by Matt Turner
The skin on the woman’s throat re-assembled, taking away the deathly croak in her voice. “You can bleed,” she spat as she raised a clawed hand.
The ground reverberated as Simon crashed into the rubble behind her. “My thoughts exactly,” he snarled, and with a mighty swing, he cleaved the woman’s torso from her legs. She tumbled through the air, a scream on her lips, even as the loose skin on her hips extended outward into a fresh set of limbs—and then a bolt of lightning coursed through the air and struck her directly in the chest. When the blinding flash of light cleared, all that remained of the woman was a smoking, charred torso that groaned and spat on the ground.
Amaury strode forward and placed one of his boots on the woman’s throat. “Another thing.” He grinned, and he whipped out a pistol that he had kept hidden in the small of his back. “I always have an extra.” He pointed the barrel down at her head and squeezed the trigger half a dozen times, reducing her skull to mush.
“That was unnecessary,” Seth groaned as Simon reached a hand down and helped him up.
Amaury shrugged. “She’ll grow a new head in a few minutes anyway. It doesn’t really matter, Heaven-man.”
Then why did you do it, Seth nearly burst out. “Who is she?” he asked instead.
“ELIE the Prophet,” a female voice responded. He turned his head to see that another strange woman, wearing what looked to be Amaury’s cloak, had appeared behind them. A few crackles of lightning danced around her knuckles as her gray eyes narrowed. “That thing could be useful.”
“Manto?” Vera gaped. “Is that you? Aren’t you supposed to just be a—”
“I put her head on the body of a heretic who’s been burning in Hell for the past eight centuries or so, then healed it all together with my Mark,” Amaury said dismissively. “Came out much better than I expected, to be honest.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Seth did not understand in the slightest what was going on, but he was quickly distracted by a happy caw and a flapping of wings. He glanced upward and was nearly smacked in the face by a handful of ragged black feathers as something whooshed past him and landed on ELIE’s unmoving body. “Food,” the vulture-like creature croaked happily as it eagerly gobbled up a scrap of the Prophet’s brains. “Food!”
If Seth still had his heavenly blade, he would have slain the hideous creature on the spot. Even without it, he would have likely dove forward and pulverized the thing with one blow of his fists—but the pain in his wounds, torn open even more by his frantic running, made it so that he could only hobble. “That’s a demon,” he swore. “A fallen angel, a devil—”
“What are you—oh.” Vera noticed the trembling finger that Seth had pointed at the monster. “That’s Podarge.”
“Am harpy,” the devil croaked. It turned its unnaturally human face toward Seth and stared at him with its beady, hateful eyes. Even though it had no mouth—only a razor-sharp beak—he could swear that it was smirking at him. “Am Podarge.”
“She flew me down from the airship,” Vera explained. “I’d be mush without that bird.”
“Harpy,” Podarge corrected.
“Demon,” Seth muttered.
Simon glared down at Seth. “You already consort with traitors, murderers, and thieves, servant of God,” he growled. “What’s a single demon compared to the likes of us?”
“It did look like you were doing quite a bit of consorting with one of us when we found you.” Amaury chuckled. “You have interesting taste in women, Heaven-man.”
“Shut the hell up.” Vera grimaced. She suddenly found something very interesting on the ground before her and began to studiously examine the dirt at her feet. It seemed to be so fascinating that she barely reacted when Simon reached over and casually ripped the knife out of her chest.
Seth had no easy answer for their accusations. It’s this place, he thought. What is it doing to me? What am I becoming?
“This talk is pointless,” the newcomer named Manto said. “All Creation heard the Master’s words. He is free, and he is coming.”
“Back to Judecca, then.” Amaury groaned. “Looks like we’re fucked.” His tone was light, yet Seth could see in his eyes the trembling fear that the Horseman tried to hide.
“Not yet,” Simon growled. “I have some business to settle with the Master first.”
Vera glanced over at Seth, the question obvious on her face: What are you going to do? He glanced away; in truth, he had absolutely no idea. “He’s just one man,” she argued. “We just beat the living shit out of a worm the size of St. Petersburg—”
Amaury raised his hand to expose the red area of raised flesh on his palm. “How do you think we got these?” he snapped. “The Master gave us his power, his Marks, so that we would free him—and now he’s free! Do you think he’s just going to let us walk away? He’s going to crush all of Hell, and that includes us.”
“He’s still just one man,” Vera tried to repeat.
“You’re wrong.” Seth sighed and stared down at his hands. “You don’t know my brother. The things he’s capable of… He truly is the Master. Of war, of murder, of violence. Of pain.” What he did to our family…
“Then what are we supposed to do?” Simon demanded.
“The First Blockade,” ELIE croaked up from the ground. The right side of her face had already re-assembled, although a significant chunk of brain still drooped from the missing part of her skull. “On the edge of the Phlegethon. Take me there, Horsemen. The deterrents there will save us.”
“Wow.” Amaury whistled in amazement. “And I thought I healed fast.” He raised his pistol and once again took aim at the woman’s head.
“It is my curse,” she spat. “Trapped forever in this damned body—”
“Boo fucking hoo,” Amaury sneered. He likely would have blown her head off again had Manto not wrenched the gun out of his hands.
“Explain,” she demanded.
“A weapons facility the Kingdom built on the edge of Lower Hell,” ELIE explained. There was a spark of something that looked like desperation in the machine-Prophet’s eyes. “I have a lab there. Weapons, tech—” Her skull finally finished stitching itself back together. A wave of skin and muscle rolled out from one of her cheeks to cover the exposed bone. “It is your only chance.”
“I seem to recall you trying to tear my head off about two minutes ago,” Amaury said. “Why the fuck should we trust you, Prophet?”
ELIE twisted her facial muscles so that the edges of her lips curled upward several centimeters. “The Kingdom of Heavenly Peace is no more. All that remains to oppose me are the Horsemen and the Master. If one should eliminate the other—”
Once again, the Prophet’s head exploded outward in a plume of blood and brains as Manto aimed the gun and squeezed the trigger. The ragged body’s torso limply slumped back amid the pile of its own blood and gore as Amaury sarcastically applauded.
“What is wrong with you people?” Seth angrily demanded. “She could have been an ally!”
“Trusting that one is a fool’s gambit,” Manto calmly said as she tossed the pistol back to Amaury. “That Prophet has more in common with a clock than a human. Vera, find this First Blockade.”
“Find it?” Vera raised an eyebrow. “What do you—oh.” She knelt over the Prophet’s body and placed one of her hands in the twisting mush that had once been ELIE’s brain. “I fucking hate this,” she grumbled as she closed her eyes to better concentrate. “Like sticking your dick in a steam engine…”
“Always good eating with Horsemen,” Podarge the Harpy laughed from her perch on Amaury’s head. He tried to shoo the devil away, but the harpy refused to budge. The Horseman quickly gave up, likely because of the razor-sharp talons that Podarge had resting on top of his scalp. Her beady eyes turned to fix on Seth. “Always good eating!”
These were his allies, then. An ancient Theban oracle, a flesh-eating bird-devil, a French father and son jointly responsible for the massacre of entire cities, and
a Russian terrorist who stirred up uncomfortable feelings in his chest. Between the five of them, they were responsible for countless atrocities. With friends like these…. Seth thought to himself. Sweet Heaven, what did I do to deserve this?
4
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Tituba cooed into John’s ear.
“Not yet,” he mumbled back through the haze of sleep. He still had a few minutes before he had to report to the church; his congregation could wait. “Just a little more…”
“Rise and shine,” she whispered in a voice that dripped with affection and sweetness. “Or I’ll smash your head in with a brick.”
John reached out for the covers to pull them over himself, but his fingers brushed up against nothing but what felt like stone and dust. What? He blinked his eyes open and stared up at the smoking skies and piles of rubble strewn about him. For a moment, he was completely confused—this wasn’t Boston; this was—
A boot slammed into the small of his back, making him curl up in pain. “Christ, you’re harder to wake than the dead,” a female voice grumbled. “Get your ass up, Horseman.”
“What—where—” John raised his head to see a strange woman standing over him. Her features were impossible to make out beneath the layers of blood-soaked silk cloth wrapped around her face, but she was too short and her skin was too pale to be Tituba. “Who—”
“I am Princess Salome, daughter of Herodias,” she said grandly. In spite of the bloody bandages about her disfigured face, she twisted her head about so that the brown curls of her hair danced in the faint wind. “Prophet of the Kingdom of Heavenly Peace, master of the devil Leviathan.” She paused. “You’re John Hale, the Horseman Famine, right?”
“Did the bark make it obvious?” John sighed.
“My point is—” Salome’s right arm was bound in a crude sling, but she had enough strength in her left arm to pull John up to his feet. “You’re going to help me, Horseman.”
“Um…” John glanced about the towers of shattered brick and glass strewn around him, hoping that he would see Tituba—she had carried him from the airship’s explosion, hadn’t she? But there was no one else present in the unnaturally silent street aside from the bloodied woman. “I—”
“Mother fuck,” Salome suddenly burst out. She tottered forward as she raised her left hand up to the soaked scraps of cloth bound about her face. John hesitated and took a step forward, wondering whether he should catch her, but she stopped herself just in time. “Meesa mehsana, that fucking hurts,” she groaned.
She reached into her ragged blouse and clumsily pulled out a strange device that resembled a needle that she plunged into the base of her neck. John heard a slight hiss as the device’s needle sank deep into her throat. For a brief moment, the skin around the needle turned a sickly yellow color that quickly evaporated away. “Much better,” Salome moaned in relief as she withdrew the device. “Four, four…that makes four.”
“What—what was that?” John burst out.
“They call it ‘Zaqqum.’” Salome chuckled. “The painkiller from Hell. Let me show you.”
Before John could react, she casually reached out and jabbed the edge of the needle at his chest. It barely left the tiniest scratch, yet the effect of the drug inside was instantaneous. A strange numbing sensation immediately overcame his entire body, and the world jerked and rolled like a heaving sea before him. What is this, he tried to say, but all that came out of his mouth was a weak gurgle and a few trickles of saliva.
Salome’s words came to him slowly, as though his mind were trapped in a thick fog. “…always the worst,” she said. “Now come with me, Horseman.”
“I, I don’t—” John leaned over and vomited all over his bare feet.
Salome laid her good hand on his shoulder and pushed him forward. “Let’s go, darling,” she sweetly said. “I’ll find some use for you, I’m sure of it. But one more thing…”
John felt nothing but numbness, even when she kicked out the back of his knees and made him slam into the ground. Strange colors swam and danced before him—he let out a faint giggle, even when Salome drew a knife and pressed it against his outstretched tongue.
“I killed the last John I met,” she hissed. “He was supposed to be one of the holiest saints of all time, beloved by angels and men, and I fucking murdered him anyway. Cross me, and I’ll do even worse to you.” Her panting breaths through the stained bandages caused little droplets of pus and blood to dribble down onto John’s face. “Do you understand me, Horseman?”
John was too far gone under the drug’s effects to do anything but drool and mumble under his breath.
“Good.” Salome wrenched him back up to his feet and shoved him in front of her. “I have a job for you, lover boy.”
5
Leviathan was dying.
Lao stared down in awe at the bloodstained demon. The dragon’s powerful wings had instilled fear in every Circle of Hell, from Judecca to Limbo, since long before the birth of the Kingdom. And where most other demons had wilted and died in the face of encroaching humanity, the mighty Leviathan had grown even stronger. Salome had devastated entire kingdoms while upon the demon’s back. Who knew how many thousands of damned had been consumed by his fire or torn apart by his claws?
And yet the Master had taken the ancient demon, once second in Hell to none but Satan himself, and easily torn away one of his leathery wings and half of his muzzle. The rage and defiance never left Leviathan’s remaining eye; although he was too busy desperately coughing and wheezing on the blood that filled his throat, he glared utter hatred up at Lao.
Who can possibly stand against the Master? Lao wondered. He had once thought that he knew love. But now, he knew better; he had never even tasted the emotion before. Everything that had ever come before was nothing more than a passing shadow before the sheer glory of the Master. Tears trickled down his face, washed away by the love and power and sheer glory of his god.
“The demon will not die,” Cain decreed. He turned away from it dismissively. “Not yet. It will serve first.”
“Not even Plague could heal this one,” Eve insisted.
Lao felt a burst of anger at the old hag’s interjection. She was the only one allowed to stand in the Master’s presence, although her spine was so withered and sloped that her face was practically against the ice of the Ninth Circle already. In Lao’s opinion, that privilege had further spoiled her senile mind.
“It is time we put the Old Man to use,” Cain replied. He nodded to Lao and Lamech. “Bring him up.”
“Yes, Master,” Lao whispered.
“Yes, Grandfather,” Lamech said, placing undue emphasis on the last word.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lao shot a hateful glance at his companion. He had successfully manipulated Legion into destroying most of Dis and wiping out the Holy Council, but Lamech had been the one who had actually transported Legion’s body into Judecca. For that, Cain had restored Lamech his body and raised him high within his followers. It did not help that Lamech was a direct descendant of Cain—the resemblance between the two of them was astounding, even down to the dark hair and unnatural golden eyes. Lao already despised having to share the Master’s attention with the upstart brat, and he was sure that the feeling was mutual.
“You come from the Second Circle?” Lamech asked as he and Lao made their way to the chasm that led back down to Judecca.
Cain’s followers scurried around them, eagerly gathering weapons and supplies from the remains of the Thirteenth Legion’s camp. They had even managed to get a few of the crashed stiltwalkers operational again, but even Lao had to admit that it was a pitiful start for an army. The Master needs no army, he told himself.
“Yes,” Lao said stiffly. He did not bother to ask what circle Lamech came from.
“The circle of lust,” Lamech said scornfully. “You have no control over your urges, whore.”
Lao felt a vein begin to pound in his forehead. “All this happened because of me,” he said so
ftly. “The Master is free because of me. You should remember that, bastard.”
“When I was alive,” Lamech slowly said, “I had many wives. One day, they came to me—all twenty of them—and told me that they were done. I was the fifth generation from Cain, and I carried his curse, they said. They told me that it was time for my line to be annihilated, and so they tried to deny me my rights. They brought their brothers and fathers and cousins to try to enforce their decision.” A smile creased his lips. “I took my rights anyway.”
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” Lao demanded.
“Do not underestimate the Master or his lineage,” Lamech warned. “If we want something, we take it. You are a pawn, nothing more. I’d remember that if I were you.”
Lao clenched his jaws tightly together, but did not dare to say anything as they came to the edge of the rift that Cain had torn into the Ninth Circle and stared down into the inky blackness that was Judecca.
“Seventy-seven,” Lamech said.
“What?”
“My wives bore me seventy-seven sons,” the descendant of Cain explained. “In the end, their will meant nothing.” Before Lao could react, Lamech reached out and shoved him forward.
For a moment, Lao trembled on the edge of the chasm, trying to regain his balance—and then he fell into the darkness.
Several seconds later, Lao hit the icy bedrock of Judecca with enough force to shatter most of his bones. “Fuck!” he screamed out in pain. “You fucking son of a bitch!”
Lamech gracefully landed on the ice beside him, carving out a small crater with the force of his impact. “You remind me of them.” He frowned. “Always whining.” He strode forward into the darkness of Judecca, leaving Lao to groan and bleed on the ice.
Lao let out a scream of pain as his shattered bones knitted back together, his punctured organs stitched up the holes that had been gouged in them, and his flesh kneaded itself back into shape. The entire process took less than a minute, but it was far more painful than the actual impact had been. Even the Master’s gifts have a price, he realized as he staggered up from the pool of his own blood and limped after Lamech. The powers that Cain had given him were nothing short of awe-inspiring, but the sheer agony they caused was beyond belief.
