He’s still weighing me up.
A knock at the door disturbed his process.
“Come!” he called.
André entered with two crystal tumblers on a silver tray. Each contained a rich amber liquid that swirled lazily around the inside of the glass. Without a word, the maître d’ strode confidently across the terrace, deposited the drinks at our table, and left.
“Efficient ship you run,” I murmured. “I like that.”
Picking up my glass, I paused to inhale the heady fragrance of Diabhalvulin before downing half its contents. It burned like a welcoming fire in my throat.
“So, can you help me or not?”
François followed suit. After sampling his drink, he said, “This is mere speculation of course, but I hear the underworld’s most obscure reference archive has a special section where restricted materials might be researched. Access is denied to all except the highest tier of Satan’s Blue Suits and intelligence network.”
“The Hellexandria Library?”
“No, no, no. That’s what everyone’s supposed to think. I’m referring to the vaults below the Sphincter, in S16, ancient Egypt.”
There are catacombs below the Sphincter?
The surprise obviously showed on my face.
“You didn’t know?” François spluttered. He looked worried. “Hey, I told you the nature of my work means I get to hear things. I just keep my ear to the ground and listen. It’s not my fault if people find out the wrong things and blab about them.”
I hunched forward.
He glanced toward my hands and I sensed his rising fear. “You’re not going to . . . ?”
It’s not you I’m pissed at. “Relax, François, I’ve bigger fish than you to fry. It’s quite refreshing to meet a denizen of hell who values information so highly and keeps his head in a crisis. No offence intended to your family . . .”
“None taken.”
“In fact, how would you like an expanded circle of contacts? Or enjoy the luxury of knowing you could dig into any affair under Paradise without the Department of Injustice ever knocking on your door?”
His eyes bulged as he caught my inference. “At what price?”
“Think of it as an interest-laden investment where I’ll be a silent partner. A necessary evil, I’m afraid, as most souls balk at the idea of working with the Reaper. Now, while this means you’ll have to do all the work, I’ll nevertheless be busy in the background, keeping away any unnecessary heat. This puts a few noses out of joint initially, but when your opposition or any dissenters wind up banished to Hades, or reassigned without memory, word will soon get round that you’re untouchable. Of course, it might also entail your elevation amongst the criminal elite.”
“What about Al?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about him. I have a feeling he won’t be in a position to cramp your style for much longer.”
I raised my tumbler. “Do we have a deal?”
A broad grin split his face, and our glasses chinked together.
“I believe we do.”
Chapter 7: Beginning of the End
Sonorous tones of utmost complexity swelled into the air. Enfolded in majesty, Frédéric Chopin clung to every note, allowing the cadence to soothe the agitation crowding in on him. Soon the harmonies began to weave their magic. Compelling and sublime, the tempo lifted Frédéric’s heart and transported him to another time and place, a world of utter tranquility, a world the likes of which could never be found elsewhere in the multi-layered misery that was hell.
His fingers flowed like liquid silk across the keys as he reminisced about the golden years before his illness, when triumphs and accolades were still parts of his life.
As was my beloved George.
No sooner had the comfort of a rare smile touched his face, however, than a shadow fell across the rose-tinted landscape of his memories.
Ah, I was wondering when the Undertaker’s little “gift” would interrupt my reverie.
A spasm seized his hands. Rippling up his arms and into his shoulders, the pain intensified before slamming into the vault of his skull. His sight expanded, and images of places he had neither seen nor visited cascaded through his mind. Despite the pain, Frédéric chuckled.
If only the fool mortician would acknowledge that unexpected side effect of his malevolence can occur, he wouldn’t be so smug. The visions almost make the discomfort worthwhile.
This vision took hold. Magnified beyond comprehension, it filled the vast horizon of his consciousness with memories and emotions he could never have imagined or experienced otherwise. Reaching the limit of his endurance, myriad possibilities hung, suspended in time for just a moment before rebounding back toward him at alarming speed.
Frédéric braced himself. The incoming wave was all-consuming and, sure enough, no sooner had it struck than his perspective twisted. The ground opened up beneath his feet. He fell through the reticulation of time itself, and the anguish of his decline cascaded anew through his mind:
Again came the shock he had felt at the diagnosis of his temporal lobe epilepsy and the neurological imbalance this created, which plagued him with hallucinations and unprovoked seizures. The gradual ossification of his intellect, along with the helpless sense of impotency he was forced to endure, became an emancipation that gnawed away at his soul as it robbed him of the competence to retain his popularity and prestige. The bitterness of separation from the one he adored. The inevitable embrace of death. The horror of awakening in the underverse, where his suffering was recognized and gleefully compounded — For how better to torment a virtuoso than deny him the ability to express his creativity?
Frédéric gripped the lover’s knot adorning his wrist. Made from links of agate-of-hell and another unknown stone, both intertwined with locks of thick, luxuriant hair. Its luster anchored his soul against the tide of indomitable resentment that threatened to sweep him away. Thus armored against the rush, he forced himself to relax and struggled back to the here and now.
My, my, how the Undertaker must enjoy the fruits of his efforts.
In defiance, he caressed the tresses securing the bracelet in place.
I love you, George, my Amantine. This is all for you.
The air sizzled behind him, and the smell of ozone filled the room. A muted thud reverberated through the floor. He jumped in his seat, and a fresh surge of arthritic agony coursed along his fingers. Frédéric cursed, massaging the back of his knuckles to ease the pain.
Without turning from the piano, he asked, “Is it done?”
“Of course,” Thomas Cream replied indignantly. “Do you think me entirely incompetent?”
No, just expendable. “Tell me.”
“As you predicted, de UnBorn spilled his guts and gave Grim everything we hoped he would.”
“Everything?”
“Absolutely. The dryad witnessed it all, not ten minutes ago.”
“And what is our illustrious Reaper doing now?”
“As we speak, he’s making his way to Sulfurous Sands with all haste, gloating over the presumption that he’s closing the gap.”
Frédéric pondered with satisfaction on the success of his plan. Doing so caused reality to dissolve about him until he was graced by a fleeting vision of a beautiful woman with a long dark mane. She was dressed in black, her hair adorned with flowers that added a femininity few had ever been privileged to witness.
“Out of the frying pan,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What did you say?” Cream asked, confused by the reference.
Realizing he had been daydreaming again, Frédéric shook his head. “I said . . . did you stick to the plan?”
“Yes, it was nice to walk the streets of Olde London Town so freely again. I’d forgotten what a riot Unholy Covenant Gardens can be. Do you know, they attract all manner of vendors from —”
“I’m not interested in semantics. Did you secure the bloody contracts or have our efforts been in vain?”
“
I acquired the first, but once I’d stated our proposals to the second, they were keen to remind me their skills are not for sale. However, they were so intrigued by the prospect of testing their mettle against a worthy adversary that they offered to face him anyway.”
“Face him anyway?” Frédéric was shocked. He turned to regard his partner in rebellion. “Are you sure there are no hidden agendas that might come back to haunt us?”
“On the contrary, they were delighted by the audacity of our undertaking. Evidently, they feel it complements their very reason for existence here.”
A surge of overwhelming satisfaction eased the relentless ache in Frédéric’s hands.
And into the fire.
Then he noticed a travel chest on the floor. Curiosity roused, he walked toward it and discerned a faint hum emanating from within. A gentle prickling sensation crawled across his skin the closer he got.
“It would seem you’ve been successful.”
Cream squatted down by the case and opened the lid. The room filled with a warm, golden glow. “Come and see,” he breathed, “and savor the fruits of our labor.”
Frédéric made his way around to the other side.
A huge amber scroll lay across the top of the chest’s interior. At over four feet in length, it might have been penned by giants. The case was tied tight by a jet-black ribbon. A gilded radiance infused the parchment, appearing to originate from a swathe of arcane letters transcribed thereon.
Beneath it, strapped securely to the base, was a pearlescent gray goblet. Frédéric noted with interest how the otherworldly resonance permeated from the bottomless well of its depths.
“And what damage did you leave in your wake to secure these?”
“None, for it was far easier than I thought. Because of the proscription, hardly anyone is aware of their existence, and those privy parties have been relying on obscurity and ignorance to shield them from discovery. Using both orb and gem, it was a simple matter for me to breach the temporal barrier and drug the librarian. Once under my influence, she helped me take what we wanted.” He grinned. “Such laxity marks the beginning of the end.”
Frédéric was struck by a sudden notion.
“Talking of endings, have you taken care of the dryad?”
“Already done. Remotely, of course.”
“And de UnBorn?”
Cream laughed aloud. “He was so enamored by the Stone of Seraphim Swiftness that I was able to spike his drink with consummate ease. My little concoction included blue mist, firethorn, and devil’s trumpet. All memory of my suggestive impulse will fade within a day or two, so we’re in the clear.”
“Then it would appear we are in need of a toast?” As an afterthought, Frédéric suggested, “I’m sure you’ll understand when I say I’ll fix the drinks myself?”
*
Events were proceeding well. Not only had I managed to cultivate a major new informant, but it appeared I’d confirmed that Cream was indeed in league with the mysterious hand-wringer: a person who was not only well funded and uncannily knowledgeable, but someone, it seemed, who had friends in the highest of places.
That fact gave me something to chew on.
The thing about hell is there’s always a catch. Things might seem to be going well, but something will always sneak up on you and bite you in the ass. The Devil’s Children are puppets. Outwardly privileged, their lives are controlled to such an extent that there’s no real semblance of free will. Here in Perish — and everywhere else, for that matter — the crime bosses can never relax. There’s always a wannabe ready to stab them in the back and take their place. Every day denizens contend with whatever personal foibles they brought with them, ingeniously compounded a thousand times over by the Undertaker on assignment. Nobody does anything for free. So, whoever’s financing Cream has an agenda. If I can discover what it is, I’ll be well on the way to smashing a major conspiracy that seems to run throughout every level of society . . . And perhaps my Awful Father’s mood will improve.
As droll as that thought was, it reminded me that even I was not immune to the idiosyncrasies of the netherworlds. I was one of its most feared and hated denizens, and yet I was forced to replenish my essence in the Bãlefire on a regular basis — at His Satanic Majesty’s pleasure, of course — otherwise my enhancements would quickly wane and I’d become as weak as a kitten.
I watched the vermin in front of me as I stalked along the sidewalk toward the Palais de L’Injustice, the closest official site of a major inter-dimensionhell gate. They scattered like rats, fear and loathing etched across their faces, an evident reminder of my standing.
If only they knew how drained I am right now, most would probably try their luck.
I hated it when this happened. It made me feel somehow corrupted. Incomplete, as if there was something crucial missing from the core of my being. A huge distraction when so many questions demanded answers.
Who’s the leak among the Blue Suits? Where’s the money coming from? What’s Tesla’s actual involvement? How did they ever unearth the details about prohibited knowledge? Have they been successful in discovering such artifacts? If so, why did Satan allow it? I thought he was omniscient and omnipresent here? How could he have let things slide so far? Is he losing his grip, as some have dared to suggest?
Blasphemous thoughts. Soft thoughts. Punishable thoughts.
The sooner I get to S16, the better. If de UnBorn is telling the truth and I uncover further clues, I’ll get the Hounds involved. Prioritize my objectives with a targeted response and put the rebels under pressure. No mercy.
However, the orb in my pocket proved that things weren’t quite right.
And what exactly was that gem they had cut? From what de UnBorn described, it sounds as if they actually have possession of a Vidium Sword. But how? Sweet Azazel! Even I thought they were the stuff of myth and legend.
Just thinking about the jewel and what its discovery meant set my pulse racing. Abruptly, my vision blurred, and I was transported to a time when the universe was much, much younger.
The firmament writhed within a crimson storm of chaotic energies. Around me, seraphim and cherubim rallied as the battle entered its final phase. Above, the indescribable might of the heavens massed. Below, a vast maelstrom opened its jaws. The sudden gravity well created by its presence generated a vacuum that sucked a third of the spirits into a downward spiral.
Angels fell, wings burning, and were consumed by darkness. Bright Lucifer fought back. Beautiful, shining, transcendent and evil, he challenged someone by name.
I raised a sword of living lightning in my hand. We clashed and . . .
Heart pounding, I cleared my head and realized I had stopped walking. For some reason, vapors had gathered about my feet and now clung to my boots and legs like melted tarmac. Ethereal voices whispered to me. Then I recognized where I was.
I’ve walked this far already?
To my left, the murky waters of the Inseine were broken by a series of low arches that faded into the gloom. The roadway itself was lined on either side by ranks of miniature battlements, as if an attack were expected at any moment. Moans exuded from somewhere far off within the brume, calling for aid that would never come.
Pont Snuff, the oldest bridge in Perish. A place synonymous with eternal suffering, for those who fell into its inky-black depths were drained of essence until they became shadows of their former selves. Wraiths without substance, who could never be reassigned.
Perishians avoided this area like the plague, and I could understand why. Even here, the siren call of the shades inhabiting the river’s depths was hard to resist. Both alluring and heart-rending, they pleaded for mercy in an attempt to lure me closer. But I knew that if I was unwise enough to reach beneath the surface to offer my assistance, they might take advantage of my weakened state and condemn me in their place.
Thousands had gone missing over the years, for only the strongest wills stood a chance of crossing intact.
I step
ped warily onto the span and made my way forward. Within seconds, my sanity was assaulted from all sides by a fresh deluge of appeals and empty promises.
“Help me, please, I beg you . . .”
“I have information. Priceless information. Surely it must be worth something?”
“Over here. I’m near the edge. That’s not too much trouble, is it?”
“I can help. Get you across safely if you’ll just —”
“Don’t listen to her! I’m the one you want. You only have to dip your hand in . . .”
I resolutely ignored them all. To help me focus, I opened my senses to the full range of emotions behind the barrage. A necessary, yet risky gamble.
Insipid darkness leached into my mind, confirming my suspicions. While a few of the lost souls were indeed genuine, most were motivated by desires as black as pitch.
Then I heard someone call a name.
“Goliath!”
“Who said that?” I shouted.
A chorus of voices yelped all at once: “Me.”
“Don’t be stupid. It wasn’t them, it was me —”
“Liar! I’m the one who called. Here I am . . .”
“No, he didn’t, I did. Look this way . . .”
The resultant clamor was deafening, and threatened to ruin my concentration. Straining hard, I cut through the chaff and scanned what remained of the phantom auras below me. A feeble star sparkled patiently amid a veil of obscurity.
Who?
“Golgotha!” the same voice called out.
Place of the skull! Recognition flared, and my astral sight zeroed in on the entity.
“Don Pérignone? Is that you?”
“What remains of him,” he admitted wryly. An overwhelming wave of bitterness cascaded toward me, along with scarlet thoughts of revenge.
“I’d ask you what you’re doing here, but I think that’s obvious. I see what your former subordinate meant when he said you were ‘immersed in a new way of life.’”
The Don didn’t bother responding. Instead, he thrust a catalog of spectral images toward me. I reeled under their weight but was drawn to one in particular, for its theme depicted the same event across differing periods of history.
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 10
