Page 49

‘Troglodytes!’ he called, his voice echoing deep into the cave. ‘It is Nico di Angelo, son of Hades! I have returned with my glow-in-the-dark boyfriend, Will Solace!’

The answer came almost immediately. One moment, they heard the sound of shuffling feet from somewhere far away, and then, suddenly, they were surrounded by troglodytes.

There were too many to count, but Nico was so happy to see them.

The troglodytes looked like humans if humans stood barely a metre high and had evolved from frogs. They had paper-thin lips over wide faces, recessed noses and bulging eyes like amphibians’. Their skin tones came in a seemingly limitless assortment of colours. Even in the dim light, Nico could see greens and blues and browns. One of the trogs – dressed very much like an aerobics instructor from the 80s – had skin that glittered as if covered in yellow gems.

Troglodytes had a penchant for costumes, and they were dressed in every conceivable outfit you could imagine: sweaters on top of overalls; double-breasted suit jackets over sweatpants; skirts and dresses and blouses, all haphazardly assembled and layered on top of one another. One trog wore nothing but neon pink: high-waisted leather pants, a jacket with cropped shoulders over pink mesh and an audacious cowboy hat, all of it studded with gold.

The hats were … Well, if anything was expected of a trog, it was that they loved hats. Rarely had Nico seen a troglodyte wear only one at a time. Indeed, every trog in Nico’s field of view had stacked multiple chapeaus on top of their head. Beanies under Stetsons under newsboy caps under snapbacks under crowns. If it went on top of a head, the troglodytes wore it.

The trog Nico knew best, Screech-Bling, stepped forward, decked out as usual in his miniature George Washington costume, complete with a white wig under a leather tricorn.

‘We see you, Nico di Angelo and Will Solace!’ Screech-Bling cried.

Of course, his actual speech was punctuated with the constant clicks, growls and screeches the trogs used to communicate.

‘Thank you –grrr– O greatScreech-Bling, CEO of the troglodytes!’ said Nico. ‘I –’

Will stepped forward. ‘We come bearing –click– gifts, O great –screech– troglodytes!’

Nico watched in horror as Will unknowingly told the audience that he came bearing ‘rotten’ gifts to the great ‘fermenting’ troglodytes. Then his boyfriend set down his knapsack in front of a couple of jittery, nervous trogs and pulled out the other two hoodies he had packed. He held them high and asked, ‘Do these gifts –grrr– you?’

The troglodytes looked uncertainly at Screech-Bling.

‘Will, what are youdoing?’ Nico whispered.

‘I thought I’d at leasttry,’ Will said.

‘You just asked them if your hoodies “devour” them.’

‘No, that’s not what I said!’

Nico nodded. ‘It totally is.’

But the trogs seemed to have understood the gesture. Two of them had already slipped inside the pale blue hoodies, which dragged on the ground due to their short stature.

Screech-Bling doffed his triangular hat. ‘They do devour us,’ he said. ‘Come, Nico and Will –screech!– and join us in our new home.’

Will smiled at Nico. ‘Guess I did okay.’

Nico chuckled. ‘Yeah, I think so.’ He took Will’s hand in his. ‘Thank you for trying.’

They began their trek through the dark cavern with Screech-Bling in the lead. Soon they entered a side passage lit by clusters of bioluminescent mushrooms – the trog version of wall sconces – and Nico could see well enough to put his glowing sword away. One of the trogs who had snatched a hoodie danced a little jig in front of Will, clicking and screeching before darting away.

‘I think that trog in particular is happy with you,’ said Nico.

Will scanned the crowd, which was chattering and clicking fiercely in their colourful fashion ensembles. ‘They’ve really improved their clothing options since we last saw them.’

‘That was part of the appeal of this place,’ said Nico. ‘They’re right by the River Styx.’

Will tilted his head. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘The Styx carries the remains of broken dreams.’

‘Which means –?’

‘Well, when the dead cross the river, they abandon their mortal lives. A lot of times, they discard the last of their precious memories in the water. You can see all sorts of debris floating in the current: the pages of unfinished manuscripts, paintings that went unsold, photographs of loved ones.’