by Matt Turner
“Business,” Giles slowly repeated, as though he had never heard the word before. “How interesting.”
Salome leaned forward, allowing the cool light to bathe her flawless skin. “Lao wasn’t entertaining you two, was he?” she mocked. “I do hate to share my lovers.”
“Disgusting,” Longinus growled. He pulled back his customary stone chair and sat down, his body as unnaturally rigid and still as ever.
Fritz silently took his usual place just to Longinus’s left.
“I don’t hear any protestations from your friend.” Salome winked.
As Fritz’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he found that he was able to make out the features of the fellow Prophets more clearly. Salome, by far the youngest and most beautiful of all of them, smiled a mouthful of teeth at him from across the round table. He reflexively sneered back. Full lips and button nose be damned, he’d break that pretty little face in half one day.
He hated all of them, come to think of it—he told himself it was because of their insufferable attitudes, their foolish beliefs, but in his darkest depths he knew the truth: he hated them simply because they possessed power and he didn’t. He hated Giles, who sat silently brooding at the head of the table as locusts crawled through his dark hair and just beneath the surface of his skin. He hated Legion, the goddamned monstrosity. He hated Salome, the untermensch bitch. Hell, he even hated—
Fritz quickly noticed the empty chair to his left. “Where’s Ellie?” he demanded.
“Alssso late,” Legion said. Their hunchbacked body—nearly the size of a three-man tent underneath the robes that concealed everything but a face veiled in a curtain of greasy, stringy hair—pulsed and twisted in excitement. “We ssshould punisssh her.”
“She is on an important assignment,” Giles said. “Her presence is not required.”
Fritz raised an eyebrow. It was very unusual for Ellie to leave her workshop, let alone Dis itself. “What sort of assignment?” he pressed.
“One that does not concern you.”
Bastard, Fritz thought. Let’s see you talk down to me with a bullet in your head. He imagined blowing open the Prophet’s head open with a point-blank shot, spilling brains and locusts into the air. The image was so beautiful he couldn’t help but smile.
“Sssome drivel with the Flagellantsss, mossst like.” Legion chuckled. “The artificial one lovesss to deny her flesssh.”
Not for the first time, Fritz found himself profoundly grateful that he was not seated next to Legion. Just the sound of the Prophet’s wet, mucus-ridden voice was nauseating. Fire, he decided. He had a few incendiaries on his person. I could do it right here. He fantasized about hearing all of Legion’s mouths scream at once as the flames consumed them—what a delight that would be!
“God damn, could you be any creepier, Legion?” Salome asked. “Christ.”
“You wassste your exissstence, child.” Legion spun around to face her—far more quickly than seemed possible, given their bulk—but Salome, to her credit, did not so much as flinch at the enormous hunchbacked figure. “Join our loving embrace.”
As Salome gave Legion a rude hand gesture, Longinus leaned in closer to Giles. “How goes the progress on that project we discussed earlier?” he asked in a low voice.
Fritz rolled his eyes. Longinus was a cranky, cunning bastard underneath that cold exterior of his, but the former Horseman was sometimes as subtle as an artillery barrage. “There’s no need for secrecy, L,” he said sarcastically. “We all know about those ‘Five Wounds’ of yours.”
“How does my father-in-law fare, by the way?” Salome smirked, further confirming his point.
Longinus gave them both an ugly glare. The tips of his lips ever-so-slightly lurched downward in a hint of a scowl.
“They still have a way to go, I’m afraid.” Giles sighed. He nodded to Salome. “Herod in particular has a few scraps of free will left.” As he mentioned the dead king’s name, the crown of locusts about his brow stirred and rustled through his hair. “Abaddon finds him to be particularly vexing.”
“That’s a good word for the old lecher.” Salome chuckled. “So what exactly do you plan to do with him and the other three, Longinus? Something risqué, maybe? I know you Romans have strange tastes...”
She may be a Jewess, but Fritz had to admit that the bitch had some wit. He quietly snickered at the thought of the brooding Longinus caught in the midst of an orgy with the four others who made up his “Five Wounds of Christ.” Jesus, even the name was laughable.
Longinus gave Salome his most intimidating stare, perfected by millennia of hate and bloodshed. “One day I’ll make you pay for that, whore.”
“Bring it on,” Salome taunted. “You won’t be the first prophet whose head I’ve served up on a platter.”
“Enough,” Giles ordered. “We have been distracted long enough. Legion, your report.”
“We have sssearched the Forest of Sssuicidesss,” they said. “Damage is thirty percent to the south grove, twenty to the west, sssixty to the east, and ninety to the north. No evidence of the vandalsss remainsss.”
Damn, Fritz thought. That was worse than he had expected. The Forest was the Kingdom’s most reliable source of fuel and resources—to have damaged it so much was tantamount to an act of war. He wondered whether de Montfort had had something to do with it; the Phlegethon wasn’t far from the Forest, after all. It would be another thing to ask when he figured out how to conduct the damned ritual.
“That is where you are incorrect,” Giles noted. “I’ve just been contacted by Antony. He claims to have found two new Horsemen, coming from the direction of the Forest.”
New Horsemen. I was right. It was difficult to conceal his smile as the other Prophets murmured in disquiet.
“Antony?” Salome demanded. “What’s that washed-up drunk doing with two new Horsemen?”
“I ensured that he became the magistrate of one of the trade towns near the Phlegethon when he left us,” Giles explained. “It keeps the fool out of our hair, but close enough to the border with Lower Hell to ensure we can use him if situations like this arise.”
“And what did these ‘new’ Horsemen want with that traitor?” Longinus softly asked.
“An alliance. They asked him to target me specifically.” Below the crown of shifting locusts, Giles’s eyes glimmered. “It seems our enemies underestimate me.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that there are new Horsemen,” Salome urged. “And that still leaves two unaccounted for. Has Antony beaten the information out of them yet?”
“No,” Giles replied. “I told him to let them go.”
Fritz inwardly beamed. Perfect. If a man could steal the power of one Horseman, why not two? Or three? Or all four? I could become a god of Hell!
“What,” Legion hissed. “Are you mad? Letting them go?”
“Idiocy,” Longinus said grimly. “They already destroyed half the Kingdom’s wood supply, and yet you allow them to continue? Maybe you’re more like Antony than you think, devil.”
A single locust sprang from Giles’s sleeve and flew onto Longinus’s lap. “Mind your words, little monkey.” Abaddon’s voice echoed from its pincers. “My patience grows thin.”
As always, Fritz felt a pang of jealousy whenever he saw the insectoid form of the devil. Why had one of the last living demons in Hell decided to bond itself to a Frenchman instead of him? It was utterly infuriating. I wonder if there are any others still out there? But he quickly discarded the notion—even in an eternity of existence, the odds of finding a living demon powerful enough to bind itself to a human host were astronomical.
Longinus looked as though he wanted to swat the distasteful insect away, but he did not make a move.
“As I was saying,” Giles continued after a pause, “the two Horsemen—Plague and Famine, I believe they were—are on their way to the First Circle, where another one of their number supposedly is.”
“Bullshit,” Fritz said. “Any new Horseman wo
uld stick out in Limbo like a sore thumb.” Those unlucky enough to be in the First Circle had it nearly as bad as the suicides—robbed of their bodies, they existed as ghostlike shades that screamed in pain with the slightest gust of wind. Horseman material they were not.
“Precisely. That was merely a clumsy attempt to throw us off the trail. Their true target is hiding somewhere else...in the pits of the Third or, more likely, in the factories of the Fourth. And that is where we shall be waiting—the first two shall lead us to the third, and we will catch most of the rats in one fell swoop.”
Please send me, Fritz prayed. He already had one Horseman; to have the other three...!
“Longinus, you and Fritz are our best trackers. Go to the Fourth Circle. Only make your move once you have identified the third Horseman.” The locust on Longinus’s lap flew away and landed on Giles’s cheek. He paid no attention to it, even when it crawled inside his mouth as he spoke. “Bring them all to me.” There was a faint crunch as his teeth closed down on the locust’s shell and crushed it in two.
“What of the fourth Horssseman?” Legion asked.
“He may already be with the third. If not, one free Horseman is still much better than four. We will have him eventually.”
This is perfect. It was all Fritz could do to not start laughing in victory. This is the day everything changes, he vowed. With all four Horsemen in my grasp…!
Giles directed his attention to Fritz and Longinus. “You both know what is at stake here. It is not a coincidence that these new Horsemen have arrived at this particular moment. Their master has a motive.” His eyes flickered over Longinus, then over to Legion. Together with Antony, they made up the original Horsemen in the Second Rebellion. “You know what it is.”
A shudder passed through Legion’s body. “He wantsss war,” they whispered.
“He wants more than that,” Longinus grimly added.
Giles gave a single curt nod of agreement. “Legion, you will go to the Second Circle and re-establish the Kingdom’s relationships with the warlords there. Assimilate as many as you have to until they fall back in line. The last thing we need is more of this damned dissent. The Holy Council has given me permission to have the Titan escort you.”
“The feasssting will be good,” Legion cooed.
“Salome, you and I will remain in Dis to protect the Holy Council,” Giles continued.
The prophet twirled a finger in her curls. “I suppose Lao wouldn’t mind that,” she jokingly said, as though she actually gave a damn about what Lao thought.
“Then you two will proceed to the Fourth Circle,” Giles repeated to Fritz and Longinus. An edge crept into his voice, strengthened by the handful of locusts that took wing from his scalp and began to buzz furiously about the table. “I will not tolerate failure. Return with the Horsemen or return nailed to a cross. The choice is yours.”
It was no longer any use; Fritz couldn’t keep the beaming smile from his face as the Prophets grunted their farewells and went their separate ways. Longinus threw him a suspicious glare as they returned to the antechamber to fetch Simon, but it couldn’t be helped—at last, the stars had finally aligned in Fritz’s favor. At last, it’d be his turn to make the world hurt. The thought warmed his heart all the way to the Fourth Circle.
21
For the next week, Vera worked like a madwoman nearly every waking moment that she had. Even Signy commented on it after a few days.
“Why the fuck do you keep touching people?” she finally demanded, just after Vera had casually leaned back in her chair, extending her hands back so that her fingertips just barely brushed against a passing guard. “It’s creepy as shit.”
Vera tuned her out and focused on the strange mark on her ankle that pulsed and burned. It had been difficult at first, but she was finally shifting from becoming a passive observer of the minds she touched to an active participant. No longer did she solely consume information (although that was quite useful—she had learned much about the security of Cenodoxa’s nail factory)—she was also able to pass it on as well. She had started with casual thoughts, little tiny seeds of doubt she planted deep within the psyche of those she touched—not just with the guards, but with many of the workers as well. The only mind she had decided to avoid was Signy’s. The thought of touching Signy’s mind somehow just seemed wrong, as well as extremely dangerous. She was still wounded from where Roy had shot her, but Vera had no doubt the angry woman could still beat the hell out of her anyway.
Your doom comes, she had somehow whispered into the soul of the man she had just touched. Deep within his brain, there had been a response, a wave building up in the murky waters of his subconscious. It was a simple, crude message for now, but the stronger she became, the more fear and doubt she would be able to pour into their simple little minds. For now, all she needed to do was gradually stir up the fear that existed within all of them.
“Incoming,” Signy suddenly whispered.
Vera quickly leaned forward and pretended to be studiously working at the pile of nails in front of her, but it was too late.
“Howdy, darlin’.” Pliers seemed to be in an unusually bright mood, which was always a bad sign.
Vera tensed, ready for him to inevitably lay a hand on her shoulder or try to grab her breasts, but he made no move to touch her—probably because his hands were full with a plate piled high with steak.
“I have some good news!”
Touch me, you bastard. Vera knew very little about her power—its origin, or even its full extent—but the one thing she knew for certain was that she needed physical contact to start the link between minds. Unfortunately, the rapist was just out of her reach. She scooted her chair backward as much as the chains would allow, hoping it would let her just reach out and touch him—
“It’s your friend Tituba.” Pliers beamed. “Y’know, the Indian chick in the boiler room. We think she broke her back or something, because she’s moving a hell of a lot slower today. Looks like she’s almost completely burnt out.”
“Oh?” Vera twisted her torso around and pushed out her breasts. I just need to touch him, she thought desperately, even while hating the way his eyes slightly widened at her filthy rags.
Signy looked at her as though she were utterly insane.
“I haven’t forgotten, sweetie.” Pliers chuckled. “You’re gonna be next. The crank breaks everyone—and then I’m gonna break what’s left when it’s chewed you up and spat you out.” He leaned closer to emphasize his threat.
Vera’s heart leapt; he was almost, almost, almost within range—
“I can’t wait to hear you scream, you little whore.”
“Pliers!” Roy called down from the catwalk above them. “You bringing the lunch or what?”
“I’m coming,” Pliers called back. He took a step back and winked at the two of them. “We’re having steak courtesy of the Church of the Fallen Father,” he bragged. “Anyways, see you around, ladies.”
DAMN IT, Vera bellowed internally as the rapist swaggered away. I don’t have much time, she thought desperately.
“I’m going to wear his balls as a necklace one day,” Signy declared.
“Just get pearls instead,” Vera said. “They’re probably about the same size anyway.”
“Heh.” Signy made a single solitary noise that might have been a laugh. “Sounds like we don’t have much time left. When’s this ‘revolution’ of yours coming, Bolshenik?”
“That’s Bolshe-vik,” Vera automatically corrected her. She had tried to teach Signy some of the tenets of Marxism with remarkably poor success. “And I’m working on it.”
“Work harder,” Signy grunted. As swift as a snake, she plucked two nails from the clanking assembly line and slipped them into her mouth. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Soon,” Vera promised. “Soon.” But she did not feel prepared; the clock was ticking, and her options were running out.
As usual, dinner that day was a vile concoction of rotting fung
us, mixed with a few handfuls of rancid wormflesh that still slightly twisted and curled in the sparks thrown off by the machines. It was a meal that would make even a starving man think twice. Vera choked down her bile as she reached out for the pile of sawdust-covered glop that Roy unceremoniously dumped on the worktable before her. Need to keep up my strength, she tried to tell herself, just before a violent gag seized her throat.
Just before she could reach the meager pile of so-called “food,” a hand came out of nowhere and scooped away a solid portion of her meal. “Signy,” Vera snarled. “Give that back right fucking now or I’ll—”
She looked up to see that the hand in question did not belong to Signy; its owner gave her a small smile as he plopped the fungus, worms and all, into his mouth. “I always try to sample the local cuisine,” he explained as he chewed. “It’s—oh sweet Heaven—” He immediately gagged and spat the filthy fungus out. “Good Lord, is that really for eating?”
“It’s you,” Vera said slowly as her memory began to recall the man’s familiar features. The tan shade of his skin, the unruly dark hair… He was there in the Third Circle when I first came here. She punched him in the arm, hard. “You broke my nose, asshole.”
“It was for your own good.” The man shrugged. “If it’s any consolation, your face is healing up nicely.”
“And you stole my food—wait.” Vera spun her head in either direction, but no one else seemed to have noticed them so far. “You’re not one of the guards—how the hell did you get in here?”
“I have my ways,” the stranger said mysteriously. Pretentious prick, Vera thought. He brazenly sat down on the table in front of her, coming dangerously close to crushing the rest of her food beneath his pale robes.
“Get down,” Vera hissed. “The guards will see you—”
“No, they won’t.” He grinned. “Only you can see me right now, Vera, so we’re going to have a private chat.”
