by Gwenda Bond
Assuming you manage to escape.
I realize I’m more than a little excited.
I shouldn’t be excited about going to Hell. Avoiding this destination has literally been the focus of most Sunday mornings and half the Wednesday nights of my life.
And yet.
How many people get to journey through here while still alive? And how many of them are obsessed with reading about everything occult?
There’s also the fact that the immense weirdness of being here takes my mind off the fact that I’m no longer a team of two who shares everything with my best friend. That my best friend is now in another team of two. With my brother.
That Mag has been lying to me … For too long. Any length of time is too long. I picture Mag and Jared talking about me late at night in one of their apartments, while I sleep unknowing in my childhood bedroom. They discuss how awful and judgmental I am, how they have to keep things secret from me. I have enough to worry about as it is, they say, figuring my life out. They cuddle first on couches, then in beds, falling for each other while I have zero clue. Everyone I love is leaving me in their dust.
Losing the ability to trust the one person I trust absolutely is too much to bear. Over my brother. My beloved-by-all brother who always wanted to be a lawyer and is well on his way. I didn’t have a hint, not an inkling, they were hooking up. When did this happen? Why didn’t they just tell me?
I shouldn’t fixate on this when I have much, much bigger things to tackle.
“What now?” I ask Luke, who is watching me far too closely.
He hesitates. “You want to talk about it? Why finding out about the two of them bothers you so much?”
“No. I want to get to this spy-globe of yours and save the day.” And if it wasn’t so hot here, I would rethink taking you up on that warming offer. The idea almost melted off my clothes.
I reach up and make sure my hair’s over my ears and I suspect he caught the motion. He doesn’t comment on it though. He gestures at the first ring of thick hedge ahead. “Mind the thorns,” he says.
“After you,” I say.
“I don’t blame you for wanting the view,” he says with one of his winks and moves forward before I can protest.
I have to admit he’s not exactly wrong. He’s walking sin and those jeans show it off.
There is a path, however slim, through the hedge—which turns out to definitely be bones growing thorns, by the way—or maybe it makes a path for Luke. I stay close to him so as not to test the theory, which unfortunately means my view doesn’t last.
“You grew up here, I guess?” I ask, making conversation as sweat slides down my temples. Unfortunately, my inability to both walk through the hedge and talk at the same time means I snag my bare arm on a nasty gray thorn. “Ouch!”
Blood wells and the thorn bulges, growing, trying to follow me as I almost back into another part of the hedge. I freeze in blind terror, nowhere to go. I wait for death by a thousand thorns.
Luke whirls and, after a moment’s hesitation, steps in close and holds his arms out on either side of us. The thorns recede.
I’m breathing hard. His attention fastens on my pricked arm, a drop of blood sliding off …
He thrusts his palm out to catch it. He hesitates, then wipes it on the inside lining of his leather jacket.
The thought of that stretching thorn and what it might be capable of makes me tremble. “I’d say that’s gross, but I have a feeling you just did me a favor.”
The saved-my-life kind.
Luke’s brow furrows and then he quickly takes off the jacket, drops it at our feet, and rips a sleeve off his T-shirt. He gestures for me to hold my arm up to him. He wraps the cloth around the spot with the puncture and ties it loosely.
“Blood attracts attention here. We don’t want that.”
I can tell he means to resume his jaunty, devil-may-care tone, but it barely works. He’s rattled. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Just be careful.” Our eyes link, hold. “Try not to touch anything.”
Intern, he’s an intern. I will try my best not to touch you again. Especially not with my lips.
“Will do,” I say. “Or will not do. You know what I mean.”
He picks up his jacket and puts it back on, and we start toward the castle. I don’t make any further attempts at conversation. Instead I concentrate on every footstep, every movement, knowing any misstep might be my last.
It’s Hell.
* * *
After slow-going through the hedges, we finally get close enough to our destination that the giant castle’s tree-shaped shadow falls over us. Luke turns and I know from one look at his face that we are in grave danger here. Or I am, anyway.
Of course, I am. The thorn proved that.
Though I’m reminded that Luke’s dark internship overlord isn’t happy with him and I still don’t know why. Sure seemed like it was about more than the cultists.
“Once we’re inside the Gray Keep, stay with me. Whatever you do, don’t talk to anyone else.” Luke waits for my nod. Rules and Luke haven’t seemed to go together, so that he’s issuing them now tells me a lot. “I’ll make you less noticeable than usual. Best case, we’re in and out so quickly no one sees you at all and only guards see me.”
Best case hasn’t been happening for us much. “What do I do if someone does see me?”
I’m getting way too good at reading him. I can tell from his expression that he hasn’t developed a contingency plan for that.
“Let me handle it,” he says.
The fate of the world, your chance to prove yourself, et cetera. I don’t argue, but I have no plans of ceding my ability to make decisions to a demonic intern. No matter how hot he is.
“The Gray Keep?” I ask.
“Think of the castle as Hell’s HQ.”
Which reminds me of all the Far Side cartoons my mom loves best. We grew up on them, Jared and me. Another sting at the thought of Jared. I wonder if I’m about to discover that besides Luke demons are slightly pudgy in floppy suits and the devil has pointy ears and a pitchfork. Maybe Gary Larson entered here the same way I’m doing and came back to do cartoon reportage.
I doubt it.
Then we’re moving again. Just past the end of the thorn hedge, there’s a moat that isn’t obvious until we stop at a black cliff’s sharp edge. There’s no hint at how far down the bottom might be. The sound of something like a mix of bubbling water and roaring fire comes from below. Even hotter air than that around us wafts up from the absolute darkness, bringing the sulfur smell of rotten eggs and smoke.
Across the moat is the Gray Keep.
We’re to the right of the broad trunk-shaped portion of the building, and how the branching limbs stay in place is an architectural mystery. But that question can wait. The current problem is how we get in. The place is made of seemingly impenetrable, unreachable-from-here-anyway smooth obsidian walls.
I start, “How do we—”
Luke holds out his hand and a portion of the wall breaks free in response, lowering to provide a smooth black bridge with jagged stone teeth lining the sides. He looks at me, lifts his fingers to his lips in a shh, and starts across.
I follow, staying close.
Then I see why the cue for silence. Two demons lurch toward us from inside a corridor of the keep, their semihuman silhouettes odd.
That’s before I get a good look at them.
Scratch odd and substitute something that means so far beyond odd I need to invent an entirely new word. One of the most interesting books in my occult collection is a cheap reprint of the Dictionnaire Infernal. I own it for the illustrations added in 1863. I always assumed they were fanciful nightmares.
Given the twisted smirking red face and curling pair of elf ears on a being with hissing snakes for feet coming at us, it feels like the images way undersold reality. Beside him is a male figure with impossibly long, thin legs and a crocodile’s head, bat wings extending from his shoulders
. Both wear what seem like a parody of old-timey evening clothes. A silk vest for the red-faced, snake-footed elf, a full jacket that hangs to the knee for the crocodile-bat man.
They catch sight of Luke and bow. The crocodile-bat speaks, “Greetings, P—”
“Lord Geonald, Lord Sethany,” Luke says, hurrying to one side of the bridge. I stay in his shadow. “In his dark glory…”
“Let us reside,” they answer in chorus.
We’re past them quickly, with no indication they’ve spotted me. Luke said he’d make me harder to notice and maybe he actually told the truth.
The palace isn’t as hot as the outdoors, just unpleasantly warm, like sitting too close to a fireplace. A long carpet with a swirl of a red-and-black pattern runs the length of the black stone corridor in front of us. Paintings that look like portraits by Bosch (the painter, not my sweet dog) punctuate the walls. Candles with black tapers burn in skull-shaped sconces along the walls.
“Those were demons?” I wipe sweat from my forehead. “Like you?”
Luke pauses to lift his eyebrows. “Not everyone can be as attractive as me.”
I snort.
He assumes that familiar wounded pout, and there’s no way I’ll let him see how right he is by reacting. Didn’t that kiss reveal too much already?
“Do most demons look like that? Your boss didn’t.”
“Not as such. They’re among the old ones in the aristocracy who like the drama of a ‘perverted form.’ It’s all about the pageantry with them.” He shrugs. “The demonic horde takes all types.”
I catch on one of his words. “Are you aristocracy?”
It only makes sense, I guess. They bowed to him. Otherwise how would he know so much about the castle?
After a moment’s hesitation, he says, “We better hurry up.”
“Shady non-answer noted,” I say.
Luke strides ahead, so I have no choice but to drop it if I want to keep up. Several paces along, voices reach us from around the corner at the end of the hallway. Whoever they belong to is barely out of view and coming our way.
Luke looks around and his panic would be funny, if it wasn’t so real.
“It’s Rofocale. In here,” he says, grabbing my arm and thrusting me toward a wall—which I stumble through and land on the other side of before I can even blink.
I’m alone.
In the most wonderful and magical place I’ve ever seen in my life: Hell’s library.
The shelves stretch up and up and up. I count thirteen levels of stacks, with a stained-glass mural ceiling that riffs on Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, only in this image Lucifer’s arm stretches out to offer a black book to a horde of angels. The smell of old books is intoxicating, paper and dust and … presumably all the occult knowledge that’s forbidden for someone like me to know.
I walk toward the shelves closest to me and inhale deeply. I may be in Hell, but it feels almost like Heaven right now.
I run my hand along the spines. I choose a volume with brilliant gold lettering on black leather and slide it free, nearly bowing under its weight. My shoulder is already aching from the weight of the spearhead and grimoire in my bag, so I sink to the floor to take a look at the new book. Laying it flat, I admire the tracery of gold symbols embroidered into the cover.
Finally, I open it.
For a second, I think it’s Latin, and I don’t know much Latin. Then I realize the words are almost blurred, nearly hovering above the page. I can’t read them.
I crawl to the shelf and pull down three more books. I open them and … The same thing happens.
“Oh, hell,” I say, because there’s a panic drum in my chest. Surely, it’s just Hell. Luke told me not to touch anything.
But what if I can’t read anymore? What if I’ve permanently stolen my favorite thing in the world from myself? With no way to get it back? Something makes me certain that there will be no workarounds. No audio books, no learning Braille. Hell has gotten into my head and made it so I’ll never read again. Books have been stolen from me forever.
There have been plenty of times in history when someone like me wouldn’t be able to read. But I am me. I can’t imagine it.
Except now I can, and it’s the worst thing as I visualize it spiraling out into my daily life. It might sound silly, but if I can’t read, if there are no more stories, no more random facts to be learned, how will I continue to be me?
Wait. Wait, I need to get a grip. I haven’t slept in way too long and I’m overtired. Possibly, it’s only Hell’s collection that’s a problem, not intended for my mortal eyes.
I slip the grimoire from my bag. This is the test. This is how I’ll know. The pages and the way they look is burned in my memory, even if I can’t read the language.
I open the cover.
The words hover and blur. It’s exactly the same as the rest. Whispering laughter wraps around me even though I don’t see anyone.
I try to steady my breathing. That doesn’t work. Before I know it my chest heaves with sobs and my eyes burn with tears and I’m pulling more books from the shelves. I know I have to stop, get control of myself. But I can’t.
Maybe the next book will make sense or the next …
Or maybe I’ll be trapped here and go mad. What a fool I was to come to this place.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LUKE
Rofocale and Porsoth spot me immediately, and Porsoth’s busted expression makes it clear I’m the subject of their intense corridor confab. I hope Callie remembers what I said about keeping her hands to herself until I can steer these two in another direction, far away from me.
“Master!” Porsoth says with a pleased vibrato squeal. “You’ve returned!” He raises an owlish brow at Rofocale. “And so soon! I told you Luke would surprise you.”
It’s hard to believe Porsoth used to be considered one of Hell’s most fearsome demons. His exploits were legend. He’s always been so kind and deferential to me, so more or less accommodating of my slacking off instead of applying myself to my studies. The exact opposite of Rofocale. The only torture I can imagine Porsoth accomplishing is assigning an overlong reading list.
“He constantly surprises me,” Rofocale allows, making it clear he means in unpleasant ways. “It is soon for you to return…” He scans me from head to toe. “And you’re still as soulless as when I last saw you. What are you doing back here?”
Rofocale would ask the right question. I choose the obvious course of action: I lie.
“I, ah, came to seek Porsoth’s counsel,” I say.
“You did?” Porsoth smooths a wing down his black scholar’s robe. He’s the shocked one now, though he recovers quickly. “I mean, why, of course you did. How can I assist?”
Rofocale, however, isn’t buying what I’m selling. “Luke, what are you truly doing back here? Don’t obfuscate.”
“Fine.” I heave a weary sigh, as if I’m sick of the worst being assumed. Poor me. “I came to geolocate the Order of Elerion with a tool Father loaned me.”
Rofocale’s brows arch over his red-pupiled eyes. “You told your father about this situation?”
I shrug.
His gaze narrows, but he doesn’t call me out. If I’m telling the truth and he doesn’t believe me, then it might offend Father. Obviously I’m not anywhere close to veracity’s neighborhood, and in point of fact I fully intend to break into Father’s throne room and use the World Watcher with him none the wiser. Forever and ever, lament.
Here’s hoping Rofocale never finds that out.
“We’ll leave you to get on with it, then,” Rofocale says at last. “Tick tock, after all.”
“Most people use digital clocks these days,” I say because I can’t help myself. “But I get the point.”
Porsoth gives me a pleading glance. He clearly wants me to beg him to stay, to ask his counsel. I’m honestly tempted. He is our wisest scholar.
But involving him might eventually end up with him in the boiling water of deadly o
ld Dad’s wrath. Better for him to not know what I’m up to. Then he can’t be blamed.
I wave. “I’m on top of it all now, I promise.”
With a skeptical sniff, Rofocale continues up the hall and, after a breath’s hesitation, Porsoth goes after him. I wait until they’re out of sight and I step through the wall.
“Oh, Callie, no,” I say.
She’s on the floor, a heap of books scattered around her in disarray. The library wraiths are going to lose their know-it-all cool at the mess, but that’s not my main concern. My concern is that Callie already seems to have. Hell doesn’t need much of an invitation to torment a human. She must have given it one.
It’s my fault for leaving her alone here. I should’ve known something like this would happen.
“Callie?” I try again.
She doesn’t even look up at my voice. Her chin is tucked to her chest. She clutches the grimoire that brought us together to her stomach and rocks back and forth. Her eyes are shut tight.
“Look at me.” I approach her cautiously, crouching nearby. I put a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Callie, look at me.”
“You’re not real, none of this is real,” she says.
“It is,” I say. “But it’ll be okay. I promise.”
She shakes her head. “If it’s real, I don’t want to be.”
This is not the Callisto I’ve come to know and … appreciate. She’s a human and this is Hell and I abandoned her not just anywhere, but in the one place I knew she’d most love.
Of course, it turned on her. Of course it did. Just my latest screw-up.
I scoop up a nearby book and understand immediately what the library has done. I shake my head. I can’t help but be impressed. This is what I meant when I said Hell understands us better than we do ourselves. It’s an ingenious way to torture Callie, making her unable to read.
“Leave her alone,” I say.
“It’s not real, not real,” she says.
I’ve got to get her to a place where she can listen. I reach out and smooth her hair back from her cheek. Her eyes are closed and she’s still shaking her head.
At sea, I latch onto a drastic measure. I need her to feel something besides this sorrow.