The Grand Azathoth Hotel - Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Thalia swallowed hard as she stepped into the Hotel once more, every muscle in her body tense.

The last time she had been here, she had been a child, running for her life. But now, even standing still, she felt like she was back in that night. Every shadow seemed too deep, every corridor stretched too far, and the furniture—gods, the furniture. She couldn’t even look at the couches without feeling a phantom shiver crawl down her spine.

She stayed close to Apollo, despite how ridiculous that was. He was still in his twelve-year-old form, for whatever reason, all curly-haired and smug. She reminded herself that he was a god. Nothing could happen to them. Right?

Beside her, Annabeth was just as stiff. Her pride wouldn’t let her show fear, but Thalia could feel it—the same tension, the same crawling unease. Then, in a move that surprised everyone, Annabeth reached for Thalia’s hand.

Thalia squeezed it.

Zoe and Percy shot them strange looks, but neither of them let go.

They reached the reception, and Thalia expected James. The memory of him was fuzzy, but she remembered his casual, almost lazy demeanor, the way he had spoken like none of the horrors around them mattered.

But the person behind the desk was not James.

It was a woman.

A very, very attractive woman.

Tanned skin, mature and poised, a kind of effortless confidence that made Thalia immediately wary.

Apollo, of course, perked up immediately.

“Hi!” he said, all too cheerfully.

The woman smirked. “Hello, Apollon. Long time no see—what, about a week? Two?”

A single bead of sweat rolled down Apollo’s temple. “Well, yes…”

The woman propped her chin on her hand, tilting her head slightly. “You grew up! Well, mentally, at least.”

Apollo’s smile twitched. His sweating increased.

The woman continued, as if she hadn’t noticed—or, more likely, was enjoying herself.

“No longer throwing your diapers at your sister?”

Apollo choked. “I— I—” He spluttered, caught between horror and desperate attempts to regain control of the conversation.

Thalia liked her immediately.

She had made a god splutter.

Not just any god—Apollo, who was one of the most shameless, arrogant, and impossible gods to ever exist.

She was her new role model.

…Or she would have been.

If not for the fact that she worked with the couches.

The memory of that night clawed back into her mind, and Thalia felt another involuntary shiver. Apollo opened his mouth to respond, probably with some smooth deflection, but he never got the chance.

“Polo!”

The voice was loud, cheerful, and completely at odds with the creepy atmosphere of the Hotel.

Before Thalia could even turn toward the source, she saw a blur of motion—and then Apollo was no longer standing on the floor.

James, the mysterious and annoyingly casual owner of the Hotel, had appeared out of nowhere with his arms spread wide. With zero effort, he lifted Apollo right off the ground, spinning him like a delighted uncle who hadn’t seen his favorite nephew in years.

“You grew up so much!” James beamed.

Apollo flailed. “Put me down! Put me down! Gods don’t get spun!”

James ignored him, only setting him down once he had properly disoriented the god. Apollo stumbled slightly, his twelve-year-old form looking thoroughly ruffled.

James ruffled his hair for good measure.

“And where’s Arty?”

There was a horrible silence.

Zoe stiffened so fast it was like she had turned into a statue. Murder flashed in her eyes, her hand drifting toward her weapon as if the mere mention of her goddess in such a casual tone was a personal insult.

But before she could even think about snapping, James turned to her, grinning.

“Oh, wait. You smell like her.”

Zoe’s entire body locked up.

For a second, she looked ready to lunge. Then, strangely, instead of fury… she reddened. Thalia almost choked on air. James had complimented her smell—a literal wolf-child trained in hunting and war—and she had blushed. What the hell kind of magic was this ?

Apollo, still smoothing his hair back like he had been personally attacked, coughed loudly, breaking the moment. “Yeah, about that. That’s actually the problem.”

James raised an eyebrow. “What problem?”

Apollo sighed, rubbing his temples. “She disappeared. We can’t find her.”

James froze.

His expression shifted so fast that even Thalia, who didn’t know him well, felt a wave of unease.

“What?” he said, voice suddenly far too serious.

He stared at Apollo, like he was waiting for the punchline.

None came.

James’s horror deepened. “What do you mean, disappeared? Have you called the cops?”

Annabeth's eye twitched. “Called the—”

But James wasn’t done. “Did you tell Leto? And—wait a second—where’s your mother?!”

Thalia had never seen a god speechless before. But Apollo? Apollo looked speechless.

James stared at him, arms crossed, waiting for some kind of response. When none came, he let out an exasperated sigh and looked at the rest of them. His eyes scanned over the group—six figures, most of them awkwardly standing around, still processing the absolute weirdness of this place.

His brows furrowed.

“Okay, but seriously—why are there only six teenagers and a literal child here?”

Zoe immediately opened her mouth to correct him, no doubt prepared to remind him that she was well over a thousand years old, not some mere child—

But before she could, Apollo grabbed her and slapped a hand over her mouth.

Zoe made a furious, muffled noise.

Apollo grinned—too wide, too forced. “Yeah, uh, quite a dire situation, isn’t it?”

James narrowed his eyes, clearly not convinced.

“Yeah.” He nodded, sighing again. Clearly, he was more worried about what could have happened to ‘sweet little Arty’ than whatever nonsense Apollo was pulling. He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking.

Then, suddenly, he turned toward Robin, who had been silently watching the entire exchange.

“Robin, take care of the Hotel. I’m gonna try going with the kids". He turned toward the kids, not notifying the horrible look on Robin's face. "You used to play with Arty near there, right? Maybe she’s not far. Maybe she just—” he waved a hand vaguely, “wandered off and got lost.”

Percy and Bianca exchanged a bewildered look. Annabeth and Thalia, however, were still too preoccupied with the couches, carefully keeping their distance from the lurking, malevolent furniture.

James clapped his hands together. “Alright! Let’s go!”

But just as he moved toward the door, a voice interrupted.

“Manager James.”

Thalia turned—and instantly forgot about the evil furniture. Standing before them was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. And she had seen gods. He was blond, tall, and moved with the kind of effortless grace that made everything about him seem unreal. His suit—immaculate, perfectly tailored—seemed almost unnecessary. A guy like this didn’t need fancy clothes to command attention. And yet, he didn’t even glance at them. His gaze was locked onto James, his perfectly sculpted features lined with something Thalia never expected to see on someone like him.

Concern.

“Manager,” the man said, his voice smooth and far too elegant for this bizarre situation. “Is it… wise? I can go with the children, if you would prefer to remain at the Hotel.”

Behind the desk, the woman at reception frantically nodded.

Perfectly Oblivious

Thalia had the distinct impression that if the couches could nod, they would, along with the receptionist, who looked one misplaced word away from a full-blown panic attack. Even the air felt heavy, as if the entire Hotel itself had paused, bracing for something unseen. There was an odd, expectant hush, a tension that wrapped around the room, making her skin prickle with unease.

James, of course, was completely unfazed.

“Nah, no worries. I’m not a frail old man, I can get outside alone.” His voice was casual, almost amused, like this entire conversation was unnecessary. He clapped a hand on Apollo’s shoulder and gave a reassuring grin, utterly oblivious to the way the receptionist stiffened behind the counter.

The blond man, who exuded the kind of untouchable elegance that made Thalia instinctively wary, did not share James’ enthusiasm. His golden eyes—too sharp, too knowing—narrowed ever so slightly. There was something too composed about his posture, something careful, like a diplomat trying to steer a reckless king away from war without him noticing.

“Manager, surely it would be best if you stayed in case clients arrive. The Hotel needs you here.” His voice was silken, persuasive, the kind of tone that had probably convinced countless beings to do whatever he wanted without them even realizing it. “Perhaps it would be wiser to let me accompany them in your place.”

Thalia might have considered that a fair point—until she noticed the way his fingers twitched against his sleeve, like he was barely holding back the urge to grab James and physically stop him.

James, as usual, didn’t notice a thing.

He waved off the concern with an easy shrug. “Eh, it’s been a few days since I got out, so some fresh air will do me good.”

That was when Thalia saw it.

The blond man’s eye twitched.

It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was there. That one word—“days”—had set something off. Like it was the most incorrect thing James could have possibly said.

Before she could dwell on it, another voice cut in.

“Yes! Let James go.”

Then, in a completely different tone, directed at Thalia specifically:

“Oh, nice shirt.”

Thalia blinked. She turned to find a punkish girl, standing like she had always been there, short black hair tucked behind her ear, dressed in ripped jeans and a tank top, looking utterly unimpressed by the entire situation.

Huh.

Thalia tilted her head. “Nice shoes.”

There was mutual understanding.

Then something shifted.

The punk girl’s eyes met the blond man’s.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

A silent battle was being waged, one of raw, absolute animosity. There were no words, no movement, just a crackling tension so thick it could suffocate. A promise of blood and war passed between them, as sure as the sun rising, as inevitable as the tide.

And James?

James stood right in the middle of it.

Completely.

Oblivious.

“Well, it’s decided then!” James clapped his hands together, breaking the moment like it had never existed. “Robin, you’re in charge.”

The receptionist let out an audible, barely-contained whelp.

“Let’s go find your sister, Polo.”

And with that, James walked toward the door, completely unfazed by the silent war brewing behind him.

—- — — 

Lucifer hesitated. A muscle in his jaw tightened, the only outward sign of his reluctance. He despised the feeling, the unfamiliar weight of it pressing against his spine like a hand unseen. Hesitation was for the weak, for the uncertain. For the ones who prayed. And yet, as he stood before the threshold of something that should not be, he forced himself to breathe.

Then he stepped into the Between.

The transition was immediate and wrong. The space between spaces had never been kind, but this was different. It watched him. It gnawed at the edges of him, whispering of things that predated language, of shapes that had never been seen but had always been known. Even he, the Morningstar, felt it pulling, unraveling, eager to see what he looked like underneath the mask of himself.

He landed hard, forced back into something resembling reality, and found himself before the door that had never been built. He knocked, because not knocking would be worse.

No answer.

He entered.

The room was not a room.

It was a wound in existence, a place where space and time had been flayed open and left to pulse, raw and infinite. The walls stretched in all directions and in none at all. The floor was something like thought, shifting with each half-formed notion. At the center, something stood with its back to him. Not a man, not truly. Lucifer refused to look too closely.

He swallowed down his instinct to flee.

“Sir,” he said. The word tasted like ash. He hated himself for the respect in his voice. “I tried, but… James. He still left the Hotel.”

The thing in the center did not turn. Not at first.

Then—

No movement. No shift. No transition. It simply was, facing him now, and the air folded in on itself, recoiling, warping, trying to unsee what had just happened.

Lucifer’s body reacted before his mind could stop it. He sweated. Cold, unnatural, seeping into his bones. Something deep inside him, something ancient, screamed.

The voice that answered was not a voice. It was wet, raw, a sound that should never have been spoken aloud. It scraped through the space between them, jagged and wrong.

“No worries.”

The sound crackled, bending around itself like meat peeling from bone.

“He will remain away… for less than an hour. Not long enough to warp the world he is in. And, more importantly, not long enough to… remember.”

A pause. A pulling. A sensation like something vast pressing against the thin membrane of the world, waiting for permission to push through.

“But next time…”

The air thickened. Lucifer’s vision doubled, not in twos but in infinities, splitting outward, showing him too much, showing him what he had always known was there but had never dared to see.

”…be more persuasive.”

Lucifer did not bow. He did not lower his gaze. But when he left, he did not look back.