For This Is Hell

by Steven Savile

  “Five hundred years and beyond, Christopher Marlowe. The world will remember you, and worship your name as a master of the arts,” Lorelei assured him. “But it is late, and dark, and grown cold. What say we leave history to itself for another night and enjoy the warmth of your bed, and fill our hearts with joy and your head with dreams? There will be time enough to write tomorrow, and you will be the greater for it, inspired by your muse.”

  It was a struggle—despite the fact he had just found release, she did something to him he couldn’t begin to explain—but Marlowe shook his head. “No, I must go,” he said. He wrestled to free himself from her grasp, but Lorelei wasn’t about to let him go quite so easily. She clung to him all the tighter, arms and legs and hair all woven around him, but slowly Marlowe extricated himself here and there, easing to the side with each inch of freedom gained, until her feet were on the ground once more and she was leaning on the wall beside him.

  She sighed theatrically. “Does your other mistress call, then?” Lorelei asked, affecting a pout even as her eyes drank him in and promised much in return. “She has allures of her own, but can she promise to leave you breathless and limp, awash in sensation, all but out of your body from sheer overwhelming rapture?” She winked at him.

  Marlowe almost succumbed. What was one more night, in the scheme of things? He might have, had another patron not stumbled past and unlatched the alehouse door. A blast of heat and light and sound washed over Marlowe, warming him against the chill and clearing his head of her spell. He straightened, pushing away from wall and woman both.

  “True,” he conceded, “she cannot offer such physical delights, but she promises a joy more subtle and sublime when finished.” He laughed ruefully. “But until that moment she is a demanding fiend and as such cannot be denied for long, so I must go to her once more.”

  “I might not be here when you return, Marlowe,” Lorelei warned, a bite to her words though she smiled around them. “I am a jealous lover and there are many who would offer me their every waking moment with an eager heart and a firm . . . resolve.” The look she gave him was sharp as a serpent’s tooth. “Think upon it, playwright. I would hate to have to find a new partner for my passions. And I should like to think that you regret your decision and, who knows, perhaps even miss me?”

  Marlowe smiled and touched her cheek. “I already do,” he assured her, bowing again and blowing her a kiss even as he backed away. “My heart, my soul, and my flesh, they are yours . . . and when the play is done, my mind shall be as well.”

  “I will wait, but not forever,” she called after him as he turned on his heel. “If the tide runs out . . .” she shrugged as though to say she had no idea what might happen then.

  “Then I shall fly into your arms, fear not,” he answered, raising his voice as the distance betwixt them grew.

  “Go, then, and write if you must. I will wait as long as my humor abides!” She laughed, the sound carrying through the night, and then affected the voice of Elissa from his pages and shouted, “For enamored I am of thee, and wouldst fain lie in thy arms for all eternity!”

  Marlowe did not reply. Instead he waved at her and then the alehouse was gone from view, swallowed up in the night. He turned once more to the road before him. His head still felt full of fog and shadow. He picked up the pace, letting the cool night air revive him.

  What was it about Lorelei, he wondered, that stole his wits from him? One touch was enough to leave him breathless and thoughtless, numb and cold, as if dunked in a rain bucket on a winter morning. One touch. It was as though she worked some sort of magic on his soul, and it wasn’t as though he’d not loved before. It was unlike him to fall so hard, so far and so fast, and to feel so different, so bewitched and becalmed.

  That thought gave him pause. It was such a contradiction to his normal state of fire and heat and furious energy that it felt . . . unnatural.

  And perhaps, he though for the first time, it was.

  And for once he started to think.

  Marlowe exercised that great mind of his to ask questions: What if Lorelei’s allure were somehow wrapped within all the other curiosities that had surrounded them of late? What if the very madness that had ensnared so many others had seeped into his brain as well, only his fire had kept it partially at bay? What if whatever had driven others mad had merely sapped him of his will and made him susceptible to Lorelei’s considerable charms? Or what if it was worse?

  He thought upon that as he walked, the steady sound of his footsteps on the ground a reassuring beat that brought him back to his senses with every pace.

  Think.

  Lorelei had first claimed she would serve as his Muse, he remembered, and aid him in unlocking the play that had smoldered inside him so intensely, there but refusing to blaze forth. She had offered him what his heart most desired, and now she viewed that same play as a rival for his affections, and begrudged him every moment spent writing. Surely, if she were his Muse, she would delight in the furthering of his art, knowing she was at the root of its forward motion?

  Had she truly been his Muse? It seemed doubtful to him now.

  So then, was it merely a ploy to gain his attentions? To get close to him?

  If you can’t find an answer looking at a problem from one end, turn it around and look again: what if she had, in fact, been opposed to the play from the first knowledge of its existence? He let that thought simmer within him, and scoured his memories for moments to test the possibility. He dried desperately to think. He wanted to scream. When—even once—had she truly encouraged his art? She had claimed to be aiding him, but had tried to draw him from his writing at every single turn. Indeed, given the sheer distraction of her touch, she had become the chief obstacle to his finishing the play, far beyond anything his own stubborn mind had thrown up to stop him in the past.

  She had no desire to see the play’s completion.

  Rather, she had deliberately muddled his mind and his senses to keep him lulled and docile, a pet for her own play, though hers had no words.

  Which could only mean she knew full well the effect her touch had on him, and had used it deliberately and without mercy to bind him to her and keep him unaware.

  Marlowe stopped in his tracks, unwilling to believe he had been so wholly and easily deceived.

  Lorelei was not caught up in the madness—she was the madness!

  He’d been so preoccupied with the notion of another Beast lurking out there he hadn’t even considered that it had been writhing about him, circling his flesh and coiled in his bed all along. At least he knew now which creature he faced. Given her affinity for water, her sinuous nature, the serpents many had sighted, and the madness billowing out from her, there was only one possible answer: Lorelei, sweet, sensuous, seductive Lorelei, was the monstrous, maddening sea Beast known as the Kraken.

  At the very least she bore one of its Aspects; that was how the Beasts worked, they sought out those of like thought and disposition and bonded with them, granting them Aspects of the Beast’s own nature. With most Beasts, those chosen fell into competition then, one against the other, defeating each other in some fashion before one rose the victor and bore the Beast’s full visage unopposed.

  Lorelei would have begun as the Nix, the water nymph.

  He remembered with a shudder their midnight swim in the filthy Thames.

  Nix were seductive. Water was her element. So at least he knew why he had fallen so quickly under her spell.

  And those deaths . . . he realized now that many of them, if not all, must have been her rivals! Not those who had succumbed to madness, like poor John Cholmley, but the others found dead by violence, either in or beside the water. Lorelei had been besting her competition, edging ever closer to oneness with the Beast. After Nix came the Vodyanoi, more powerful and implacable, and beyond that the tentacle-wrapped Uam Boaz. Each was stronger than the last, and so with each new stage Lorelei’s hold upon not only him but London in general had tightened, and her madness had sp
read and taken root. Now she was powerful, so powerful, that if not the Kraken awakened she was barely one step removed. When she achieved that final goal, he realized sickly, all London would fall to her fever dreams and writhing maladies of the mind.

  The city entire would crumble into chaos…

  And it was his fault. Marlowe knew that with a cold certainty that nonetheless fanned the flames of rage rising within him. His presence here had served as a beacon, alerting the Kraken to this place and time. And his plays, his performances, even his thoughts, the plans to write about the Phoenix, all of the minor rebellions had fanned that fire, stirring the people just as he had hoped but also drawing more attention from the other Beasts until, finally, one could no longer resist its lure.

  Now the Kraken was here, and preparing to wrest the city from his grasp and devour it whole.

  He would not let it happen.

  Marlowe pounded his fist against a nearby wall, the fire flaring inside him. He felt it blister up against his skin and wrestled with it, trying to calm himself. He could not—would not—burn outright. “No,” he whispered, the syllable rising into the night. “You shall not have my city,” he promised.

  The play would have to wait, so in that regard she would win, but it could not be helped. The coming of the Kraken placed all of London in danger, and he was the only one capable of stopping her. She might think that water drowned fire, but he knew better. Fire steamed water away to nothing.

  He turned and strode toward home, plans already forming in his head.

  Behind him, the imprint of knuckles and fingers remained, seared into the solid stone as though the sturdy building were a slab of mud ripe for the molding. The impression left by his fist steamed in the cold shadows, its heat slowly swallowed by the long, damp night.

  Scene Seven

  In which passion burns deep and true, conquering all

  “Good day, fair lady. I trust the morning finds you well?”

  Lorelei studied him, hands planted upon her hips, head cocked to one side, eyes narrow, lips playing with a smile. Her long, dark hair showed more bounce than he recalled, more vitality as it curled about her head and shoulders. Marlowe suppressed a shudder as he pictured the strands as snakes and tentacles instead. Fortunately, being the man to put words in actors’ mouths had taught him something of their art, and he kept his face cheerful and his voice enthusiastic.

  “I received your message,” she replied after a moment’s pause. “Most thoughtful of you to leave it with my employer.”

  “Considering you have yet to share where you make your home, it was the next best thing.” Marlowe had dropped the note off at the alehouse the previous night, once he had most of his plans in place, and had trusted that she would receive it in time. Whether she would accept his invitation to meet her outside his rooms at first light was another matter, but he had judged her curiosity—and her covetousness for him—strong enough to lure her out in daylight.

  “And here I am,” she said, stepping forward to close the gap between them. She wrapped her arms possessively around his neck. “Will you not invite me in? It is warm inside, and my body is inviting…” She kissed him, and Marlowe felt the tingling sensation spread from his lips, down his throat towards his heart, and into his blood. But now he knew her game, and was prepared. This time the cold didn’t work its magic. This time, aware of what he faced, he had kept his fires banked deep, where her chill could not dowse them, ready to rise at a moment’s notice.

  He knew what she expected from him, though, and allowed himself to shudder slightly, as though lost in the kiss, and let his face slacken, pretending that the contact had dulled his senses and sapped his will once more.

  “I would,” he whispered in her ear after a moment, breathless and eager, “but we have already enjoyed such dalliances, and no doubt will again. The day is fair, my sweet, and I thought to take advantage of it.” And that, at least, was true. It was a fine day, warm and clear, and much to his advantage. He could see by the way she squinted against the sunlight that Lorelei did not share his pleasure in the morning sun. It was the most potent form of his own element, after all.

  He had chosen his moment well.

  Seeing him determined, she put a cheerful face upon the matter. “And what had you in mind?” She kissed his lips once more, then his cheek, and then his ear, ending with a sharp bite to the lobe as well. “Given that I would happily let you take advantage of me as well as the day.”

  “A change of venue, first. But that does not mean I don’t fully intend to drink deep of your charms as the day wears on,” Marlowe assured her. “We are lovers, and lovers deserve an idyllic locale for their passions.” He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply, and the carriage driver waiting down the way cracked his whip, urging his horses forward. The carriage came to a halt directly before them, and Marlowe opened the door with the finest bow he could muster. “Allow me to whisk you away, madam, for a day of leisure and delight.”

  Lorelei giggled and curtsied. “Leisure and delight? How excellent.” She let herself be guided into the carriage and settled across one of the seats.

  “My very thoughts and hopes.” Marlowe slid in beside her, pulling the door shut behind him. He rapped twice on the roof near the front.

  They fell against each other as the carriage lurched forward, and Marlowe forced himself to put all thoughts of Beasts and deaths and madness aside, determined to see his companion as nothing more than a lovely lady eager for his affection. Otherwise, if he let thoughts of her true nature fill his head, it was almost certain he wouldn’t be master of his own flesh, and more than anything that would give him away. No, better to savor her and be damned.

  Besides, if he was being honest with himself, as much as she was the enemy, it was the best way imaginable to pass the journey.

  *

  They were still lounging against one another, enjoying the languid afterglow, when the carriage slowed to a halt. Glancing out the curtained window, Marlowe saw a handful of buildings about them and straightened up. He adjusted his breeches and shirt as best he could, making himself decent.

  “We have arrived,” he informed Lorelei.

  “More’s the pity,” she replied, her words nearly slurred from pleasure.

  He opened the carriage door and clambered out, then turned to offer her a hand. For a moment, the silence between heartbeats, deep in the dark of the carriage she appeared not as the lovely young woman he had just bedded but as a monstrous creature, all tentacles and serpents and scales, but then she stepped into the doorway and the light and the apparition was gone. It was no specter of his imagination, however—there in the shadows he had seen her true form, confirming what he had already guessed.

  The glimpse buoyed his spirits rather than dampened them. Marlowe knew beyond doubt that his plans were not only necessary but just. It was easy to feign cheer as he helped Lorelei to the ground. He shut the carriage door behind her, then reached up to accept the covered basket the driver handed down.

  “Welcome to Deptford.” He gestured toward the houses and shops and taverns.

  She took in her surroundings. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this far from London.”

  “Really? We are but a few hours’ ride from the wall—even my prowess is not that distracting, surely?” He won a sly smile from her. “This is a charming little village, and beyond is the most inviting valley, with meadows filled of clover and trees of apple and pear—and a sweet little brook, cool and clear. It is paradise.”

  Her face brightened at the mention of a stream, as he had known it would. Water was her strength—and her weakness. “A brook? Oh, that sounds lovely indeed—may we take a dip?”

  “I am sure we will. We have food fit for lovers, grapes and bread and cheese, cold roast duck and stuffed figs, and wine with which to cleanse our palates, and a dining room fit for the gods themselves. We will make a morning of it, walking and talking and then eating and laughing, and dipping our feet in the water.
”

  “Heaven,” she agreed. “The water will wash away the grime from walking, and the sweat from coupling.” She rubbed across his chest and legs and groin, and he felt himself stir again.

  “Something to look forward to then,” he agreed. She was now in high spirits as she offered him her arm. Marlowe drew her close and led her down the road, out of the village, and toward the valley beyond. The carriage driver would wait for them to return—Marlowe had already engaged him for the full day. But he fully intended to return alone. He would deal with any questions that caused if and when the time came.

  “It really is lovely,” Lorelei commented, spinning around a beech tree so her hair streamed out behind her. She sighed, content. “And the shade… perfect. This is a wonderful, wonderful spot, Marlowe… but, I see no sign of the brook you promised? I am near parched and would slake my thirst on cool mountain water.”

  “Patience, my love,” Marlowe replied, catching her in a quick embrace as she swung past him in one of her circles, then feigning a sigh as she laughed and pulled free of him once more. “It is just over the rise, then down a ways to the valley floor. But if you hunger, why don’t we just have our meal here? As you say, the shade is perfect.”

  She smiled sweetly. “It is, but I would so love to dip my feet in the water before eating—and everything else that will follow, my love,” came her answer. Lorelei released the trunk of the beech to swivel about and begin racing up the hill, her pale skin flashing as she passed through patches of sunlight. Marlowe was in no hurry to catch her. He followed at a more leisurely pace, reaching her just as she crested the hill and gazed out upon the valley below.

  It was a breathtaking sight, sweeping and wide, a sea of waving green speckled with gold and tan. This was nature at her finest and most stunning. Silver birches formed a cordon about the valley, dark and silvery trunks creating a dappled border beneath dark leaves. The sun blazed high overhead, approaching its zenith, and Marlowe felt it warming him. He inhaled slowly, allowing it to feed him, the touch of it granting him strength.