Cover

Dedication

For my father, Thomas Lux, whom I miss

Epigraph

And in the lowest deep a lower deep

Still threat’ning to devour me opens wide,

To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav’n.

—JOHN MILTON

What makes bitter things sweet? Hunger.

—ALCUIN, ADVISOR TO CHARLEMAGNE

BEFORE

PEYOTE

YOU ALREADY HAVE A lot of ideas about Hell. It’s amazing what Dante and thousands of years of folklore can do to a place’s reputation. I mean, I’m not going to lie to you: it is Hell. It’s not fantastic. But let’s see if this is relatable: You’re late to your aunt’s boyfriend’s birthday brunch because your alarm was on mute even though you know you turned it up the night before. You barrel onto the subway, managing to squeeze yourself between the woman blasting a Techno for the Lonely playlist and the man who farts every time he sneezes, and, just when the lights of the station are out of view, the train lurches to a stop with a death rattle and goes dark. The woman elbows you in the gut as she hits Replay, and the man’s snot tickles as it sprays your cheek, and you think about how you don’t even like your aunt’s boyfriend or even your aunt and you hate brunch, and what do you say? I’ll tell you; I’ve heard it a million times. You say, “This is Hell.”

Well, you’re right. That’s Hell. At least the top floors of it. Your priests and grandmas have good intentions—the ones who don’t wind up here—but their job is to keep you decent above ground, and if they said Hell was a never-ending brunch, you would be out there stealing and raping constantly.

Up here it’s not the fire-and-brimstone thing you think it might be. It’s music that’s too loud, food that’s too rubbery, and kissing with too much tongue. Doesn’t sound that bad, right? But don’t forget: it’s forever. I mean for-all-time forever. Not a lifetime. That’s a pebble compared to what I’m talking about. Hell is agitation for eternity. You can’t possibly fathom eternity; your little mortal brain would explode. A century feels like an hour, less with each millennium. With endless time and no peace, everyone breaks eventually.

I was about to break too. But then I got a promotion.

PART I

PEYOTE

“PEY, TEAM MEETING IN five,” KQ said, rapping on my desk. I jerked up from my screen. It was already ten o’clock.

“Right, I’ll be there. Thanks!” I replied, but she was knocking halfway down the row, her knuckles creating a muffled echo. I grabbed my notebook and my pen case, freed a mangled Cup O’ Noodles from the back of my drawer, and went to the kitchen.

“Heya, Pey, how’s it hanging?” Trey asked as he stood in front of the microwave, watching his frozen meal dissolve and recongeal.

“Just fine, thanks,” I said, peeling back the top to my lunch.

“The hot water is out.”

I looked at the coffee machine: OUT OF ORDER. I rolled my eyes. I filled the Cup O’ Noodles with the hottest water the sink allowed and got in line behind Trey.

“Who do you have nowadays? Anyone interesting?” he asked, opening the microwave before it beeped. The steam from his lunch hit my face. It smelled like warm broccoli.

“No one too good,” I answered. But for the first time in ages, I wasn’t worried. I did have something. Something big. I just wasn’t going to tell Trey.

He stayed in front of the microwave as he stirred his food, his smile almost as thick.

“Too bad, buddy, too bad. Did you hear I landed Spence Norwood? Wrapped that set up like a present.”

“Yeah, Trey, I heard. That’s great,” I said as I edged past him. I punched the thirty-seconds button and fished a plastic spoon from a drawer.

“Don’t worry, buddy. It’ll happen for you too. You’ve only been here, what, a minute?”

“Just about.”

The microwave beeped. I pulled the handle to find my cup drooped to one side, soup dribbling out. I pushed the sloppy Styrofoam back up, but it wouldn’t stick.

“Come on, dipshits!” KQ yelled, her hand on the conference room door.

“Coming!” I responded, trying to rip off a paper towel square and getting only a quarter piece.

—

“OKAY, EVERYONE, LET’S GET down to business. First things first: we have a couple of new faces here today. We didn’t ask for them and we don’t need them, but here they are anyway. So this means everyone is going to have to work even harder to prove their worth around here, assuming none of you is itching for the days of cleaning out the meat grinders Downstairs.”

The woman next to me slumped down in her chair, as if hoping to melt onto the floor and get out unnoticed. I reached for a bottle of water and offered her one, but she shook her head.

“Second: congratulations are in order!” KQ went on. “Trey, well done with the Norwoods! You’ve been chasing that white whale for a while, slick! Your fifth Complete Set!” KQ put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a rough shake.

Trey beamed. “Thanks, boss.”

Broth spilled out of the sunken lip of my Cup O’ Noodles and pooled on the laminate tabletop.

My lunch looked like a mouth in a nursing home.

“Pey? Where are your numbers?”

I startled and pushed my notebook into the puddle.

“Well, it’s been a bit of a slow—” I started, my notebook creating a trail of soup like the foot mucus of a gastropod.

“What is it we say in this office, Peyote?”

Trey shot his hand into the air.

“Which saying are we talking about, exactly?”

“Ooh!” Trey shouted. “I know!”

“Mr. Trip?” KQ prodded.

“No excuses,” I said, my cheeks hot.

“I knew that,” Trey said.

I pulled four pens from my pen case and clicked the back of the fifth.

It wouldn’t write.

“Now that we all know that excuses are not an option, what else do we have to say for ourselves? Our numbers are decreasing. With the Internet, people are turning to different solutions for their problems. Trey? Tell the newbs which pitch you went with to land Norwood,” KQ said as she kicked her heels up on the table. I could see where her stilettos had sunk into the dirt on her walk over. I could see little scraps of grass. They reminded me of the beard hairs I used to find under my fingernails after scraping off faces with sandpaper.

“Well,” Trey said, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together, thinking. He always made a big deal out of thinking. It seemed to require a great amount of concentration. “I’ve been watching this guy for a while, so when his firm’s Tokyo deal fell through, I knew I had him. You know his wife just bought that fifth horse, right? And his daughter was about to get married, in Nantucket.”

Everyone snickered.

“So I went with a standard SnowFlake, with some slight adjustments, of course.”

KQ pulled off one shoe and kneaded her foot.

“Does everyone know what a SnowFlake is? Because you’d better.”

The woman next to me put her hand up and then pulled it right back down.

“Newbie wants a turn!”

“Oh, no, I just thought—”

“What’s your name, little mouse?”

“Oh, I—”

“If you don’t have a name yet, I can give you one. How about Churchy? Or Squeaks?”

“I—”

“Disease-Carrying Vermin?”

“I’m Cal,” she said, before clearing her throat and sitting up straight. “Calamity Ganon. Like in the video game? But everyone calls me Cal.”

“Cal? Meh. I think I’ll stick with Squeaks,” KQ said. “So, go ahead, Squeaks. What’s a SnowFlake?”

Cal put her hand on her orientation binder but didn’t open it.

“It’s when the sales associate uses flattery and validation to—”

“It’s ego fellatio,” Trey interrupted. “Tell them they are special, that you’ve been waiting for them. That they have some kind of bigger purpose. Humans love that shit.”

“Did you tell him who you are? What he was trading?” Cal asked, her high and apologetic voice all but confirming the permanence of her new nickname.

Trey scoffed. “I handed him the tablet, if that’s what you mean.”

“Nowadays we do everything digitally,” I said. “The mark still signs a contract, but now all they have to do is click ‘I agree to the above terms’ before they sign. It’s up to them if they read the fine print.” I spoke mostly to my puddle of lunch, only looking over at her once.

“Which he didn’t,” Trey said. “Because I got him really fucking drunk. Ego sucking and whiskey, hombres. It works every time.”

Everyone clapped, and I felt Cal redden next to me. All that blood in her face made my shoulder warmer.

“Hey, sorry. KQ can be a bit of a hard-ass,” I said when the meeting ended, my notebook blank and dripping. “Cal, right?”

I put out my hand, and she looked at it like she thought it might bite her. Anything is possible here.

“You’re not going to go with ‘Squeaks’?” she asked, eyeing me.

I laughed. “My name is Peyote Trip,” I said. “I’m not exactly one to judge. I’ll call you whatever you want.”

“ ‘Cal’ is great,” she said, and she took my hand.

“How are you liking our beloved Deals Department so far?” I asked. I was being sarcastic, but her face lit up.

“Oh, I love it. I’m so happy to be here. I was on Third before.”

I caught my surprise in a whistle. “Yikes.”

Deals was on the Fifth Floor, second highest. For Hell, it was the dream job. But, just like on Earth, it’s easy to forget to feel lucky here.

“Well, you must be doing something right to get sent up here.”

She blushed again. Once you’ve seen the insides of so many bodies, it’s hard to think of blushing as anything other than the presence of blood. Her face looked bloody to me. But still, I didn’t hate it.

“Why do you have so many pens?” she asked, looking at the bulging zipper on my case.

“They didn’t tell you? You need at least fifteen here. Did you not down there?”

“We didn’t use pens.”

I forgot that pens were an upper-level treat.

“Right,” I said. “It’s been a while since I was on the bottom floors. Well, the first five pens you try won’t work, but, you know, you’ve gotta try them anyway.”

“Wow,” Cal said, throwing her pen in the trash. “Thanks for the tip!”

I stood up and paused, unsure if I should walk away or wait for her. As she started gathering her things, I lingered, pushing my chair in farther than it needed to go. I would stay and help out the newb. Courtesy was stark in Hell.

She tried to pick up her binder, but it toppled from her arms and landed on the floor.

“I’ll carry it for you,” I said, picking it up and tucking it under my arm.

“Oh . . . okay, thanks. Thank you.”

“So, got this bad boy memorized yet?” I asked.

“We have to memorize it?”

I laughed. “Not exactly, but you might lose the nickname if you can answer KQ’s questions quicker.”

“It’s a lot, isn’t it? All of the rules, the goals, the terminology . . . it’s very different from the Third Floor.”

“The main thing to remember is the Specs. You can spend your whole time here going after Ones and Twos, but you don’t make the big numbers until you start focusing on Fives.”

Cal sighed.

“Yeah, okay, Fives take the most work. For sure. But if you want to make a splash around here, I would recommend tracking a couple, just in case.”

“Maybe I’ll just give up now, change my name to ‘Disease-Carrying Vermin,’ and be done with it,” she said. I racked my brain for encouragement, but then I saw that she was smiling. It was a good smile. Small, but good.

“It’s not the worst name I’ve heard KQ call someone,” I said. “It’s kind of cute, actually.”

There went her blood again, all over.

“Thanks, Peyote.” She stopped in front of her cubicle and took her binder from under my arm.

“Call me Pey.”

“Thanks, Pey,” she said, and smiled once more before ducking behind her divider.

—

THE FIRST THING I did when I sat down at my desk was check on the Harrisons. I had four generations of Harrisons under my belt. All I needed was one more, my Spencer Norwood, and I would have a Complete Set. One more direct-descendant-Harrison deal, and everything I had done—everything done to me—would be worth it.

I turned on my monitor, and the white house with the black shutters appeared in front of me, late-afternoon light lapping at the weathered clapboard like the tide on a boat. It was empty now, but they would be there soon, and I liked the way it looked when it was empty. Like it was waiting for them.

Evan built that house with his dad, after he dropped out of school to join the family business. Evan was my fourth Harrison, but I have to admit I didn’t think it would be him. I was tracking his debt-heavy sister right up until the day Evan called, palms down on the dining room table, a second cup of tea across from his. I liked Evan; he knew exactly what he wanted. His son, Silas, and his daughter-in-law, Lily, proved harder. That happens sometimes with generations. One person makes a deal: I’ll sell my soul if my family never wants for anything. And then their family gets well and accustomed to never wanting for anything, and they don’t need to make any deals. But you know what always happens the generation after that? They make the biggest deals of all. They are so used to wanting for nothing, they take to wanting with an appetite.

I had a good feeling about the older grandchild, Sean. He was into some sick shit on the Internet. Never underestimate teenage hormones high on dungeon porn.

The younger one, Mickey, was different. She wasn’t exactly clean; she had her own sticky parts. But she was quieter in her head than Sean, which made her more intriguing. She felt like her grandpa. Of course, I celebrated the night I signed Evan; he was my fourth Harrison. But it didn’t feel like I thought it would. Somehow, I walked away feeling like it was me who got played. Mickey made me feel the same way, and I liked it. Sean was my safety school; Mickey was my reach.

But then there was Ruth.

None of us were prepared for Ruth.

LILY

“YOU’LL ONLY BE A few hours away,” Gavin said, tracing the line of Lily’s underwear where it hit that tattoo she got on her eighteenth birthday. The one she pretended she regretted, but that she still secretly loved as much as the day she got it.

“It might as well be a world away,” Lily answered, pulling her shirt over her head. Gavin’s hand fell back to the bedspread. Lily freed her blond hair from her collar, feeling the weight of it on her shoulders. Gavin loved her hair. They all did.

“I could come up there, come see you.”

Lily inhaled to button her jeans. She could feel the cold, dirty thing slither into her gut.

“No, you can’t.”

Gavin didn’t respond.

“Gav, you know you can’t.”

She turned and looked at him. He was working his belt buckle into the third loop, sitting on the edge of the bed. She watched his hands, the way they gripped the leather.

“It’ll be six weeks,” she said. “And I’ll see you before I go. At least once, I promise.” Gavin let go of his belt and grabbed her wrist, pulling her whole structure down.

“I could meet you somewhere nearby,” he whispered into her hair. “There have to be places like this in New Hampshire.”

“Sex hotels?” Lily asked. Her voice was strict, but the rest of her wasn’t.

“No, not a sex hotel. Something classy. I promise,” he said as he kissed her neck. “It’ll be classy.”

“It’s the family vacation,” she said.

Gavin took a deep breath and fell back against the pillow.

“And tonight is a Tuesday,” he said. “What’s the difference?”

Instead of answering, Lily kissed him with her full mouth, even though she tasted like sex and dehydration.

“Just six weeks,” she said, gathering her coat from beside the bed. “Then I’ll be back, and it’ll be like I never left.”

“It’s never like you never left.”

As she turned the key in her car, Lily clicked on her cell phone. No missed calls. She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror: she had that sex-stung look, but it was nothing she couldn’t cover with lip gloss and enthusiasm. She could say she went on a walk after work. She could say she witnessed an accident. She pulled the car out of the motel’s parking lot. It would only be six weeks, she thought, turning up the radio to block out every thought that followed.

“I’m home!” she said as she hung her keys on the ring next to Silas’s. “Babe?”

“Back here!”

Lily dropped her bag and coat in the front hall and walked through the house to the kitchen. Silas was bent over the stove, a knife in hand.

“Welcome home!” he said, not looking back. He was carving meat, being cautious around the bones.

“Are they home?”

“Sean is in his room. He said he was doing his homework, but I’m pretty sure he snuck the PlayStation in there again. I haven’t been able to bust him yet; you know how careful you have to be with lamb,” Silas answered, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder. Lily leaned against the island in their kitchen.

The air smelled like rosemary and long-simmered wine. Lily smelled like Gavin. The two scents mixed as she spoke.

“Mickey still at camp?”

“She should be back any minute.”

She thought about going up to Silas and sticking out her finger for a taste of his sauce, the way she used to. Pushing her face under his arm until he lifted it and made room for her.

“Any word on the house sitter?” she asked instead.

“Amanda can do it,” Silas answered. He shook a spice jar over the saucepan.

“The whole time? Six weeks is a long time for a teenager.”

“Lil, she’s just going to water the plants and get the mail. I think she can handle it.” He put down the jar and grabbed another one.

Lily looked around the kitchen. “We need to clean this place before we go.”

“We still have two weeks,” Silas said. “We’ll get it done.”

The New Hampshire Harrison home. Silas had grown up spending his summers there, and, ever since she was sixteen, Lily had spent hers there too. It was old and made lonely sounds at night, but it was beautiful. The kids loved it.

“Dinner will be ready in thirty. Wanna go ground your son while you’re waiting?” Silas asked. Lily looked up the stairs toward Sean’s room and shook her head.

“I’m going to take a quick shower first; I worked out after work.”

Silas turned to face her, and it caught her off guard. Sometimes, in movement, Silas looked exactly like the boy she fell in love with. When he was still, she noticed the way the skin around his eyes had begun to pucker, as if already starting the slow migration into the ground. But when he was in motion, she noticed only his eyes: kindergartners’ sky blue, so fiercely blue that the marker bleeds right through the page. Those hadn’t changed since high school. In fact, they looked even brighter behind his slightly graying hair.

Lily thought about Gavin’s hands on her that afternoon. The way he grabbed for her, reached for her. Like she was the surface and he was drowning.

“What kind of workout did you do?”

Lily’s heart kicked up a notch, but only a notch. Sometimes she wondered which would be worse: to get caught, or not to.

“Treadmill,” she answered.

“You look good.”

He didn’t come near her, but he looked like maybe he wanted to.

“Well, someone’s gotta fix what those monsters of ours did to me,” Lily said, her palm slick on the banister.

“Twenty-five minutes,” Silas said before turning back to the stove.

Lily stopped in front of Sean’s door, listening to the hacks and slashes of the PlayStation. He would hear from her later, she thought. Just as soon as she washed the spit from her thighs.

PEYOTE

MY MONITOR BEEPED, AND I clicked out of the Harrisons’ to check my inbox. It was a Spec Three, my personal favorite. I hadn’t been at this job for too long, but it was long enough to know which people were my favorites. For Hell, I mean. Not for socializing.

I clicked on the message, and the video came up.

“Please,” a girl said, her hands pressed together on the top of a mailbox. The rest of the scene filled in around her: a tree-lined street, dappled sunlight glinting off the windows of big houses. “Please, please let me get in. My mom will kill me if I don’t get in. Please, please, God, or whoever is listening: I’ll do whatever you want if you just let me get in.”

I grabbed my tablet and clicked Confirm.

It was go time.

—

BEFORE I GO ON, I suppose it’s important to know how time works down here.

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