The Grand Azathoth Hotel - Chapter 39

Chapter 39

“Arty?” James called out, frowning when there was no answer.

That wasn’t normal.

Arty was the type of kid who always heard first. She was an outdoorsy kid. Sharp, quiet, always listening—she could pick up on a snapped twig, a distant footstep, or someone trying to sneak up on her. It was just the way she was. That kind of awareness didn’t just disappear. Which meant something was wrong. James sighed and picked up his pace, hands slipping into his pockets as he walked, scanning his surroundings with casual ease. He wasn’t particularly worried—this was Arty. She could handle herself. But still, something nagged at him, a small itch in the back of his mind.

And then he turned a corner.

And stopped cold.

Well.

That was not okay.

Arty—his Arty, who had shot up like a weed since the last time he’d seen her and now looked about sixteen—was a mess. Her normally carefully controlled stance was shaking, her arms trembling from exhaustion. Her clothes were ripped, her skin scraped and bruised, and there was a fresh gash along her cheek. It wasn’t deep, but it was there, and James felt something unpleasant curl in his chest at the sight of it. Anger — it had been a long time since he felt…Last time it was…His memory got suddenly fuzzy, and he felt himself…What was he angry again? Arty! In front of him ! She was hurt ! 

And she was holding a rock.

James frowned. It was just a big rock for a petite girl like her, slightly larger than a decent-sized pebble, but smaller than a full rock. Nothing for an adult, but quite heavy for a small child. His eyes flicked up to the man standing in front of her.

James didn’t like him. Didn't like him at all. Was he the one forcing Arty to do tricks with a rock like she was a dog ?  Didn’t need to know who he was, didn’t need an introduction. He could tell from the smirk on his face, the way he stood there, arms crossed, watching her struggle, enjoying it. He was one of those guys. The kind that got way too much enjoyment out of making people suffer.

And James really hated those guys. As he stepped closer, the man’s voice became clear.

“—nothing more than a foolish girl, thinking she can stand among titans,” the guy sneered, his tone dripping with smug superiority. “You will hold until you break, Artemis. You have no choice.”

James clicked his tongue. Seriously? This guy had all the makings of a cartoon villain. He half expected him to start monologuing about his master plan or something. Instead, James narrowed his eyes, stepping forward, irritation curling in his chest.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing to Arty?!”

Artemis’ head jerked up at the sound of his voice, and for the first time since he’d found her, relief flooded her expression.

“Uncle James?”

Her voice wavered, breathless with disbelief. If he had been paying closer attention, he would have seen the horror in her eyes at seeing him here — and it was not that she worried for him. She worried for the planet. But James wasn’t paying attention to that. He was too busy frowning at the stupid rock. Reaching out, he patted her on the head, offering his best reassuring smile like it was just another day at work. He had learned he should look chill n tense situations, especially in front of children, so they were not afraid. He had read it in a magazine. 

“Relax, kid. I’m here now. Everything’s fine.”

He gestured toward the rock weighing her down.

“You can put that rock down now. No need to entertain whatever nonsense this guy’s making you do.”

Arty hesitated.

“I… I can’t.” Her voice was small, hesitant.

Behind her, the man laughed.

“Oh, you fool. Do you even understand what she is carrying? What she is bound to? The heavens themselves press down upon—”

James rolled his eyes. More nonsense.

“Yeah, yeah, very dramatic.” He waved a hand. “Listen, if you don’t want to lose it, I’ll just put it in my bag.”

Before either of them could object, James unzipped his bag, grabbed the big pebble, and—with a smooth, practiced motion—stuffed it inside. Zipped it shut. Slung the bag over his shoulder. Problem solved.

Silence.

Arty just stared.

The man—who had been so full of himself seconds ago—was now pale, shaking, stumbling backward.

“That… That’s impossible.” His voice cracked. “You—”

James didn’t care. He slapped him. The man disappeared. James blinked. 

Wait.

Where’d he go? He turned around. Looked left, then right. Had he… run away? That was fast. James shrugged.

Whatever. Arty was safe ! 

— — — — 

“Un… Uncle James?”

The words left her lips in a whisper, barely audible over the sound of her own ragged breathing. She thought, for a moment, that she had hallucinated him. That the unbearable strain of the sky pressing down on her had finally broken something in her mind, that exhaustion had taken its toll, and that her senses were deceiving her. But no—the others had seen him too. The demigods, Apollo, even Atlas had stopped to look. He was real. He was here. And that was impossible.

Her body trembled beneath the crushing weight of the sky, her muscles burning, every inch of her screaming in protest. But the pain was nothing compared to the terror that slithered through her veins at the sight of him. The memories, the ones she had once thought were childhood fantasies, came rushing back with a force that nearly knocked her breath away. The Hotel. The reality that should not exist. James. The kind, harmless-seeming uncle who had once ruffled her hair, who had never treated her as a goddess, only as Arty. But now, she knew the truth. He was not just James.

He was something else entirely.

The seals Khaos had placed on her memories had broken centuries ago, and with them had come the truth she had spent ages trying to forget. James was not a god. James was not even a being that belonged in this world. There was a greater distance between him and the Primordials than between a mortal and a speck of dust. He was not simply strong—he was wrong. Wrong in the way that space itself bent around him, wrong in the way that the Hotel had never quite obeyed the laws of reality, wrong in the way that even the eldest beings in the cosmos had whispered his name in fear.

And Apollo—that reckless fool, that absolute imbecile—had brought him here. Bringing James into this world was like lighting a match in a room filled with gunpowder. If he stayed too long, if the world realized what had entered its fragile existence, everything would come undone. But before she could even voice her horror, before she could beg him to leave, before she could try to explain that he could not be here, all of her thoughts evaporated.

Because James had seen her wounds.

And his face—normally relaxed, always carrying that casual, unconcerned ease—changed. She had never seen James angry before. Not truly. He got exasperated, sure, he sighed a lot, made dry comments when something annoyed him, but this was different. His gaze flickered across her injuries, taking in the bruises, the scrapes, the blood trickling down her cheek, and something deep within him hardened. It was not rage in the way she had seen in gods before—it was something colder, something absolute, something that sent an instinctive shiver down her spine.

And yet, in that moment, she did not feel afraid.

Because James was angry for her.

That warmth in her stomach, the feeling she couldn’t name, expanded as she watched him step forward, his presence swallowing everything else. He ruffled her hair—like he always had—and spoke to her like he hadn’t just walked into a battlefield where she was being crushed under the sky.

“Relax, kid. I’m here now. Everything’s fine.”

He gestured toward the weight of the sky, the cosmic burden that had nearly destroyed her.

“You can put that down now. No need to entertain whatever nonsense this guy’s making you do.”

Her lips parted, the words forming before she could stop them. “I… I can’t.”

Atlas laughed. It was a dark, cruel sound, laced with mockery and the kind of arrogance that only came from eons of knowing oneself to be unbreakable. “Oh, you fool. Do you even understand what she is carrying? What she is bound to? The heavens themselves press down upon her, and you think—”

James clicked his tongue, unimpressed.

“Yeah, yeah, very dramatic.” He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Listen, if you don’t want to drop it, I’ll just put it in my bag.”

Artemis barely had time to process what he had just said before he moved.

With one casual, effortless motion, James reached up, took the weight of the sky—the thing that had bent gods, that had crushed titans, that had shattered the strongest beings in existence—

And stuffed it into his backpack.

Her mind broke.

The weight was gone.

Not lifted. Not relieved. Gone.

Something in the universe cracked. Reality itself seemed to waver, as if the world could not comprehend what had just occurred. It was wrong. The sky was not something that could be moved. It was a constant, a pillar of the cosmos, something fundamental to existence itself. And yet, James had taken it as if it were nothing more than a slightly heavy stone.

She made a sound. A breathless, choked thing, caught between a gasp and a prayer.

And then Atlas screamed. She had never heard Atlas scream before. He had been unshaken, unbreakable, the Titan who had borne the sky for eons and emerged stronger for it. But now, he was making a sound that did not belong to a warrior. It was primal. It was wrong.

James turned toward him, and Atlas staggered back. The Titan’s golden eyes were wide, wild with disbelief, his mouth opening and closing in a futile attempt to understand. His hands trembled at his sides, and Artemis—for the first time in her existence—saw Atlas afraid.

“You… you…” The Titan stammered, his voice cracking. “That’s—”

James sighed.

And slapped him.

The sound was nothing. A casual motion, light, dismissive, like swatting a fly.

But the effect—

Atlas detonated.

His body erupted into a cloud of golden ichor, his very essence ripped apart at the molecular level, disintegrating faster than reality could comprehend. His scream was not just physical—it was existential, a howling, broken wail that seemed to drag the remnants of his soul with it as he shattered.

Artemis heard his existence unravel. She heard his past, his present, his future—all of it come undone, all of it wiped away as if it had never been.

And then—

Silence.

Nothing remained. No body. No remnants. Not even dust.

James turned back to her, his expression softening like he had just finished taking out the trash.

“Are you hurt, Arty?” His voice was warm, gentle, like nothing had just happened. “Let’s get a look at those bruises.”

And then—before she could stop him—he pulled her into a hug.

Tight. Warm. Safe. For a split second, Artemis froze. But then—before she even realized what she was doing—she clung to him. Her arms wrapped around him, gripping him tightly, pressing her face into his chest, breathing him in.

And for the first time in centuries, Artemis let herself believe that everything would be okay.

— — — 

Director Rebecca Costa-Brown stood in the cold sterility of the morgue, her expression unreadable as she looked at the two bodies laid out before her. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, casting their harsh white glow over flesh that would never move again. The room smelled of antiseptic and something else, something faint but unmistakable—the scent of failure.

Across from her, Doctor Mother was watching, her face carefully composed, but Costa-Brown could see the tension in the way she held herself, in the slight stiffness of her shoulders. There was wariness there. And fear. They should not be in this situation. This should not have happened. Could not have happened. And yet, here they were.

Their gazes met, and in that instant, there was an unspoken acknowledgment: This was impossible.

On the first slab lay Sophia Hess. Shadow Stalker. A minor asset in the grand scheme of things, just another Ward with a violent streak and authority issues. She had never been a critical piece, never one of their true players, and yet here she was, her body unnaturally still, pale, stiff. Three bullets in the gut, fired with precision but not elegance—someone had wanted her dead, not quickly, but certainly.

But it was the other slab that turned Costa-Brown’s stomach.

She swallowed, a flicker of something dangerously close to uncertainty tightening in her chest.

The second corpse was Contessa.

No. Not just Contessa. Fortuna.

Her face was as calm in death as it had been in life, her expression frozen in quiet contemplation. There was no sign of struggle, no indication of last-minute adjustments or desperate attempts at escape. Just a single, clean crossbow bolt buried straight through her heart.

Costa-Brown stared at it, her mind struggling to wrap itself around the sheer absurdity of what she was seeing. A crossbow. Not a bomb, not a sniper round from half a mile away, not some unpredictable power interaction or exotic thinker-induced breakdown. A crossbow.

And Contessa was dead.

How?

How had it happened?

How had someone, anyone, bypassed the Path?

Her fingers curled into a fist at her side, nails pressing into her palm.

A Ward. A teenager.

That was the part that made it almost laughable. If she had been told that Eidolon had finally snapped, that some forgotten monster from another timeline had returned for vengeance, that some grand cosmic force had intervened—she could have accepted that. But a Ward?

Impossible.

And yet…