The Grand Azathoth Hotel - Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Percy hadn’t realized he was kneeling. The explosion of light had been so blinding, so scorching, that it had driven him to the ground before he could even process what was happening. His head pounded, and the residual heat of Apollo’s arrival still prickled against his skin, like the aftermath of staring too long at the sun. Slowly, he blinked, trying to force his vision to adjust. When he did, he noticed he wasn’t the only one—Thalia, Annabeth, Grover, Bianca, and even Zoe were all kneeling, their heads bowed instinctively before the presence of a god.

The realization made his stomach twist. Gods could be arrogant, sure, but Apollo had never demanded anything like this before. Percy glanced up hesitantly, and his breath caught at the sight before him. Apollo was standing there, radiating an aura of pure, celestial fire, his golden eyes burning with something unreadable. There was no trace of the laid-back, annoying haiku-spewing god they were used to. This was Apollo, son of Zeus, Lord of the Sun, the god who had once rained down plague and fire upon armies that had offended him.

“The Hotel, my Lord.” Zoe’s voice was steady, but Percy could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers twitched at her sides like she wanted to reach for her bow. “Lady Artemis spoke of it to me, once.”

Apollo’s gaze snapped to her, and the temperature around them seemed to rise by several degrees. The pressure in the air became suffocating, as if the entire world had narrowed to focus on this single conversation.

Zoe hesitated under his stare but pressed on. “Only to me, my Lord. No one else knew. She ensured we were shielded from all other ears.”

For a long moment, Apollo said nothing. His golden eyes flickered across each of them, his expression unreadable. Percy had the uncomfortable feeling that the god was weighing his options—calculating how much trouble he’d be in with Zeus, Poseidon, and Athena if he just vaporized them all right now. Percy swallowed hard. He didn’t know much about the Lotus Hotel beyond the time trap it had laid for demigods, but something told him that wasn’t the one Zoe talked about.

“And… there was a prophecy, my Lord,” Zoe continued, her voice quieter now.

Apollo exhaled sharply, running a hand through his golden curls. “Yes, I know. I heard the prophecy. I am the god of prophecy,” he said impatiently. “But what does that have to do with the Hotel?”

Annabeth, still pale from the overwhelming presence of the god, cleared her throat hesitantly. “E-uh, the Oracle said… she made a mistake.”

Apollo’s head snapped toward her so fast Percy half-expected another explosion. “A mistake?” His voice dropped, losing its usual warmth, and Annabeth physically flinched. She forced herself to nod. “Yes,” she stammered, before quickly explaining how the Oracle had stumbled—how she had spoken of coffee and an impossibly cozy Hotel. And, more importantly, how Zoe had recognized something in it immediately, yet refused to tell them anything except that they had to call Apollo.

Apollo’s face darkened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. For the first time, Percy saw something flicker behind his burning golden eyes—hesitation. He hesitated. A god. And not just any god, but Apollo, who had witnessed countless battles, watched empires rise and fall, and barely blinked at the downfall of kings. Whatever this Hotel was, it was enough to make a god of Olympus hesitate.

“We… We cannot go back to the Hotel,” Apollo said at last. His voice was strained, as if the words were being forced out against his will. “It would be—”

Zoe cut him off. “It is the only way to save my Lady, Lord Apollo. Your sister.”

Silence fell. The name of Artemis hung in the air like an unspoken command.

Percy watched as conflict warred across Apollo’s face. The god looked torn, struggling between the fear of whatever this Hotel was and the undeniable bond he shared with his twin sister. The air shimmered around him, heavy with divine tension, as if the sun itself was holding its breath.

Then, at last, Apollo sighed, rubbing his temples like he had just given himself the worst headache in the cosmos. “Fuck.” His divine aura flickered, and for the first time since his arrival, he looked like his usual self—exasperated, but resigned. “Let’s go, kiddos. I’ll brief you in the car.”

Percy blinked. “Uh… which car?”

Apollo smirked. And before anyone could react, the world exploded into blinding golden light.

— — — — 

Taylor walked fast, her head down, her shoulders hunched forward. Her breath was too shallow, each inhale sharp and unsteady as she forced herself not to think. Not about the laughter. Not about the sticky dampness clinging to her back. Not about the way her stomach had twisted when she heard Emma’s voice, honey-sweet with false concern, right before the carton tipped.

She couldn’t stop hearing them. Madison’s delighted little giggle. Sophia’s quiet scoff, like she wasn’t even worth the effort of laughing. Emma’s smile—because Taylor could hear that too, somehow, in the bright, cruel edges of her voice. It wasn’t even the words that hurt the most. It was the certainty. The way they knew nothing would happen to them. The way they tore her apart like it was second nature. The way no one in the crowded hallway had stopped to help, not even to look at her for more than a second before turning away.

Her fingers clenched around the straps of her backpack, nails biting into her palms. Don’t cry. Not here. Not where they might see.

Her pace quickened, the familiar halls of Winslow stretching too long, pressing in on her. She needed to get out. To get away. If she could just step outside, just make it through the doors without breaking, she could hold on. Just a little longer.

The cold air hit her like a slap the moment she pushed through the front doors, the scent of damp pavement and exhaust rushing to meet her. It wasn’t clean air—not really—but it wasn’t Winslow. It wasn’t that hallway, or that laughter, or the cloying, humid press of too many people in too small a space. She sucked in a breath, but it was still too tight, her throat aching with the effort of swallowing everything down.

Then—a shift. A flicker of something in her periphery.

Her stomach twisted, her fingers tightening on her bag.

She was being followed.

She didn’t look back. Couldn’t. If she looked and saw them—Emma, Madison, Sophia—she wouldn’t be able to stop the panic clawing its way up her throat. But if she looked and they weren’t there, if it was just nothing, then she’d feel stupid, paranoid, like she was losing her grip on reality.

Her steps quickened.

She wasn’t imagining it. She knew this feeling. She had spent too long navigating the unspoken rules of Winslow’s halls, learning when to brace for impact, when to duck her head, when to disappear. She could always tell when someone was watching her. She could always tell when something was coming.

Her pulse pounded. The air felt thick against her skin.

She turned a corner, steps sharp, almost too quick, half-running now. If she could just make it somewhere crowded, somewhere with people, they wouldn’t try anything. But the streets weren’t busy enough, and she was running out of options.

A door.

Small, unassuming, wedged between two buildings—a café, maybe. She barely registered the sign before shoving her way inside, the bell above the door chiming softly in the quiet space.

The warmth of the café wrapped around her immediately, carrying the scent of coffee and cinnamon. The door swung shut behind her, muffling the world outside.

For a moment, she just stood there, heart pounding, arms locked stiffly around herself.

Don’t cry.

Her chest shuddered. Her breath came too fast. The pressure behind her eyes refused to fade.

Then, despite everything, despite the fight she had been putting up all day, despite how hard she had tried to keep it down—

A single tear slipped free.

— — — — 

James sat at the desk, fingers tapping idly against the polished wood, staring at the office that was—technically—his.

It was a nice office. Too nice, really. The kind of place meant for someone important. Someone like Nyarlathotep.

Because this had always been Nyarlathotep’s office.

The thought came easily, comfortably, as if his mind refused to fully acknowledge the years that had passed since the former manager left. It wasn’t that James couldn’t accept that the office was his now—it was just that it never really felt like a transition had happened. Nyarlathotep had gone, and James had simply… stayed. He had just slipped into place, and the office had remained exactly as it was.

That was the strange part.

Everything here still felt like it belonged to Nyarlathotep. The desk was large and imposing, like it was meant for someone who enjoyed looming over their guests. The chairs, no matter how many times James sat in them, still felt arranged for him—for the way Nyarlathotep used to lounge, grinning like he was enjoying some private joke. Even the bookshelf, heavy and overfilled, still had a kind of casual chaos to it, as if Nyarlathotep had just stepped out for a moment, fully expecting to return and pick up where he left off.

But he wasn’t coming back.

James leaned back with a sigh, letting his gaze drift over the room.

It wasn’t just the furniture. The air in here still carried something of the old manager. Not a presence, exactly—just a feeling, like the room itself hadn’t quite gotten the memo that things had changed. The office, along with the lobby, had been the only parts of the Hotel that hadn’t gone to sleep when Nyarlathotep left. The rest of the place had become sluggish, doors refusing to open, halls stretching too far, entire floors locking themselves away. But this office? It had kept running, as if waiting for something.

James had a feeling that had something to do with the guest in Room 1. He didn’t think about Room 1 too often. No one really did. It had a guest, but who—or what—that guest was seemed to change depending on who you asked. Some said they had always been here. Others said the room had never been occupied at all. But no matter what version of the story people believed, the stories themselves never stopped.

The Hotel was definitely haunted. 

And if James had learned anything about the Hotel, it was that stories had power.

Maybe that was why this office hadn’t changed. Maybe it was why it still felt like Nyarlathotep’s, even though James had been sitting at this desk for years. But it was his office now. And if it was his, then he should probably start treating it that way. Straightening, he exhaled slowly and rolled up his sleeves.

Time to clean.

He started with the desk. Nyarlathotep’s junk was everywhere. Stray papers, strange coins, little trinkets that might have been souvenirs—or might have been something much weirder. James didn’t bother examining them too closely. He just started sweeping everything into the drawers, stacking the papers neatly even as his brain refused to process why the handwriting on some of them seemed to change mid-sentence.

The books came next. The bookshelf was overflowing, stacked haphazardly, some volumes left open like Nyarlathotep had been in the middle of reading them before vanishing. James gathered them up, placing them back where they belonged, not paying attention to the ones that seemed to hum slightly when he touched them. A few had bookmarks made from folded notes. He didn’t read them.

The chairs didn’t need much adjusting, but James still took a moment to straighten them, brushing off a thin layer of dust. They still felt arranged for Nyarlathotep, but maybe that was just his imagination.

Eventually, he stepped back, rolling his shoulders.

The office was cleaner now. Organized. Almost unfamiliar in its tidiness.

But something still felt… off.

He frowned, scanning the room. It was empty. Not physically—everything was still in place—but empty in a way that made him realize something unsettling. He had added nothing of his own. Not a single decoration. No personal touches. Nothing to make this space feel his instead of just the cleaned-up remains of what it used to be.

How had he never noticed that before? James leaned against the desk, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe he should go out and buy a few things. A plant, some decorations, maybe paintings he liked for the wall—just something to fill the space.

Yeah. That seemed like a good idea. Go out and buy a few trinkets.