53. Chapter 53
Milo
The waiting room has deteriorated over the hours.
Half the overhead lights have dimmed to a bilious red, leaving the corners in shadow, while the air has grown thick with the stale heat of too many supernatural bodies packed together for too long.
The vending machine has been screaming EXACT CHANGE ONLY at a confused goblin for the better part of an hour.
Krell, somehow, is asleep through all of it.
He sits slumped in the chair opposite me, arms crossed, head tipped back, projecting impressive superiority despite snoring loudly enough to irritate half the room.
The vampire three rows over has been glaring at him with increasing hostility, while a banshee near the far wall has started matching the sound with a low, theatrical hum.
I’d enjoy that more if I weren’t exhausted.
My eyes feel gritty whenever I blink; a dull ache has taken root behind my temples, and the infernal air keeps drying my throat no matter how much water I steal from the dispenser beside Tavrik’s booth.
Still, whenever the board clicks forward, relief and dread arrive together.
4914.
Another case closer.
The delay has become a reprieve. As long as I’m sitting here, nobody is taking me to the Soul Furnace.
Tavrik hasn’t moved from behind his glass partition except to reach for forms, stamp files, or glare through the hatch at whoever is testing the limits of his patience.
His desk has become even more crowded. A stack beside him now leans so far to the left that I’ve spent the last twenty minutes waiting for it to collapse.
At some point he replaced his empty cup with one labeled WORLD’S OKAYEST SUPERVISOR, though I still haven’t seen him leave his chair.
I’m beginning to suspect the booth isn’t employment so much as a sentence.
My head grows too heavy to hold upright.
I let it rest against the wall and close my eyes, listening to the strange rhythm that’s developed around me: Krell’s snoring, the distant clang of processing gates, paper sliding through Tavrik’s hatch, the occasional electronic chirp as the board advances by one miserable digit.
Footsteps approach from the main corridor.
I ignore them. People have been arriving and leaving for hours.
Case transfers. Supervisors. Clerks carrying stacks of folders thick enough to qualify as weapons.
One unfortunate ghoul has been redirected through this waiting room three separate times because nobody can agree whether his complaint belongs under Resurrection Errors or Employment Disputes.
“Zavian.”
My eyes snap open.
Exhaustion refuses to make sense of what I’m seeing.
I recognize the elegant black shoes first, then the immaculate hem of dark robes falling precisely where it should.
Her hands are folded loosely at her waist, every claw polished the same deep red she’s worn for as long as I can remember. Only then do I look at her face.
Sleep vanishes so completely it might never have existed. My spine straightens. Six hours ago, I was ripped away from Evie. Since then, I’ve imagined tribunals, punishment, the Furnace, and several centuries of increasingly inventive bureaucratic misery.
I hadn’t prepared myself for my mother.
“What are you doing here?” I spring to my feet. The waiting room tilts to one side, and I grip the edge of the bench until my balance returns.
She ignores me and walks straight toward Tavrik’s booth. A pair of imps squeeze themselves against a pillar. The shifter two rows over looks up from his mutilated ticket, takes one look at her face, and abruptly develops a fascination with his own shoes.
Tavrik sees her coming and reaches for the little sliding panel in the glass. He gets it halfway closed. My mother catches the edge with two fingers.
“No.”
He pauses. Neither of them moves. Then all six of his eyes narrow. “Ma’am, I need you to let go.”
“I’m here to collect Zavian Mal’Kethros Vaelthur. His hearing has been moved up.”
“Wonderful. Take a number.”
He reaches for the dispenser beneath the desk. My mother slides the partition open even further. Tavrik stares at her hand.
“Please refrain from interfering with the hatch.” His upper-left eye twitches.
“Then stop closing it while I’m speaking.”
“I close it because that is what the hatch is for.”
“Not anymore.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Tavrik exhales through his nose and sits back in his chair. “Fine. State your business before I develop a medical condition.”
“My son’s case has been escalated to priority review, and I’m taking him upstairs now.”
“You can’t just walk in here and remove someone from the queue.”
“I’m not removing him. You are.” She leans closer. “Cross him off your list. His hearing begins in fifteen minutes.”
“Everyone in this room has somewhere they believe they need to be.”
“You can either check the priority list now,” she says, “or explain to the tribunal why their scheduled defendant missed the opening of his own hearing because you refused to release him.”
With profound resentment, Tavrik drags a thicker ledger out from beneath the desk. He flips through several glowing pages, muttering under his breath until one claw halts halfway down a column. All six eyes narrow.
My mother waits.
“Fine. Priority transfer approved.” He drags his pen through my case number so hard that the nib catches in the paper. “He’s released pending tribunal review.”
My mother almost smiles. “See? Much easier.”
“For you.”
“For everyone.”
He mutters something I don’t catch and reaches for a stamp, slamming it down and jolting the coffee cup by his elbow. He nods past my shoulder.
“Should I wake your associate?”
My mother turns toward Krell. The look she gives him is the same one she once gave a dead rat discovered beneath the pantry stairs.
“Leave him.” She shrugs. “Something tells me his case file is sitting at the very bottom of the priority list. He’ll be here a very long time.”
She turns and walks toward the corridor without waiting to see if I’m following.
I catch up to her in three strides. The main hall branches into multiple passages, each one identical to the last: black stone walls, flickering torches, the distant sound of chains and muted screaming.
My mother moves through it all with her usual measured composure. I expected anger. At the very least, disappointment. Instead, her expression is smooth, her pace unhurried, not a single sharp movement betraying what she might be thinking.
“How did you know where I was?”
“We received a summons the moment Hell processed your return.” She doesn’t slow down. Her footsteps echo against the stone. “We were informed of your failure and instructed to appear for the hearing.”
“Is Father livid?”
“Yes.”
I expect her to elaborate. She doesn’t.
We turn left down another corridor. The deeper we go, the quieter it becomes, the noise fading behind us until there’s only the steady click of her heels and the low hiss of torchlight against stone.
Usually, this is the point where I start building an explanation in my head, picking through every mistake for the version that sounds least disappointing.
This time, I can’t bring myself to bother.
“I wish I had some grand excuse for what happened, but I don’t.”
She turns slightly toward me. “Then what do you have?”
“The truth. I’m not cut out for soul collecting. Or, if I’m bluntly honest, for Hell.”
My mother stops. We’re standing in the middle of an empty corridor, torchlight casting uneven shadows across her face.
“I know,” she says finally.
“What?”
“You think I haven’t noticed?” She adjusts one sleeve.
“You’ve been miserable here your entire life.
Most of your time is spent avoiding other demons, hiding in archives, and dressing like a mortal even when it makes you a target.
Fitting in has never come naturally to you, Zavian. I’ve always known that.”
There’s no accusation in her voice, which makes it harder.
“I don’t want this.”
Her brows lift. “This?”
“Any of it.” I gesture vaguely. “Collecting souls. Father’s work. Spending eternity trying to become the sort of demon everyone keeps insisting I ought to be. I’m tired of it.”
“I’m sure you are.” Mother’s expression softens by a fraction before she starts walking again. “But it doesn’t change what’s about to happen. The Tribunal will want an explanation for the failed contract.”
“I have one.”
Mother waits for me to continue, but I let the silence stretch between us. My footsteps fall half a beat out of rhythm with hers.
“And?” she asks, eventually.
I drag a hand over the back of my neck. There’s no version of this that sounds better out loud. “I couldn’t get her to bargain with me.”
“You couldn’t?”
“No.”
She exhales through her nose. “The Tribunal won’t accept that. You had a month, Zavian. And you’re telling me she simply refused to make a deal, and you did nothing about it?”
“I tried.”
“It’s still not much of an argument.”
“Why would I need one?” I slow beside her. “The terms were clear. I failed the contract, Hell recalled me, and the punishment was the Furnace. I thought this hearing was ceremonial at best.”
Mother studies me for a moment. “You always have the right to appeal.”
I frown. “Even for this?”
“For anything that carries permanent or indefinite punishment. Hell enjoys procedure almost as much as suffering, and apparently someone centuries ago decided that condemned demons should be allowed to object.” She adjusts one cuff.
“Usually at great length and with very little success, but the right exists.”
“That seems surprisingly reasonable.”
We continue down the corridor, the passage widening around us as the tribunal wing draws closer. Voices drift from somewhere ahead now, muted by thick doors and distance. A pair of clerks hurry past, carrying stacks of red folders against their chests.
My mother stops just before the entrance. She turns to face me, one hand lifting to adjust the collar of my sweater.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Quickly.”
“I was technically summoned by a cat using a toy Ouija board.”
Her hands falter. “A cat?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t matter who performed the summoning. The contract attaches to the mortal with legal possession of the property and the animal responsible for the invocation.” She gives a quiet scoff. “So unless you’re planning to argue that the cat owns real estate, your agreement was with the woman.”
“I know, that wasn’t my question.”
“Then what was?”
“The cat was unusual.” I lower my voice as another clerk passes. “He could talk. And he knew my demon name.”
Her hands drop to her sides. “Your full name?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.” I study her. “Do you know what he could be?”
“A talking cat alone could be any number of things. A curse. Witchcraft. Some form of possession or transformation.” Her expression gives nothing away. “But knowing your full given name without being told narrows the possibilities. Hell may be involved.”
“Involved how?”
“There have been punishments involving altered forms. Bindings. Transformations.” She adjusts one cuff. “They aren’t well recorded.”
That does very little to reassure me.
Mother straightens. “If Hell was involved in the summoning through an unidentified supernatural intermediary, the Tribunal might grant you another chance. It could warrant an investigation. They’d have to keep you out of the Furnace while they review the circumstances.”
“No.”
She blinks. “What do you mean, no?”
“I don’t want another chance. I’ll take the punishment and be done with it.”
“You realize what you’re saying.” Her fingers curl once against the side of her robes before she stills them.
“Yes.”
“The Furnace, Zavian. Indefinitely.”
“I know.” But fear doesn’t make me take the words back. “I meant what I said before. I don’t want to keep doing this.”
“You’d rather spend eternity in torment than attempt to salvage your position here?”
“Yes.”
“What’s next?” She lets out a sharp breath. “Are you going to walk in there and beg them to make it worse? Ask them to strip your demonhood entirely?”
“That’s possible?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You just said it.”
“As a joke.” She flicks one hand between us. “It’s an extreme punishment reserved for the most humiliating failures. It’s barely documented because it’s an embarrassment to Hell. You’d have to be spectacularly reckless to even suggest it.”
“What happens to demons who get that punishment?”
Her eyes narrow. “Why does it matter?”
“Just tell me.” I hear the urgency in my voice and lower it, but there’s no taking the question back now. “Please.”
Mother studies me with growing suspicion, then sighs.
“It depends on the Tribunal and the offense. Most documented cases were made mortal. Some were reduced to lesser forms. Insects, occasionally. One particularly vindictive arbiter turned a demon into a potted plant. The point is that it’s rare, permanent, and thoroughly degrading. ”
“Mortals,” I repeat.
“Yes.” She says it impatiently, clearly expecting the word to disgust me. Instead, I can’t stop thinking about it. “Stripped of power, rank, immortality. Sent back to the mortal realm to live out one pathetic human lifespan. No demon in their right mind would request it.”
For the first time, the punishment sounds like a possibility instead of a threat. I could ask for it. Go in there and request the one thing that might give me exactly what I want.
It’s reckless and stupid, the kind of decision that would confirm every terrible thing anyone has ever thought about me. But it could also make me mortal, give me a lifespan that matches Evie’s, and give me a chance to go back to Brindlewood.
I crush the hope before it can become certainty, because Mother said could. The Tribunal might refuse and decide an insect is more humiliating. I could walk into that chamber, ask for the first thing I’ve ever been willing to risk everything for, and leave as a beetle.
“We should go in.” I head toward the entrance. “You said the hearing starts soon.”
She grabs my arm. When I turn, the calm has returned to her expression, but I know her too well now to miss the concern underneath it.
“If you do something foolish in there, I can’t protect you from the consequences.”
“I know.”
Mother’s mouth presses into a thin line. Her fingers loosen from my arm.
“Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She turns and sweeps through the entrance ahead of me, dark fabric whispering over the stone as the tribunal doors open to admit her.
I walk through the tribunal doors thinking about one word: mortal. It’s reckless, humiliating, and potentially disastrous, but if it could give me a way back to Evie, I’m going to ask for it.