“The bed?” Florian glanced at me worriedly. The bed we used to access Belphegor’s hell? That bed?
She spread her hands out, her head bobbing forward like she was telling a ghost story. “Legend tells of a truly dangerous bed found only in Sloth’s hell. It’s perfectly soft, yet just firm enough to offer perfect lumbar support. It’s as warm as you want it, and cool enough so you’ll never sweat or want to throw off the downy blankets. It’s the universe’s most comfortable California king-size bed, and if you climb into it, you’ll never want to leave.”
I rolled my eyes and scoffed. “Now that? That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Ever.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Artemis crooked her finger at me, like a witch placing a curse. “Don’t get into any beds while you’re down there. Belphegor is the Prince of Sloth for a reason.”
Florian shrugged. “I don’t know. As far as punishments go, being stuck in a sweet bed for all of eternity seems pretty okay.”
“I wish I could get in that bed,” Sterling grumbled. “I wish somebody would pick me up and throw me into it, because it looks like nobody around here wants to shut the hell up and let me finally sleep, damn it.”
That was our cue to leave. We did one last check before exiting Paradise: bags, water tumblers, extra clothes, and in my case, a teeny, tiny Box in my pocket. I figured it wasn’t a bad idea to help him get more accustomed to the outside world, just so he’d grow a little more used to the concept that not all people were meant for eating. Baby steps for my baby boy.
The trip to the Beauregard was uneventful, which is a nice, polite way of saying that we managed to get there in one piece without being harassed by killer angels, bratty kids of demon princes, crazy cultists, what have you.
It was the same woman who greeted us at the door, this time wordlessly, ushering us to pick up the keys to room 666 ourselves from the counter. A heavy sensation weighed my chest down as we trudged up the stairs. It might have been an echo of the last time we went there, a phantom remembrance of how it felt to die to a knife in the chest.
“Hey, Florian?”
“It’s okay.” His footfalls on the stairs made them creak each time, and he didn’t even turn to answer me. “I’ll do it this time. Fair is fair.”
“You’re a good friend, man.”
Florian reached the top of the stairs and paused in his steps long enough to smile over his shoulder. “Least I could do.”
Room 666 was only a few notches less musty than our first visit, the imprints of our bodies still visible in the dust clinging to the bedsheets. I grimaced at the patch of brownish red, the freshest looking one, left by my own stab wound. The bed creaked as I sat on its edge, and I pursed my lips apologetically at Florian as he joined me. He shook his head, as if to say “It’s okay.” And it was. But it still made me brutally uncomfortable.
We took our positions in bed, our backs flat against the mattress, motes of dust disturbed by our presence dancing in the thin sunlight streaming through the grimy windows. Florian brought something out of his backpack, a large kitchen knife.
I frowned, then chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood, as light as you can make a ritual sacrifice, that is. “Priscilla’s going to be pretty mad that you stole that from her.”
“I’ll make it up to her,” Florian answered softly, his chin pressed down into his chest as he checked for the right part to stab himself. He turned to me, eyes full of concern. “It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”
As best as I could, I nodded, unsure of what else to say.
He lifted his face to the ceiling, then sighed. “Here goes nothing.” The knife plunged into his heart.
I should have looked away. Florian’s cries, first sharp and keening, then sobbing, then gurgling as the blood filled his throat, cut me to my core. It seemed impossible to think it, but this was almost worse than doing it myself the first time.
I should have looked away. In that moment, I realized that Florian really was my closest friend throughout all this. Transfixed, the tears threatening to spill down my face, I watched as the light left Flor
ian’s eyes, the bed hot with his blood. I watched as my best friend died beside me.
19
I blinked again, and the musty interiors of Beauregard room 666 had faded from around us. We were on the same bed, nonsensically mounted out on the red lawn of the Crimson Gardens. Slick, glistening tentacles slinked through the grass, flicking like prehensile tongues at the beads of Florian’s blood that dripped from the mattress. It didn’t matter that he was an alraune, I guess – the human half of him made his blood just as red as mine.
After checking that we were both fine, we peeled ourselves off the bed and set to work. Just as soon as my feet touched the grass, my body became rocked with that same, strange sensation from before. My head kept turning, my eyes continually going over to the squat little structure made of red wood that served as Belphegor’s toolshed.
Florian stepped in to retrieve a shovel, some shears, and a rake. I was about to do the same, only I hesitated at the threshold. He stared at me questioningly, then asked anyway. “Is everything fine?”
I wiped the sweat forming on my palms off on the seat of my jeans. “Yeah. Sure. I think so.”
He chuckled. “You’re not going to get all weird and crabby on me like the last time, are you?”
“Oh, shut up.”
I huffed and pushed past him. He laughed, shrugged, then sauntered off into the gardens. I gathered up the tools I needed as quickly as I could move, giving the rusty hoe lying against the shed’s far wall a wide berth. Even just avoiding looking at it took so much effort, its effect magnetic, sinking hooks into my brain. But I resisted.