Chapter Three
Three
I suppose I should explain about the syndicates, as most people aren’t aware that the world is secretly run by five mob-like organizations headed by people who may or may not be literal gods.
In the beginning, there were no Titans. No syndicates.
Just people, running around doing people stuff.
Then someone somewhere discovered that consuming Claviceps liminalis, a fungus that grows on certain Mediterranean grasses, can bring a person so close to death that their soul is tricked into going into the Afterlife.
Which, as it turns out, is a source of unfathomable magic.
That’d be pretty cool, except no one really wants to stay in the Afterlife. Magic in a magical place isn’t that neat. But bring that magic back to the boring, mundane living world? Well, that’s power. And humans have never been able to resist power.
The more times you enter the Afterlife, the more magic (read: power) you amass, and that’s exactly what some people did, until they became immortal, with so much magic it could be passed down their family lines.
We call them Titans. From Titans of the pantheon to Titans of industry, the saying goes.
Yes, it’s technically a misnomer, but people are suckers for wordplay.
As time moved forward, they went from casting themselves as deities to being emperors, popes, and warlords to becoming senators, celebrities, and CEOs.
They control everything from politics to healthcare to fashion.
They took their names from gods (or the gods took their names from them?) and developed their own mythology.
There used to be an entire pantheon, but between turf wars and alliances, they’ve consolidated into five syndicates.
The most powerful one, the Nightshades, is run by Nyx (not the goddess—well, maybe the goddess). Their magic: persuasion. Their realm: politics.
The Ferrymen, Infamous Pete’s syndicate, is run by Charon. With a talent for augury and prediction, these are your finance bros.
The Phantoms belong to Melinoe. Magic: telepathy. Industry: entertainment.
The Coven is headed by Hecate. They’re all about illusion magic and run the beauty industry, though they’re branching out into social media. Influencing, and all that.
And finally, there are the Reapers, run by Thanatos, from whose clutches I am (hopefully, maybe) about to escape.
I rip the silicone mask from my face and—ow—and push myself out of the Orpheus chamber.
The Klaxon is earsplitting, the room dark except for the flashing red emergency lights and a single bulb in my chamber. This is definitely not supposed to be happening.
I chose this location because, for the last two weeks, no one has gone in or out. I assumed that meant it had been abandoned. Just a building owned by the Reapers with an old moritory in the basement.
I was wrong.
I was so careful this time, damn it. I hadn’t jumped in headfirst. I’d staked out the building. Done my due diligence. Followed all of Dante’s rules. And it still wasn’t enough.
The only good news is that even though the alarm means they know something’s wrong, the fact that there aren’t a dozen Reapers surrounding me with guns means they don’t know what’s wrong.
After a quick peek out the moritory door, I dart as far down the wood-paneled hall as I can before I hear voices.
I slide into a side room, leaving the door slightly ajar, just as a dozen Reapers burst around the corner.
I hold my breath as several shapes dart past. They don’t even look my way, because I made sure to leave the Orpheus chamber light on to draw their attention.
I scan the room, finding myself in a lab, which makes sense this close to the moritory—they need somewhere to make the potion they use in the chambers.
The emergency lights cast a dim red glow, but I can make out pipettes and Bunsen burners and a large mortar and pestle.
I recognize the citric fragrance of cleaning products.
The same ones that Tolliver would use to sterilize the lab equipment but also to cover up any lingering scent of death and magic.
I don’t have Tolliver’s skills with alchemy, but I’ve been making my own Miracle Max for the past year, so I know my way around a lab.
I find a white coat and gloves in a cabinet.
I pull a hair tie off my wrist and swoop my hair up into the tightest ponytail I can make on short notice.
I grab some hand wipes and take off the dark eye shadow and lipstick.
I have thick-rimmed glasses in my bag, which are the quickest and easiest way to change your features, believe it or not.
Honestly, Clark Kent had the right idea.
The whole process takes less than a minute. When I leave the lab, I walk down the hall toward where a group of Reapers is scouring the moritory for any signs of an intruder.
“Ope, hey, guys!” I say in a cheerful Minnesota accent. “Sorry, I guess I set off the alarm there.”
A dozen pairs of eyes turn toward me, and this is where I realize this was a stupid plan.
There’s nothing wrong with this plan on the face of it. Lab coat and glasses? Great, quick disguise. Casually walking toward people to avoid suspicion? Top-notch. Minnesota accent? Brilliant, as always.
No, the plan was solid. Or would have been if I were facing the dozen lower-level Reapers I was expecting. But in front of me are eleven lower-level Reapers and a demon.
Yeah. An actual demon.
Tall and lean in a long coat and tie, it could almost pass for human, except the veins running up its neck and into its hands are pitch-black. Its fingers end in charred claws and its eyes are hollow pits. Oh, and on top of its head are ram’s horns, blackened and decaying, almost necrotic.
Demons are immortal, emotionless entities with superpowers.
Ideal existence, I know, but they’re also evil.
Previously human, if the stories are true, demons broke the rules of magic so horrifically, they destroyed their own souls.
They’ve haunted my nightmares, the boogeyman of every bedtime story and the cause of multiple colleagues’ deaths (which, you know, thanks for thinning the competition, but still).
Worst of all, I have a sneaking suspicion they’re the reason my parents are gone.
Syndicates very rarely work with demons.
In fact, they go out of their way to avoid them.
But even though it’s startling to see a demon so casually hanging out with syndicate members, nobody in this group seems surprised by their companion.
So even though Elle Fields is shocked as hell, Random Lab Assistant Number Four can’t be.
I push up my glasses and smile. If I had an inhaler, this is when I’d use it. Might actually need one right now.
“You set off the alarm?” one of the Reapers asks, a middle-aged man with an overly square jaw.
I blink. “Not on purpose,” I say, frowning. “I’d just spilled some putrescine when it went off. I’m a bit clumsy, don’tcha know.”
Square Jaw sighs, and a few of the others roll their eyes. The demon stares at me blankly, eyes all black, veins harsh against its pale skin. There’s something about demons that screams no, evil, unnatural, wrong. I feel like prey, but against every instinct, I have to look away.
“The alarm was set off by an intruder,” Square Jaw says. “Did you see anything?”
If I can pull your attention away from the demon for a second, you might ask why no one here has considered yet that I’m the intruder.
The answer is simple: because I’m not acting like one.
If I had run the other way down the hall, they would have overtaken me quickly, and there would be no fast-talking that would get me out of that one.
But I didn’t run, I confronted them before they noticed me, and I’m wearing something official yet anonymous.
They can assume that I work in the lab, and the accent suggests that they don’t know me because I’m from out of town.
If they look too closely, they’ll realize these assumptions are unlikely, but no one looks closely.
Why would I be working in the lab right now?
How long have I been here? Why would a Midwesterner come to Boston?
Their brains ignore these questions, because none of those scenarios are more unlikely than the intruder walking straight up to them and having a conversation.
“Nope, didn’t see anything,” I say. “But I was handling some putrescine, so I was pretty focused. Didn’t want to burn my hand off, ya know.”
I don’t know what putrescine does, but I do know it doesn’t burn your hand off. Tolliver wouldn’t have had it casually hanging out in the lab if it did. I’m betting on these guys not knowing that, though.
Square Jaw looks over his shoulder. “Keep searching.”
I start to slide away, but Square Jaw’s hand lands on my shoulder.
“You’re coming with me,” he says, “to see the boss.”
“I already talked to Greg,” I say. (There’s always a Greg.)
“Not Greg,” he says. “The boss. He’ll want to hear why you didn’t notice an intruder using an Orpheus chamber while you were right next door in the lab.”
Oh, shit. Shit shit shit. The boss. Meaning the boss of the Reapers.
Thanatos.
My life depends on not showing my panic right now, so I smile at Square Jaw and follow him. I do, however, breathe a sigh of relief when the demon and the rest of the Reaper cronies don’t follow us into the elevator.
Confined spaces are usually a no-go, but I don’t have much of a choice right now. Square Jaw cuts a glance to me, and I would be yammering away to distract him from asking any questions, if I weren’t already trying to prepare myself to meet Thanatos.
The Reapers primarily have their claws in healthcare, especially American healthcare.
It’s not only extremely profitable, but it gives them some control over who lives and who dies.
The magic of Thanatos’s family is transmutation, which technically applies to all matter, but the Reapers use it mostly for manipulating the body.
Bacteria, cancer cells, antibodies, and so on.
So if the Reaper in this elevator is related to Thanatos, he could take complete control of the cells in my body.
He could give me a heart attack, or an aneurysm, or make me feel the most intense pain of my life.
I should be a lot more scared right now.
The elevator door opens, and even though I’ve never been in this part of the building, I know we’re on the main floor, close to the street.
I can hear traffic, and the scent of exhaust lingers in the air.
I follow the Reaper into an opulent room full of mahogany furniture and velvet upholstery.
There’s a crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, and the scuffed parquet floor and curtained windows suggest this is some kind of foyer.
There’s a man in an impeccable suit waiting for us.
It’s not Thanatos, but it’s not much better: Adam Waring, Thanatos’s right-hand man and the current US Secretary of Health.
I took note of Waring because it surprised me that he has loyalties to two syndicates.
Not only is he likely a descendant of Thanatos, but he’s in politics, so he must also have ties with the Nightshades who control the government.
So unless I can talk my way out of this, I’m basically screwed.
Square Jaw nudges me forward, and I kinda almost purposely trip a little to sell my confused-lab-assistant act.
“We found this one in the lab,” Square Jaw says. “Says she didn’t see anything.”
If I weren’t in character, I would point out that they didn’t find me—I came to them. And we weren’t in the lab—we were in the hallway.
Waring smiles. He’s tall and stocky, his perfectly tailored suit and short haircut yelling, Look at me, I’m important. His skin is the warm bronze of sunlight on polished wood, and his eyes are cold and flat like pennies. He doesn’t blink nearly enough.
“Hello, Elle.”
My head jerks up in shock.
Shit. Rookie mistake. Great job, Elle.
Waring’s smile turns predatory, white teeth gleaming. “You’re Elysia Fields, daughter of Melinda Fields and Cory Korzeniowski, sister of Dante Fields.”
I almost flinch at hearing my brother’s name.
Waring’s lips turn down in a practiced frown. He still hasn’t blinked. “I’m sorry to hear of his passing.”
I swallow. This is all wrong. We weren’t important enough to know by name. Not my parents, not my brother, and especially not me. Until the last year, I’ve kept clear of all syndicate dealings, and even then, I’ve been very, very careful.
“I’m Eleanor Jones,” I say, hoping my nerves sell the bit.
Rule #23: Never break a cover, even if you’ve been made.
“I’m a lab tech. And the only way you would know my parents is if they represented you in court. Back in St. Olaf.”
Waring looks down at the fishnet stockings peeking from under the lab coat and raises an eyebrow. As though a woman in STEM can’t also like being a little fancy.
He leans back onto a mahogany desk and crosses his feet. “I hired your parents to do a job right before they disappeared. You look exactly like your mother, you know. I imagine you’re more like her than you care to admit. She never could walk away from a bad hand.”
I don’t snap back. Even as someone who spends quite a bit of time in the Afterlife, I’m not ready to make it a permanent residence.
“It’s a shame they took off like that,” he says.
This guy is trying to goad me, and I don’t know why. All I know is that he is dangerously close to succeeding in making me break character.
“Don’t you want to know what I know about your parents?” he asks, impatient, and it’s the first crack in his armor I’ve seen.
I wish I could beat up this asshole like CJ would. I’d even settle for flirting my way out like Poppy. Tolliver would have already befriended Waring and taken him out for a beer.
And Dante—Dante would have never gotten into this position in the first place. He would have prepared better and had a plan for every contingency.
But I’m me. Just me. Elle, the last and least of the Fields crew. And I don’t know why this guy knows me or what he wants from me, but I think I’ve finally gotten myself into a situation I can’t talk my way out of.
Waring pushes off the desk, taking a step forward just as a haunting, high-pitched caw cuts through the air. Shock and adrenaline rush through me as I turn to find a decaying crow sitting on the back of an armchair, one glowing eye fixed on me.
It launches, and I throw myself out of the way just as a repurposed 2004 hearse crashes through the side of the building.