Chapter 6: A Step in the Right Direction
All this unexpected running hither and yon had proved more fatiguing than I cared to admit. But that was to be expected. The last time I’d managed to refresh myself within the roaring heart of the Bãlefire was a few days before my topside assignment began. Such undertakings were always draining, both on my mystic and physical libido. And my previous mission was no different, especially as circumstances had contrived to keep me away from home much longer than usual. My energy reserves were second to none, but they weren’t inexhaustible. I could feel myself growing weaker with every passing hour.
If not for Cream and his blasted schemes, I would have revitalized my essence by now. I don’t know how much longer I can carry on before waning potency starts to affect my performance, especially with scumbags like Catraz getting in the way at every turn.
I pondered how things had turned out so far:
I’m obviously on my own for the foreseeable future, and it’s clear that’s the way it’ll be until my Diabolical Father decides I’m producing tangible results. So I’d better change tactics. No more blasting my way through obstacles with brute strength and bad attitude. Perhaps it would be better to save energy and start cultivating allies. After all, recent events have proven the criminal element is a goldmine of information and resources.
This snippet helped make up my mind, especially in relation to the de Born family. I could exercise a great deal of leeway in achieving results, and if I played things right today, I’d have the vast resources of the white market’s intelligence network at my beck and call.
Of course, by helping me they’ll unwittingly be turning themselves into Lucifer’s pawns. But I shan’t emphasize that fact.
Emerging onto the sidewalk, I determined to foster new ties as quickly as I could.
I was stunned to discover Al Catraz had been true to his word, probably because he thought I’d be dead by now. Bistro Noir was a literal five-minute stroll from the metro. Situated on the corner of Rue de l’Hôtel de E’ville and Rue Geoffroy l’Asinîne, its elegant presence dominated the block, making an instant impression.
Wolfsbane, devil’s claw, and rattlesnake blooms hung from a score of first floor window boxes. Arranged into a Hanging Gardens of Babylon feature, they festooned the stark bare stone in various shades of lilac, red, and green. Highly polished brass fittings accentuated wide double doors and floor-to-ceiling, glossy black surrounds. Quaint little wine tables and Louis XVI gondola-backed bureau chairs lined the pavement, while stenciled glass windows allowed passersby a glimpse of the privileged elite inside. A plain cream Perishian awning with the café’s name emblazoned in gold along its length added that final touch of class.
Here, if anywhere, was a place fit for a crime boss to preen like a peacock whilst entertaining his flock.
Obviously, I was expected.
A maître d’ waited for me at the door. Dressed in a black waistcoat and bowtie, a crisp white apron tied around his waist, he was ‘welcome to our establishment’ personified. Or he would have been, but for the starched towel hanging from his left forearm possessed a telltale lump.
For me, or difficult customers perhaps?
I glanced at the other attendants, busily scurrying to and fro. They also displayed telltale bulges that had nothing whatsoever to do with taking orders for drinks.
Are they a simple front line of defense for a cautious gangster, or is de UnBorn privy to the attempt on my life? I guess I’m about to find out.
Making eye contact, I showed the waiting escort my hands were gloved and casually peeled back one side of my coat to reveal my scythe, safely within its pouch. I held the flap open as I walked up to him.
“My name is André, Mister Grim,” he said by way of greeting. “Mister François is waiting for you on the exterior VID balcony. He thought you might like to speak in private, well away from prying eyes.”
“Thank you. That would be nice.” I paused in the doorway. “As a gesture of respect and good faith, would you like to take possession of my weapon?”
His gaze flicked to the jewel adorning the shaft, and lingered for a moment. Nonetheless, his reply was swift: “That won’t be necessary, Mister Grim. Your name precedes you.” Pointing to a younger waiter standing at the bottom of a set of ornate winding steps, he added, “If you follow Pascal, he will guide you to Mister François. In the meantime, may I get you a drink? Cognac, coffee, premium paint stripper?”
“Diabhalvulin 18, if you have it?”
André nodded and stepped aside.
I quickly wove through the pressing throng, and was ushered upstairs. The VID area was a wide open patio to the rear of the premises. Decorated in a similar style to the exterior of the café, the terrace had the added protection of a trellis-style gazebo, over which decorative flowers had been encouraged to grow. From my position I had an unobstructed view of the Parc d’ Injustice, containing one of the most renowned monuments in all of hell: the Mèmorial de la Sheol.
I always thought of that place as a shrine to my work. After all, I’d lost count of the millions of souls I had committed to an eternity of suffering.
François de UnBorn sat waiting in one of two loose-cushioned Chippendale recliners, flanking a wrought iron table. With his widow’s peak, slick blue-black hair, and goatee beard, he looked very similar to Bertran, albeit François, more muscular, and had his head firmly attached.
Like his cousin, François also sported a fine silk cravat. In his case, this sprouted proudly from the chest pocket of his quilted smoking jacket like a fleur-de-lis on steroids. I grinned at the sight of it, and François took my smile as a sign of warmth.
He gestured to the seat next to him. “Welcome to my home, Reaper. I’ve had a long discussion with Bertran, so I know why you’re here. He’s gone to great lengths to assure me I can trust you. I hope that’s true.”
“As I’ve recently had to emphasize to your partner in . . . er, business, although I represent the very highest echelons of Satanic Injustice, I am allowed to operate within a very flexible remit. I don’t need to lie to achieve my objectives. So long as I realize my goals, Satan is happy. Very happy, for they are an expression of his will. And those who help me — even in an unofficial and off the books capacity — well, I can only imagine the favor that might curry.”
François looked at me long and hard. I could almost see the cogs clicking over in his mind as he weighed the pros and cons of dealing with someone like me.
“Very well,” he replied, “excuse me for one moment while I take certain precautions.”
He reached below the table and retrieved a small ornate box covered by a number of glowing, arcane symbols. With rapt deliberation, he closed his eyes, mumbled a brief phrase, and then pressed his palm against a spike sprouting from the lid.
Scarlet flowed, and I felt power coalesce about us.
François opened the cover and removed a miniature dryad, wings batting, from within. Extending his hand he allowed the creature to lick his wound, then said, “Protect.”
Bound by the blood-tie, the sprite took to the air and began orbiting the terrace. As she circled above us, her female form glowed green and a shower of tiny sparks fell from her hair. Whatever she was doing set my teeth on edge and made my eyes water.
“Now we can talk without fear of telepathic eavesdropping,” François explained, “which I fear may be necessary, given our agenda.”
He took a deep breath. “As you know, while Al’s forte lies in gunrunning, mine relates to those who use them. I traffic a wide range of mercenaries and Foreign Legionnaires for several of the parties currently engaged in conflicts throughout the various realms of hell. Obviously, this entails the unofficial transport of produce between venues. That brings us into frequent contact with the underground facilitators of the white market, people peddling all sorts of services and equipment. Sometimes that might relate to the people themselves, or the stuff they have to offer. But more often than not, one of
our most precious commodities is information.
“After speaking with Bertran, you’ll be aware there’s been a great deal of chatter lately regarding the single-plane rift generators which Tesla keeps churning out. I can confirm such rumor as truth. Tesla has not only constructed a stockpile of new, short-range, short-term models, but he’s also made a breakthrough on his long-range sonic prototype that will transform the way future campaigns are organized and conducted. Because of my particular area of expertise, ours was one of the first organizations Tesla approached. He was keen for us to test his device’s effectiveness in the mass relocation of troops between all the realms simultaneously —”
“Wait a minute,” I cut in, “a multi-phasic amplifier that can access every level of the underverse at the same time?”
“That’s right.”
“And did the bloody thing work?”
“I must say, despite the fact it kept overheating, I found it to be very promising. We lost fifty percent of our troops to the quantum flux, but half is better than nothing. Tesla said he’s confident he can remove the glitch in a relatively short time, and from what I’ve heard, is close to realizing that goal.”
“When was this?”
“He originally approached us several months ago. The trial run took place two weeks later. News has gradually leaked out since then.”
“So how does all this help me?”
“Indirectly. Let me explain.” François shuffled forward in his seat. “As gossip about Tesla’s breakthrough started to circulate, it understandably led to a number of tentative enquiries from the more notorious militia groups currently on the market. The portals are obscenely expensive, you see, and they’re the only ones who could readily access the funds to buy one.”
“How much?”
“The going rate is ten million diablos.”
I whistled.
“Precisely. Then we started getting offers from the more reputable brigades, those who obviously restructured their finances enough to willingly put a huge dent in their bank balance. Do you see the point I’m making? Because of the cost involved, they’re the only interested parties we’ve had. Imagine my surprise, then, when about a month or so ago a strange little chap walked in here, bold as brass, and demanded to buy one of the new models.”
“Cream?”
“No, not at that time. This gentleman was dressed like a native Perishian, but acted in a very odd manner. Almost as if he was having a conversation with someone who wasn’t actually there. Oh, and he kept wringing his hands all the time.”
A surge of pleasure warmed my heart.
“And I take it this gentleman wished to remain anonymous?”
“Of course. He stated he was a well-funded archeologist who wished to obtain a transportation device that would allow him to pursue his dream of . . . to . . .” François became reticent and his aura darkened.
He’s afraid. “Please continue,” I said in as gentle a tone as I could muster. “I’m sure Bertran will have told you I offered him amnesty. I extend that same courtesy to you. You have the word of Satan’s Reaper.”
He didn’t look convinced. “It’s just that . . . this person possessed a great deal of knowledge about things that shouldn’t be spoken of. Things from the Time of Sundering.”
Above us, the dryad gasped and faltered in her flight. A sharp glance from her master quickly focused her concentration where it belonged.
“What things, specifically?” I couldn’t prevent my tone from becoming harder.
François swallowed, hard. “Initially, I found that difficult to make out. He twittered on about all manner of subjects. But amongst his ramblings he made specific reference to Vidium Swords, the Scroll of Divergent Union, some cup or other, and possibly — and I’m not quite sure about this — Goliath’s Skull? Reaper, he was not only aware of their existence but willing to part with a vast fortune to gain information as to the possible whereabouts of one or all of those artifacts.”
Very few people would have ever heard of the Time of Sundering. Even fewer about Vidium Swords, the heavenly weapons wielded by God’s angels during the final battle.
This goes much deeper than I thought. “And did you help him?”
“I wasn’t sure I had, at first. Now I can say for certain that I did.”
“Explain.”
“Think about my position for a moment, Mister Grim. I’m a crime boss in one of the most notorious cities in one of the most despicable levels of hell. Here, I have wealth and influence. The power of life and death over others. And I’m cannier than most you’ll meet. I value intelligence above brute strength, information over possessions. I use my head where others would act without thinking. But even I don’t know about such things. Whispers, yes. Rumors, most certainly . . .”
“So how did you unwittingly help our mysterious buyer?”
“I sold him one of the acoustic prototypes Tesla had given me . . . and . . .”
“And?”
“And I told him what I knew. Just a snippet I’d heard from some half-crazed idiot many moons ago, regarding the likely site of a fallen . . . you know what.”
“Where?”
“Hades. A place that still suffers greatly from tectonic instability. I suggested that perhaps the fragile crustal areas were the result of a great external upheaval and thus might indicate the resting place of those who can’t be named.”
“That sounds a little farfetched to me. How much did our nutty citizen pay for this unsubstantiated information?”
“Two million diablos.”
“Two million!” My jaw dropped.
François noted my reaction but waved for silence. He hadn’t quite finished:
“Imagine my shock then, when only this past week Cream entered my establishment looking for a specialist gem cutter. He claimed that he had a further million to spend if we could find someone willing to do the job quickly, without fuss or too many questions.”
“Further million?”
“That’s what I thought. I’d heard of him, of course, but it was the first time I’d ever met the Poisoner in the flesh. I took his inference to mean he was working with the other guy, the crazy one with all the money, although he never directly confirmed that fact.”
“Tell me, did you find a suitable craftsman?” As I asked the question, I scanned François’ emotions.
“It took some doing, but we found the perfect stooge. Henry Cheval, a shady double dealer from the Twelfth Horrondissement. We had him here within the hour. He ended up working on what I can only describe as a huge blue stone. I’ve been in this business for nearly nine hundred years, and I’ve never seen a jewel like it. But I’ve heard the legends, and really, where else could it have come from? It looked like a cross between an aquamarine and a topaz, and was bigger than my fist.”
A cold tingle wormed its way down my spine. Something in François’ words and the feelings behind them was invoking a powerful reaction within me. I was lost to the echoes of distant battles, where flaming swords shattered worlds and enemies alike.
Only with the greatest difficulty did I break the spell.
“How soon can you locate this Henry Cheval again and get him here?”
“Mister Grim, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Part of the agreed fee imposed by Cream was the requirement that the gem cutter submit himself to a ripcord. As soon as he’d completed his task, Henry was mind-wiped and sent for reassignment.”
Crap! Go figure. Cream and his OCD little friend are starting to get on my tits.
François was quick to appease my rising temper: He reached beneath the table again, removed a gray baseball-sized object from within a bag, and tossed it to me.
I caught it in one hand and found it warm to the touch. Several studs in its surface made a triangle formation around its crown. The device emitted a high-pitched whine whenever my fingers strayed too close to one of the buttons.
Just like some women I know.
“What’s this?”
<
br /> “That is a working prototype of the new multi-phasic portal generator. Cream made a point of emphasizing that it is glitch-free but has been manufactured to function only twice before self-destructing. He said to think of it as a gift . . . and a sign of things to come. Evidently it incorporates tech that removes any trace elements added to the traveling medium . . . whatever that means.”
Does he mean the tags? If so, anyone using it would be invisible to surveillance!
“How did Cream get one of these?”
“I think it’s obvious when you connect the dots, don’t you? Especially as he went on to stress that should I be interested in putting the word out on their behalf, there’d be a twenty percent cut from future purchases.”
“Generous.”
“No, just good business. They know they’ll need my extensive white market acumen.”
“Tell me, what does your partner think about these latest developments?”
“He doesn’t know. After what happened to Don Pérignone, I’m choosy about what becomes a mutually shared concern.”
Really?
My eyebrows twitched upward. Subconsciously, I hefted the orb up and down. François waited, calmly returning my stare, allowing me time to process his startling revelation.
Time to make an offer.
“How does this generator work?” I asked, intrigued by the apparent simplicity of its design.
“The three buttons operate like a dead man’s switch. You press down with your palm and they pierce the outer layers of your skin to mesh with your spirit. Then all you do is envisage where you’d like to go, release the pressure, and shazam!”
“So you need to keep a clear image in your head?”
“Most certainly, otherwise you’ll spread your atoms across hydraspace.”
“And this new model literally can go anywhere?”
“From what I’m told, yes.”
As casually as possible, I asked, “I don’t suppose you know where I might find any of the other articles on this fruit-loop’s shopping list?”
François went quiet again. As he stared into my eyes, his aura flickered through every color in the rainbow.
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 9
