Host Club on the Pleasure Planet Preview

One

The bells were tolling the hour, calling the brothers to prayer, when the messenger arrived. He arrived in a sleek black vehicle that barreled through the gates of the abbey, nearly running over several of the monks hurrying to the chapel hall because they were late for vespers. The vehicle sloshed through several puddles on the rutted path leading to the main hall, water dribbling down its sides and glinting in the rays of the setting sun.

One of the monks it nearly mowed down was Brother Benedict, and it jerked to a halt, the driver leaning out the window and barking, “You Benny?”

Benedict glanced at two of the other monks with him—Brother Balthazar and Brother Mendocious—who proceeded to stare at him like he was the ugly alien driving a million-credit hover car through the monastery grounds. Slowly, he turned back to said ugly alien, tilting his head and flicking one of his pointed, cat-like ears. “Yes?”

He wasn’t sure why it came out as a question. He was, in fact, “Benny,” although no one had called him that in ages. Abbot Bartholomew insisted it was sinful to have nicknames—they’d been given their names as gifts from their parents, who likely had divine inspiration, and thus names were a gift from God. To shorten or change them was, in the abbot’s view, blasphemy.

Benedict wasn’t entirely sure about that—he rather liked the sound of “Benny” instead of the many syllables of “Benedict”—and in any case, his parents hadn’t given him any name at all. No, his aunt had given him the name—and she’d been the last one to call him “Benny.”

That had been years ago, before she sent him here to study with the monks.

Cautiously, he took a step toward the car, flicking his ears back. “Is there something you need from me?” he asked, doing his best to remember how Abbot Bartholomew instructed them to greet strangers. Always seek to render service, whatever that meant in this case.

The ugly alien nodded and grinned, displaying yellowed teeth that looked like they’d been filed off into squares. “Got a message for ya.”

***

Ten minutes later, Benedict was sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair in Abbot Bartholomew’s office, staring at his hands in his lap and wondering if he’d ever find the strength to move them again. He felt as though the messenger’s words had cleaved all the muscle from his bones, drained it away, and left him mush.

His aunt was dead.

More than that, she’d been murdered, and Benedict was still trying to wrap his head around the idea that someone had wanted his aunt dead bad enough that they’d taken her life. At first, he’d thought it must have been a sort of killed-in-a-crowd-by-accident sort of thing, or maybe a hit-and-run with a hovercraft or something like that, but no.

It was murder, plain and simple. Her alone. No witnesses or bystanders. Intentional.

He tried to tune in as Abbot Bartholomew and the messenger prattled on about what this meant, but it was just static buzzing in Benedict’s ears.

His aunt was dead.

“He can’t just leave,” Abbot Bartholomew said, his voice rising above its usual calm pitch. He practically squeaked, like a little mouse, which finally kickstarted Benedict’s brain and he lifted his gaze.

“Leave?” he asked. “Why would I leave?”

The messenger, who had been leaning back in his chair, flopped forward suddenly, the legs of the chair hitting the ground. His arms came to rest over his knees, and Benedict suddenly flashed back to being a child, hauled out of class to stand in this very office, Abbot Bartholomew frowning down at him because he was such a miscreant.

“Ain’t ya been listening?” the messenger drawled. “Belladonna’s dead, and that means you’re in charge of her empire.”

“Empire …?” Benedict knitted his brows in confusion. His aunt had been well-off, sure, but he didn’t think she was royalty of any kind.

Come to think of it, he had no idea how his aunt had come by her money. Or what she did for a living. Or anything about the woman, really, other than she was his aunt; she’d taken him in when his parents died, she’d paid for his schooling, and she loved him. Or at least, that was what she’d told him when she visited on birthdays and holidays.

The messenger grinned. “Ohhh, boy,” he drawled. “Yer gonna have fun when we get to Kateria.”

“Kateria?” Benedict echoed, shifting his gaze to the abbot, who had stiffened visibly at the mention of this place. The messenger’s grin got even uglier, and his eyes twinkled with malicious merriment.

“There is absolutely no way a member of our order can go to that … wretched place,” Abbot Bartholomew said heatedly, but he was still squeaking.

“Seems fine for most of us,” the messenger said, shooting the abbot a cool look.

“It’s a den of scum and villainy!” Abbot Bartholomew burst out, his voice so high it could shatter windows.

The messenger chuckled, then slammed a hand down on the abbot’s desk. “Look, bub,” he snarled, “I know you think you’re holy shit or something, but the boss-lady named our boy Benny here as her heir, and that means Benny’s gotta come and sort out the mess she left when she got whacked, yeah?”

Benedict’s head was spinning. What mess? How the dickens was he supposed to sort anything out? Why did he have to leave to do it, and why was Abbot Bartholomew so opposed to this Kateria place?

Silence reigned for a moment. The messenger cocked his head. “Or, if ya prefer, we can bring the mess to your doorstep, Mister Holy Shit.”

Abbot Bartholomew swallowed audibly, and Benedict could see sweat prickling at his temples. He sucked in a breath.

Benedict cut him off. “Abbot,” he said, “is this not an opportunity for our order?”

Bartholomew turned to him, almost viciously. Benedict plowed on. “If Kateria is such a den of sin, then there must be a good many souls that need saving.”

The abbot’s eyes widened, and the messenger barked rough laughter that grated down Benedict’s spine like sandpaper. He slammed a fist down on the desk. “Oooh, boy! That’s a good one! You’re gonna come to Kateria—the pleasure planet, of all places—and save souls?” His grin was manic. “You’re something else—no wonder La Chef liked you!”

“La Chef?” Benedict’s head was still swimming.

Bartholomew was shaking his head. “Benedict,” he said slowly, “I don’t think you understand.”

Benedict knew he didn’t understand, so he latched on to the only thing that made sense. “My aunt was a chef?”

The messenger smirked. “Sure.”

Benedict’s heart swelled with hope, even though he had the nagging feeling he was being naive. “So she provided food. And her empire is …”

“Restaurants,” the messenger said. “Mostly.”

Benedict nodded, then looked at Abbot Bartholomew. “I really do think there’s an opportunity here, abbot. We can reach lost souls through the power of meals—and our savior, of course.”

Abbot Bartholomew stared at him as though he’d lost all his marbles. The messenger was still hollering with laughter, fat tears running down his cheeks as he pounded the desk with his fist.

“Well,” the abbot said at length, darting a quick glance at their howling visitor, “you can … try.”