The hotel had been quiet for almost an hour—quiet in the way a ticking bomb is quiet before it goes off. Nathan Freeling stood behind the front desk, sleeves rolled up, smile stretched too wide for someone pretending everything was fine. The smile of a man who’s seen too many strange things and decided that pretending they’re normal is easier than therapy.

He was dusting off the bell jar that held the "Complimentary Peppermints (Possibly Cursed)" sign when a shriek echoed from the east wing. Not the horror-movie kind—more the “someone found a raccoon in the silverware drawer again” kind. Nathan froze. Slowly, carefully, he set down the jar.

“Abaddon,” he called, tone steady, the way one speaks to a loose wild animal or a toddler with scissors. “What did we talk about regarding the kitchen?”

No answer. Which was worse?

The east wing was a chaos zone—half-renovated rooms, paint cans, a floorboard that moaned like a dying whale when stepped on. Nathan tiptoed past the whale board, through the narrow hallway that smelled like cedar and sulfur. The air shimmered faintly near the door to Room 13.

Inside, the chaos had already peaked.

Flour dusted the air like fallout. Every pot and pan in the kitchenette hovered midair in slow orbit around a small boy with glowing eyes and jam smeared across his chin. Abaddon grinned when he saw Nathan, that innocent cherub expression only demons and con artists could pull off.

Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose, a deep, calming inhale. “You were making cookies, weren’t you?”

A proud nod. A little too proud. The flour bag caught fire behind him.

Nathan sprinted forward, clapping his hands to summon the emergency sprinklers—except the hotel’s magic was temperamental. Instead of water, pink glitter rained from the ceiling. The fire went out. The glitter did not. It coated everything, including Nathan, who now looked like a motivational speaker for unicorns.

Abaddon giggled, spinning under the sparkle-storm. His laughter was pure mischief, but there was something almost human underneath—something lonely, echoing in the marble bones of the hotel. Nathan’s irritation melted, replaced with reluctant fondness.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, stooping to pick up a singed spatula. “You know that? You could’ve burned the whole east wing down again.”

Abaddon shrugged, eyes dimming from hellfire gold to an innocent brown. “It would’ve been pretty.”

Nathan sighed, a sound halfway between defeat and laughter. He herded the little demon out of the room, brushing glitter from his hair and muttering about “property damage insurance for infernal minors.” The hotel creaked approvingly, pipes rattling in the walls like applause.

As they stepped into the main hall, the evening sun cut through the stained glass, scattering colors across the floor—ruby, emerald, topaz. The place almost looked peaceful. Almost.

Abaddon tugged at Nathan’s sleeve, small hand smudged with flour and starlight. The boy offered him something—a burnt cookie, edges black, center raw. Nathan stared at it for a long moment, then bit in anyway.

“Crunchy,” he lied, swallowing regret.

Abaddon beamed.

Nathan smiled back, that hopeless, unkillable optimism shining through the exhaustion. Maybe he hadn’t planned for a demon to take up residence in the hotel. Maybe the “family” he’d imagined didn’t include a supernatural child with a taste for chaos and pyromancy. But as Abaddon chattered about his next culinary “experiment,” Nathan found himself thinking that maybe this—flour explosions, cursed cookies, and all—was exactly the kind of absurd, messy life he’d always wanted.

The hotel’s lights flickered, humming in approval.

Somewhere deep in the east wing, a door creaked open on its own. But for now, Nathan ignored it. He had a demon to supervise and a glitter-coated disaster to clean up.

The hauntings could wait.