by James Hunter
“Do not fret,” the Bone Collector said, scuttling into view. He was looking surprisingly chipper considering how grievous his wounds had been. “I will ensure he gets to the cages unhindered by the Flesh Eaters.” His mandibles clicked and clacked, strings of drool dripping down as though he were hungry at the thought of confronting Asmodeus’ shitheel minions. “Everything will be in place, my minions are standing by …” The words trailed off as the creature emitted a shrill drone that could only be a laugh—one that left the hairs on my arms standing stiff.
“Alright then,” I replied, scooting away a step. Oath or no, that thing was still creepy as a two-headed goat wearing spandex pants. “I guess that only leaves one thing left. You ready to go get me arrested, Heckabe?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow at her.
“I’d love nothing better,” she replied, pitching aside a bit of gristle.
THIRTY-ONE:
Flesh Palace
Getting into the Flesh Palace was surprisingly easy with a cohort of Revenants to guide us through all of the secret tunnels and past the Flesh Eater patrols. In next to no time, Heckabe and I were squeezing through a tight, nearly invisible fissure, which let into a subbasement of the Infernal Casino. Once inside, we’d be mostly in the clear. Though the Flesh Eaters were Asmodeus’ best goons, there were only so many of them to go around, so the Demon King had to deploy them wisely.
According to Heckabe, there would be a small squad outside the main entrance, vetting everyone going in or coming out, but once inside the Infernal Casino, we’d only have to worry about run-of-the-mill Hellions on Asmodeus’ payroll. They were still dangerous, but they wouldn’t be able to identify me by smell like the Flesh Eaters.
The subbasement was lit by a single overhead halogen bulb, casting wan light on a set of shelving units and a massive incinerator, which occupied most of one wall. The shelves were rickety and filled with musty boxes that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. Likewise, the incinerator was cold, lifeless, and heavily stained with old black char marks. If I had to guess, I’d say this particular room didn’t see much attention, which was probably why the Bone Collector suggested the fissure as a perfect entry point.
I couldn’t take my flak jacket with me—not without drawing a lot of unwanted attention—so I had to strip down to my jeans, shirt, and leather jacket, stashing the rest of the gear behind a teetering storage shelf, tucking it out of sight. Heckabe followed suit, hiding her mace, shield, and pistol. Unfortunately, the tattered state of her shirt was almost as likely to attract attention as a friggin’ machine gun.
After a long beat, I begrudgingly shrugged out of my coat and handed it over, muttering about how I wanted it back someday, and furthermore, how it better not smell like wet dog. She rolled her eyes, but accepted gratefully, slipping it on, then zipping it partway up, covering her tanned skin.
Then, because I’m a softhearted moron, I retrieved the Hand of Glory from the drop pouch and pressed it into Heckabe’s palm. “And make sure that slug-douche, Murkly, gets this back.”
She grinned, cocked her head to one side, then nodded. “It will be so.”
From there, we found a set of stairs up to a dull hallway with white tile floors and unremarkable tan walls and promptly headed for a set of employee elevators, likely used for moving furniture or carting off bodies. Heckabe mashed the up button with one thumb, then slipped her hands behind her back, rocking back and forth on her heels as we waited patiently. The elevator buzzed to life a few beats later, and the metal doors groaned open, revealing a large but unimpressive interior lined with steel.
We moseyed in, and Heckabe jammed the lobby button, marked with a star.
The service elevator let us out into another plain-Jane hallway meant for staff, but I could also hear the ching of slot machines, the clink of coins, and the muffled laughter of players nearby. It was the sound of a casino in full swing. Heckabe took one secretive look in both directions, then grabbed my wrist and hauled me toward a set of brown doors, which let out onto the casino floor proper. No one seemed to notice us as we stepped from the employee’s hallway and into the heart of the Flesh Palace.
The change, though, was jarring. One minute we were in a white tiled hall that could’ve belonged in a hospital, and the next, we were in a room filled with strobing lights and sharply dressed Hellions in every shape and size. Hundreds of circular chandeliers hung from the ceiling, all built from bones, all shedding weak yellow light onto the eye-searing blue-patterned carpet. Off to the right were row after row of bulky colorful slot machines, just like what you would find in Vegas—except these had names like Mayhem Machine, Adventures in Torture, and Voodoo Bones. Hellions hunched over those machines, feeding coins into the slot like junkies in need of a fix.
Heckabe slid her palm down into mine, twining our fingers together as she pulled me on—just a happy couple out on a date. At least I hoped that’s what it looked like to anyone passing by. She gave my hand a little yank, time to move, and drew me down a swath of vivid purple carpet that carved its way through the sea of blue carpet. We ambled past hundreds of mechanical one-armed bandits and into a section of the casino covered with tables. Long rectangular ones—where people tossed dice to the cheers and boos of a crowd of onlookers—and squat ones, where roulette wheels spun merrily away.
All of the tables were presided over by scowling men and women in black long-sleeved button-ups and silver vests. The epitome of professional, even if most of the dealers themselves looked like something you might fish out of the Black Lagoon.
Heckabe dragged me from the purple pathway, pushing through a gaggle of spectators surrounding a card table. For the first time, we passed close enough for me to get a good look at what they were playing. Five cards lay faceup near the dealer, while each of the four players had two cards, both facedown, in front of them. Even at a glance, I knew Texas Hold ’em when I saw it, but that was about the only normal thing going on. The table itself, instead of being green felt, was a sheet of oddly pink leather, covered in colorful tattoos.
Human skin.
And based on some of those tattoos, I’d say a lot of that flesh had come courtesy of the Roller Nation.
“Flip ’em,” the dealer—a pudgy, balding man with a lopsided face covered in thorns—called out.
Despite the fact that I was in enemy territory on a mission to break into a prison, my steps faltered. I love poker, and the gambler in me couldn’t pass up a chance to see who won. The players flipped their cards, and a prodigiously fat man with tusks chortled in glee as his plump hands strained for the pile of coins at the center of the table, scooping them over with barely constrained glee. “And her fingers,” he said offhandedly, shooting a conspiratorial look at the dealer.
“No, no. Please,” a hunchbacked woman sobbed, her skin a cloudy gray that reminded me of Levi’s. “I can pay, I swear. Let me just go back to my room. I have more money, I swear on my grave I do.”
I wasn’t sure what was going on here, but I couldn’t look away.
“The bet is the bet, the deal is the deal,” the dealer intoned formally, his hand flashing out with preternatural speed, snagging her frail wrist before she could pull away from the table.
Then, in a blink, the dealer had a meat cleaver in his other hand. The heavy blade dropped, sinking through the woman’s index, middle, and ring fingers, leaving her right hand mutilated, her thumb and pinky sticking out in a perpetual “hang loose” sign. Just as quickly as it had come, the cleaver vanished beneath the table, and the tusked pigman scooped the fingers over to him, popping them into his muzzle like they were cocktail treats. The crunch of bone beneath his teeth was particularly disturbing.
My jaw clenched tight, and the sudden urge to burn things down raced along my nerve endings, but Heckabe was suddenly pulling me away from the table with inhuman strength. “That’s the way things are here,” she hissed into my ear. “And you shouldn’t feel sorry for her. She made that bet knowing exactly what would happen i
f she lost. Most people only make Flesh Bets if they think it’s a sure thing, but there are no sure things. Not in your world and not in mine. Now let’s go. We can’t afford to attract attention.”
We left the sobbing woman behind, swerving around even more tables—some offering blackjack, others serving up Hold ’em, more still filled with baccarat. Even though the games were different, the stakes were all the same: money or flesh. Sometimes fingers. Sometimes hands. I even saw one person lose a nose as we slipped through the crowd. God, this place was horrible.
Past the card tables were stripper poles and fighting pits. “The Spectacle of Flesh,” Heckabe whispered in my ear, noticing my gaze. Women and men gyrated on silver poles, clad in little or nothing, while slaves battled below in sandy pits, killing each other or fighting off monstrous creatures, which were clearly natives of Hell. There were slick-scaled lionesque creatures in one pit and a no-shit hellhound in another. And the bloodthirsty crowds cheered as bodies fell, exchanging money while odds and stats flashed across a series of bright jumbo screens fastened to the far wall.
Of all the places I’d seen in the Inferno so far, the Flesh Palace was easily the worst. It was one thing to witness the horrors of the Skinless, but the violence here was so casual, so remorseless. These people weren’t hurting others out of revenge or anger—emotions I could easily understand—they were doing it out of boredom.
Heckabe hooked right, cutting between a pair of fighting pits and toward another pair of brown doors set against one wall, which had a “Flesh Palace Employees Only” sign affixed to the front. A pair of beefy men—well, closer to trolls, with their warty green skin—in black suits flanked the doors on either side, their hands crossed in front of them as their beady eyes continuously surveyed the room. Security guards if ever I’d seen one.
I was wondering which of them was Heckabe’s inside man, but she ushered me directly past them to a circular desk covered in security monitors, which butted up against the wall.
“Excuse me,” she said, leaning forward, wrapping her hands over the top edge of a video monitor.
I edged around to one side and stole a look at the guard, except he looked more like a customer service rep at a cable company than a goon in a hellish casino. He was short, bald, nearly as round as a blueberry, and an unfortunate shade of purple, which just reinforced the whole blueberry image. Unlike most Hellions—decked out in bondage leathers or weird spikes—this goofy schmuck was sporting khakis and a checkered button up, neatly tucked into his trousers.
I had a feeling he and Levi would’ve been good friends.
“Just a moment,” Blueberry replied, never taking his eyes from the computer screen as he furiously typed away.
“No problem,” Heckabe said casually. But then she leaned in, her chest pressed up against the top edge of the monitor. “But I’ll make sure the queen knows we had to wait.” The last was a muted whisper meant for his ears, and boy did it get his attention in a hurry. His fingers fell still as a sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead. He glanced up, his bottom lip trembling as he looked at Heckabe, then at me.
“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry,” he stammered, shooting from his rolling chair, then clasping his hands behind his back. “I just wasn’t expecting …” He trailed off, swallowing whatever his excuse had been. Good call—I didn’t know Heckabe well, but she didn’t seem like the understanding sort.
“It’s not a problem, Berry,” she said. I stifled a laugh. Of course his name was Berry, the poor sap. “Everything is fine, so long as everything is fine.” She reached out and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, or at least that’s how it looked. From my vantage, though, I could see her claws sprout, sinking down into his doughy skin—not enough to draw blood, but enough to dimple the flesh and let him know she could.
“No,” he said, dry washing his hands. “There’s no problem, and please tell Her Majesty that.” He stole a nervous glance around. “I have a cell ready for him, and all the paperwork is good. Flawless. No one will take a second look at him. Now all that remains is for the … ah. Well, the arrest.” He winked nervously at me. This guy seemed legitimately nice, but I was starting to suspect he was the worst double agent in the history of double agents.
Or did that make him the perfect double agent, since absolutely no one, anywhere, would ever suspect him?
Heckabe squeezed his shoulder one more time, then retracted her claws and dropped her hand. “Very good, Berry. You’ll be rewarded appropriately in time. Now, please see my friend gets to where he needs to go.” She turned to me as Blueberry Berry waddled out from behind the desk. “Don’t die,” she said solemnly. “And remember, you’ll have to survive without the use of your powers until Asmodeus shows up. He often misses the first few rounds, so just keep it together.”
“This way, sir,” Berry said, from beside me.
He was even more comical standing. His legs were itty-bitty little things compared to his plump body, and he couldn’t have stood over four and a half feet.
When I looked back to say goodbye to Heckabe—to wish her luck—she was already gone. I caught just the back of her head as she disappeared into a densely packed group of Hellions taking bets on a fight between a woman with no legs and a giant demonic rooster.
Apparently, she was even worse at goodbyes than I was. And I didn’t even get a chance to wave to my jacket, which was the real crime. I loved that jacket.
“Right this way, sir,” Berry said, waving a pudgy, blue-stained hand toward the towering troll-guards presiding over the employees’ door.
When we got closer, the two meatheads snapped to attention, their beady black eyes fixing first on me, then on Berry. “Sir,” they growled as one. “Do you need assistance?”
“Yes, in fact. This man here is one of the lucky winners—a big winner. The floor manager has decided to treat him to a free night in the hotel. In the Black Suite. Please escort him, won’t you? And make sure he gets the full-service treatment.” Berry smiled at me, then waved me toward the door. “Please enjoy your stay, sir. They’ll show you to your room.”
The sentries pushed open the doors, revealing a carpeted hallway lined with doors. “Please come this way, sir,” the thug on the right said, his fists clenched tight.
This wasn’t how I’d expected things to go down, but I complied, muttering a silent prayer that good ol’ Berry was really on the level. I stepped into the hall first, followed immediately by both guards. As soon as the brown doors swung shut, a giant fist flew in from left field and smashed into my jaw like a brick. I stumbled into the wall, shell-shocked and confused, only to receive a furious hook to the ribs, which doubled me over.
Before I could even think, one of the goons shoved me to the floor, wrenched my arms behind my back, and slapped cold metal shackles around my wrists. The other one slipped a coarse black bag over my head, which blocked out all light and muffled sounds. I lay on the carpet moaning from the blows as they thoroughly frisked me, checking my pockets, ripping off my boots, even shredding my shirt. Assholes.
Then, once that was done, the goons chuckled—both deep guttural sounds—as one lifted me from the floor and slung me over a fatty shoulder, which jabbed into my gut like a fist. “Come on, lucky winner. Time to get you to your complimentary room.”
THIRTY-TWO:
Colosseum
“Get your ass moving,” a gruff voice growled at me as the door to my cell swung open, letting in a splash of dim firelight, which was still painful to my eye after the complete dark they’d kept me in. I squinted, rubbed at my face, and pushed my knees away from my chest. The prison cell, lovingly called a Black Suite by the guards, wasn’t much more than a concrete box, four feet by four feet. Not enough room to lie down, not enough room to stand up, and nothing to sit on except cold stone.
There was a wooden bucket in the corner that served as a toilet, but that was the extent of the lavish furnishings. It was hard to say how long I’d been in custody, maybe a day if I had to guess
, but I was glad it wasn’t another minute longer. I’d heard some of the guards chitchatting through the door, and apparently, they kept people in these things for months before the Reckoning—it just depended on when you got snatched up for the games. I shuddered involuntarily at the thought.
“Get your ass moving,” the guard said again, annoyed. “Don’t make me come in there, shithead, or you’ll regret it.”
I crawled on hands and knees into a hallway fashioned after a medieval dungeon: all old stone walls, hanging chains, and flickering torches set on black iron wall sconces.
The guard—a lanky Hellion with waxy skin stretched so tight he looked more skeleton than man—booted me in the ribs for not moving fast enough. I coughed up blood as he promptly hauled me to my feet with a deceptive strength that left a vivid bruise on my bicep. “Do you wanna be chained, boy?” he asked. “Do you wanna go into the arena without eyes or ears to see? Keep movin’ slow and I’ll see that it happens.”
Once again a flash of rage reared up in my chest, but I stomped it down and dropped my gaze. “No, sir,” I mumbled.
The guard grumbled something about turds and morons and pushed me into motion. I passed a host of boxy cells identical to the one I’d stayed in, through a massive iron gate that squealed like a giant rat when the guard pushed it open, and into a long rectangular room with a steep ramp leading up the far wall. The room was poorly lit like the rest of the shithole prison, but there were people here, sitting on creaky wooden benches running along the walls. Twenty of ’em at a glance.
There were also racks filled with weapons and armor, running along the center of the room. Not conventional weapons or armor, just old, shitty, rusted stuff that had seen its best days two hundred years ago.
The people on the benches, all presumably prisoners bound for the Reckoning, were already geared up and somber-faced. The lanky guard shoved me again. “Don’t just stand there, pretty boy. You’ve got five minutes until the first round starts, and if you aren’t ready, I’ll gladly send you out there naked as the day you died.” One more harsh shove sent me stumbling forward as the gate clanged shut behind me, the sound echoing through the room. I stole a hasty glance around. We were alone—no guards in sight—but there was no place to go except the ramp, and everyone knew what waited up there.
