Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Seven
Scorch marks run along the edge of the page where hellfire had been used to remove it from the codex.
Hellfire, which can only be used by demons. Like Rook.
I don’t know how he did it with all of us laser-focused on the grimoire, but he’s obviously sneakier than I gave him credit for. I mean, I guess we already figured that out with the whole conning-me thing. I shouldn’t be surprised he had tricks hidden up his sleeves.
“The rest of the spell?” Ezra asks.
“Or a new one,” CJ suggests.
“Whatever it is,” I say, “if Rook didn’t want us to have it, it must be incredibly dangerous.”
Something about this feels momentous, like a key just within my reach, a word on the tip of my tongue.
I grin. “We have twelve hours to translate this. And…go.”
It takes fourteen and half hours to translate, but who’s counting?
(I am. I’m counting.)
The losses of Poppy and Rook hang over the entire process.
Luckily, we have a better handle on how the writing system works, two people who speak ancient languages, and the cherry on top—since the page was torn from the book, it’s no longer under whatever protection spell kept us from copying it, so we can enter the Latin straight into Google Translate.
Once Tolliver finishes writing out the final translation onto the page, I take it from him and stand in front of CJ’s fake fireplace, clearing my throat. I try not to be too theatrical—that was Poppy’s thing—but come on, this is exciting.
“ ‘This is the solemn rite of banishment,’ ” I recite, and pause.
Energy pulses through the room, and I feel the rush of the last piece of a con falling into place.
“ ‘One soul, blessed with a mysterious gift that flows through the marrow, first must gather the due elements: a single hair or drop of blood from the one to be returned, withered leaves collected under the waning moon, the essence of ash and rot distilled at the witching hour, a sprig of cypress harvested at dusk’…”
“Ugh. Why are there so many ingredients?” CJ mutters.
“Is this what I think it is?” Ezra asks.
“Depends,” I say. “Do you think it’s a banishing spell?”
“A what?” Tolliver asks.
“This is the companion spell to the resurrection spell. With the resurrection spell, I resurrected Hades. And now, with the banishment spell, I can send her right back to hell.” I can’t keep the smile off my face. “This is no longer just a heist.”
The others stare at me from CJ’s floral couch. Crowlene lets out a caw from her perch.
“It was never really a heist,” Ezra points out, “because we weren’t stealing the codex, we were destroying it. If anything, that’s a…vandalism?”
I grimace. “Ew, no.”
“Sabotage,” CJ says.
“A quest?” Tolliver suggests.
I shake my head, my eyes scanning the rest of the spell. “Dante still would have called it a heist.”
He would have loved this job, too.
It turns out this job isn’t a vandalism or a quest or a heist. It’s a murder. We’re doing a murder. And, you know, I don’t feel all that bad about it.
Before we can move forward with the plan, though, we have to locate Hades.
My gut tells me she’s with Rook at his mansion.
We need to confirm it, though. So first, Rook gets a call from the city (plus an email, plus a text, because when you’re masquerading as bureaucracy, always do things in triplicate) letting him know that crews will be working on the power lines that lead to his house.
Meanwhile, Tolliver calls in a favor from his buddies from his job at Styx.
The next day, a group of club bouncers and Afterlife tourist agents shows up at Rook’s house dressed as linemen in a bucket truck we “borrowed” from the power company’s depot.
They place a small high-zoom camera on top of one of the utility poles.
Only one of the fake linemen is electrocuted in the process, and, really, it’s a very mild electrocution.
I don’t even need to resurrect him, and he’ll be out of the hospital in a few days.
Once the camera is in place, we’re able to surveil remotely.
We quickly discover that not only has Rook returned home, but he’s brought a very alive Hades with him.
As much as I’d hoped that fork through the sternum had killed Hades, I knew it was just wishful thinking.
If wishes were fishes or however that saying goes.
There’s also a steady stream of visitors: several hundred of what I assume are demons in the Cult of Hades plus one DoorDash driver who drops off a Personal Pan Pizza, a box of wine, three entire rotisserie chickens, and a bag of limes.
During the day, the house is mostly quiet, but there’s activity every night at midnight.
The entire top floor lights up, both with electricity and the occasional flash of Hades’s bident.
We don’t pick up much sound on the surveillance camera, but there is a faint thump of music or the scuffle of fighting or the low roar of voices.
Things quiet down around three in the morning, then they start back up again the following night.
We could try taking out Hades during the day, but we’d come across the same problem Ezra did when crowds were thin in Times Square.
Fewer people meant fewer distractions—less shouting, less laughter, less bumping and pushing.
Without a crowd, the mark is focused on you.
Sometimes the best time to do a job is when everyone’s watching.
You just have to make sure they’re seeing what you want them to see.