Chapter One #2
I grab my backpack, which I know has all the forms I need to check in, then I get out of the car. Because we had to fly here, I had to fit everything I want into only two suitcases, a feat only possible because of Dad’s superhuman packing abilities: he’s truly a pro at vacuum sealing.
Mom takes the other suitcase, and we approach the protest. At first I think they’re blocking the entirety of the entrance, then I see there’s a small gap to one side shielded by police officers and campus security.
Mom and I approach one of the officers. My palm feels sweaty against the plastic handle, and my heart is hammering against my rib cage.
“Checking in?” asks the officer, a man with a thick mustache. “Keep your head down, and move fast. Let’s go.”
He doesn’t give us much time to process as he sets off. Mom and I follow him. I note the officer’s advice, keeping my stare down until we reach the doors, which he holds open for us. The people in the crowd shout and wave their signs at us.
“Thanks,” I say to the officer.
He only replies with a curt nod.
Inside, it’s almost as if the protest isn’t happening.
I can still hear them, and there are three police officers by the door when I’m sure there normally wouldn’t be, but it’s quieter in here.
I look around, and to be honest I feel like I’ve been somewhat catfished.
All the pictures of Clark Hall online show a gleaming building filled with impossibly attractive college students having the time of their lives.
In reality Clark Hall is, in a word, old. The walls are this yellowish cream color, and the brown carpet smells mustier than one would like. Still, I instantly love it, faults and all. It might be an old, slightly worn-down dorm building, but it’s my old, slightly worn-down dorm building.
I approach the reception area and hand over my forms to the guy working the desk.
It seems move-in day is being run by reception staff and student volunteers in navy polos.
This receptionist is a ridiculously attractive blond guy with a neat, short haircut.
God, college boys are cute. I’m so screwed.
“Welcome to Clark,” he says as he taps his fingers on the desk. “I’ll just need your forms and your ID.”
I hand over the stack of paper and put my license on top of it.
“Thank you,” he says, taking a moment to read my license. “Owen.”
I fight the blush I feel coming on with everything I have.
He scans the forms, then hands me a new one.
“Just need your signature,” he says. At the back of the office, two staff members are whispering and staring at me. They fall silent when they notice me watching. What is going on?
I hand back the form and the pen, swapping them for a welcome brochure and a key card.
“Your room’s on the third level,” says the receptionist. “You can take the elevator or the stairs, your choice. And hey, good luck.”
“Um, thanks.”
Mom and I go over to the ancient elevator and I press the brass button. This is the kind of elevator that looks like it could break at any moment. Surely that’s why he wished me luck. Why else would he?
Outside, the protest is still going. They’ll go away eventually, right? And I’m sure my worries of being caught in the crosshairs of an order of demon hunters is unfounded. Hopefully. Mom and I go into the elevator, and the doors close behind us.
I look at my key card. It doesn’t feel totally real to me yet, and I’m worried that it all could be snatched away.
I’ve been distantly stressed for months that I’m going to be told there’s an issue with my scholarship, that it actually was supposed to go to some other Owen Greene and I’m fresh out of luck.
Given Mom and Dad’s money situation, I’d need loans to study here if I didn’t have the scholarship, and the thought of that much debt is not my idea of a good time.
I catch Mom looking at me.
“Here’s good,” I say, because I can tell what she’s thinking. “Promise.”
“I just want it to be perfect for you.”
It’s a nice thought, and I really do appreciate it. But that’s not possible, because Ashley’s not here. All the demon stuff and scholarship worries would be easier to deal with if things were the way they should be. Clark Hall is a co-ed dorm, so she’d maybe even be in the same building.
Instead, she hasn’t even read my message yet.
The elevator stops, and the doors open. The third-level hallway is loud and chaotic. A pair of guys are having a NERF gun battle, someone is playing electronic music, and a girl has set up a ring light and is standing in front of a dorm room filming herself.
Mom and I go down the hall, dodging the other students and NERF bullets until we reach the room with the number on it matching my key card. Room 387.
We stop in front of it.
I can hear voices through the door. I’m not exactly eager about the prospect of having to share a room with someone, but I’ve read online that that’s normal, and for a lot of people, it becomes their favorite part of college, where they meet a friend they have for the rest of their lives.
My roommate’s a guy called Rohit. We’ve messaged a few times and he seems really nice, and I’m hoping we become friends.
It could just as easily not work out and turn into a nightmare, but I don’t want to think about that.
I knock on the door and hang back. Even though I have a key, I figure it’s better to be polite.
I stand up straighter and try my best to look like a good roommate. Someone friendly, quiet, and clean. I picked my outfit today, my nicest jacket over a button-down and jeans, for that very reason.
The door opens, and it takes me a moment to figure out exactly who I’m looking at.
Because standing there, smiling at me, is none other than the king of Hell.