by James Hunter
A building as big as any suburbia McMansion sat at the tippy-top of the ziggurat like a crown jewel crafted from obsidian stone and glittering, sculpted glass. That glass caught the orange light from overhead and refracted it in a glimmering myriad of hues, casting strange rainbow light into the air. My sleuthing sense said that was where I’d find Levi and Tezrian, the lesser goddess of war. I mean, the place was practically screaming Here I am, here I am, here I am through a bullhorn.
Reluctantly, I stood and crept down the stairs and into the city sprawl.
Though the ziggurat in the center of the city was only a mile from the tunnel entryway, it took me over an hour to get there. The streets weren’t jam-packed with denizens, but since I wasn’t a roller-skating Amazonian, blending in was tougher than old boot leather. So, I stuck to the back alleys and side streets, creeping from one pool of inky shadow to another, moving behind turned backs and distracted motorists. Every step was tense and anxiety-inducing. Sorta like walking on eggshells—assuming those eggshells belonged to an angry Mama T. rex who would maul me if I misstepped.
But with a little skill and more than a little luck, I made it to the edge of the ziggurat without summoning a legion of guards or setting off every alarm in the whole damn city.
Unfortunately, that was where my luck ran out. The ball of Golem Flubber confirmed my hunch that Levi was somewhere in the temple, but there was no good way up. The walls of the lower portion of the ziggurat were fifty feet of smooth, vertical sandstone. Staircases ran straight as an arrow up the front and back, and a series of ramps zigzagged from top to bottom, but they were well-guarded. Extremely so.
A small squad of Derby girls, six deep, loitered at the top and bottom of each staircase, and groups of roving sentries glided around the perimeter of the temple. One such pair passed by my position every few minutes. I didn’t recognize any of those gals from the club, but they all looked as fierce as machine-gun-wielding wolverines. Instead of lengths of chain or lead pipes, these ladies carried rusty machetes, old-timey cavalry swords, and newfangled armaments like beefy chrome-plated 45s and sawed-off shotties.
Since being all stealthy and sneaky was the plan, going in through the front door simply wasn’t an option. Not unless I was willing to rouse the wrath of the Roller Nation. Which gave me one option: I was going to have to try and scale the wall. Climb the side of the temple and hope I didn’t slip and tumble to my certain death. That or get spotted by the guards, which would be a death sentence all its own.
I waited for one of the roving sentries—a woman built entirely from gristle and old scar tissue—to zip past, then padded through the greenery and right up to the base of the ziggurat, thanking God-Almighty Above for the cover and concealment. I paused beneath a towering palm tree, its green fronds weighed down by bushels of golden dates, and carefully regarded the lower wall. The sandstone blocks were well-fitted, with hardly a crack or toehold to be found. Even for an experienced climber, it would be a helluva go, and I’m not an experienced climber by any stretch of the imagination.
With my power only a thought away, though, nothing was impossible.
I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, holding it for a three count, then exhaling through my nose as I centered myself, cleared my mind, and opened myself to a trickle of both Vis and Nox. I wrangled the two opposing forces through sheer determination, drawing them in, bending them to my will as I thought about what was needed. Even if I could manage to scale the wall, I’d be completely visible to every single Derby girl on the east side of the city. It would only take one person looking in the wrong direction at the wrong time to raise the alarm, and then they’d just pick me off with a rifle.
I needed a veil.
I conjured hair-fine strands of air and wove them together with thick cables of raw will, a dash of fire, and lacy threads of Nox to reinforce the working. I envisioned what I wanted in my mind, and seconds later a man-sized shield appeared in the air behind me, a nearly perfect replica of the formidable sandstone blocks before me.
Sure, if someone were staring at me dead on, they’d see a blur against the temple wall, but those were odds I was willing to live with—and hopefully I would live. With that done, I inched up to the wall and drew on deep and steady thrums of earthen force, letting it fill me up with strength and renewed stamina as I reached out to the sandstone’s essence. A portion of the wall, no larger than my fist, shimmered and melted as a spike of stone, a foot long and an inch in diameter, jutted out.
A perfect handhold.
I strained upward with my right hand, calling out another spit of rock, hoisting myself up higher, coaxing out rungs of earth beneath my boots. I scurried up that way—left hand, right hand, left foot, right foot—muscles straining, sweat breaking out across my brow and running into my eye as more and more spikes appeared. And fortunately for me, all my fancy new muscles made the job much more manageable.
Once upon a time, climbing out of bed in the morning was a recipe for a heart attack, but this felt like second nature. Not for the first time, I wondered what shenanigans Azazel had been using my body for … Thinking about all of the disgusting shit I’d seen so far, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted answers. The faint sound of roller skates from below jarred the morbid thoughts free. I inched to a stop, held my breath, and glanced down—directly below me was the scar-tissue Derby girl.
And then, because life sucks, she stopped. Perfect.
The illusion covered my back well enough, but it didn’t encircle me. If she looked straight up, there was no way she wouldn’t see me. I waited, willing my body to calm. What the hell is she doing down there? She fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, then slipped a smoke free and slid it between her teeth as she braced her back against the wall. A flare of light followed. Seriously. She was taking a friggin’ smoke break? Here, beneath me. Figures. Time to haul ass—as quietly as possible, of course. I bit my bottom lip, pressed my eye shut, and continued moving up the wall, stealing a peek down every few seconds.
I crested the lower wall a handful of seconds later, pulled myself over the lip, and bolted into the thick vegetation—more squat palm trees, low hanging vines, and a riot of colorful flowers. I kept my head down while my heart thudded like a jackhammer chewing into concrete.
I dropped to a knee by a leafy shrub covered in blood-red flowers and dime-sized berries, scanning the perimeter for more guards while listening for an alarm to blare. I gave it a solid minute, but didn’t see any. Reaching the next level of the ziggurat would require another fifty-foot climb, but thankfully I wouldn’t need to go that route. There was a set of double doors on this side of the temple, which were blessedly unguarded. I couldn’t be sure this lower portion of the ziggurat would connect with the upper level, but I was willing to bet dollars to donuts on it.
Not that I had dollars or donuts, but you get the idea.
Heading in would have risks, of course, but the top level of the ziggurat was damn near bursting with Derby girls. From a practical standpoint, this was the best option.
I dismissed the sandstone illusion hugging my back, gained my feet, and crept over to the entryway, pulling back on the brass handle. I half expected to find it locked, so I grunted in surprise as the door swung out. Of course it’s unlocked, I told myself. Only a complete and utter moron would want to break into this place. Even more surprising than the unlocked door was the whoosh of refreshingly cool air which followed. Though the temple looked like something plucked straight out of Ben Hur, it had sweet, glorious central air. Small miracles.
I shuddered in giddy relief as I headed in, and the door eased shut behind me.
Flickering torches illuminated stone walls covered with sharp, angular text and random scenes of medieval butchery: Monsters decapitating men and women. Disemboweling ’em. Drawing and quartering ’em. Flaying ’em alive.
You know, the usual.
The décor wasn’t much of a shock, really. In my experience, crusty, dusty ancient things have a tough t
ime adjusting to the times. You’d think millennia would make them wiser, more empathetic, or at the very least adaptable, but no. I’ve seen Fae godlings with a couple of thousand years under their belt who act like capricious little teenage shitheads. For some reason, time seems to make ancient Powers more of what they are—it just sorta cements their identity into place.
I padded farther in, the lump of Golem Jell-O going crazy in my pocket. Yep, definitely on the right track. After fifty feet, I hooked right, unwaveringly following my Levi magnet, and headed into another tunnel with a host of rooms branching off. Many of the rooms were sealed off with plain-Jane wooden doors, but a few were open, offering me a glimpse of what looked like barracks rooms. Each room was the size of a small studio flat with four bunk beds—a pair on each side of the room—a couple of dressers, and a steel toilet against the far wall.
Not big into privacy, these gals.
I moved on, feeling surprisingly optimistic. I didn’t want to count my chickens before they’d hatched, but this had easily been the smoothest supernatural B and E I’d ever committed.
These Derby girls may have been hell on wheels in a brawl, but they were surprisingly lax in their security. I headed up a wide set of stone stairs at the end of the hall, which led to the next level. With a self-satisfied grin, I rounded a dogleg only to run face-first into a blue-haired sentry, sans skates but sporting a nasty tactical shottie—a Benelli with a folding stock and a broomstick sprouting from the pump—draped across her chest. She staggered back from the collision, her heavily powdered eyes flaring wide, mouth dropping open in shock.
FOURTEEN:
Helping Hand
That moment of hesitation was her one mistake—a small opening I could exploit. And exploit it, I did. I bolted forward, slamming a fist into her jaw before she could sound the alarm. Her head snapped left as she reeled from the blow, but she was one tough cookie and somehow kept her feet. She was a Derby girl, I reminded myself. She steadied herself, spat out a mouthful of blood along with a single tooth, then rounded on me with hate and fury painted across her face. She should’ve cried out for help or blasted me into orbit with the shottie, but clearly, my sucker punch had pissed her off something fierce.
That was all right, though, because in my experience, pissed-off enemies make stupid decisions. And taking advantage of stupid decisions is my bread and butter.
She snarled at me, blood coating her front teeth and dripping down her chin, then launched a mean left jab. I ducked beneath the shot and slipped right, whipping out my back leg, slamming the edge of my shin into one fishnet-clad thigh. She winced but didn’t back down, and before I could recover from the kick, she lashed out with a right hook, catching me in the ribs with a blow that felt like a friggin’ sledgehammer. She followed it up with a knee to my groin; white-hot agony lanced up from the boys, and I doubled over involuntarily, wheezing for air.
Holy shit that hurt. Worse than a getting mule-kicked in the teeth, and I’ve actually been mule-kicked in the teeth. Must’ve been losing a step in my old age.
With a groan, I straightened, hobbling back a step or two as she threw another jab my way. Using the Vis pumping through me, I drew on the bedrock strength below me, blurring the sharp edges of the gut-wrenching pain between my legs, and darted inside her guard. I grabbed her incoming wrist in one hand and twisted my body around, hooking my other arm around her waist, dragging her off her feet and across my back.
A classic judo throw called O-goshi.
She resisted, and for a heartbeat I thought we’d both just tumble down the stairwell, but then her feet left the ground, and she was flying. Arms pinwheeling, legs kicking wildly, before crashing face-first into unforgiving stone at the base of the steps.
Her neck twisted, blood splattered across the ground, and her body went instantly limp—one arm folded beneath her, the other cocked out at an unnatural angle. These Derby girls might have been tough as junkyard dogs, but clearly, they weren’t invincible. I winced, hustled down the stairs, and crouched down to check her pulse. Her skin was slick and oddly clammy, but I felt the faint thrum of a heartbeat beneath my fingertips despite the fact that her neck was broken. But then, this was Hell, and I’d seen one of these gals get a leg lopped off by a giant bandsaw without too much fuss.
Probably, a broken spine wasn’t much more than a minor inconvenience in this neck of the woods.
She was out cold, though. I took one more quick look around, ensuring our scuffle hadn’t roused any unwanted attention. No doors flew open. No guards came wheeling out with guns raised. No cries to “Stop” rang in the air. I took the opportunity to slip the shottie free from the Derby girl’s noodle-limp body and looped the sling over my head before making my way back up the stairs. This time, I moved a bit more cautiously around the blind corner.
I maneuvered my way through another three floors, heading ever upward, guided by the wriggling golem clay in my pocket. More than once, I spotted Derby girls ambling through the corridors or in and out of the barracks-style rooms, but with some quick illusion work and a generous dollop of glamor—these are not the Droids you’re looking for—I managed to avoid any other fistfights. A big win, though one that wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, someone would find the unconscious body in the stairwell and then …
Well, then a mountain-sized pile of demonic horse shit would collide with a volcano-sized mega-fan, and the shitocalypse would ensue. And I was just praying to God I’d be far enough away to avoid the fallout. That, or I needed to invest in a quality umbrella.
Another stairwell, this one a straight shot devoid of switchbacks, let out into what I guessed was the lowest level of the mansion. There was a huge storage pantry on the left, near to bursting with food, and a utility closet off to the right. Straight ahead lay an industrial-sized kitchen with white ceramic floor tiles, spacious stainless-steel countertops, and a host of state-of-the-art cooking appliances—bulky refrigerators, beefy ovens, and several stoves. Unfortunately, the kitchen was alive with the hustle and bustle of activity: servants chopping vegetables, slicing meat, cleaning pots and pans, or slaving away over the meal of the day.
There were twenty of them or so, but they weren’t Derby girls.
They were men—all men—fitted with clunky black wrought-iron collars burning with ember-red Hellion script. They were also skinless and naked as the day they were born. Each one of the unfortunate souls in that room had been flayed from the top of the head down to the soles of their feet, ropy muscle glistening in the firelight from the stove tops. Many were also missing body parts. Eyes, fingers, toes, sometimes whole limbs. I’d never seen a more dejected, defeated, and utterly miserable-looking group of people in my entire life.
Every movement seemed like agony, their muscles cracking and bleeding as they worked. A wave of bile rose from my gut. I dropped to my knees and vomited barbecue and pork bits into the corner as quietly as I could manage, hoping I didn’t draw any attention.
I wiped vomit from my lips and brought my gaze back up to the wretched scene.
Suddenly, I was angry. Furious. This was Hell, and many of the people here probably deserved their fate, but no one deserved that. There wasn’t a person in the world—not even Pa Beauvoir, who scooped my fucking eye out—that deserved to be butchered like that and forced into slavery. Death was one thing, but the kind of torture in front of me was something else entirely. I knew from personal experience.
See, Pa Beauvoir hadn’t just taken my eye. Oh no, he’d carved me up first—flaying bits and pieces of my arm as he attempted to turn me into a human zombie, a slave like these poor schmucks—and I’d never experienced anything so awful. Not in all my long, strange years.
Part of me insisted I march in, guns blazing, and put all the sorry bastards out of their misery. Another part said I should leave them to their fate and find another way around before they could alert the Derby girls. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to do either. Instead, I stood, raised my hands into the air,
and walked forward, slowly, carefully, deliberately. I couldn’t leave these poor saps here, not even if it cost me in the long run. It was an idiotic, stupid decision, but I needed to be able to live with myself come morning.
Maybe I’d made a deal with a demon, but there had to be a line somewhere.
Besides, no one’s ever accused me of being smart.
I stepped from the hallway into a pool of harsh white illumination, courtesy of the industrial halogen lighting overhead, squinting against the glare. The skinned slaves stopped—first a few, then more as they noticed me. Kitchen blades fell still, pans went untended, and food smoldered on the burners as they turned their dejected gazes on me. Recognition and fear flashed in those eyes, and I knew without a doubt these people had seen me before. Or at least the version of me controlled by Azazel.
Was it possible Azazel had been holed up with the Roller Nation this whole time? Hiding out with Tez and the Derby girls?
For a long beat, everyone stood frozen, terrible, uncertain tension building in the air. What would I do? Would I attack them? Hurt them? Maybe set them on fire, then feed them to a pack of rabid hellhounds? Should they fight back?
I honestly wasn’t sure how this would play out.
For a flash, I was convinced they’d scream or even bum rush me with kitchen cutlery. But then they dropped their eyes and shuffled away, many visibly quivering, a few wrapping their arms tight across their chests. These people, these slaves, were scared of me. Terrified. The wave of nausea reared its head again, this time accompanied by a burst of self-loathing and profound shame. Azazel had been running around in my skin for the past six months, and though I knew he’d killed a bunch of demon shitheels, he’d probably done a metric ass-ton of other awful things, too.
