5 Petros, Cephas, Twisted Key

The first day of classes passed in a blur. I had Intro to Biology and Inorganic Chemistry in the morning, a mental whammy, and found myself frantically jotting down notes in an attempt to retain information. Divya, a premed, joined me in my classes, and we got lunch together afterward out on the college green.

"You look tired," she said, her makeup immaculate, with a hint of blush on her cheeks. Whenever I put on blush I looked like John Wayne Gacy.

"I didn't get much sleep," I said. "Nervous about classes." And other things.

She bobbed her head in agreement, daintily eating a wrap. "I know. The professor talks a mile a minute. Luckily it was a review. What class do you have next?"

"Advanced Portfolio Studies, thank god," I said.

"That's supposed to be relaxing? I can only draw like stick figures."

"It is to me." I shrugged.

Divya smiled. "Good for you. So are you rushing?"

"Oh, you mean sororities? Nah. That's not really my thing." I sipped my lemonade. "Which sorority are you interested in?"

"Alpha Phi Zeta. They do work with domestic violence victims. I thought that was cool."

"Sure," I said.

"Hey, Rosanna and I are going to the school-sponsored summer party tonight. It's at 8:00 outside the athletics building. Maybe tame, but there's nothing else to do around here. Can you make it?" Divya asked.

I calculated: 7:00 was my meeting with Samael. Would I be done in time with whatever nefarious thing he had planned to get back in time for the party? Probably not. "I don't think so."

Divya peered at me. "But it's only the first week. There can't be that much to do."

"I know, I know, I've just... been feeling out of sorts lately," I only semi-lied. "Everything's happening so fast."

"True. Well, at least get dinner with us at 6:00."

"Sure."

Soon, it was midway through the afternoon, time for art. I went to the studio and was impressed by the displays of student work. The building itself was open and spacious, with wide windows for natural light that framed the college green.

We had a thirty minute free sketch period to start off, and I found myself rendering charcoal drawings of hellhounds. "What am I doing?" I muttered, tearing out the pages from my sketchbook and tossing them in the trash. The professor glanced over at me but said nothing. I settled back into my seat and went to work on a sketch of a raven.

"Nice work," the professor noted. "What year are you?"

"Freshman," I replied.

The professor whistled low. "That kind of craftsmanship is hard to come by. You have a good grasp on anatomy."

I glowed at the compliment. "Thanks."

"What's your preferred medium?"

"Oils. But sketching is fun."

"I want to get you started on painting then," the professor said. "I'd like you to have a few pieces ready in time for the Winter Exhibition."

"Really?" I asked. Usually only juniors and seniors displayed their works in the school showcase. "You sure?"

"Very. But chose a theme for your work." The professor smiled, then moved on to another student. I began contemplating a focus for my work.

Dinner rolled around. Rosanna was telling stories of the month she spent abroad in Europe, sneaking into industrial clubs and meeting obscure musicians whose band names sounded like Swedish venereal diseases.

I stirred the beef in my stew as talk turned to the party. A popular band was playing and there was going to be a movie screening on the college green. I cursed Samael for not being able to go.

I made a convenient excuse to leave dinner early, went back to my dorm, and changed into running shoes that had seen better days. I tied my hair back in a ponytail, spritzed on bug spray, half-hoped it had demon-repellant properties (as Samael was nothing if not a bloodsucker), and made my way to the College Woods.

I only had to walk several minutes around the lake until I ran into Samael, who sat smoking beneath a tree. He was dressed in leather pants, combat boots, and a torn gray shirt, with a plethora of piercings on his face.

Samael gave a mocking salute and crushed his cigarette under his boot.

"Did you get mauled by punks?" I said.

His biceps rippled as he crossed his arms over his chest. "This is what I usually look like. Last night I went boating on the Styx with my family. I had to dress the part."

"You look like the bastard child of Hell's Angels and a heavy metal band. Also, you need a haircut. Like I said, ghost of Danzig"

He bristled. "Did you come here to insult me, or are you going to be agreeable?"

"You're lucky I came at all. Let's get this over with. Whatever this is."

"I just can't win with you," he said, more to himself than me. Samael grunted and straightened his too-tall frame. "We're going to Pandemonium."

"Is that a sex dungeon?"

"I wish. It's the capital of Hell. We'll go to a bar my friend owns. Then, after drinks, training begins. I can't do this sober."

I scoffed. "Because teaching under the influence is such a good idea. No way am I going to Pande-whatever. That's like licking shut the envelope on my death warrant."

Samael chuckled. "You'll find it's nicer than you'd expect. You'll be under my protection, so there's no need to fear."

"Whatever you say, Satan."

He squinted at me. "I'm finding it awfully hard to protect someone I want to strangle."

"Well I find it hard to take a guy with hair longer than mine seriously."

"Shut your mouth," he said.

A scythe materialized in his hands. Samael spun it in a circle, then spoke in a guttural language. A black hole appeared around the blade, and before I could protest, he tossed me over his shoulder and strolled through.

The vortex tore at my hair. It was like diving into an ice-water bath. Just as quickly as we had entered, Samael strode out the other side, with me in a daze. He deposited me on an oxblood comforter spread over a four-poster bed.

We were in a sparsely decorated room with dark wood paneling and high stained glass windows. A few shelves were built into the walls, lined with yellowed books, weapons, and pieces of what looked like driftwood. The bed was unmade, strewn with belts, pants, and worn t-shirts. A leather jacket hung over a wing-back chair beside a mahogany desk, which was littered with piles upon piles of papers, cigar boxes, and half-drunk cups of coffee. An outdated laptop was fired up, playing jazz, and the single picture on the walls was a beat-up poster for a Billie Holiday concert. In a corner of the room was a worn saxophone, half-tucked into its case, sitting beside a walk-in closet. Sam smiled as he scanned the room, stretched, and checked his watch.

"We made good time," he said happily. "Now, to find something appropriate for you."

"I don't need a personal shopper."

"You need to blend in," he said, head buried in the closet. He reemerged moments later with a tiered ruby dress.

"Why do you have women's clothes in your closet? Not that I'm judging."

He smirked. "Because I knew you wouldn't dress the part." He bent over and picked up a pair of strappy heels, then flicked the closet light on. "You can change in there," he said, motioning to the closet.

I side-eyed him. "What I'm wearing is fine. I thought we were training for something."

"That comes later. First we need supplies." Samael grinned like a shark. "The bartender I'm friends with is the best arms dealer in Pandemonium."

"That makes me feel so safe."

He ushered me into the closet and closed the door behind me. I sighed, slipping out of my exercise outfit and into the dress. It fit like a glove, and the heels added a good three inches to my 5 foot-nothing. Maybe he'd taken my measurements in my sleep? Creeper. After quickly braiding my hair, I walked out and surveyed the weapons lining Samael's wall.

"Why can't I just use that?" I said, motioning to a crossbow. "Or that?" I pointed to a katana poking out of its sheath.

Samael was lounging at his desk, apparently texting someone on an ancient cell phone. He didn't bother to look up. "Those are of sentimental value. I doubt you'd know how to use them."

I sat on the bed and smoothed the skirt of my dress. "I handled your blade-on-a-stick thing just fine, even though it was supposed to incinerate me." I picked up a metal-studded belt from the mess on his bed. "Also, if you knew I was coming over to your man cave, why didn't you clean up?"

He shrugged. "No use misleading you. I run on coffee, jazz, and mayhem."

I snorted. "In other words, I'm not worth impressing."

"I didn't say that." Samael took a sip from one of the gross coffee cups and flipped his dinosaur of a phone shut.

"Do demons even need caffeine?"

"Not really, but it helps." He rose, dusting off the knees of his pants. His smile was chipper. Too chipper. He glanced at me over his shoulder. "You coming, maggot?"

"Don't call me that." I followed him out the door, about to mouth a retort, when my breath was stolen by the elegance of the hallway. It was like stepping out of a dump and into a cathedral.

Red marble floors shot through with veins of quartz echoed our footsteps. My voice bounced off the towering, sandy walls and curving, vaulted ceiling. High windows let in the last glimmers of sun. The rays played against columns that dripped down like stalactites, and rich paintings and tapestries spanned the length of the hall. We passed too many doors to count, some open to reveal rich interiors, others bolted shut. I felt like I was in the midst of a Renaissance castle.

We rounded a corner into a wider hall, this one more glorious than the last. "Where's the fire and brimstone? The screams of the damned?" I said, agape.

Samael's lips curled. "Like I'd want to live among that? It would ruin my saxophone practice. You're thinking of the pits of Abaddon. This is my home. It has its uses."

"Uses? It's enormous! Who needs all this space?" I said, agog at the sheer beauty. Bay windows looked out upon a maze of a courtyard, with abstract statues and fountains, blooming with unfamiliar flora. "Is that a flying snake?" I gasped, plastering my face to the glass. A brilliant green serpent, like the gliding snakes of Asia, threaded by. Unlike normal reptiles, it had a crown of red feathers and expansive wings. It looked like the lovechild of a tropical bird and a basilisk.

"Oh, that. That's a quetzalcoatl," Samael said fondly. "It was a gift of the Aztec pantheon when we had a conference last year. I've always had a fondness for slithering things."

"Can I take a picture?" I begged, wondering about its anatomy. If only I could dissect it. I didn't want to harm it, but my curiosity at how it functioned burned like a supernova.

"Human technology doesn't work here."

"But you have a cell phone, and a computer."

"They run on ether."

I looked from the window to him, narrowing my eyes. "You're pulling my leg."

"No, I'm not. Let's go. We'll miss happy hour. You can play in the garden later."

I followed Samael. He glanced down his long nose at me to make sure I was keeping up. The Grim Reaper almost glided across the floor, feet barely touching the ground. It was as if his walking was an illusion put on for my sake. I near-jogged to keep pace, which wasn't the easiest thing to do in heels.

After twists and turns through endless corridors, we arrived at the main hall. It was tiled in brilliant blues and whites, walls and floor a fresco of the heavens, with starry cosmos on the ceiling. A crystal chandelier rained white light on the lobby, and a sprawling staircase wound upwards.

Samael strode to the entrance and lifted the bolt. Locks rose like vines on the surface of the double doors, clinking together as the bolt opened to reveal a street framed by gardens. A black carriage waited with a pale horse at the entrance.

Something was off about the carriage. "Is that a hearse?" I asked.

Samael smirked. "Maybe. I am the Grim Reaper."

"I am so not riding in that deathtrap."

"Too bad."

He held open the carriage door for me. The interior was furnished with red velvet, large tinted windows, and a space clearly designed for a coffin. "Ugh," I grunted, climbing in and sitting where the coffin was supposed to be.

Samael chuckled and climbed onto the driver's seat. He took the reins of the horse. "Let's go, Pallor," he addressed the horse, giving the reins a flick. The horse took off at a trot, drawing us down the cobblestone street. We arrived at intimidating gates that opened to let us through onto a bustling avenue. Labyrinths of mansions lined the sidewalks, tucked into foliage, each dwelling like a slice of time. There were Japanese castles with rice-paper walls, huge Gothic manors, even a Russian-style dwelling with swirling towers.

Through the streets, demons of every strain mingled, manning stalls and drawing customers to their exotic wares. Rich scents rose from foods and perfumes, and the inhabitants of Hell were many-colored, tailed and horned, some animalistic, others chimeras of creatures. Dirt-streaked children played soccer with ball of rags, weaving in between carriages and cars. A centaur and reptilian demon haggled over what looked like Turkish rugs. My face was plastered to the window, taking it all in.

After perhaps fifteen minutes, we pulled into the market district, where shops lined the streets. Samael handed the hearse off to attendants in front of a bar and helped me out onto the crowded sidewalk. The valets drove the hearse off to the stables beside the bar. Samael offered me his arm.

I looked at him, skeptical. "What are you, a Victorian gentleman?"

His smile was crooked as he forcibly moved my forearm so it rested on his.

"Ew. I'm literally touching Death. There's something disgustingly poetic about this."

"Stop talking. The only reason humans are in Hell, besides the damned, is because they have sold their souls. We need to make sure no one suspects you're an ascendant. The damned would never walk free through Pandemonium. That means you must be one of the Claimed, those who belong to demons." He held open the oak doors for me.

I shivered. "I would never do that."

"It's called acting," he murmured, waving his hand at a red-eyed demon with long white hair. "Beelzebub! You look dour, as usual."

Beelzebub, sitting sternly at the bar, looked up from his vodka and gave Samael a look of annoyance. "Look what the snake dragged in. Another whore?" he said, sour, as Samael guided us to seats beside the demon, who was dressed in military garb. Beelzebub glanced at me with cold eyes.

I blushed. "I'm not a prostitute!-" I said.

Samael put his hand over my mouth, muffling me. "She prefers the term consort," he chuckled. "Beel, this is Shannon. Sorry for her manners - she's a feisty bitch. Just how I like 'em." Quickly leaning over to me, Samael hissed into my ear: "Go along with it, maggot."

I broiled.

Beelzebub took a sip of vodka and wiped his lip. "Don't you tire of playthings? You've neglected work for the past week. What in the nine hells have you been doing?"

"Oh, this and that," Samael said, voice airy. "Did I miss something?"

Beelzebub narrowed his compound eyes. "A referendum, a hearing, and a strategical meeting. But then again, what to expect from the laziest wart on Hell's ass?"

"You don't mean that," Samael said. "I'm only the second laziest. Belphegor's got me beat – he's the demon of sloth."

Beelzebub sighed and finished his drink. "I have work to do," he said, excusing himself and heading out the door through the smoky room.

I glanced around the pub. Some demons gambled, others played pool with blood at stake. Samael motioned for the bartender, smiling warmly. The bartender shuffled over, a middle-aged man with a black beard and twinkling yellow eyes. He was stocky, with tattoos on his arms that resembled scenes from Grecian urns.

"Sam!" the bartender said, clapping Samael on the back. "What can I get you?"

"The usual, Damien" Samael said.

"And you, sweetheart?" Damien's smile was kind.

I quickly decided it would be a terrible idea to be under the influence in Hell. "Umm, can I have a root beer or something?"

"Sure," He quickly served us, bringing me a foaming mug of soda and Samael absinthe. Damien settled before me. "So, what's your name?"

"Shannon." I took a sip of root beer. I was surprised by the sweet musk of the drink. "Wow, this stuff is really good."

"It's homemade," Damien said, proud. "I'm surprised Sam here hasn't driven you to drink yet."

"It's been a challenge to resist." I was warming up to the bartender.

Samael poured water over his sugar cube and dissolved it in the green liquor. "I can hear you," he said. He stirred the sugar into his drink, added a few ice cubes, and tasted it. "Mmm. Perfection."

Damien snorted. "You're the only one of my customers that likes that crap. Your friend here has much better taste." He set to polishing glasses behind the bar. "So, Shannon, why in Gehenna are you hanging around this loser?"

"I don't know," I said, swirling the ice cubes in my drink with a straw.

Damien chuckled. "None of us do, sweetheart."

Samael scoffed. "I've saved your life too many times to count, wolf, not to mention keeping the angels off your back aboveground."

Damien peered into a shining shot glass. "Well, there is that." He placed the shot glass behind him on the shelf and smiled wide. "Shannon, you look too nice to be mixed up in this mess. Not like your typical Claimed. You're definitely too refined for the likes of Sam," the bartender said. He narrowed his golden eyes, glancing at Samael. "What's really going on here?"

"Damn it, why are you always so observant?" Samael said. He finished his absinthe. "Can we go to the back room?"

Damien's friendly eyes darkened. "What's this about?"

"I'll tell you when we have privacy," Samael said.

Damien shrugged, leading us behind the bar to a hallway squeezed between two cabinets. Pictures of Italy hung on the walls. A door was hidden in the woodwork, and Damien pushed it open, revealing a dim warehouse full of shelf upon shelf of weapons. Flails, halberds, staffs, spears, swords, cannons, guns... they were endless. There were instruments of death humanity hadn't even dreamed of.

Damien led us to a corner with a table and sat down. Samael pulled out a chair for me and settled on a wooden stool carved to look like interwoven trees limbs. I took my place beside him.

"So you're an arms dealer?" I said, impressed.

"Eh, I'm pack leader. I need to find a way to make a living beyond a skuzzy bar," Damien said.

I put two and two together – his lupine eyes, how Samael had called him 'wolf.' "Oh," I said. "You're a werewolf."

Damien flinched. "Child of Lupa is the term we use," he said. "You know the founders of Rome, Romulus and Remus? It's said they were reared by a she-wolf, Lupa. The Children of Lupa are her descendants." He glanced down at his hirsute arm. "I'm certainly hairy enough to be one." Damien turned to Samael. "Now what in the hell brings you back here?"

Samael rubbed his shoulders of dust. "Ah, that. Have you heard talk of an ascendant?"

Damien sucked in air. "I've heard rumors, sure, but I thought they were just that – nonsense bored immortals made up. You're not saying that she's... she's... you idiot! Why did you bring her here? You think I'd put my daughter in that kind of danger?" the bartender yelled.

"She needs to learn how to defend herself," Samael said, voice cool.

Damien looked at me. "Lupa bless me," he said. "I knew she wasn't one of the Claimed the moment I saw her. But I never imagined..." He shook his head, gaze almost reverential. "Shannon, you have a choice," he said. "In no way do you have to work with Samael."

"What is your problem?" Samael said.

"No, go on," I said.

"I can give you protection. Get you free of the influence of demons. You remind me of my daughter," Damien said. "You don't belong in this cesspool." He gave Samael a hard look.

Samael scoffed. "I can keep her the safest, and you know it."

"True, but what value is there in becoming one of your pawns?" Damien asked.

I scooted back in my seat. "No way," I said, "Boniface here's got nothing on me."

"You're not my pawn," Samael said. "I would never use you for petty gains. You're much too valuable. And Damien, I brought Shannon to you for a reason. Because I trust you. We can help her together."

"The way you helped Eve?" Damien said. "You've got gall. Using this girl for your schemes. I'll help you, but only because I don't want you ruining her. I'm going to make sure you don't abuse her gifts." Damien looked to me, eyes blazing. "To be honest, the protection I could give you would be great, but it's nothing compared to what Samael can do. I just - I just - after so many years waiting for an ascendant, I want to do everything I can for you." The bartender sighed, drumming his fingers on the table.

"You've been waiting for me?" I asked. "Why?"

"Because," Samael said, "ascendants can, besides crossing into other worlds, open portals. Doorways to places that have been closed for a long, long time."

"Pan's woods," Damien said, voice a reverie. "I haven't seen them in so many years."

Samael continued: "There are realms that have been lost over time, due to wavering human belief. The gods of those places have weakened, and it's hard to access their homelands, even for the natives, like Damien. It costs each time to cross over, be it to Asgard or Olympus. That's why an ascendant has been prayed for for centuries – they can open long unused doors."

"But why did you leave your home?" I asked Damien.

Damien had a faraway look. "Hell is closest to Earth, thanks to human belief. Right under the surface. Damn metaphysics." He laughed slightly. "It was getting harder to come to Earth, and after Christianity took over the Roman Empire, it became impossible. Lesser immortals like my family moved to Hell after our religions fell in a thousand year exodus, tailing the rise of the Abrahamic faiths, in order to be closer to Earth."

"Immortals thrive off humanity's memories of our kind, and the farther we are from humans, the more our powers fade," Damien continued. "Sure, we'd still exist, but not with half our usual glory." Damien half-smiled. "Damnit I'm not a Hindu spirit. Then I'd still have a home." He paused. "But you, Shannon. You're the first hope I've had in a long time."

I felt like a great weight had been placed on my shoulders. "But I don't even know how to open these doors, or even if I can."

Samael stretched his arms above his head and yawned. "Slow down, maggot. We have time."

I furrowed my brows. "Don't call me that."

"Then don't call me Boniface,'" he said, crisp. "Damien, do you have any peterswords?"

Damien pursed his lips together. "Hmm, I may have one." He took off into the back of the stacks, to a safe, and entered the combination. The bartender came back carrying a short sword shaped like a key, with a ridged edge like teeth, meant for hacking, and a round grip at the end. It was elegant but deadly.

"I'm supposed to use that? I can't even use a flyswatter," I said.

A knowing glance passed between Damien and Samael. "Peterswords are used to access working doors to Earth, just like St. Peter holds the keys to Heaven," Samael said slowly. "But in the hands of an ascendant, they can be used for much more. They can create new doorways."

"You want me to fight with that thing? But I'm hella uncoordinated. What if I cut a limb off? What if I trip on it?"

"Don't worry," Samael said. "We'll take it slow."