Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Eight
To knock or not to knock? That is the question.
It’s well past midnight, and I’m standing on Rook’s porch considering my next move as the muffled sounds of a demon party rumble overhead. I could announce my presence, or I could let it be discovered. It’s a matter of what serves my purpose best.
A cold wind slips under my high collar. I’m in a floor-length dress, all-black leather and red lining. Form-fitting bodice, sweeping skirt with a bustle. Structured shoulders, finished to a high shine, like armor. Hair pulled back into a twisted chignon.
Basically, if I’m going to play necromancer, I might as well look the part.
I raise my fist to knock but hesitate.
Around about now, the thrill of the job would usually kick in, the anticipation of all the things that could go wrong and all the solutions I’d discover.
But my confidence is shot, and all I feel is the pounding of my heart and a knot of dread in my stomach.
I remind myself that this is what I’m good at.
I have plans and backup plans, an exit strategy for every scenario, but more than that, I can think on my feet.
I’m made for this job. Because it was never going to be a sabotage or vandalism or even a heist.
This was always going to be a con.
We did the Groundwork, learned everything we could about demons and Hades and Rook.
I’d already done the Encounter in the graveyard when Hades decided she wanted something from me.
The Buildup: I refused her, made her want me more.
And now it’s time for the Rope: draw her in and let her tie herself up. And there’s only one way to do that.
I’m going to give myself up.
An owl hoots in the distance, and I finally decide just to let myself in. No point in appearing meek. Rook already knows me, and if I’m to hand myself over, I need to be appropriately pissy about it.
I punch in the code Rook gave me all those weeks ago. With a click, the door unlocks. It creaks open with the lightest push from my fingertips, revealing the dark foyer beyond.
Where Rook is waiting for me.
Leaning against a credenza, hands in pockets, he’s in his human form, wearing a three-piece suit like the one he was wearing when we first met, hair perfectly coiffed as always.
Over the last few days, I’ve come up with a thousand different things I want to say to him, none of which will be helpful in this current situation. So instead, I just meet his blank stare and smile bitterly.
“You win, asshole. Congratulations.”
Rook only raises an eyebrow.
I sneer. “You chose your mark well. I want my brother back, and if that means doing some contract work for the literal devil, just call me a demon. No offense.”
Rook doesn’t respond, just leans forward, eyes narrowed as though he’s looking for the trick. It’s fine. He won’t figure it out. This is a shell game. Let him think he knows the con, but all the while he’s missing the real play.
“I have one condition,” I say. “I get veto power. I’m not resurrecting any dictators. Or serial killers. Or anyone who watches videos in public without earbuds.”
“That really limits our options,” Rook deadpans as he pushes himself off the credenza.
He takes a few steps forward, close enough he can look me in the eye but still out of reach of an attack.
“I have no issues with your condition, but I also have no influence on whether or not Hades takes your deal.”
“Being the one to resurrect her hasn’t garnered you any favors?”
Rook laughs to himself as though something is not particularly funny. “Your problem,” he says softly, “is that you pride yourself on understanding human nature, but right now, you’re not dealing with humans.”
I tilt my head to look up at him. “Your problem,” I say just as softly, “is you spend too much of your grooming budget on hair gel. Now, are you going to take me to Hades or not?”
He watches me for a moment, expression unreadable, and then nods and gestures for me to follow.
I trail Rook up the spiral staircase—I swear to god, these things are following me—hitching up my skirt, bustle flapping with each step. We pass the second floor, which looks to be mostly bedrooms, and land on the third. The spiral staircase hasn’t ended, though. It must lead to one of the turrets.
There’s a set of double doors to the left. The murmur of voices is now a cacophony. A cold, ghostly light flickers under the door.
“You’re making the right choice,” Rook says.
I smile grimly. “I know.”
He looks like he’s about to say something else but then shakes his head and pushes open the doors.
The room beyond is some kind of ballroom, like something out of a period film.
Except the period is Hell Epoque. A bone chandelier hangs from the center of the coffered ceiling.
The entire place is lit with candles and torches, and it’s brimming with what I assume are demons.
Most of them look human, but some have their horns out, claws wrapped around crystal glasses full of some glowing green drink.
“Is this like a demon cocktail party?” I ask Rook.
“It keeps up morale,” he explains.
“And you think you’re so different from humans.”
On the far side of the room, in front of floor-to-ceiling windows, Hades watches from her throne, legs crossed, a dark pointed crown on her head.
She’s wearing a sleek black suit, her pale hair pulled back into a tight bun.
I was hoping to get eyes on the grimoire before I confronted her, but Rook nudges me forward, and she notices the movement.
She smiles, and it almost looks genuine. “Ms. Fields! Here to try stabbing me again? Why am I not surprised?”
The party grounds to a halt, the room falling silent, all eyes now on me. Just how I like them.
“Oh, I’m not here to stab you.” I wrinkle my nose. It smells awful in here. Almost as bad as Miracle Max.
“Oh?” Hades asks. “Then what is it? Silver bullet? Decapitation? Are you going to go through the list one by one until you finally discover there is no way to kill me?”
I chuckle, taking a few steps toward her. “I’m not here to kill you at all.”
Some people wouldn’t consider that a lie on a technicality. I mean, I’m not here to kill her, I’m here to banish her to hell. Big difference. But I think we’ve established that I have no problem with lying.
“Then why are you here?” Hades seems to be losing patience. That was quick.
I smile. “I’m here to accept your offer.”
“Oh?” she says, unconvinced. “You’ve suddenly had a change of heart?”
“Not so much a change of heart as a realization.”
I catch sight of the grimoire. It’s displayed on a tall, thin podium on the other side of Hades’s throne.
She raises an eyebrow.
“I hate you,” I say.
Rook stiffens beside me, the mood of the room going suddenly tense.
“But I need the grimoire,” I continue. “And you have the grimoire. You want something from me? I want something in return.”
“And what is that?”
“My brother.”
She shakes her head, shrugging. “And who is your brother? Someone important?”
“He is to me. Let me use the grimoire to resurrect him, and I’ll bring back as many people as you want.”
Her eyes narrow. “This sounds like a trick. Do you even have a brother?”
I grit my teeth, reluctantly nodding toward Rook.
“Ask him. The entire reason he was able to”—I swallow—“con me was because he knew I wanted the resurrection spell just as much as he did. Only, instead of resurrecting a dark lord of the underworld, I just want my brother back. That’s why he told me you were his sister.
Exploiting the bonds of common trauma. Textbook con artistry. ”
Hades gives Rook a questioning look. He nods once, expression blank.
After a tense moment, Hades turns back to me. “Fine.”
I step closer, and now I can fully see the podium holding the grimoire. But I can also finally see the source of the smell.
At the base of the podium is a corpse.
It’s barely a body, just a rotting husk. “Late-stage decay” doesn’t begin to cover it. And it’s not even in a coffin or on some kind of platform. It’s just lying there. On the parquet floor.
I bite back the urge to vomit.
“Ah, I see you’ve noticed our visitor,” Hades says. “He’s to be the first of my new army. Unfortunately, we’ve yet to resurrect him.”
She looks over the frozen audience of demons, a sneer on her face. I guess this is what they’ve been doing each midnight. A little drink, a little dance, a little failed necromancy.
“Why don’t you show them how it’s done?” Hades gestures to the podium.
The entire room seems to be holding its breath. The podium is carved with grotesque figures into a dark marble. On it lies the grimoire, the yellow pages dull in the cold light.
“I can’t,” I say.
Hades rises from her throne with slow, deliberate grace, the glint of anger in her eyes. “If you want your brother, you’ll do as I say.”
“No, I mean I can’t. The spell isn’t the entire ritual. You have to reunite the soul with a piece of bone, and then there’s a whole potion to make.”
“Do you think I’m simple?” Hades snaps.
I shrug. “Kinda, yeah.”
Hades ignores me. “We’ve done all that already. I’ve read through the entire ritual.”
She looks at me expectantly.
“Okay, well. Great.” I clear my throat, taking a few steps closer to the grimoire. It’s open to the resurrection page, the dark lettering almost glowing, Tolliver’s handwriting scrawled in the margins.
I’ve almost got my hands on it when a demon calls out from the back of the crowd.
“She’s the one who killed Greg!” it yells. “Skewered him on some statue!”
The room grows tense, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s talking about the gala, me pulling the demon with me into the temple and it landing on Hercules’s, ahem, club.
A laugh bursts out of me. “Oh my god, the demon’s name was Greg?”
There really is always a Greg.
Another demon stands. “And Waring met with her. Twice.”
Hades’s eyes narrow. “You met with Adam Waring?”
I hesitate. “I—yes. He wanted to hire me, but I didn’t take the job.”
“She’s a spy!” yet another demon shouts.
“We can’t trust her!”
“What about Greg?”