A Son of Mortimer
Hux
Pain radiates through my wings, the clock taunting me as I wait and wait — almost two hours of waiting to be exact. It’s never a good day when you get called to the boss’s office, even worse if that boss is Lady Death, the head of the largest Soul Collecting Agency in Hell.
I twist, my body fighting the movement, unable to find a place for my wings on this high backed chair.
I bet Lady Death picked this one precisely for that reason—a reminder to demons who fail her of their place. Succeed in soul collecting and you’ll be quickly ushered into your meeting with your pride and body intact. Fail, and you’ll be relegated to sit in this torture chamber of an armchair for eternity.
“Just a few more minutes, sir,” the front desk worker reassures me sweetly, even though we both know she’s lying.
Her gaze lingers a moment too long on my face. And no matter how much it hurts, I shrink lower into the seat, twisting away from her.
The last thing I need is for the new admin to recognize me.
But I’ve never been a lucky person. The weight of my family name twists around me, inescapable and suffocating.
She glances down at the appointment book, her face practically lighting up when she connects the dots.
She leans forward, twirling her bright pink hair with her tail. “You’re a Son of Mortimer!?”
Of course she recognizes my family name; you’d have to live in the mortal world not to.
“Guilty as charged,” I reply smoothly. “I’m Huxley, the youngest son.”
Never be too nice or excited. Remember, we have a reputation to maintain. My father’s lessons whisper in the recesses of my mind. But I force a smile onto my face, brightening my eyes and bouncing over to her. I will not be like him. I can almost hear his groan of annoyance at my friendliness.
“Oh wow! I’ve heard so many stories! I never thought I would meet one of you! A real son of Mortimer.” Her cheeks flush a dusty pink, highlighting her strong cheekbones. “It’s an honor! I’m Jasmine, the new admin assistant. I’ll be helping with assignments, so I’m sure we’ll work together closely!”
Don’t be too sure, I think to myself.
“The honor is all mine,” I reply brightly. “Welcome to the team.”
“Is it true your older brothers have been called to work in the inner circle, hunting for Lucifer himself?”
I nod, fighting to maintain my large smile.
It’s not her fault. My career isn’t the type that inspires stories. No one fawns over the loser little brother.
“Have you been to the inner circle? Is it as amazing as they say?” she asks.
I open my mouth to answer, but before I can reply, she’s already rambling on with excitement.
“And you collect souls for our contracts? Wow! They said we had some celebrity collectors, but I never would have guessed! You must be our top collector!”
“I don’t think they were talking about me.” A laugh bubbles in my chest, but I swallow it as the corners of my mouth twitch. She’ll find out soon enough. “I’ve only visited the inner circle once. It is exactly what everyone describes, except the lava burns a deep shade of blue and purple—I’ve seen nothing else like it.”
“That must have been… just wow,” she giggles.
Her energy is contagious, feeding my mask of smiles. I shouldn’t be humoring her; this excitement is not actually for me. She’ll hear the stories, learn the truth about me—Huxley, the youngest son of the Mortimer name and the worst soul collector in the history of Hell. I can already imagine the pity in her eyes and the judgment in her tone when I visit next.
A heavy arm falls on my shoulder, my gut twisting as the scent of leather and cinnamon assaults my nose.
“Oh, sweetie, don’t waste your excitement. Hux is practically a mortal,” Daeve laughs, fussing with my hair.
A small shiver runs down my traitorous body and I hold my breath. Today is too important to worry about Daeve.
“He hasn’t even caught his first soul yet,” he continues.
Jasmine’s innocent face flashes with embarrassment and she glances at me, with a crease forming between her eyebrows and pity in her eyes.
Well, that was short-lived.
It’s always the same, a look that reeks of disappointment for getting the knock-off version of a Son of Mortimer and general dismissal after that. My skin should be thicker by now, but each disappointed glare stabs into my soul and leaves invisible scars I can’t erase.
I shrug Daeve off, stepping as far away as the small space will allow. Why’d he have to show off now? Being Lady Death’s rising star should be enough attention for him.
He ruins everything.
“Now if you’re looking to talk to a demon that’s actually going places, well…” He stands taller, puffing his chest and fanning his majestic silver wings, not caring that there isn’t enough space for this. His deep purple skin glows despite the harsh office lights. No one should look this good in this lighting. “I’ve been the top collector here for almost a century, and I’m going to win the Soul Bounties this year.” His gaze trails down Jasmine’s body; his muscles not so subtly flexing as he stands awkwardly in front of her.
The two continue in their odd mating ritual, uncaring that they aren’t alone in this uncomfortable and boring lobby. Jasmine pulls out all the stops to show her interest, laughing, leaning forward, flicking her tail across the table just right so it grazes close to Daeve’s hand.
Daeve eats it up, his chest puffing with his ego.
“The competition didn’t even start yet…” I mumble, turning back toward the stupid chair, at least it will distract me from this show.
“A formality,” Daeve scoffs, leaning forward across the invisible barrier of the desk. “I’m taking applications for my date to the ball if you want to see that lava in person.”
I can practically hear the receptionist swooning, struggling to answer. Daeve’s always been good at flirting, unfortunately his charm doesn’t hold up when things get real and relationships get difficult.
Jasmine will learn that, just like the rest of us have.
The speaker on the desk buzzes, freeing us all from this painful display of arrogance. “Daeve, Lady Death will see you now.”
Of course, he gets to skip right past the chair. If anyone deserves a bit of torture, it’s him.
***
“Mr. Mortimer, you have five minutes,” Lady Death announces, rushing from her office with her bag looped around her shoulder and her eyes focused on the door.
Four hours of waiting for five minutes definitely seems fair, but now is not the time to point this out. I need more cases, that’s all that matters.
I rush toward her, taking a deep breath.
Remember your pitch. Remember why they need someone like you working for this company.
“You seem busy, and of course you are with all the souls being assigned to this office. I can help take some of that off your plate; all I need is one more shot,” I offer, feigning a smile as my mind wrestles back the feeling of impending doom.
“You’ve had one more shot, at least a dozen times, Mr. Huxley,” she scoffs, shaking her head. “If it weren’t for your family, I’d have kicked you out a long time ago.”
“I’ve got what it takes, the same as the rest of my family. Give me another case and I’ll prove it to you,” I plead.
Lady Death turns, facing out of the elevator at me. Pity twists across her face, slowly smothering any hope still lingering in my chest. “Give up, Huxley. You don’t have it. You’re not a soul collector.”
Her words slap against me, a faint echo of my family’s taunts whispering in my mind.
She’s wrong. They are all wrong.
“I am,” I protest. “Please, it’s all I know.”
The doors begin to close; her face softening. “Well, you’re not a soul collector here, not anymore.”
***
“I thought I’d find you here,” Lyra greets, swinging open the door. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
The light flashes on, illuminating my failure — an empty office with no cases or future. “Just thought I should get used to it.”
Lyra pauses, her thermochromatic skin shifting in the coldness of the room. “Don’t be dramatic. You’re not closing down.”
“Wanna bet?” I pause, staring up at her. “Lady Death isn’t giving me any more cases. Apparently, I’m too much of a lost cause. I can maybe get one or two cases from another agency, but it won’t be enough to make ends meet. We’ll be closed in a few months.”
The large portraits of my ancestors stare down at me, judgment in their beady eyes.
“Stop looking at me like that ,” I snap at the lifeless photos, as if the paintings can somehow hear me.
“Hush, you old demons, keep the judgment to yourselves,” Lyra scolds over her shoulder at the faces frozen in time. Creeping over to me, she whispers, “You know you don’t have to be a soul collector, right?”
“Tell that to them!” I wave at the disapproving faces of my ancestors. “Your family’s young; you don’t get it. Every Mortimer since the first in our line has pulled wayward souls back to Hell.” I pause, memories of the legends flashing through my mind. No one has not succeeded at this job. Not in my family.
“I know the stories, you prick.” Lyra pulls away, her skin growing redder as she watches me pout.
Suddenly, she kicks her leg forward, and my chair jolts back, my wings fluttering to fight gravity as I fall towards the ground. “What was that for? I could have fallen on my ass!”
Lyra’s lips curl into a smirk. “But you didn’t.” She paces over to the picture of my first ancestor. “Neither did Mortimer the First when Hell was threatened and losing power because the souls betrayed him. Or the third of your name when he faced competition with other soul collectors. They flapped their wings and figured shit out. So now that you’re standing, what are you going to do about it?”
I glare at her, huffing. “I…”
“Errrr. Wrong answer.” She grabs the papers on the filing cabinet and throws them at me. “You want this business? You want to continue the title? What are you going to do?”
My arms flail, trying to catch the paperwork midair. I can’t very well have the office looking as bad as I feel when my family shows up to take it over.
One sheet flutters free.
“Mrrr..” I groan, putting the loose paper on my desk. “My great-great-great-grandfather would roll over in his grave if he saw this. They’ve turned his memory into a joke. The Soul Bounties–a chance to compete to collect the most wayward souls who have betrayed their deals.”
Lyra’s tail darts forward, snatching the flyer as she studies it. “Is the judge your…”
“Oldest brother? Yeah.” I huff, pulling my chair back to my desk. “What a sellout.”
“Don’t be jealous,” she mocks. “Beating out all the other soul collectors in Hell…that would be pretty cool?”
Cool is an understatement. Winning skyrockets the contestant to success, catching the attention of everyone who matters. “Yeah, Lucifer throws a banquet and everything.”
“It says anyone can enter and is guaranteed a list of names to hunt.”
That must be where all of Lady Death’s cases are going.
“Yeah, I don’t know why that…” my words trail off as I catch the mischievous sparkle in Lyra’s eye. Her color shifts as she tilts her head, a knowing smile growing on her face.
I can’t do it. Only the best win the competition. Daeve’s probably right–this will be the year he wins.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I hiss, fighting to keep my face stoic as I stare down at the paper.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re already planning your ‘I told you so’ speech.”
She shrugs, the smirk growing as I struggle to keep my eyes off the flyer.
Hunting is in my blood. It’s what I’ve been raised to do. But the competition is not a simple task. Hundreds of hunters enter, but only the strongest make it. It usually lasts months.
“For what it matters, I think you can do it,” Lyra whispers before disappearing out the door.
I lose track of time staring at the flyer, a mix of excitement and dread fluttering through me. Losing would be embarrassing, but no more than being forced to shut down this office because I don’t have any work. At least this gives me a chance.
