Lost Gods

by Brom

  Senoy shook his head, ever amazed at Lamia’s blindness to her own nature. She truly didn’t see the suffering she wrought on her own children.

  “We will have the key again,” he said. “I will be set free. Think of the things we can do.”

  She sighed and the sound was like a hammer, for it spoke that she truly believed his fate sealed, that he would never be able to leave this island, much less follow her. “Senoy, we both know you’re grasping at straws.”

  “I am grasping at anything I can.”

  “When did you last sense the key?”

  “Not so long ago. Only a glimpse, but it was Gavin. I am sure.”

  She eyed him skeptically. “Sometimes we see what we want to see.”

  “No, it was Gavin. I always feel him when he uses the key. Only a flutter, but there is no mistaking his black heart.”

  She brightened. “Then there is hope.” He saw desire in her eyes, but knew it was not for him, but for the key and its power.

  “Yes,” he said. “There is hope. But only if you stay. The key . . . it will do me little good without you.” There was little need to say this, she knew only her blood, her sorcery could bring his flesh to life once more, but Senoy needed to say it.

  She didn’t respond and he knew he shouldn’t press, but he did, he always did. “You will stay and wait with me?” And of all his folly, it was this twist that hurt him most, that the shroud could not hold her, not her or her demons. It was cast for divine spirits only. Why even Joshua could leave if he but knew and could get past the demons. Lamia had remained on the island all these years only to await the return of her bloodline. She had that now.

  “I will stay.”

  “Yes?”

  She nodded. “For as long as I can.”

  He looked into her face and her eyes dropped, the way they always did when she lied to him. He knew she loathed this place of tragedy and black memories, that it was killing her just as it was killing him. His fear was that in her haste, her desperation to flee, she wouldn’t wait until the child was old enough to take, but feed on her, growing just strong enough to leave, to take the child elsewhere to raise, jeopardizing everything.

  “It is too dangerous,” he said.

  Again she made no response and he knew he needed to stop before he went too far. “It is not safe to venture from this sanctuary. Not without me to shield you,” he said, his tone forceful. “The angels will find you. You know this. I know you know this.” He saw it on her face then, the coldness returning. Why must he always do this? It was why they’d stopped talking; she’d grown tired of his pleas and threats. And here he was at her again, trying to scare her.

  “This is no sanctuary,” she said. “This is a prison. This is death. I’d rather risk Gabriel and his wolves than spend another day here.”

  Senoy looked out toward the ocean, wondering if she had any idea how deep her words cut him. He had no desire to live in a cell either, but he would rather live in a cell with her, than to be free without her. His eyes fell on her hand; it rested between them on the swing. So close. And despite her words, her manner, the desire to touch her overwhelmed him.

  He touched her—tracing a single finger along the top of her hand.

  She recoiled. He caught the revulsion on her face and felt as though he’d been struck.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “It is not easy to be so close.”

  She stood. “Don’t apologize. It’s just that your flesh . . . it . . . it’s as though being touched by death.”

  “I know . . . all too well, for it is I who must live within this carcass.”

  “If only—” she didn’t finish.

  “Yes, if only.” A thousand if-onlys, he thought. If only Gavin hadn’t shown up when he did. Hadn’t brought ruin to all our dreams. My flesh would, this very minute, be pumping with warm blood—her blood, my blood, mingled together. We would be as brother and sister, as lovers, as one, sharing a thousand mortal lives together. If only. Oh, if only.

  “Let us not dwell on the past,” she said. “Let us instead put our hopes on Chet. I’ll be strong again soon and once we have the key, we can finish what we started.”

  And to hear someone else say it, he could see just how ludicrous such hopes sounded. Yes, if Chet finds the key, finds the needle in the haystack. If he survives the trials of the nether regions, if the demons do not hunt him down, if Gavin does not kill him. If he makes it back before Lamia leaves me, before I waste away and become just another shadow among the shadows. So many ifs.

  The children gathered on the hill, their little glowing eyes on Lamia—their faces, like his, so full of yearning for her. And he saw in them how pitiful he must appear. He, who was once a great hunter of gods and monsters, he, the angel that Gabriel had called his sword of might, reduced to begging just to be allowed to sit next to this lilith, this ungodly creature that he was sent to cast down.

  The children called to her and she smiled at them, encouraging them. “They love me,” she said, and beamed. And they too, these lost souls, could leave the island if they wished. Only they would never, not without their mother; they would follow her to Hell itself.

  Senoy sighed. I should have killed her. How did it ever come to this? How did I ever fall so far? “I gave up God’s light for you, gave up everything.”

  Her smiled fell away.

  It was the worst thing he could say, he knew it, but he said it anyway, said it because there always came some satisfaction in seeing the sting. Because the sting meant that on some level, she still cared. But he saw no sting, no sorrow, no regret, nothing.

  “Lamia, this flesh you bound me to, this flesh that once ran with both our blood, is dying, truly dying. You must understand that when I put up the shroud, I blocked out God’s light as well, and without it my spirit is starving, becoming too weak to carry this carcass much longer.”

  She was staring away, out at her children, as though she didn’t even hear him.

  “There is no release for me, Lamia. Not even in death. Can you not see that without your hand, I cannot escape these rotting bones? I will be trapped forever, Lamia. Trapped within this prison within a prison, unable to ascend or even descend. Does that not mean anything to you?”

  She turned away.

  “I do not have much longer, so please, I beg . . . yes, I am begging you . . . don’t leave me, Lamia. Please give Chet a little more time.”

  She gave him a small, sad smile and left the porch, left him with all her children.

  He heard snickering from the oak trees. Davy and Billy stepped out and the children scattered, ran back down the hill and into the woods.

  “She’s gonna leave you,” Billy said. “Leave you to die . . . alone.”

  CHAPTER 58

  I think that’s the worst of it,” Isabel said, pushing the cart onto the firmer trail. Her boots, the hem of her cloak, all their cloaks, were caked with mud.

  Mary knew it wasn’t going to be easy—the canyon trail never was—but she hadn’t expected such a downpour as came the previous day. But even though the rain had slowed them down, she still felt she’d made the right call.

  “There,” Isabel called, pointing to a bit of high ground well out of the mud. “Looks to be a good spot for a rest.”

  The sisters rolled the carts over and stopped, finding dry ground to sit on. Mary watched the women tend to the infants, reassuring those who needed it, calming any who were crying.

  A little girl reached for Mary, looking up at her with trusting eyes. A stab of guilt caught Mary by surprise and for a moment, it wasn’t this little girl she saw before her, but her own infant daughter. They killed my babies, she thought. As sure as cutting their throats . . . and all because no one dared care for them. While she’d sat in a cell accused by the Salem Governor’s Council of witchcraft, all three, the oldest being only six, had succumbed to starvation and exposure that brutal winter. They’d warned me, told me to take my tools of Satan and leave. But did I? No. I was too proud to
bend to the will of fanatics. And the price of my pride was my daughters’ lives. So then, who, who is to blame? Mary picked the little girl up, cradled her, and when the girl hugged her back, the pain, the guilt, began to fade once more.

  The Red Lady sat up suddenly, sniffing the air. She glanced skyward and Mary followed her gaze. There, high in the clouds, was a trail of green smoke.

  “You think that’s coming from Osiris’s Mother?” Isabel asked.

  “I do,” the Red Lady said and stamped her great paw, the fur rising along her back.

  “What is it?” Isabel asked. “Demons? Is it demons?”

  Mary set the child back in the cart and drew her sword.

  CHAPTER 59

  There’s another one,” Ana said.

  The hoofprints had all washed away, but the wagon wheels had left deep ruts and they’d spotted a trace here and there and followed them off the wider trail, down a narrow side ravine. The trail here was washed clean, just black sand and stones and they soon lost any signs of the tracks, but the ledges appeared to be getting lower, flatter, so they continued. About an hour later the clouds lifted and a dim amber glow lit up the canyon. The land began to dry out, the rocks shifting toward a rusty red color.

  Chet scanned the cliffs. “We might be able to climb out here. Have a look around.”

  Ana nodded. “Worth a try.”

  They scaled a series of ledges until they found themselves on a plateau composed of large jagged rocks and boulders. Veins of crimson crystal glittered across the red stones. They topped a ledge and a valley spread out below. Enormous towering stone pillars jutted upward across a valley pocked with craters and fissures spewing steam.

  “You see that?” Ana said, pointing toward a thin cloud of green smoke drifting into the sky. “Think we should take a look?”

  Chet nodded and they wove their way through a forest of standing stones as they tried to get a better view. They came out upon another ledge and halted.

  “Wow, now that’s something,” Ana said.

  Far below them a giant iron statue of a two-headed woman stood among crumbling ruins. Six breasts sat atop her bulging belly and green smoke poured from her mouth and eyes.

  Chet spotted movement below her—a wagon, horses, and men wearing green jackets.

  “It’s them,” Ana said.

  Chet scooted up to take a closer look, rounded a boulder, and froze.

  A creature, draped in a dirty crimson cloak, sat astride a huge stallion. The creature’s face was long and goatlike with horns curling back over its head. It stared down into the valley below. The stallion, a stringy, skeletal beast with a mouthful of jagged broken teeth, jerked its head around in their direction. It stomped and bellowed, sending a blast of smoke and sparks from its nose and mouth.

  Chet slid back behind the boulder, pulling Ana down, hoping the creature hadn’t heard or seen them. They crouched, waiting for the beast to leave, but it didn’t. Instead it began to pace back and forth along the ledge, leaving them nowhere to go.

  Chet slid out his knife and prayed he wouldn’t need to use it.

  CHAPTER 60

  Two demons on horseback trotted into the ruins. They nodded to Carlos, then spread out, circling the giant iron statue, peering into the crumbling buildings, searching the hilltops and ledges. They met back where they started and one of them waved its spear toward the canyon pass. Figures on horseback moved out from the shadows, kicking up a red cloud of dust as they rode toward them.

  Carlos exchanged a glance with Hugo.

  “You ready?” Hugo asked.

  Carlos took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked it into the dirt. “As much as I’ll ever be.” He’d never met Lord Kashaol, never knew anyone who had even seen one of the fallen angels before. They were said to be powerful and dangerous beings, beings that had fought against God himself. He swallowed hard and sat up tall in the saddle, determined not to appear cowed.

  “You ever worry that once the Red Lady is gone, one of these demon lords might try and take over?” Hugo asked.

  “What, demons, ruling openly in the river realms?” Carlos snorted. “The One Gods would never stand for that. To my understanding there’s some sort of pact in place, y’know between all those One Gods, the Hindus, Christians, Buddhists, and such, that none of them should rule the river realms. If that’s so, imagine if one of Lucifer’s lords tried that shit. Why Kali herself would probably come marching in and crush them. See, that’s the beauty of our situation. Lord Kashaol needs us as much as we need him, maybe even more so. If he wants souls, then he’s going to have to work with us.”

  Carlos counted seven figures: six on horseback, another at the reins of a black wagon. He realized these were the lord’s escort and was surprised to see such a small guard, especially in these territories. As they drew near Carlos saw the guard wore ragged, mismatched armor. They looked more like common bandits than elite guards. He spotted no insignia, no banners. This troubled him. He’d not expected the black and gold of Lucifer’s regiments, but these were low-caste demons, little more than twisted souls. Carlos had heard that Hell wasn’t one unified kingdom, but many, much like medieval Europe, all vying for Lucifer’s favor. He had no clear idea of Kashaol’s standing, but judging by his ragtag guards, it didn’t appear to be much.

  The procession entered the ruins, the guard spreading out, their anxious eyes peering in all directions. Gar rode in and gave Carlos a knowing smile. They halted and Gar dismounted, scurrying over to a hunched figure atop a cadaverous horse. The horse had long, skeletal legs—not a warhorse, but a creature built to run.

  A dark purple shroud ringed with golden tassels and embroidered with intricate patterns enveloped the figure. But even though the shroud was made of rich material, it was frayed and tattered, turning brown with age. Moreover, demons coveted their gold and copper and this creature wore none, only a few necklaces of beads and bones and faded blue flowers whose pointed petals writhed like tentacles. Carlos began to wonder just what rank this demon lord actually held.

  Gar took the reins as the figure slid from the horse. Gar gestured toward Carlos and whispered a few words. The figure shuffled over, the hem of its shroud dragging along in the dirt. It stopped a few steps away and pushed back its hood, revealing a pitted bronze helmet with a faceplate covering all of its face but its mouth and bony chin. Its pallid flesh was covered in veins and bruise-colored spots. It shed the shroud, Gar catching it as it slid from its shoulders.

  Carlos made a nod, almost a bow. He’d heard God robbed the fallen angels of their beauty and grace, but it was hard for him to accept that the twisted creature before him had ever strolled the halls of Heaven.

  The lord cocked its head left and right, as though listening for something. “Where is she?” it rasped, its voice sounding as tortured as its body.

  “She?” Carlos asked, then understood. “The Red Lady?”

  The lord nodded, its tongue darting out between jagged broken teeth, licking its black, shriveled lips.

  “Last word she was in Styga gathering children. That was about two days ago. She should be on the caravan road to Lethe about now. At least a day’s ride from here. I would’ve heard, otherwise.”

  The demon grunted and scanned the cliffs. Carlos noted a sentinel on a distant ledge. The sentinel raised and lowered its spear. This seemed to appease the lord and he returned his attention to Carlos. “I take great risk entering the river realms,” Lord Kashaol said. “But it is important that I meet the man in whose hands I am placing my fate.” He faced Carlos, tracing a bony finger down his own ominous faceplate. Spikes began to sprout from the top and sides of the demon’s helmet, forming into a great jagged star, then splintering off into smaller barbs that floated around them. “What sort of man are you, Carlos?”

  Carlos’s thick brows knotted together. He had no idea how to answer such a question.

  There were three small cones set atop the helmet, and an eye formed within each, staring at him, into him. �
��Are you a man who knows what he wants? Are you bound by sentiment or do you write your own dogma? Do you kneel with martyrs or carp with the philistines? Do you bear the weight of a thousand crosses? Are you a sadist, a murdering bastard? Who are you, Carlos?” The creature leaned in on him and Carlos met his own reflection in the tarnished faceplate. His eyes locked on themselves, took on a life of their own, glaring, boring into him. Carlos saw himself first as a boy, struggling not to cry as Sister Phyllis smacked his knuckles with her sharp ruler over and over until they bled. But the tears had come, big, sobbing tears, and the class had laughed at him, not out loud, but snickering behind their hands. Then as a young private in the army, Sergeant Johnson, that beast of a man, singling him out over and over again to make an example of, forcing him to stand at attention all night in his boots and skivvies while the other men made their little jokes, their little digs. Then prison, Pedro, big fat Pedro, and his gang, taking turns at him, the taste of Vaseline in his mouth. But he’d killed Pedro. Because enough was enough, and he’d decided then and there, regardless of the cost, he’d never, never, again take it—not from nuns, cops, or prison fuckheads. And when Pedro’s gang came for him, cut his throat and left him to bleed out in his cell, he’d thought of Pedro, of the man’s brains splattered all over that barbell, and smiled, actually smiled. Carlos saw that smile, that face, in the reflection—beastly and manic as the blood pumped out from between his fingers—and just when he thought he could bear it no longer, his eyes, the ones in the reflection, closed, releasing him.

  Carlos fell back a step, blinking and rubbing his eyes. They burned as though he’d been staring into the sun. He noticed a small smile on the demon’s mouth; the creature appeared to be enjoying his discomfort.

  The three eyes on Lord Kashaol’s helmet closed. “You have something for me?”

  “What . . . ?” For a moment Carlos forgot why he’d even come here. “Oh . . . yeah,” he said weakly, struggling to regain his composure, trying to push away the image of his own death. “Yeah, I do.” Carlos waved and Jimmy and Hugo walked the small wagon forward, pulled the latch, and dropped the gate. Carlos flipped the tarp back, revealing Veles’s trussed, mutilated body.