Chapter Eight
Eight
Most people don’t know about the Afterlife. I mean, lots of people believe in it. But for the vast majority of humans, the Afterlife is just that—a belief. A hope.
Those who know, those who have been there and returned, generally fall into one of three categories.
In the first group are the syndicates. The Nightshades, the Phantoms, the Ferrymen, the Coven, and the Reapers. Though, really, only members of the family are in the know. A good chunk of the lower-level members just think they’re part of your garden-variety Mafia.
In the second group are heaven hoppers, like me.
This is a stupid name and a bit of a misnomer.
(The Afterlife isn’t heaven, and we don’t really hop.
What can I say? People like alliteration.) Unlike syndicate members, we’re free agents.
Sure, some have the whole Robin Hood thing going on—stick it to the man, stand up for the little guy—but most of us are just trying to make a buck.
In the third group are tourists.
Seeing as I didn’t make CJ come recruit Poppy with me, I assumed they owed it to me to talk to Tolliver themself.
But I learned I assumed wrong when they handed me a wad of cash and told me to take the bus.
So, it’s well after midnight, and I’m standing outside, alone, in line for a nightclub in New Haven called Styx.
The night air is cold enough to be called bracing and smells like weed and tequila.
The bass of the music inside thumps hypnotically, and every once in a while, a car will drive past, splashing water up on the sidewalk.
I’m in the shortest skirt I own and a sheer top showing off a lace bralette under my leather jacket. My makeup is heavy enough I’m nearly unrecognizable, and my hair is held in place with enough hair spray, I should avoid open flames.
I make it to the front of the line and hand over my ID to the bouncer. Well, not my actual ID. Tonight, I’m twenty-one-year-old Ava Harper from San Antonio.
The bouncer gives me a once-over, lingering a little too long on my breasts. Which, on principle, I should be mad at but in actuality keeps the bouncer from looking too closely at how Ava Harper is fifty pounds lighter and blond.
He leers as he hands me back the ID and lets me past the rope.
“Thank ya kindly,” I say in my best Texan accent.
The nightclub is a hyper-colored world of madness.
The bass rhythm that was muffled outside is now shaking my bones.
A crowd of scantily dressed people writhes on the dance floor, the air heavy with the stench of sweat and alcohol.
I make a beeline to the back where a VIP room is hidden by a velvet curtain. Another bouncer waits next to it.
“VIPs only,” he says as I approach.
I give him a winning smile. “Lucky for me, I’m the V-est of P’s. I’m here to see Tolliver.”
The bouncer doesn’t even look at me. “Don’t know him.”
“I’ll wait,” I say, taking a coin out of my pocket.
I don’t let him see it before placing it in his hand, knowing he’ll recognize the weight and feel.
An obol.
A Phantoms obol, to be exact, this one decorated with a goat-headed devil.
I know I said the only real obol I have is the Ferryman one, and that’s true. This one is CJ’s.
Every once in a while, CJ will use their Melinas name or their stash of Phantoms obols to get us access to places. I don’t know how many obols they’ve got left, but they’re bound to run out eventually, considering they can’t go back to their family for more.
The bouncer pockets the obol and nods, opening the door for me. “Fourth door on the right.”
“Thanks,” I say, stumbling a little on my heels as I pass.
He catches me and puts me back on my feet.
I giggle. “Oops, sorry.”
“Maybe switch to water, sweetheart,” he says.
Once the door shuts behind me, the music once again muffled, I put the obol I just pickpocketed back in my purse. I’ll get it back to CJ before they even realize it’s gone.
I look down the hall in front of me—a long corridor with neon lights running near the ceiling. It seems to go on forever, but that’s part of the illusion. There are far more rooms than this building should be able to accommodate, but not as many as the corridor suggests.
I find the fourth door on the right. I’m about to knock but then decide against it. It’s better to have the upper hand, so instead I just let myself right in.
I expect Tolliver to be hunched over some chemicals in a fancy lab coat, but it seems the bouncer has sent me to one of the tourist rooms.
A pair of plush spa loungers sit under two glass hoods filled with a swirling gray fog we call Kykeon mist. Reclining on the loungers, barely visible through the mist, are two people dressed in formal wear. They’re dead to the world.
Literally.
And they’ve paid a lot of money to be so.
The club is just a front. The real business of Styx is Afterlife tourism. Its very wealthy clientele pays for exclusive passage to the other side. They’re provided with the means and a guide, and in exchange, they hand over not only cash but also the magic they bring back.
You might wonder why someone would want to tour the Afterlife. Hell if I know. I think some people go to talk to loved ones instead of doing a séance. Others might just like the thrill of dying but without the commitment. Mostly, I think rich people just like doing things poor people can’t.
There’s a suction noise, and the mist retreats through clear tubes that disappear into the ceiling. Once it’s fully withdrawn, the bodies in the Orpheus chambers, now visible, start glowing.
It’s a freaky aftereffect of a trip to the Afterlife.
It only lasts moments, but basically, it’s the magic the soul brought back incorporating itself into the body.
At least, it normally would. But the tourists have agreed to relinquish all rights and privileges to any magic they return with.
So before the glow can fade, it’s siphoned out of them.
Their backs arch as the glow is extracted, breaking into millions of tiny particles, vacuumed up like grit into a separate tube.
The people in the chambers finally take a deep breath, their eyes opening. They’ll probably be weirded out to see a stranger in their tour room, but before I can hide or leave, the door opens, and in walks a tall boy in a lab coat.
Tolliver Takao
Alchemist. Himbo. My longtime crush. And the guy I made out with once, starting a series of events that ultimately led to my brother’s death.
Tolliver basically lived at our house growing up.
After his parents divorced, his mom brought him from Berkeley to Boston, as far away as they could get from his dad.
Tolliver wasn’t what you’d call a troubled kid, but he did get into a lot of trouble, mostly because he was bored and curious.
When he was suspended for accidentally creating a smoke bomb at school, my parents immediately asked Dante to befriend him.
They needed a new alchemist, and who better to recruit than a twelve-year-old boy?
He doesn’t notice me as he enters, and I’m too struck by seeing him again after so long to do anything but stare.
His black hair is pulled up into a bun, and he’s wearing his nerdy little wire-rimmed glasses that inexplicably make him look somehow hotter?
His shirt is tight enough you can see the outlines of pecs, abs, and other muscles I don’t know the names of.
He’s wearing the prosthetic right hand that he only puts on when he’s feeling self-conscious.
He manually lifts the domes over the Orpheus chambers and helps the two tourists to their feet. Both are a little green in the face. This must be their first time dying.
“You might experience some dizziness, hallucinations, and light existential terror over the next twenty-four hours,” Tolliver says perfunctorily, as though he says it dozens of times a day.
He leads them to the door.
“Copies of your waivers and receipt are available in the online portal.”
He opens the door and gestures for them to step through.
“You’ll find your exit at the end of the hall. Thank you for visiting Styx, and please remember to leave us a five-star review.”
He shuts the door behind them and sighs, taking his glasses off and running his hand over his face.
“This job seems boring,” I say.
“Holy shit!”
He jolts and shoves his glasses on. Blinking, he opens the door and leans out, scanning both ends of the corridor. Then he pivots back inside, turns in a circle as though checking to see if he missed anyone else casually standing in the room, and brings his gaze back to me.
He finally seems to realize that I’m not a figment of his imagination, and then he notices my outfit, heat flaring in his eyes.
“Holy shit,” he says again, and I’m super mad at the butterflies that erupt in my stomach. The last thing I need is to get all swoony around this guy after everything that stands between us.
“Elle,” he says, taking a step toward me, freezing when I take a step back.
His jaw is slack, his wide eyes roaming my body, and he’s tapping his right hand against his leg, a nervous habit he picked up when he was younger and the prosthetics didn’t fit well. Tolliver never could hide his emotions. He’s an amazing alchemist but a shit con artist.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Come here often?”
Tolliver blinks, then scratches the back of his neck, his cheeks going red. “Usually five days a week, except for holidays. So, yeah, I guess, pretty often.”
“That’s not—never mind.”
He’s half a foot taller than me, but something about his eyes makes it look like he’s gazing up at me like a supplicant. It’s the look he gets when he’s about to kiss me. Or, I guess, the look he got that one time he kissed me.
“I’m, like, super stoked you’re here right now.” He takes a step toward me.
I take one step back and pick up a Styx Afterlife tours brochure from a nearby rack and flip through it. “This place is beneath you, Tolliver. What, do they have you brewing up Miracle Max for rich assholes who want to ask Grandma where she hid her jewelry?”
Tolliver frowns. “Not all of them are assholes.”
“You’re better than this,” I say.
And as usual, I’m right. Tolliver could have taken a job with the best in the business because he’s the best in the business. His version of Kykeon mist is used by almost every heaven hopper in the biz, and probably most of the syndicates as well.
I suppose I should take a moment to explain Kykeon mist. It’s what we call any potion that, once inhaled, sends your soul to the Afterlife.
The first heaven hoppers used a fungus that’s mostly found on grasses in a small region of Greece.
These days, different alchemical compounds have been created to take its place.
Throughout history, there have been several different formulations, some successful, some not.
The current iteration of mist is called Miracle Max.
It has fewer side effects than its predecessors and has an almost zero percent accidental death rate.
Tolliver didn’t invent Miracle Max, but he did perfect it. He could have gone anywhere after the crew broke up, but he’s here playing travel agent to wealthy thrill-seekers.
He shrugs at my accusation. “It pays well.”
“Please. You’re bored out of your mind.”
“I don’t want another crew, Elle.” He gives me his patented puppy dog look. “I only ever wanted you…all. You all. You guys. Our crew.”
I swallow. “Well, good. Because I’m here to hire you for a job.”
I ready myself to give the pitch, to convince Tolliver to come back and work with us, while carefully avoiding any reference to our last job or the fact that Dante’s death is partially his fault.
But before I even open my mouth, a grin spreads across Tolliver’s face.
“I’m in.”