. Once inside, they must locate the clues to stop a dangerous spell in order to escape through a hidden exit.

  Like I said, I went all out on this one. Mom and I hit every estate sale within a hundred miles for months to deck it out with properly aged items that hit the right forbidding occult note.

  I start the clock: 59:59 … 59:58 …

  My phone buzzes as Mag texts:

  Mag: Yikes.

  Mag: Should I come up?

  This group makes me uneasy. I want my attention solely on them.

  Me: Right? Better stay put.

  Mag: kk.

  I focus on the monitors, where some kind of unusual collusion is going on. Instead of scrambling around and studying each of the five fake headstones for clues or feeling up the front of the crypt on the back wall, they gather in a knot and remove something from a leather bag. One of them unwraps whatever it is from cloth, and then another whips out a lighter. A distinctive, unmistakable flare of flame follows.

  No fire isn’t in our rules, strictly speaking. But it probably should be. And it would have been if we’d anticipated anyone might think it is allowed. I wonder if I should interrupt them … On the other hand, they’re adults, not frat boys, and so maybe I should see what the lighter is for first.

  Okay, right call. I think.

  The lighter is for a weird lumpy candle with five wicks, lit one by one. The glow from all of them together makes the security camera focus a little less great. It also makes the guy who’s holding the candle—the thin, tall Solomon Elerion—even spo
okier, with flickering shadows along his mask, a black hollow beneath the curving beak. Inhuman-looking.

  “Shivers, Bosch, shivers,” I say. Bosch grunts in response and settles down for a nap.

  The group takes up a chant then, in what sounds like Latin. They make their way to the faux crypt wall at the back of the alcove. Papier-mâché gargoyles gape along the edges like they’re screaming secrets. A date and a forbidding skull symbol appear above the door.

  They have to press the right spots on the door to open it.

  But they don’t do that. Instead Solomon with the short, lumpy candelabra thing steps out of the group and raises his free hand. The door begins to slide open, and another of the cosplayers dives forward to help it along.

  “That shouldn’t have happened.”

  I sit in my chair desperately trying to figure out how in the world they got the door to open. They don’t seem surprised though. Without pause, they enter the room.

  Maybe they talked to someone who’s done it before? Or maybe I missed one of them pressing on the spots while I was focusing on the lighting of the candelabra?

  That has to be it.

  The fake torch lights in the crypt are brighter. I won’t miss anything else.

  I admire my work, as I do every time I see it. (And Mom’s, of course.) There’s the cauldron with dry-ice smoke triggered by the opening door. There’s the tomb sitting above the floor with a cypher-style lock on it against the far wall. There are spell books and jars with slimy eye of newt–looking things and human eyeball–looking things and as many potential clues as possible to disguise the real ones.

  The Chamber of Black Magic is intentionally the hardest puzzle we offer. To get out, the players have to put together the contents of a powerful magic spell that will then reveal the location and combination of the secret exit.

  Only one person has figured it out so far: Mom.

  They quickly move toward the tomb, which also has my pièce de résistance of set dressing on it. Open and displaying moldy brown pages is a legitimate super-early printing of the Grand Grimoire, a legendary French text that outlines a ritual to summon a high-level demon. Mom even suggested we eBay or Sotheby’s it, because it’s probably worth thousands.