The Grand Azathoth Hotel - Chapter 28

Lucifer’s grin widened as he leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes glinting with something playful, something knowing. “Oh, I can give you a few answers,” he said smoothly, swirling the coffee in his cup as if he had all the time in the world. “Three questions. But in exchange…” He tilted his head, watching her reaction. “You believe in equivalent exchanges, right?”

Robin’s lips parted slightly, the words of immediate agreement forming—before she hesitated. Something inside her, something instinctual, made her pause. She knew better than to make careless deals, especially with someone like him. Her eyes narrowed, and she considered it carefully, feeling the way her dress tensed slightly, as though aware of the weight of the moment. Finally, she nodded slowly. “Nothing that could hurt the Hotel or James,” she clarified. “No favors—I’m not betraying the Hotel.”

Lucifer chuckled, leaning back with an easy smile. “Good girl,” he almost said, but he caught himself at the last second, sensing she wouldn’t take kindly to it. Instead, he clapped once, an appreciative little gesture. “Smart. I like that.” Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he added, “So, for the first time, it’s free. Just so you can get a taste of what I know. That way, when you really need information—and trust me, that day will come—you’ll know who to turn to.”

Robin pouted slightly, and Lucifer felt the ridiculous, almost irresistible urge to ruffle her hair just to see how she’d react. But the solid black void of her eyes and the way the Necronomicon—which was definitely sentient in her hands—let out a low, almost possessive growl made him think better of it. He liked his fingers intact, thank you very much.

He cleared his throat and went on. “So, first—the dress. The clothes. Nyarla’s old bandages, if you want to be precise.” He gestured toward her attire with a flick of his fingers. “That? It’s one of the payments an old guest made to stay in the Hotel. Ol’ Six.” He smirked slightly, waiting to see if she’d catch the reference, but she just tilted her head, intrigued. “He had to give up two things to get a room, and one of them was the Skin of Chaos God Tzeentch.” He let the words sink in, watching as realization dawned on her.

Robin’s fingers instinctively tightened around the fabric of her dress. “Wait. Skin? As in, actual skin?”

Lucifer grinned, all too entertained by her reaction. “No idea how Ol’ Six managed to catch the bastard, much less skin him, but yeah. That’s what he handed over. Seems he gave it to Nyarla’, and, well, Nyarla’ forgot it in the Hotel—typical—and somehow James ended up giving it to you.” He tapped his chin, feigning curiosity. “Wonder if he knew what he was doing?”

Robin opened her mouth, then closed it, clearly unsure whether she wanted to think too hard about that particular question. Instead, she exhaled sharply and asked, “Is it dangerous?”

Lucifer’s smile was nothing short of radiant. “Extremely.”

She gave him a deadpan look.

Still grinning, he lifted a hand in a placating gesture. “However,” he continued, “it’s spent a lot of time in the Hotel. And when I say a lot, I mean a lot. You know how the Hotel imprints on things, right?”

Robin gave a slow nod.

“So, as it is now? No idea. One thing is certain—do not take it out of the Hotel, and it should be safe.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “A peu près.”

Robin exhaled through her nose and muttered, “Comforting.” But after a moment, she nodded again. “Thanks. That actually… helps.”

Lucifer gave her a lazy two-fingered salute. “Anytime.”

Robin’s eyes sharpened slightly, her mind shifting gears. “And,” she continued, “what about the tests? For being promoted?”

Lucifer leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he let her question settle between them. He tilted his cup slightly, watching the coffee swirl inside, as if considering his words carefully—though, in truth, he was mostly enjoying drawing out the suspense. Finally, he shrugged, the motion almost lazy. “Honestly? It’s just speculation on my part,” he admitted. “James isn’t exactly the predictable type. But he did learn how to manage this place under Nyarlathotep—the previous manager, by the way.” He flashed her a sharp, knowing grin, watching as she absorbed that little fact.

Robin frowned, her fingers tapping lightly against the porcelain of her teacup. “Nyarlathotep…” she murmured, the name rolling off her tongue like something she’d read one too many times in the Necronomicon. Of course, she’d known that thing had been involved with the Hotel before James took over, but to hear it put so plainly, like it was just another past employer—like James had been an intern himself once—it made her head spin a little. “And Nyarlathotep liked tests,” she echoed.

Lucifer nodded. “Oh, loved them,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “That thing would test people just for fun, twist them up, wring them dry, see what would come out the other side. So maybe—maybe—James will do the same. Or maybe he won’t. Hard to say, since James is, well… James.” He gestured vaguely, as if that explained everything.

Robin narrowed her eyes slightly. “So you don’t actually know if there will be a test.”

Lucifer chuckled, tilting his head. “Nope.”

Robin resisted the urge to sigh. “So what do you know for sure?”

Lucifer’s grin sharpened, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. He set his coffee cup down with an exaggerated clink, lacing his fingers together as he leaned forward just slightly, just enough to make her instinctively brace herself. “One thing is certain,” he said smoothly.

Robin raised an eyebrow, waiting. “And that is?”

His smirk widened. “Once you’re titularized, you’ll no longer be an intern,” he said, drawing the words out like he was savoring them. “And that means…” He let the silence stretch, watching her lean in ever so slightly. “You’ll be able to get a salary.”

Robin blinked. “A… salary?”

Lucifer laughed, the sound rich and deeply amused. “Think about it,” he continued, eyes glinting with mischief. “A gift from James himself. A real one. Not just coffee, not just the Notebook, not just the Skin. Those?” He waved a hand dismissively. “Those are trinkets compared to what he can really give. Trinkets compared to what it means when James gives something.”

Robin felt a shiver run down her spine. Not from fear, not entirely, but from something deeper—something she wasn’t sure she had the words for. She had thought about a lot of things when it came to James, when it came to this place, but never had she considered what it would mean to receive something truly meant to be hers. A salary? It sounded so… normal. But from James? From him?

Her grip on her teacup tightened slightly. “And what,” she asked slowly, “exactly do you think he’d give me?”

Lucifer just smiled. “Now that, dear Robin, depends on what you really want?”

— — — 

Pepper Potts was not the kind of woman who drank herself into oblivion. She was not the kind of woman who let herself unravel in public, either. She was the kind of woman who held everything together—who picked up the pieces, who made sure Stark Industries didn’t implode, who told reporters with a perfectly measured smile that no, there was no reason to panic. She was the one who reassured everyone else.

But tonight, in a quiet speakeasy tucked away from the world, she let herself slip.

The low hum of jazz curled through the air, mingling with the scent of aged whiskey and polished wood. The lighting was warm, golden, the kind that made the edges of things feel softer, less real. Pepper sat at the counter, her fingers curled around a glass of something strong, something that burned just enough to remind her she was still here. That she was still waiting.

She didn’t even know why she had walked in. Maybe because it wasn’t her usual place, because no one would recognize her here. Maybe because the thought of going back to the empty Stark Tower, to his empty penthouse, felt unbearable. Maybe because, for the first time in years, she didn’t know what to do.

“Rough night?”

The voice was warm, smooth—like the whiskey she was drinking, but without the bite. She looked up and met the bartender’s gaze. He was young, or at least looked it, with dark hair slightly tousled as if he had run a hand through it one too many times. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, vest neatly buttoned, and his tie hung just a little loose, like he took his job seriously but not too seriously.

Pepper exhaled, tilting her glass slightly. “You could say that.”

He didn’t press, just wiped down the counter with an easy patience, as if he had all the time in the world. “Want to talk about it, or just want another drink?”

She considered. She should say no. She should keep it all locked up, should tell him to just pour her another and move on. But maybe it was the exhaustion, the whiskey, or the fact that this man had the kind of presence that made it feel like nothing in the world could shake him—but she found herself speaking anyway.

“My boss is missing,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She let out a sharp breath, barely a laugh. “No, not missing. Presumed dead. Probably dead. Definitely dead, if you ask the board.”

The bartender didn’t flinch, didn’t react the way most people did when she said those words. He just nodded, like he understood. “But you don’t believe that.”

Pepper stared at her drink. She didn’t. She couldn’t. “Tony Stark doesn’t just die,” she murmured. “If anyone could survive… it’s him.”

There was a quiet beat before the bartender leaned against the counter slightly, his voice softer now. “Then wait.”

She looked up at him, frowning slightly.

“If you believe he’ll come back, then wait for him,” he said simply. “Not because you owe it to him, not because of the company, or the board, or the world. Wait because you trust him.”

Pepper swallowed, something tightening in her chest. “It’s not that simple.”

“Maybe not,” he admitted, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

She studied him, this bartender who spoke with the kind of certainty that shouldn’t exist in a place like this, in a world like this. There was something about him—something steady, unwavering. It made her want to believe him.

Maybe that was stupid. Maybe it was the whiskey.

But for the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe.

She exhaled, setting down her glass. “What’s your name?”

“James.”

“Well, James,” she said, feeling a ghost of a real smile on her lips, “I think I’ll take your advice.”

He nodded, as if that was exactly what he expected. Then, with an easy motion, he picked up the bottle and poured her another drink.

“Good,” he said. “Now, let’s make sure the waiting isn’t completely miserable.”

— — — — 

Miki and Gorou Hyoudou were, simply put, the luckiest parents in the world.

Their son had changed. Truly changed.

Gone was the awkward, perverted, wildly inappropriate boy who used to spend too much time ogling gravure magazines and giggling with his equally questionable friends. Gone were the days of being called to school for “disciplinary discussions” that left them red-faced and apologizing profusely. No more worrying about their son sneaking peeks into bathhouses or making creepy comments about the neighborhood ladies. No more waking up to the horrifying realization that their son’s browser history needed an exorcism.

No, Issei had matured.

He was polite, well-spoken, and carried himself with a newfound confidence that made them both misty-eyed with pride. He held doors open for their elderly neighbors, he helped little old ladies cross the street, and he even—even!—started reading actual books instead of those other magazines he used to hide under his bed.

Miki sipped her tea, sighing happily as she looked at her husband. “We did good, Gorou. He’s grown into such a fine young man.”

Gorou nodded, flipping through the newspaper with a satisfied grunt. “Yeah. Can’t believe it, honestly. I was convinced we were going to have to bail him out of some inappropriate conduct scandal by now, but look at him. Responsible. Mature. A gentleman.”

Miki dabbed at her eyes dramatically. “My baby boy has grown.”

And right on cue, the front door opened.

“Mother, Father, I’m home,” Issei called out, stepping into the house.

Miki and Gorou turned, beaming at their son. There he was, standing tall, exuding an air of maturity and poise that would have been unthinkable just a year ago.

And then they noticed the small, shy-looking blonde girl standing beside him.

In a nun’s habit.

Clutching her hands together like she had just been dropped into a whole new world.

“…Huh?” Miki blinked.

“…Eh?” Gorou frowned.

“Mother, Father,” Issei said, his voice smooth, composed, gentlemanly. “Allow me to introduce you to Asia.” He turned to the small girl, who shyly dipped her head in greeting. “She’ll be staying here with me.”

Miki choked on her tea. Gorou nearly dropped his newspaper.

“…WHAT?!”

Their perfect son, their reformed, responsible, mature son had just waltzed into the house with an adorable, innocent-looking nun and casually announced that she was moving in?

Gorou stared at Asia, then at Issei, then back at Asia. “Son. What—what do you mean, ‘staying here’? As in—” He gestured wildly. “—here? Here-here?”

“Yes, Father. She has nowhere else to go,” Issei explained smoothly, smiling at Asia with an almost angelic expression. “I couldn’t possibly leave her on the streets.”

Miki’s brain short-circuited. “B-But she’s—she’s—”

“A nun?” Issei supplied helpfully. “Yes. A very sweet and pure-hearted one, at that.”

Miki and Gorou exchanged a look. A panicked look.

Gorou leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Miki,” he whispered. “Is our son running some kind of religious cult now?”

Miki clutched his arm. “I don’t know, Gorou, but I thought we had fixed him!”

Issei, completely oblivious to their meltdown, turned back to Asia and gave her a reassuring nod. “Don’t worry, Asia. My parents are very kind and will be happy to have you.”

Asia beamed, clasping her hands together. “Thank you very much, Mr. and Mrs. Hyoudou! I promise to be no trouble at all.”

Miki and Gorou swallowed hard.

Oh god, she’s polite. She’s sweet. She’s adorable. Our son is doomed.

Gorou cleared his throat, forcing a smile. “Uh, Issei, can we—can we talk for a moment? Privately?”

Issei nodded, stepping aside with his father as Miki gave Asia a strained smile and led her to sit down.

Gorou grabbed his son’s shoulders. “Son,” he said, serious. “I need you to tell me honestly. Are you…” He swallowed. “Are you okay?”

Issei blinked. “Of course, Dad. I’ve never been better.”

“No, no, I mean—” He lowered his voice. “You brought home a nun, Issei. You—you—brought home an actual, innocent, pure-hearted nun.”

“Yes.” Issei nodded, smiling serenely.

Gorou narrowed his eyes. “And…you have no ulterior motives?”

Issei gave his father a look of such deep offense that it actually made Gorou question whether or not this was his real son.

“Father,” Issei said, voice practically dripping with dignity. “I am a gentleman.”