“Oh dear.” Another watery smile. “Oh, yes. Very unpleasant.”
“Am I the baby? The baby they found you with?”
She laughs. “Who else would it be?”
“Mom, I need to know everything. I don’t know what else to do, where else to look. I don’t know how long I can stay here. You need to tell me what happened—you need to tell me about Asteria.”
“One thing at a time.” Her measured tone is infuriating. “I didn’t go missing, dear. I was summoned.”
“Summoned?”
“Brought down. To him.” She looks at me with wide, innocent eyes. I’ve seen that look before. Hundreds of times. It was usually accompanied byhe told me he’d never do it againorhe said he only gets like this because he loves me so much. Rage claws its way up my throat.
“Mom, who ishim?”
Her throat bobs with a heavy swallow. And then, she smiles. “Hades.”
I storm back to my desk in a blinding state of fury and anguish only to find a new email waiting in my inbox.
Dear Ms. Diantha Moro,
We are writing to inform you that your thesis advisor has been changed toDR. CORMAC BOWEN.Pleaseclick hereto select a date and time for your first dissertation and research review.
Sincerely,
U of E Dept. of Art History
PS: hey Diantha this is actually Ray from bowen’s class lolol I’m assisting now. Rumor has it that your old advisor is retiring. I can tell you all about it if you wanna get a beer after next class - lmk :)
I don’t click the fucking link.
Instead, I grab my bag, yank on my coat, and storm across campus toward Bowen’s office on the fifth floor of the Art History building. The pieces of my life float around me; they nip at my ankles like angry guard dogs. We spent our whole lives running from demons. Had that been true all along? Where had my mother gone for a year?
Could she realm travel? Maybe she’d found a portal. Somewhere with a high density of magical beings or objects.
I need to get into that catacomb. I need to get into that fucking crypt.This is the only fully formed thought I’m capable of as I burst into the cavernous building and up the spiraling staircase through the northern turret.
The air grows warmer as I climb higher and higher, the stone walls closing in tighter and tighter. Two floors up, I rip off my jacket and tie it around my waist, praying Orfeo doesn’t jump out from some corner and see me like this.
The polished-wood steps grow more worn, cobwebs catching on my hands as I use the railing to hold myself steady.
Bowen’s office is at the end of a long, narrow hallway, and next to it is an alcove with an altar to Our Lady of Peace adorned with fake candles and statuettes of angels and saints, dried roses and prayer cards. The flickering candlelight and the single, buzzing overhead light stop me, my anger interrupted momentarily by fear.
I stare at the statue of Mary, encased in shadows.
I remember my mother always used to say that demons moved in the shadows.
You’re safe, I tell myself. I grit my teeth.You are safe.
I press on, passing through the ghoulish, green overhead light. I find the door with his name and press my face to the fogged glass, spying the silhouette of a man at a desk. Then, I start banging on the door with my closed fist. “It’s Diantha. Let me in.”
The shadow barely stirs.Fucker.
“I know you’re in there,” I call out. “Let me in, Bowen.” I bang harder. “I’m not going away.”
Suddenly, the door swings open.
“Not even Professor Bowen, eh?”
