For Heaven's Eyes Only sh-5

by Simon R. Green

  We went down and down and down for quite some time. When I looked back the way we’d come, the light at the top was already gone, shut off by the closing door. The only light came from floating balls of pale green fluorescence, bobbing along on the air before us, leading the way down, like more than usually dependable will-o’-the-wisps. They paused when we paused, but were always careful to maintain a respectful distance, no matter how much I tried to close the gap. The shadows were deep and dark, and the long drop to our side still showed no sign of having any bottom. We descended, following the lights, until I lost all track of how deep we were.

  “How deep do you think it goes?” said Molly.

  “All the way,” I said.

  “I hate answers like that,” said Molly.

  The rough stone wall boasted many overlapping layers of graffiti, laid down over centuries, in many different languages and dialects, including a few traces of Latin. I pointed out one of the clearer sections to Molly.

  “Any idea what that says?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “That is in no way classical Latin. It could be saying, ‘Biggus Dickus will make your eyes water,’ for all I know.”

  Some of the writing became clearer as we descended, though many were of ambiguous intent. The Juwes Are the Men Who Will Not Be Blamed for Nothing. King Mob Leads the Way. We Are All Lilith’s Children. Dagon Has Returned! That last one looked very recent.

  My legs began to cramp up, from the strain of the continuing descent, and my back was killing me. Molly had to be feeling it, too, but she didn’t complain, so I couldn’t. I gritted my teeth against the pain and kept going.

  “You’d think they’d have an elevator put in, in this day and age,” I said.

  “Whom would you trust to run it?” said Molly.

  “Good point,” I said. “Is it just me, or is the air getting seriously cold . . . ?”

  “We’re a long way from the sun down here.”

  “That’s probably the point.”

  “Have you ever visited London Undertowen before?” said Molly. “I mean, you have the passWord. Even I don’t know the passWord.”

  “I’m a Drood field agent in London,” I said. “I get to know all the passWords. But no, I’ve never been down here before. This was always more Matthew’s province than mine. He mixed with the authorities, the movers and shakers; worked all the important cases and knew all the important people. I knew about London Undertowen . . . heard all the stories. This is the shadow world, the distorted mirror image of the world above, where the tail wags the dog. As below, so above. They say that all new members of Parliament are brought here after they’re elected, dragged down into Under Parliament to be shown where true power lies. And those who won’t kneel or bow their head are driven mad or killed.”

  “I’ve heard those stories as well,” said Molly. “And for once, I really hope they aren’t true.”

  Sometime later, and by then I had no idea at all how much later, we reached the foot of the stairs. Molly and I stopped and leaned on each other, breathing hard. We took it in turn to massage some feeling back into our legs and rub each other’s backs, and when we were ready we looked around. We were standing in a narrow stone tunnel lit by a few of the green lights bobbing up by the ceiling. The stone walls gave every indication of being authentically ancient, with the original tool marks still plain to the eye. We followed the corridor for a while, took a sharp left turn, and found ourselves in a large but surprisingly pleasant stone grotto. Bright electric lights pushed back the darkness, which still filled a number of empty doorways leading off. Thick rugs and carpets covered the floor, comfortable furniture was scattered around, and there was even a bar. People stood around chatting cheerfully. Quite a lot of people. If not for the setting, it could have been any party, anywhere. A few people glanced in our direction as we arrived, but no one seemed particularly interested. Because if we were here, it could only be because we were expected.

  “It looks like someone’s living room,” said Molly. “And the people look so . . . ordinary.”

  “I see a bar,” I said. “When in doubt, head for the bar.”

  Molly looked at some of the empty doorways, full of impenetrable darkness, and actually shivered. “You can’t trust anything down here. They say you can find anything, or anyone, somewhere in the catacombs of London Undertowen. Evocations of every place or period, every style and culture. Because nothing’s ever lost or forgotten down here. But this . . . this looks like a seventies swingers’ party.”

  “As long as we’re not expected to throw our car keys into a bowl,” I said.

  “Watch your back,” said Molly. “Here there be monsters.”

  I headed for the bar, with Molly striding right at my side. And that was when Isabella Metcalf emerged suddenly from the crowd to confront us. I almost didn’t recognise her. She’d abandoned her usual bloodred biker leathers for a city business power suit of navy blue, dark stockings and some shoes that were no doubt very fashionable.

  “Are those . . . padded shoulders?” I said innocently.

  “Shut up, Eddie,” said Isabella.

  “No, really, I’ve heard they’re coming back.”

  “Shut up, Eddie.”

  “Please,” I said. “It’s, ‘Shut up, Shaman Bond,’ if you don’t mind. I have a secret identity to maintain.”

  Isabella moved in close, so she could speak clearly without having to raise her voice. “And my name here is Felicity. I killed a conspiracy agent and disposed of the body so I could use her invitation to get in here. How did you . . . ? No. I don’t want to know. They all think I’m one of them, for the moment. Luckily I’ve never been as well-known as you, Molly. No one will be too surprised to see you here, or Shaman; but watch yourselves. This is an even bigger meeting than I’d expected, for people pretty high up in the conspiracy.”

  I looked around me. “I have to say this really isn’t what I was expecting, for a Satanist gathering. I mean, where are all the goats, and the naked women sprawled over altars?”

  “You sweet old-fashioned thing, you,” said Molly. “Try to keep up with the times. This isn’t a religious ceremony; it’s a meet-and-greet for the conspiracy faithful. A chance for the upper echelons to get to know one another and show off how well they’ve all done. A taste of the good life, of rewards yet to come, with probably a few inspirational speeches, and perhaps a minor celebrity from among the higher-ups. And no goats. You’ve been watching those Hammer horror moves again, haven’t you?”

  “We need to separate,” said Isabella. “Wander around, mingle, talk to people. See what we can learn.”

  She moved determinedly off, and Molly gave me a quick smile before drifting away in another direction. I went straight to the bar and ordered a Beck’s. With a nice cold bottle in my hand and a happy taste in my mouth, I felt much more at ease. The bartender gave me a bit of an odd look when I gave him my order, but I stared him down. I like what I like. I wandered around the huge stone grotto, nodding and smiling at the faces around me. Some of them I knew; a surprising number seemed to know me. But then, Shaman Bond has a reputation for turning up anywhere.

  At first, everything seemed normal enough. Just another party, with expensively dressed men and women standing around, drinking from expensive crystal and snacking on expensive party nibbles carried around on expensive silver trays by underpaid tuxedoed waiters. But there was something . . . off about the whole affair. I stopped one of the waiters, who bowed courteously to me.

  “Tell me,” I said, “what’s good in the food department? What are people eating and drinking?”

  “Ah, sir,” said the waiter unctuously, “only the very best for our honoured guests. The most popular drink is menstrual blood from possessed nuns, and tonight’s most requested delicacies are lightly spiced cancers, baby’s hearts with cardamom seeds, and pickled eyeballs. Might I offer you—”

  “Maybe later,” I said.

  I dismissed him with a curt wave of the hand, because h
e seemed to expect it, and he carried on circulating with his tray of satanic delights. Proof, if proof were needed, that some people will eat absolutely anything if they think they’re not supposed to. And that nothing here was necessarily what it seemed. The expensively dressed men and women were not here to enjoy themselves. Even though they all displayed that easy smugness that comes from wealth and power and station, they were all working the room with quiet desperation, endlessly circulating, trying to sort out the really important people from the upstarts and wannabes, so they could make a Good Impression with the Right People, and maybe even make that Important Connection. This wasn’t a party; it was survival of the fittest. A high-strung woman with darting eyes and far too much makeup planted herself in front of me, and addressed me with practised charm.

  “I don’t know you, do I?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m Shaman Bond. Don’t mind me. I’m not anyone important.”

  “Then why am I wasting time talking to you?” she snapped, and strode off.

  “Nice to meet you,” I murmured. “I do hope you get dysentery soon.”

  “You always did know how to make an impression on the ladies,” said Molly, easing in beside me.

  “Don’t touch any of the food or drink,” I said.

  “Oh, I know all about these dos. You should see what they serve up at witches’ sabbats. Some of it would make a goat gag.”

  “They might be Satanists, but they really don’t know how to throw a party,” I said. “I’ve never seen so many people absolutely failing to have a good time. I have also never seen so many faces I would dearly love to punch, on general principle. Everywhere I go, they’re all trying to impress me, and one another, with lengthy tales of how horrible they can be, and all the awful things they’ve done. ‘Oh, it’s so liberating being a Satanist,’ is all I hear, as they talk oh, so casually about rape and torture and murder, and spiritual atrocities of all kinds. ‘We might be evil, but at least we’re smug about it.’ ”

  “What else did you expect?” Molly said reasonably.

  “I could kill every single person here and feel good about it, without a second thought,” I said; and there must have been something extra cold in my voice, because Molly looked at me sharply.

  “That isn’t like you, Eddie, and you know it. Don’t let them get to you. We’re here to get information—this time.”

  I shrugged uncomfortably, and took a long drink from my bottle. “I think these people are a bad influence on me.”

  “Hello, Molly!” said a short, chubby redhead in a silver evening dress that didn’t suit her. She and Molly kissed the air near each other’s faces, and made mwah-mwah sounds, and then the redhead looked me over like I was on sale in a catalogue. Her face was flushed, and she didn’t look too steady on her feet.

  “This is Jodie Harper,” said Molly. “Jodie, Shaman Bond.”

  “Oh, yes, darling, I’ve heard about you,” said Jodie. “Had enough of being a lone operator at last, eh? Ready to join a winning team?” She didn’t give me a chance to answer, turning straight back to Molly. “Been such a while, darling, since the old Danse Academie in the Black Forest, hasn’t it? I should have known you’d be here, Molly; you never could bear to be left out of anything.” And then she turned back to me. “So, coming up in the world, eh, Shaman? Or, more properly, down!”

  She laughed loudly at her own joke, and for the first time I realised how frightened she was. The glass in her hand looked like it contained good old-fashioned booze, and whatever was coming, she’d clearly felt the need to knock back a lot of the stuff in order to face it. Which made me wonder what could be coming that was so bad it scared even hardened Satanists. Jodie realised she was laughing on her own, and stopped abruptly. She swore almost absently, turned her back on us and headed for the bar.

  Molly looked coolly after her. “Nothing worse than a superficial Satanist. Jodie never could commit to anything all the way. I don’t think she’ll last long in this company. Have you noticed, Eddie, all the rugs on the floor come from furs of endangered species? The candles in the candelabra are made from human fat, derived from the bodies of prisoners of conscience and ebola plague victims. Even the air we’re breathing has been scented with the essence of suffering, distilled from the tears of innocents.”

  “How can you possibly know all that?” I said.

  “Because it’s standard for satanic gatherings,” said Molly. “I have been to this kind of do before.”

  “We will discuss that later,” I said.

  “The point is,” said Molly, “most of this is laid on to impress the guests, to shock and awe them into a proper state of respect for the forces they’ve sworn to serve. It’s not enough for them to break the laws of this Earth; they have to sin in their hearts in everything they do, and glory in it. Everything is permitted, every horror is encouraged, and trampling the weaker underfoot is their duty and delight. There’s no room here for the weak of conviction or intent. The atrocities on offer are deliberately designed to weed out the wannabes and impostors.”

  “Ordinarily, probably,” I said. “But I think . . . there’s more to it than that this time. Can’t you feel it? In the air, in the faces, in the conversations? There’s something coming, and they’re all scared shitless of it. Even beyond all the nasty trappings, there’s a palpable sense of evil, of spiritual corruption. Like fingernails down the blackboard of my soul. Makes me sick to my stomach . . . makes me want to lash out at everyone. This isn’t a party for people, Molly; there’s something else here. Something touched by the Pit.”

  “You don’t think they’ve actually called something up?” said Molly. “Something from Hell, just for this gathering? No . . . No. I would have felt that. I’m sure I would have felt something like that.”

  “But you do feel something?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Molly. “Something bad . . . something familiar . . .”

  We both stopped talking as another guest homed in on us. Tall, pale, hard faced under long, flat blond hair, wrapped in an apple green cocktail dress, she bestowed an icy smile on me, and nodded quickly to Molly. She looked stringy enough that a strong breeze might blow her away, but fierce nervous energy burned in her eyes and in every bird-quick movement.

  “I’m Mother Shipton,” she said, in a sharp, clipped voice. “Not my given name, of course. I chose it. Names have power, old names especially so. Thought I recognised you, Shaman; we met at Barty’s party, a few years back. While you . . . must be the infamous Molly Metcalf. Yes . . . How sweet. Glad to see such an important witch as yourself finally committing to the Left-hand Path. That Wiccan nonsense was never going to catch on. Far too wishy-washy. You know where you are with Satan. I take it you’re both here for the special event? Of course you are. We all are. He is going to tell us the truth at last. All about the Great Sacrifice. I can’t wait. He’ll be speaking from that special pulpit over there.” She gestured at an old-fashioned wooden pulpit wedged awkwardly into one corner of the grotto. Mother Shipton smiled happily. “It’s been quite thoroughly debased, of course. In fact, we made quite a party of it. The girls all drank gallons of holy water and then pissed all over it . . . and the boys finished it off with a wicked bukkake session.” She giggled briefly. A flat, unpleasant sound. “If that pulpit were any more debased, it would bleed brimstone. A suitable setting for our special guest to enlighten us as to the final stages of the great plan.”

  “Who is this special guest?” I said.

  She looked at me. “You don’t know?”

  “I’ve heard several names mentioned,” I said carefully. “But I’ve been disappointed before, so I’ll believe it’s him when I see him, and not till then.”

  “Oh, it’s him, all right,” said Molly. “Look . . .”

  The whole party fell silent as everyone turned to watch Roger Morningstar ascend into the debased pulpit. I hadn’t seen him arrive, and from the look on the faces of everyone else, they hadn’t either. Roger was wearin
g a blindingly white three-piece suit liberally splashed with fresh bloodstains, like some great Rorschach card from Hell. He wasn’t bothering to suppress his demonic side anymore. Two great curling horns sprouted from his forehead, his easy smile showed pointed teeth, his eyes glowed a sullen crimson, and I had no doubt that behind the debased pulpit he now had cloven hooves instead of feet. Roger had embraced his infernal inheritance. And as he took up his position in the debased pulpit and smiled down on his congregation, his presence seemed to fill the whole grotto like a hot and ash-filled wind blowing out of Hell. You only had to look at him to know he was evil, in every sense of the word.

  There were startled gasps, and mutterings. And a whole lot of backing away. Suddenly, no one wanted to be noticed. One woman dropped to her knees and vomited. A man started bleeding from his eyes. But most people there looked at him adoringly, as though he were the answer to every vicious prayer they’d ever had.

  Roger Morningstar seemed very pleased with himself, looking down at the happy, upturned faces. They were his before he ever said a word. Because Roger was a hellspawn, born of man and succubus: the real thing, the real deal. They all envied him his power and position and wanted it for themselves. He was a prince of the world to come, and they all wanted to be exactly like him.

  When he leaned forward and rested his hands on the pulpit, the old wood scorched and blackened and steamed at his touch.

  He didn’t bother with opening remarks, or introductions, or pleasantries to the crowd. He didn’t bother with flattering words or inspirational speeches. He had come to this place, to these people, to tell them something important. To tell them of Hell’s plans for mankind. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, my hands clenching into fists. This was about the Great Sacrifice; had to be. I was finally about to find out what the hell this was all about.

  “Soon it will be time for the Great Sacrifice,” said Roger, his steady ordinary voice still managing to command everyone’s attention. Soon enough, we will have persuaded all the governments of the world to persuade all the people of the world to do our work for us. They will be persuaded to sacrifice their children, at their own hands, in the cause of a greater good. It’s always easier to persuade people to do terrible things in a good cause. At the same time all over the world, parents will murder their children, from teenagers to toddlers to babes in arms. In all the towns, in all the cities, in all the countries . . . they will kill their children to gain a better life for themselves. One generation shall utterly wipe out another, for the promise of better times to come.