Here everyday inhabitants mingled freely with ghosts and ghouls, monsters and demons. Even Blue Suits were represented, looking completely at home among mutant shoppers and minion hawkers.
Recruitment posters flapped and billboards towered everywhere, advertising the latest campaigns (where the bored and disillusioned could make their undead lives that little bit more eventful) or whatever trend was currently popular, as “sanctioned” by His Satanic Majesty. I noted with interest that Marlowe and Shakespeare had been commissioned to take another dig at the Boss’s thorn in the flesh, as the Dreary Lane Theatre was featuring A Comedy of Erra’s, Part II.
Of course, it’d be a huge hit . . . or else!
Some bright spark had set up a bureau de change just inside the gates. Paper money wasn’t much use here, as it tended to spontaneously combust in the wrong hands. But from what I could see, most of the major currencies were represented; with blood bags, gems, coins, and slaves being the most popular forms of tender.
And the noise!
Music predominated, filtering from the background to assail our senses with a brash, contradictory mishmash from a whole plethora of natural and improvised instruments. And if the myriad tunes weren’t distracting enough, we also were serenaded by the strident voices of the merchants, each of whom had something urgent to say.
I listened to a few as we waded through the press, anything to help me ignore my companion, still prattling on about the benefits of anal interrogation techniques.
“Empty promises for sale,” shouted a particularly rotund, elderly gentleman with a carbuncle on his nose. “Political guarantees and hot air. Impress your friends with the depth of your deceit.”
“Garbage,” yelled another. “All the cast-offs and junk you can imagine. I guarantee you won’t find better quality shite anywhere else.”
“Skiddies!” whooped a wizened old woman, boldly waving an atrociously stained pair of underpants in the air. “Flatulently fragrant and full of goodness. And for tonight only, you get a used handkerchief free with every purchase. Only the very best encrusted residues.”
“Dreams, nightmares, and amnesia,” warbled an ethereal wraith hovering above a gleaming orb of alien origin. “Incriminating memories removed for only a smidgen of life force.”
The choices ranged from confusing to mesmerizing, and the general hubbub generated by thousands of vendors all shrieking at once blended into a crescendo of ear-ringing white noise.
Then there were the smells.
With the number of blacksmiths, armories and tanning stalls in evidence, anyone would be forgiven for thinking the stench of horse shit, cordite, oils, and bleached hides could burn your nostrils. But the pungent aroma of curry tinged everything else with a soft, fragrant overtone.
A quick check of the menu boards revealed that the particular favorite of the masses appeared to be rat, with human limbs also high on the list. A surprising revelation until I remembered how appalling food could be in hell, and how almost anything tasted better when curried.
Amid an overload of sensory contradictions, we gradually waded through the milling multitude, working our way toward the heart of the market.
Then the mood changed. In some strange way, the frivolity and carnival atmosphere transmuted into a deeper, more focused vibe that told us we were nearing our goal.
Nimrod ceased his diatribe and became more alert. I noted with interest how the marquees in this part of the Gardens had guards stationed outside. Banners and standards hung from entrance posts, together with honors and posters advertizing each unit’s campaigns and availability for hire.
The tribal men and women looked particularly menacing, as if attempting to convey the superiority of their unit or faction through their posture or by a simple glance.
Nor did your average mercenary type make up the balance of the damned crowd. Anyone looking to make a name for themselves or escape the drudgery of life in hell was free to mix here with hardened veterans and guerilla fighters present from all historical eras.
We lingered by a makeshift set of arenas to watch Roman Legionnaires vie with gladiators, Spartans against Thebans, tribalistic warriors against British colonial troops, in round after round of nonlethal competition. In one particularly large pit, a medieval knight squared off against a dragon. A billboard proudly announced that someone called Jin Two-Fists had managed to capture the storied reptile on an expedition to the northern continent of Crematoria, in Gehenna.
Somehow I doubted that the pails of water they had collected and stacked around the edge of the ring would suffice in an emergency.
My misgivings were confirmed only a few minutes later, when Sir No-Brains decided to stick his lance where Paradise never glows, in an effort to spur the beast to greater efforts. His ruse worked like a charm, for the enraged leviathan promptly snapped free of its restraints, flattened the unfortunate fellow with one mighty sweep of its tail, and then roasted him alive in his cuirass.
Condolences — along with a tactless amount of whooping — showered down as the knight was stomped into a sticky purée.
“Oh, hard luck,” someone drawled.
“Shame!” cried another.
“Bad form, Sir George. Bad form,” mourned the marshal.
Nimrod leaned in. “They obviously forgot to explain the rules to the dragon.”
“And then some . . .” I nodded as the beast bellowed a challenge to all comers and then took to the air. We ducked as it arced above us, but we needn’t have worried.
The dragon was merely taking the time to pick out its captor from the crowd. Spotting him huddled together with a group of friends outside a large tent, the great serpent folded its wings, swooped low, and rained down fire and brimstone upon them.
Their pavilion exploded into a fireball of bright, golden light. The dragon circled twice, just to make sure they were well and truly fucked, before uttering an eerily human laugh. Then it was gone, winging its way to the north, faster than I thought possible.
Nice exit! “He’s intelligent too. When this is all over, I think I might try to recruit one onto the team. Can you imagine the fun we’d have disposing of prisoners?”
Nimrod grinned. “And on barbecue weekends.”
Lights flashing and sirens wailing, a modern-day fire truck blared and crawled its way through the press of sightseers. In this kind of venue, the guys on board would be keen to reach the source of the blaze before it spread too far. A difficult task, for the ruckus had attracted a growing crowd. Good news for us, however, since the sudden influx of people to the blaze opened up a clear road through to our destination: the Sinotaph.
“C’mon, let’s grab the opportunity while we can.” I elbowed Nimrod in the ribs. “Hopefully, this commotion will have thinned the ranks of those waiting to make a deal.”
We made our way through the remaining bystanders, up the steps, and into the main building. As we entered we shed our disguises, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I preferred black leather over cream latex any day.
Although I’d never been here before, I’d certainly heard of it, for it was the one place in all the endless levels of hell someone could come if they officially wanted to settle disputes, exercise grudges, or remove problems. Here you could buy the services of any type of assassin. Specters, demigods, reavers, or tormenters. Thugs, mercenaries, bravados. Or indeed, any idiot with something to prove, so long as they were prepared to kill . . . and the price was right.
And some fool had been willing to accept a contract on me. It made me wonder what the price on my head had been.
Despite my frustration, a large part of me could relate to the services provided here. Yes, I have a code. A set of values I strictly adhered to, which set me apart from the riffraff. But call me what you will, I am a stone-cold predator at heart. A reaper of souls for Satan. His executioner and destroyer of dreams. The people here were my kind of scum. Butchers, slayers, and slaughterer, who valued condemned life as the commodity it was; something to be sold
to the highest bidder. I felt right at home.
The bartering floor was modeled on the Forum of the Roman senate, circular in shape, much like a miniature amphitheatre, with a central auction area, podium, and brazier. Public seating was arrayed around the floor in ascending tiers.
We waited in the wings as negotiations for a new tender were put forward.
I’ll admit I was intrigued to see how things would progress, as it always struck me as odd that people would openly seek the services of an assassin in front of so many witnesses. My answer was soon revealed.
Murder was the number one pastime in hell, and Satan had simply capitalized on that fact. Only the most lucrative commissions would be found here, as these targets would be denizens who were either very important, or very hard to kill. Therefore, His Infernal Majesty had thought of a means by which he could ensure a healthy cut of the revenue generated.
Satan’s plan was as brilliant as it was crafty, for no one ever actually died. They were merely reassigned upon their demise. So, if a particular feud ran deep the vendetta might continue in a series of tit-for-tat hits, each of which would merely serve to keep the royal coffers overflowing.
No wonder our Dark Lord could afford the very latest Hades Benz every year.
As proceedings continued I also noted that only the opening and closing of each bid was conducted from the floor. The client and chosen killer would discuss the actual specifics in secret, presumably in the private offices I had seen lining the corridor on the way here. Everything was done by the book. A presiding officer and auctioneer officiated. They were assisted by a state-appointed attorney and his recorder, who in turn were watched over by an independently assigned panel of six hellegal witnesses.
All very neat and tidy, as demonstrated by this fresh case, which concluded in double-quick time. We edged forward as the proposal drew to a close.
The presiding officer stood and brought client and assassin together.
“Have you both reached an agreement?”
“We have,” they replied in unison, each with a slight bow.
“And have you prepared your documents in accordance with contractual guidelines, and with all the stipulations clearly expressed therein?”
“Yes.”
“Then all that remains is for you to make public demonstration of your acceptance of those terms. Please step forward.”
Approaching the podium, both parties unfolded similar cream-colored parchments, upon which I could see a great deal of writing. In the presence of the witnesses, they separately signed their names on each document. Next, they simultaneously placed their hands into the brazier. From my vantage, I could see the glassy-colored coals within, steaming with an otherworldly glow. The participants then individually placed their thumbs against both sets of signatures, to add a form of blood fingerprint. Finally each scroll was bound in black ribbon, and a charmed wax seal was added by the officiating lawyer. Job done, the newly obligated partners in crime walked from the auditorium to the polite applause of an audience consisting mainly of damned souls.
“Time to make an entrance,” I whispered to Nimrod.
We strode confidently onto the floor. All eyes fell on us and the clapping stopped. An abrupt silence radiated throughout the room.
The presiding officer turned to see who had caused such a reaction, and the moment his gaze met mine he lost his balance and fell toward me.
I reached out to steady him and saw his nametag: Cornelius. He appeared confused. I didn’t know if that was due to the shock of finding the Reaper in his presence, or because he was complicit in the plot against my life in some way. In any event, he then surprised me by simply saying, “Oh, it’s you?”
“Yes, it is,” I replied. “Why? Were you not expecting me, or did you not anticipate seeing me ever again?”
Without any hint of fear, Cornelius turned his back and addressed the onlookers. “Ladies, gentlemen, and other distinguished guests. If you would be so kind, the auction will take a short break and reconvene in, say, fifteen minutes? Thank you for your patience.”
Before I could ask him what he was doing, Cornelius began strolling away. “Follow me, please, gentlemen,” he called over his shoulder.
He led us a short way down the main corridor and in through a door marked Private.
Once inside, we found ourselves in Cornelius’ personal kingdom. A huge antique desk dominated one corner of the room, its top buried beneath a pile of official-looking parchments and papers. Filing cabinets lined three walls, all overflowing with wallets and folders of varying thickness. From a rack beside the entrance hung a black bowler hat and umbrella, items completely at odds with Cornelius’ formal Roman dress.
Nimrod remained by the doorway to ensure we weren’t disturbed, and I got straight down to business. “I take it you know why we’re here?”
“How can I help you?” Cornelius replied, as if listening to a different conversation.
“Did you not just hear my question? From the way you acted out on the floor, I suspect you may know the nature of my query.”
“I’m sorry. I . . . I . . .” Cornelius stuttered, confused and agitated. “I couldn’t help it, you see. It took me completely by surprise. I . . . oh, dear.”
“What did? What are you talking about, man?”
“And so unexpected, to receive such an outlandish bid.”
“Are you referring to the hits against me? Who proposed them?”
“Hits?” Suddenly lucid, Cornelius retorted, “I don’t know what you mean, Reaper. Only one person ever came here. Just the one, mind. Very friendly fellow. Brought me a genuine bottle of Grand Dionysian ancient Greek wine to celebrate the deal.”
Only one? But which one?
“And what was the name of this friendly fellow?” I pressed. “If he made a proposal, you obviously have his details, right? Where are they?”
Cornelius didn’t appear to have heard. He was off in the land of unicorns again. “And all he did was tender a bid that had never been contemplated before. The Dread-Lock was quite charming, too. Do you know, it was kind enough to take away all my fear about agreeing to such a thing . . . ?”
Aha! At least I know which hit we’re talking about. “And the customer?”
“A Blue Suit! Who could have anticipated something like that? I was helpless to resist. They invited me to listen in on their haggling. Most unusual. But we drank some wine, relaxed a little, and everything seemed fine . . .”
Or one of the Devil’s Children? The mystery leak, perhaps?
“. . . and their argument was so compelling. I felt I must help them.”
As he talked, Cornelius reached toward his top drawer. “I’m just a businessman, you see. A servant, doing his own little bit to bring in the taxes. And these people looked very official and ever so important. We rarely get such distinguished guests.”
“You’re confusing me now,” I said. “Was it just the one, or two clients you dealt with? Think, man.” Perhaps I’d better hex him.
“I have to obey. They ordered me.”
So calmly that I didn’t immediately appreciate what he was doing, Cornelius removed an item from the desk and sat back. I sensed the presence of arcane energy. We made eye contact, and for the first time he appeared completely composed and rational.
“It’s all my fault.” He raised his hand to his mouth.
I just had time to register the Hell-Brass Magnum before a deafening report rang out. The wall behind him became a canvas splattered in gray and red goo.
He started to dissipate almost immediately.
“Shit!” Nimrod spluttered. “I didn’t expect that.”
I was too furious to think of a witty reply.
Without turning, I snarled, “Fetch me the bloody lawyer and the auctioneer. Now! I want that contract and any other paperwork relating to the transaction in my hands within the next few minutes or my scythe is going to start removing heads.”
Nimrod recognized the threat in my voice and s
obered instantly. He threw the door open and ran along the corridor, bellowing for the instantaneous presence of the presiding officer’s lackeys.
While he was gone, I thought I’d check out a few things.
First off, something Cornelius had mentioned roused my suspicions. I looked to the opposite corner of the room and saw a small drinks decanter. Prominent among the bottles was an old-style earthenware jug.
I wonder?
Walking over, I snatched the flagon from the table, opened my senses, and popped the cork. The heady aroma of vintage wine warmed my nostrils, along with the subtle hint of something else.
Hidden toxins. Cream! You sneaky ratfucksonofabitch!
While I wasn’t an expert on the pharmaceutical properties of certain herbs and chemicals, I knew someone who was.
I’ll get these across to Bella and Donna. Hopefully, the compounds used will be exotic enough to narrow the field of source locations. One way or another, I’ll use the information to narrow the gap and cut off his resources.
But I wasn’t finished yet.
Speaking of which . . .
I replaced the carafe on the tray and returned to the desk area. The revolver lay where it had fallen after Cornelius’ essence faded, and the smell of cordite still hung in the air. Thus I had to alter my perceptions entirely so I could focus on what had intrigued me just before he blew his brains out. A ripple of exotic energy.
Retrieving the gun, I flipped the catch and looked within the drum. Six bullets stared back, one of them spent. I tapped the shells out into the palm of my hand and sorted through them until I came to the empty casing. I held it to my nose.
The energy signature was hauntingly familiar.
That’s when it hit me.
It smells like a triggered ripcord. Hey, these are new.
The door crashed open and Nimrod returned, escorting a very flustered individual.
“This is Benedict,” he said, “the auctioneer. We’ll ha–”
“Where’s the lawyer?” I snapped. “I told you I wanted them both here.”
“He had to leave, Reaper,” Benedict replied before Nimrod could. “The Solicitor General demands we take all the ledgers across to the Halls of Injustice at least twice a day for verification.” He had the decency to look apologetic. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know how long you’d be with Cornelius, so we just seized the opportunity to . . . to . . . oh my!”
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 18
