by James Hunter
I’d been expecting something similar to the Blood Pit—shitty lighting, creaky wooden tables, monstrous Hellions nursing sludgy drinks—but was pleasantly surprised to find a place that could’ve come straight out of the French Quarter. Instead of sooty black stone, the walls were red brick. There were dark wood floors, clean though worn, a spattering of black leather booths, and circular pub tables. Framed records and old guitars adorned the walls, showcased with recessed red lighting, which gave the scene a hellish cast—fitting given our locale.
A rotund black woman with a droopy eye, a drab kerchief wrapped around her hair, and a pair of goat’s horns jutting from the sides of her head presided over a well-stocked bar. She almost looked familiar—like I’d seen her before but couldn’t quite place her. Even without the goat horns, which I assumed were hellish additions, I’d certainly never forget a face like that.
“MudMan,” she said with a nod to Levi, a spark of familiarity and fear lingering in her gaze.
“Rainey,” Levi replied with a dip of his head.
“And who dis fine lookin’ bag-a-bones you done dragged in?” she asked, her voice sultry and smoky, custom-built for a career in music. She cocked one eyebrow and gave me a quick once-over, her thick lips pressing into a tight line as she rubbed a cloudy glass with a dirty rag. “He look like trouble, dis one,” she finished, though a coy half smile graced her lips.
“Yancy Lazarus,” I said with a lopsided smile.
“Umm,” she replied knowingly. “So you da boy causin’ all the fuss. I heard about you, you know. A bluesman,” she said, eyes flashing over my hands. “Might fit in here. One day. Now you boys move along. Da queen, she ain’t much for waiting. But don’t you worry—I’ll be sure to send somethin’ down.” She shot me a wink, then shooed us on with a flick of her wrist.
“Holy shit, this place is alright,” I said to Levi with a sniff and a nod. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a bluesman.”
“I’m not,” the golem replied flatly. “I prefer contemporary Christian. Something with a positive message. Helps keep me centered. Grounded. The queen, though, seemed to think this place might put you at ease. Now come on.” He turned and headed deeper into the joint. We wound our way past several tables, avoiding the few other patrons present, and wandered through thick clouds of dancing gray smoke. Out of habit, I fished a cigarette from my pocket and lit up, taking a few deep puffs to settle my restless nerves.
We made our way to the far end of the saloon.
Off to the left was a narrow set of stairs, descending to a basement, but it was the raised stage dead ahead that caught my attention like a machine-gun-wielding velociraptor on a motorcycle.
Levi kept right on going toward the staircase, not even glancing at the three musicians on stage. But me? I stopped dead in my tracks, my legs numb and suddenly useless. A young man, deeply black and in his late twenties, crouched on a three-legged stool with a guitar balanced casually in his lap. He sported a black fedora, perched on his head at a rakish angle, a white button up accented by a pencil tie, and a pair of pin-striped slacks. A hand-rolled cigarette lolled from the corner of his mouth, a trail of smoke wafting lazily into the air.
There were only two known pictures in existence of the man sitting on that stool, but I recognized him in an instant. I’d seen his mug a thousand times, staring at me in that same cocksure way from the cover of every blues album that bore his name.
“Holy shit, you’re Robert Johnson,” I said, a cool numbness fluttering in my belly. “Like the Robert Johnson—King of the Delta Blues.”
“Yes’sir,” he replied, his grin stretching, his cigarette bobbing. “And this is my little slice of Paradise. The Crossroads.” He pulled the smoke from the corner of his mouth. “That’s Cow Cow on the piano,” he said, jerking his head toward a fat-cheeked man in a bowler hat. “And ol’ Dumplin’ on the bass.”
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
Arrayed on the stage, performing for a nearly empty bar of Hellions, were three of the most influential bluesmen to ever live, breathe, and play. In a flash of insight, I realized where I’d seen the woman tending bar—the one Levi had called Rainey. That had to be Ma Rainey. If Robert Johnson was the King of Delta Blues, Ma Rainey was the queen. The friggin’ Queen of Blues had just told me I might get to play here someday; suddenly the idea of cooling my heels in the Pit didn’t seem so bad …
Well, aside from the heat, the decay, the scent of rotten flesh, and the demons.
Usually, I was a cool operator—I’ve talked shit to demons, put my foot down on the throat of dusty Dominions and Powers of old, and kicked uppity godlings right in the friggin’ teeth—but suddenly I felt like a giddy, awestruck thirteen-year-old girl. I mean, the guys on stage weren’t monstrous demons or diabolic doucheholes, they were the Lords of Blues: my heroes. My idols. Suddenly, for maybe the first time ever, my brain short-circuited, and I couldn’t find any words. Nothing seemed appropriate.
Robert Johnson seemed to have some sort of preternatural insight into my starstruck condition. “Don’t sweat it, kid,” he said, shooting me a wink and a finger gun. “Everyone’s got a hero. Hell, maybe someday it’ll be you up on this stage.” Then, cool as a winter morning, he offered me a lopsided grin filled with the pointed teeth of a cannibal while his fingers flitted over the strings, and his twangy guitar riffs filled the air.
“Come on,” Levi said, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder and drawing me toward the staircase.
I let the golem drag me away, down the stairs, our footsteps echoing off of old brick as Robert Johnson’s husky voice chased me into darkness—“I Put a Spell on You” giving way to Johnson’s iconic “Crossroad Blues.” I could die happy now, ’cause nothing in my life would ever top that. Nothing.
The stairs dead-ended at a stone door, oddly out of place with the rest of the saloon. Everything upstairs had been all hardwood and red brick, but this door was gray and ancient. Lavish scenes of obscene sexuality—really weird shit involving men, women, and everything in between, including Lovecraftian tentacle monsters—were painstakingly depicted in the stone.
Carved boldly into the stone across the top was a phrase: Neither here nor there, but everything betwixt and between.
Levi paused, one hand pressed against the door, and glanced at me over a shoulder. “A word, before we go in,” he said. “You remember what happened at the Blood Pit?”
“Yeah,” I said with a colossal eyeroll. “Hard to forget, but as soon as I can get a bottle of Jack I’ll start working on it.”
“That’s your prerogative,” he replied with a noncommittal shrug. “The important thing to know is the woman behind this door is a thousand times more dangerous than an army of Flesh Eaters. She’s bad. Evil. And I know evil,” he said with a sniff. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to see her body pitched into the Phlegethon, but this isn’t a fight you can win. Not like you are now, anyway. So, hold your tongue and keep your head. Don’t lip off, or you’ll end in the gut of a Greater Pit Wyrm. Understand?”
“Got it,” I replied, wiping sweaty palms along grimy jeans.
He eyed me for another long beat, carefully assessing me. “Alright,” he said before issuing a disgruntled sigh. “Let’s go meet the Succubus Queen.”
TEN:
All Hail the Queen
I followed Levi into a lavish room covered with red and golds: Velvety crimson drapery hung from the walls in sheets. Persian rugs the color of a fresh nosebleed carpeted the floors while intricate granite columns—carved with intertwined nude bodies—supported an ornate vaulted ceiling. Suede couches, embroidered with golden hexagrams, lined the walls, while gaudy chandeliers overhead shed muted, flickering firelight. Along the right wall was a huge bar, decorated with ancient bronze statuettes—religious idols from a different time and place, depicting one horrific demon after another.
The place was kitschy and glitzy in all the wrong ways. Even Donald Trump would’ve blanched at the displa
y—it almost hurt to look at.
There were also plenty of people scattered throughout the room—Flesh Eaters mostly, though instead of sporting black bondage, this lot wore red leather. Surprise, surprise. Most of the Flesh Eating freaks ignored us completely, lounging on couches, speaking in low murmurs around a spattering of dark-wood round tables covered in golden filigree. As we moved farther in, the room opened up and I spotted a performance stage off to the left. There were no musicians on that stage, though. Nope.
Instead, men and women—most human-looking—danced and twirled around a series of gleaming poles, flashing an inordinate amount of skin at ogling Flesh Eaters.
Levi patently ignored the dancers, marching toward a booth near the bar. The booth itself was one of those circular deals, all red leather, gold buttons, and dark wood, occupied by three women. On the left was a mousy beanpole of a gal with creamy skin and a pinched face. On the right sat a stocky dark-skinned woman with burnt-gold eyes, pointed ears with tufts of hair on the ends, and a perpetual scowl. I’d run in supernatural circles long enough, however, to know the woman we’d come to see was the one in the middle.
It wasn’t just her looks—it was in the way she sat, cocky and posed, and in the way the other two women treated her. Sitting close but not too close. Their eyes always deferentially averted yet simultaneously tracking her every movement. The way others in the room kept stealing glances at her, reading her mood.
With that said, her looks were a part of it, too.
She stared at me with fierce eyes burning with ghoulish red light, her ruby lips pulled up in a contemptuous sneer, revealing surprisingly even teeth. Her face was sculpted with the classic lines of a Greek statue and framed by a sheet of lustrous black hair, which cascaded past delicate shoulders covered in spurs of black bone. But she wasn’t human and didn’t pretend to be. The horns—cruel, crimson-tipped things which faded to dull gold—protruding from the sides of her head gave her away. That and the set of thin, leathery batwings draped around her shoulders like a cloak.
“MudMan,” she cooed at my new pal, Levi, the ghost of a smile gracing her flawless lips. “I’m ever so glad to see the exorcism was a success—a sentiment I can honestly say I never thought to express.”
Levi grunted and sniffed. “Your advice was …” He paused, frowned, and shifted from foot to foot as though even the idea of playing nice with a demon was intolerable. “Surprisingly helpful,” he finished, the words forced and uncomfortable. Even at a glance, I saw absolute murder etched into the lines of his dour face. He looked like a man exercising extreme self-control, but just barely. The woman, though, didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t care.
“And Yancy Lazarus in the flesh,” she purred, tapping at her bottom lip with a talon-tipped finger covered in gaudy rings. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. I’m the Succubus Queen Hecate, Goddess of Witchcraft, Dark Magicks, and Lady of the Crossroads.”
“You’re the Crossroad Demon,” I said, which made perfect sense considering the musicians playing upstairs—all three bluesmen had supposedly sold their souls to the Devil of the Crossroad in exchange for phenomenal musical prowess.
“Just so,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Please, take a seat, won’t you?”
I eyed the booth and the mysterious silent women flanking the Succubus Queen on either side. Neither looked especially ghoulish, but these were Hellions—Hellions powerful or influential enough to relax with a serious power-player, which meant they were plenty dangerous.
“Think I’ll stand.”
“I insist.” She lifted a finger and twirled it around in a circle—almost before I could blink, a Flesh Eater was behind me with a heavy chair, almost a throne, covered in gold leaf and plastered with red velvet. The Flesh Eater deposited the chair at the table and glowered at me, revealing rows and rows of jagged piranha-like teeth. Even without speaking, the message was clear as good Kentucky-Shine: you will sit, one way or another. Now generally, that’s the kinda shit that ruffles my feathers—I hate being bullied or pushed around—but then I remembered Levi’s warning.
There were three times the number of Flesh Eaters we’d taken on in the Blood-Pit present, not to mention Hecate herself.
Reluctantly, I sat.
“Excellent,” she said, regarding me over steepled fingers. “And now, I’m sure you’re hungry. The Inferno has a way of doing that to us all, I’m afraid. But today, at least, you’ll eat like the honored guest you are.” She snapped her fingers.
Ma Rainey, the droopy-eyed black woman from the bar, scuttled into view a second later, bearing a serving tray loaded down with meaty ribs slathered in barbecue sauce and flanked by a slice of cornbread. Absolute heaven on a plate—the irony was not entirely lost on me. She set the meal on the table, added a pint of something dark and tasty for good measure, then shot me a sly wink before beelining for an unobtrusive servers’ door located behind the bar.
I eyed the food with supreme suspicion, then shot a quick glance at the Flesh Eaters milling about. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Never been big into cannibalism myself.”
Hecate laughed, a deep-bellied thing, full and rich. “No need to worry about that, Mr. Lazarus. Not all Hellions enjoy the taste of man-flesh. This”—she swept a hand toward my plate—“comes from my private stock of Berkshire black pigs. Born, bred, and slaughtered right here in the Second Circle. A genuinely rare treat, available only to the wealthiest Hellions. You should count yourself twice blessed.” She idly ran a palm across the table, then nodded to the plate. “Please enjoy.”
“No food for my friend?” I asked, hooking a thumb at Levi, who stood a few paces away, his hands laced behind his back, jaw clenched tight.
Hecate eyed him for a moment, a feral smile splitting her otherwise lovely face. “I shouldn’t think the MudMan would accept anything I have to offer. Our relationship is tenuous at best. Besides, he doesn’t eat—or at least he doesn’t need to—so the food would be wasted anyway.”
I shrugged and turned back to the ribs—I was ravenously hungry, after all, so she didn’t need to twist my arm—and dug in with gusto. The meat damn near slid off the bone and melted in my mouth like warm butter, while the smoky, tangy barbecue sauce capered across my tongue like a marching band of flavored awesomeness. Then there was the cornbread … Oh, my God, the cornbread. Dense and mellow. Sweet but not too sweet. A crunchy crust that spoke of lard on cast iron. The perfect match for the savory pork. The beer, a dark lager, was bittersweet and tasted faintly of honey.
The queen gave me a few minutes to shovel food into my face, and I packed away bite after bite as though I hadn’t eaten in days or maybe weeks. Heck, for all I know, maybe I hadn’t.
Eventually, I leaned back in my seat, feeling irrationally good as I nibbled on a spare bit of cornbread, letting a few crumbs rain down onto my sweat-stained shirt and not giving two shits. With that done, I eyed my hostess and slowly licked smears of butter from the tips of my fingers—unsanitary, I know, but I reminded myself that I’d just chugged a flask full of golem blood less than an hour ago.
“Okay,” I said, before stifling a belch with a closed fist. “I’ve been doing this for long enough to know there’s no such thing as a free meal.” I gestured toward the stack of grease-smeared bones. “So, how’s about you tell me what you’re after?”
She pouted and ran a clawed finger along the surface of the table. “No foreplay. A shame—I’m very, very good at foreplay.” She took a deep breath, her breasts rising in a look-at-me way, then sighed. “But such is life in Hell, at times. Still, I can appreciate a man who is interested in business. For the past several months, I’ve been sheltering your disagreeable friend, there”—she dipped her head toward Levi—“helping him track you down while providing him with a bit of much-needed information about Hell, and demonic exorcism in particular.”
“And why would you do that?” I asked, scratching my chin. Demons weren’t helpful, not unless it benefited them.
“Self-preservation, naturally,” she replied, placing her hands primly in her lap. “Azazel is no friend to me—old grudges run deep, and Azazel was never one to forgive or forget. It’s simply not in his nature. The old war goat has been quite useful thus far, carving his way through Asmodeus’ court, but it’s only a matter of time before he sets his sights on me. He is not an enemy I want skulking around behind my back. Especially not with Buné’s power at his beck and call.”
“Stop,” I said, raising a hand. “Why, exactly, does Azazel have it out for you and Asmodeus in the first place? I know Azazel better than most, what with him kicking around the ol’ skull, and he seems ruthless but pragmatic. So, I’m guessing if he wants you dead, there’s probably a pretty good reason.”
“Old politics,” she replied, tilting her head to one side and waving the question away with her hand. “Too intricate for a mortal with such limited intellect to understand.”
“Gee, if I weren’t such a levelheaded guy,” I replied, voice flat and dry as a piece of overcooked toast, “I might be offended.”
She smirked at me and rolled her eyes, the message clear: you were meant to be offended, meat-puppet. “All you need to know is that a long, long, long time ago, my kin and I elected to check Azazel’s relentless ambition by trapping him in the Second Seal. A trifling thing, really, but he’s never quite gotten over it.”
“Yeah, I can’t possibly understand how something as small as eternal imprisonment might make someone bitter.”
It was her turn to stare at me, lips pursed into a thin, unamused line, her forehead furrowed in annoyance.
“The ways of your betters are not for you to understand, Mr. Lazarus. All you need to know about my relationship with Azazel is that I want him gone from Hell, which means I want you gone from Hell. Perhaps we don’t see eye to eye on all matters, but in this we have the same goal. Therefore, it’s only prudent we work together.”
