My real eyes fly open.
I’m in a chamber like the one I’d just lain down in, a silicone mask strapped to my face. My body feels drained and sore, though I haven’t moved in at least an hour. I just want to lie there, but it looks like I might have to start running. The lights are flashing, and an alarm is blaring.
I’m not supposed to be here, and I’m about to get caught.
Three
I suppose I should explain about the syndicates, as most people aren’t aware that the world is secretly run by five mob-like organizations headed by people who may or may not be literal gods.
In the beginning, there were no Titans. No syndicates. Just people, running around doing people stuff. Then someone somewhere discovered that consumingClaviceps liminalis, a fungus that grows on certain Mediterranean grasses, can bring a person so close to death that their soul is tricked into going into the Afterlife. Which, as it turns out, is a source of unfathomable magic.
That’d be pretty cool, except no one really wants to stay in the Afterlife. Magic in a magical place isn’t that neat. But bring that magic back to the boring, mundane living world? Well, that’s power. And humans have never been able to resist power.
The more times you enter the Afterlife, the more magic (read: power) you amass, and that’s exactly what some people did, until they became immortal, with so much magic it could be passed down their family lines. We call them Titans. From Titans of the pantheon to Titans of industry, the saying goes. Yes, it’s technically a misnomer, but people are suckers for wordplay.
As time moved forward, they went from casting themselves as deities to being emperors, popes, and warlords to becoming senators, celebrities, and CEOs. They control everything from politics to healthcare to fashion. They took their names from gods (or the gods took their names from them?) and developed their own mythology. There used to be an entire pantheon, but between turf wars and alliances, they’ve consolidated into five syndicates.
The most powerful one, the Nightshades, is run by Nyx (not the goddess—well, maybe the goddess). Their magic: persuasion. Their realm: politics.
The Ferrymen, Infamous Pete’s syndicate, is run by Charon. With a talent for augury and prediction, these are your finance bros.
The Phantoms belong to Melinoë. Magic: telepathy. Industry: entertainment.
The Coven is headed by Hecate. They’re all about illusion magic and run the beauty industry, though they’re branching out into social media. Influencing, and all that.
And finally, there are the Reapers, run by Thanatos, from whose clutches I am (hopefully, maybe) about to escape.
I rip the silicone mask from my face and—ow—and push myself out of the Orpheus chamber.
The Klaxon is earsplitting, the room dark except for the flashing red emergency lights and a single bulb in my chamber. This is definitely not supposed to be happening.
I chose this location because, for the last two weeks, no one has gone in or out. I assumed that meant it had been abandoned. Just a building owned by the Reapers with an old moritory in the basement.
I was wrong.
I wassocareful this time, damn it. I hadn’t jumped in headfirst. I’d staked out the building. Done my due diligence. Followed all of Dante’s rules. And it still wasn’t enough.
The only good news is that even though the alarm means they know something’s wrong, the fact that there aren’t a dozen Reapers surrounding me with guns means they don’t knowwhat’swrong.
After a quick peek out the moritory door, I dart as far down thewood-paneled hall as I can before I hear voices. I slide into a side room, leaving the door slightly ajar, just as a dozen Reapers burst around the corner. I hold my breath as several shapes dart past. They don’t even look my way, because I made sure to leave the Orpheus chamber light on to draw their attention.
I scan the room, finding myself in a lab, which makes sense this close to the moritory—they need somewhere to make the potion they use in the chambers. The emergency lights cast a dim red glow, but I can make out pipettes and Bunsen burners and a large mortar and pestle. I recognize the citric fragrance of cleaning products. The same ones that Tolliver would use to sterilize the lab equipment but also to cover up any lingering scent of death and magic.
I don’t have Tolliver’s skills with alchemy, but I’ve been making my own Miracle Max for the past year, so I know my way around a lab. I find a white coat and gloves in a cabinet. I pull a hair tie off my wrist and swoop my hair up into the tightest ponytail I can make on short notice. I grab some hand wipes and take off the dark eye shadow and lipstick. I have thick-rimmed glasses in my bag, which are the quickest and easiest way to change your features, believe it or not. Honestly, Clark Kent had the right idea.
The whole process takes less than a minute. When I leave the lab, I walk down the hall toward where a group of Reapers is scouring the moritory for any signs of an intruder.
“Ope, hey, guys!” I say in a cheerful Minnesota accent. “Sorry, I guess I set off the alarm there.”
A dozen pairs of eyes turn toward me, and this is where I realize this was a stupid plan.
There’s nothing wrong with this plan on the face of it. Lab coat and glasses? Great, quick disguise. Casually walking toward people to avoid suspicion? Top-notch. Minnesota accent? Brilliant, as always.
No, the plan was solid. Or would have been if I were facingthe dozen lower-level Reapers I was expecting. But in front of me are eleven lower-level Reapers and a demon.
Yeah. An actual demon.
Tall and lean in a long coat and tie, it could almost pass for human, except the veins running up its neck and into its hands are pitch-black. Its fingers end in charred claws and its eyes are hollow pits. Oh, and on top of its head are ram’s horns, blackened and decaying, almost necrotic.
