Almost yes.
Christian Morrissey has never been refused anything.
Forty years old. Harvard, then Oxford. Partner at Calloway Whitfield, corner office on the thirty-fourth floor, two hundred twenty million dollars closed on a Friday afternoon and forgotten by six. He knows the doormen by name. He remembers the rest of them by what they can do for him.
On the last Friday of the month he goes to a club on the Sunset Strip, and a man he has known for years holds open a door that isn't on any floor plan.
He walks through it.
Afterward there are three hours he cannot account for. Ice that hasn't melted in a glass. A reflection running a half-second behind.
Asmoday is a Great King of Hell and the commander of seventy-two legions, and he has never once had to force anybody.
He only opens doors.
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