As everyone filed from the room, I jumped out from under the covers. Thankfully, Strawberry had seen fit to ensure I was wearing a fresh pair of Killvin Kleins.
Good girl.
I hurried to my nightstand to retrieve a dressing gown.
My lord and master flexed lightly backward and forward on his toes as he waited. I wasn’t surprised to note he’d helped himself to one of my finest malts.
“Yes, you two are rather attached, aren’t you?” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
The intensity of his gaze abruptly vanished, and he appeared to change tack. “Fancy a little tipple?” He waved his own empty glass at me.
“Thank you, make mine a double.”
Satan made his way across to the decanter at my bureau.
“The usual?”
I nodded.
Outwardly, he appeared calm and relaxed. But I knew appearances could be deceiving: This was when he was at his most lethal.
What’s going on?
The chink of crystal and satisfying glug of viscid spirits being poured broke the growing silence.
“So, how are you, Daemon?” he asked over his shoulder.
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I felt . . . good. Hell, I felt better than good. When I flexed my palms, a plasmic discharge leaped from my fingertips and rippled its way along my epidermis.
“If you’d asked me that a few days ago, I’d have said the experience was what you’d expect from someone who’d been buggered inside out by an angry rhinoceros suffering from PMT. But now . . . ?” He handed me my beverage, and I balled my opposite fist. A globe of lightning sprang into existence and hovered in the air above my hand, spitting and sizzling. “I’m fully charged and raring to go.”
The regent of all that was unholy studied me closely with dark, unblinking, hooded eyes. This time, I saw tongues of fire dancing like mirrors in their depths. He motioned me to sit and said, “With what’s been happening to you, it’s understandable the dream of revenge is to the fore of your priorities. Retribution is good. Healthy, even. But, if I may offer some advice?”
“If you’re going to play dad, please do?”
He raised an eyebrow in warning at my jibe. “You need to stop trying to juggle so many things at once. I know you have a fiercely independent streak that tends to make you try to do everything on your own, but you need to rein that in a bit. Concentrate on your true objective. If you do, your chances of success — and your ability to get a grip on your own shit — will increase dramatically.”
I knew where he was going with this.
“Sire, I’ve never let you down, and I don’t intend to start now. This thing goes much deeper than you rea–”
“Daemon,” Satan raised his hand, “you don’t have to explain yourself to me. When you appeared so unexpectedly — and without permission, I might add — two days ago within the heart of the Bãlefire, I realized something must be truly amiss. Wicked, vindictive, and unforgiving I most certainly am. Stupid, I’m not. So I took the liberty of interrogating your recent memories, to see for myself what events had contributed to your sudden and shocking arrival. I must confess, in my eagerness to punish your perceived gaffe in losing Cream after you bound him back to my realm, I overlooked the possibility that others might have had a role to play.
“Sibitti enforcers. Tesla. Cream, and goodness knows how many other sycophants, hiding away like cockroaches, all eager to uncover details that have been justly prohibited and excluded from public knowledge. This cancer is more widespread than I imagined. A blight that appears to be eating its way through the heart of my own Blue Suits and intelligence organization. I suspect Erra is to blame, of course, for only he would dare plague me on such a scale.”
“Erra? Would he consort to fraternizing with those he was sent to torment?”
“To get at me? Most certainly, although he’d more likely resort to the use of his personified weapons.” Satan ran long manicured nails through his immaculate hair. “I tell you, Daemon. What happened to you was a hard and painful lesson, but also a timely reminder that we all need to keep on our toes. Had I not been so consumed by the need to make an example of you in front of the scheming masses, I might have seen the larger picture all the sooner.”
“Is that an apology?”
His countenance hardened and the flames within his eyes flared white-hot until he realized I was joking.
“Hey, hey,” I quickly added, raising my hands in defense, “you never have to justify your methods to me. Your castigation will have served a useful purpose. When my fellow denizens witness that no one is exempt from punishment, it’ll sober quite a few of the die-hards and make my job a whole lot easier in the long run.”
“That’s my man!” Satan chortled. “Loyal till the end.”
“So, do you really think Erra’s behind all this?”
“That’s what I’d like you to find out.” Satan placed his drink on the table and leaned forward. “You have been immersed within the Bãlefire for two full days . . .”
I cringed at the reminder of the time I’d lost.
“I left you there for so long because I don’t want you subjected to the indignity of public humiliation again. You will find I have increased your capacity to manifest. That will come in useful should you find yourself sequestered from your source of diabolical nourishment in future.”
I knew I felt different! “Thank you. I must confess, I’m itching to get going again.”
“As am I. But there’s one condition. I want you to involve the Hounds.”
“Agreed, and already done,” I countered.
In reply to Satan’s look of puzzlement, I added, “With your permission, I intend to pursue Cream and his cronies with all haste. Nimrod will accompany me in that endeavor, while Champ and Yamato track down the Sibitti. Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask them to engage in battle. I just want to build up a pattern of their movements and known haunts for when all this is over and we decide to take a more direct course of action. Champ is second only to me when it comes to tracking, and Yamato has an uncanny knack for manipulating the elements. As I’ve come to appreciate, that will come in handy if they run into trouble.”
“It sounds as if you have a plan. Just remember to exercise caution. Strong as you are, those mayhem-spreading bastards need to be kept at arm’s length. Don’t get cocky.”
That reminded me of something.
“I appreciate what you’re saying, Sire, but even in my weakened state I was able to sting them and piss them off, twice. With a refinement in strategy, I should be able to do more. However, one thing did surprise me. Why didn’t God’s Grace kill them?”
Thunder rolled. The overlord of all that was unholy stared into my eyes without answering. I waited patiently for him to respond. As a courtesy, I generated a modesty shield, and strengthened it until it was impervious to eavesdroppers.
After what seemed like an age, he said, “I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Daemon. Something that shouldn’t be bandied about. Not even with your team.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve suspected for some time now that Erra and his merry band may have a rather influential silent partner backing them down here. Now, I know you understand the way things are supposed to be. There are, after all, only two sides of the line, and we should each stay where we belong. But sometimes I get the distinct feeling my thorns in the flesh get a little leg-up now and again, from someone who should remain . . . neutral?”
“Seriously?”
“Deadly. How else do you think they manage to resist what is, let’s face it, anathema to anyone who is damned?”
While that was food for thought, I still needed to make a point.
“Boss. I know I’m not part of your inner circle, like Samael and the other fallen angels, but I am your Reaper. My name and reputation reflect directly on you. I need to know stuff like this, for Azazel’s sake. So far as everyone is aware, I’m supposed to be ind
estructible. I thought I was! And yet, look what nearly happened because I simply didn’t know what I was walking into.”
Satan finished his drink, pursed his lips, and nodded.
“Point taken. You’ve always supported me, Daemon. Even when some of my angels questioned my modus, you always stood by me, so the least I can do is show my gratitude more openly in future.”
I was surprised. Satan never usually revealed his thoughts like this. Before either of us could get embarrassed, he reached inside his jacket and handed me a blood-and-something-disgusting-stained envelope, and said, “When I first examined you and cut away what remained of your clothing, this was pinned to your chest. Take a look. It’s obviously for you, and makes interesting reading.”
I opened it, to find the latest message from my elusive antagonists.
It read:
Petals of blood,
Like tears, hang from shattered ribs.
A fractured cage,
From which memory’s eye
Blurs in swollen, yet refracted splendor.
Enforced,
I create you anew,
And thus rearranged,
Your grumbling condition
Presents a juxtapose of New possibilities,
Pathways,
Where the weight of truth is painful to behold.
How kind. It’s a double entendre reference to my recent ass-kicking. But how did they know I’d survive such an encounter? Unless I was meant to? But then . . . ?
I fought down the endless domino-effect that such questions created in my mind and studied its contents again, to verify the clue leading to my next destination.
It wasn’t taxing at all.
I create you anew,
And thus rearranged,
Your grumbling condition
Presents a juxtapose of New possibilities,
Pathways,
Where the weight of truth is painful to behold.
“Do you understand what it means?” Satan asked.
“Put it this way: I know where to start. If you don’t mind, I’d like to crack straight on? Those idiots have a two-day lead on me now, and I’ve got a statement to make.”
Chapter 11: Discoveries
As the fleshy bag of skin and bone below him prattled on, Erra banished its whining monotone to the farthest reaches of his mind and daydreamed — recalling former glories, times when both he and his champions wrought death and destruction upon just and unjust alike.
Babylon, wonder of the ancient world, brought to nothing by the unleashing of my wrath through the Seven.
Such recollections brought a rare smile to his beatific face, for few and far between were the opportunities to bring greatness to its knees. Erra had slumbered long and peacefully after that task, thinking his work done. But fate had played its hand to intervene, and in the unlikeliest of places: for here, as nowhere else, was he free to exercise the legitimate ire upon a contemptible foe.
Foe! Pah, Lucifer is so afflicted by hubris that he is blinded to the consequences of his actions. As if this many-layered fabrication of his delusional conceit has the dominion to stave off my judgment. He cannot. He became the artificer of his own downfall the moment he rebelled.
The supplicant below him adopted a more earnest appeal. Erra decided that, for once, perhaps he’d better listen; this human had proven surprisingly resourceful:
“. . . so, as I’m sure you can appreciate,” Frédéric Chopin stressed, “I’m voicing my concerns because I want to keep our options open. Victory cannot be achieved by brute force alone. We need to be astute; we must diversify. I know you think me laborious, Erra, but I’m right in this matter. Yes, my precautions add extra time into the equation, making it likely we’ll never reach our objective, but they will also give us something to fall back on should the worst happen.”
He has a point . . . I’ll grant him that. “Explain?”
“Remember, just because our primary target lies festering in solitude and chains doesn’t guarantee he will be easily vanquished. The wards about him mute power. Yours included. Once they’re removed, I fear your advocates may discover they are overmatched.”
“And yet you feel he offers the best hope of resolution?”
“I do, for he will provide the most direct means of achieving our goals. We now wait upon the Infernal Equinox. When it arrives a full assault can be made, so we need to be prepared. The artifacts will assist in this regard, as well as provide us with an option B should everything go tits-up at the last minute.”
Erra snorted as he read the meaning of the colloquialism within the mortal’s mind.
An inventive term. I think I’ll remember that one. “And what about Grim?”
“He’s a safety net.” Chopin shrugged. “A last resort we can employ if everything else fails. Do you see now why I was so keen to secure assurances that your enforcers exercised sufficient restraint that they didn’t damage Grim’s heart?”
“Heart?” Erra spluttered, fully attentive once more. “Are you insane, mortal? Despite the pretense he projects to those about him, that creature possesses no heart. My champions recognized that truth the moment they encountered him. Weakened as he was, he begged no favor. Asked for no quarter. He’s a cold-blooded killer, willing to die by the tenets he follows.”
“While I appreciate your view,” Chopin retorted, “I beg to differ. He does indeed possess . . . possess a . . . oh my!”
The insignificant little man droned to a stop and stared vacantly off into space. He wrung his hands, wincing at the obvious discomfort such habits caused him. Then his jaw dropped open, and he kinked his head to one side as if witnessing a scene of soul-rending grandeur.
He’s having one of those accursed visions. How a mortal was graced by such an enigma, I’ll never truly understand. Regardless, each of them has been unnervingly accurate, so I’m forced to heed them.
A few moments later, Chopin shook his head and staggered forward.
“Another revelation?” Erra asked disdainfully.
Chopin could only nod. Erra watched as the weakling’s eyes danced from side to side. He appeared to be struggling to absorb what he had just witnessed.
“Tell me,” the god breathed.
“There is little doubt that Lucifer will imbue his puppet with further power,” the composer began, “for he seeks to forestall a backlash that could undermine his authority. While this unnatural power may prove difficult to overcome, it could also work in our favor. We’ve been graced with a two-day buffer, during which my associate and I have contrived to leave a number of booby-traps in our wake. Each will test Grim’s resolve to the limit, highlighting any weaknesses in the compulsion that drives him. Rest assured, the hurdles we have placed in the Reaper’s path will expose Satan for the charlatan he really is . . . and ultimately bring about both their downfalls.”
“That is gratifying to hear, human. Please accept my thanks and my blessing. In response to your earlier query, be aware: my champions never had the opportunity to inflict the abuses they originally intended, for Grim escaped their clutches before full expression had been achieved. In short, it is doubtful he was mortally wounded.” Much to my annoyance.
The diminutive figure bowed gracefully. “Thank you. Thus assured, I shall take my leave and prepare the final stages of our scheme.”
Moments later, Chopin had disappeared from sight.
It is unnerving to think how mere mortals may mimic the superiority of the gods by employing . . . how do they term it . . . technological advancement? Still, his aspirations have counterpointed my own goals significantly. Who would have thought such an alliance was possible?
Then another worrisome thought plagued the god’s mind:
I wonder what on earth possessed Chopin to approach me and ask for my help in the first place?
*
Because of the blatant clue I’d so recently received, I found myself back within the stinking confines of the Mortuary.
As before, a sad
-faced underling intercepted me in the main foyer and offered to escort Nimrod and myself down to see the most hygienically-challenged individual — orally speaking — in the history of the underworld. As we followed the flunky, I reflected more deeply on the ease with which I’d been able to work things out of late. An ease, I was beginning to suspect, that was not only deliberate, but hid a menacing, ulterior motive.
My beating was an obvious trap. But they must know I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. So why are they continuing to make it so simple to follow them?
That point was really bothering me.
What could they possibly hope to achieve by having the Reaper and his Hounds on their tail? Is it a distraction? A ruse? Part of a bigger scheme I’m failing to appreciate?
One way or another, I knew I’d find out, because whatever it was, it kept setting off my inner alarms.
As we neared the bottom of the main staircase, the noise from below increased dramatically, far beyond the levels I had experienced on my previous visit. In fact, it sounded as if something of a commotion was taking place. I was about to ask what the problem might be when we cleared the final spiral and were presented with a sight of utter pandemonium.
Gone was the ant’s nest of clinical efficiency. Instead, I saw what the Undertaker’s lackeys got up to when they took a break.
Outside the nearest office, two gore-soaked bandages hung from light fixtures. These had been positioned in such a way as to create a goalmouth. Sure enough, a glance along the corridor confirmed the presence of an identical arrangement about one hundred yards away.
From what I could see, the technicians, having divided themselves into rival teams, were attempting to play a sadistic mix of football and polo. As I watched, one minion sitting comically atop a surgical trolley being pushed hell-for-leather by two of his teammates, wove expertly in and out among his opponents. As he passed, defenders tried to knock him unconscious with walking sticks. Fortunately, the brave little chap was wearing an inverted kidney bowl upon his head, which acted as a helmet. Clearing the final obstacle, he turned to look back over his shoulder. Something large and round came sailing through the air. Like an expert wide-receiver, he changed course at the last second to scoop it into his arms. A muffled cry rang out. Amid much panting and grunting, the attacker then aimed himself directly at the hanging bandages and slam-dunked the object onto the floor.
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 14
