Benedict’s voice trailed away as he registered that the space behind the desk had been redecorated, art deco style.
“Where’s Cornelius?” he squeaked.
“That’s all that’s left of him,” I replied, referring to the cranial matter still dribbling down the wall. “Evidently he felt compelled to end it all rather than speak with me. And I mean that literally.”
“But . . . but . . .” Benedict was too shocked to form a coherent sentence.
So I pressed on without him: “I could tell by the way everyone reacted when I arrived that you know who I am. Good, that’ll save a lot of time. I need to see the official Deeds of Intent regarding the hit that was authorized on me.”
Benedict’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Yes, I know about it. And no, I won’t reap your sorry ass if you assist in my enquiries. Do you know where the documents are, or not?”
“Er, yes.” He sighed. “Hang on a tic, they should be over here.”
As quickly as his bumbling feet would allow, Benedict shuffled across to one of the filing cabinets, opened the top drawer, and commenced rifling through the contents. He retrieved two honey-colored scrolls bound together by a ribbon of black silk.
As I took them from him I noticed a statutory blob of wax sealed the knot. It bore the Sinotaph’s distinctive clasped hands monogram.
Just the pair? “So there’s definitely only one commission? To which do these pertain, the deal with the Sibitti or the Dread-Locks?”
“Sibitti? Here?” Benedict gasped. “No, no, no. You must be mistaken, they’d never bind themselves to anything but their own aspirations. Believe me. I’m present at every auction when the bids are put forward. I’d have known if there had been further tenders on your life . . . other than the one made with the Dread-Master, of course.”
Benedict’s aura conveyed the truth of his answer. But it only raised more questions. Tamping them down — for now — I fought to conceal my excitement.
“So, this deed will contain the full details of all the parties concerned?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
At last. I handed the package back. “Open it, please.”
Benedict took a moment to compose himself. Then he grasped the sigil in both hands, closed his eyes, and repeated a short phrase under his breath. A few seconds later, a surge of power thrummed in the air.
Crack!
The seals snapped apart, and the parchments unraveled. Catching the ends, Benedict smoothed them out on the top of the desk . . . and immediately frowned.
“Is everything okay?”
“No, this can’t be right,” he mewled.
He slid the top copy to one side and looked at the scroll underneath. His head bobbed between the two repeatedly as if he was a spectator at a tennis match.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“This is most odd.” He held out the copies for my inspection. “These aren’t contracts at all. They’re duplicate poems. Look . . .”
I did, only to be greeted by a familiar sight:
Unholy, undivine,
Devout, with the deepest insincerity.
We dress in shadows,
And hear the sighs that whisper in the night.
Like keys,
They bare the contents of your soul.
Black hearts for dark deeds,
We flay your mind and risk the void,
To unlock what was once so safe within.
Your memories know,
Listen,
For they tell their story.
“How could this possibly happen?” Benedict whined. “Our reputation will be left in tatters.”
“There’s much more at stake here than the Sinotaph’s reputation.” I snarled. “So if you really want to save your precious name, get that damned lawyer back here, along with anyone else who has the slightest bit of clout, and search these offices from top to bottom.”
“Why? What do you want us to look for?”
“Crap like this!” I waved the false deeds in his face. “Or anything that might give us a clue as to who else is involved. Understood?”
My outburst appeared to help Benedict find his balls.
“By Anakim, I’ll do it!” he swore. His expression became more determined. “I’ll have them tear this place apart. We’ll not be duped by the likes of that idiot.”
I was startled by the sudden revelation. “Which idiot?”
“The client! He flaunted his cash in our faces, as if having such an exorbitant sum entitled him to special privileges. I can’t remember his name because of the volume of customers we have, and . . . well, because handling such details was down to Judas and Cornelius. My job is solely floor-based —”
“But you remember what he looked like?”
“Yes, I bloody well do. Quite a robust, middle-aged fellow he was. Glasses, mustache, top hat and tails. Full of himself, too. He seemed to have the Dread-Lock eating out of his hand, and demanded everyone called him ‘Doctor’, instead of using his hellegal name. He was quite insistent on having Cornelius join them in bashing out the actual details of the pact. Not good form at all.”
Cream!
I glanced at Nimrod, who by his expression had made the same connection.
Nimrod coughed to draw Benedict’s attention. “Who’s Judas?”
“Huh? Oh, he’s our lawyer. We’re very glad to have him. The Legal Advocate’s role is quite tedious. Form after form to fill in and all that. But Judas volunteered for the job. Just as well, really, as our previous advocate, Griffin, simply didn’t turn up for work one day.” He shrugged. “This is hell, after all. It happens all the time. We haven’t seen him since.”
“How long ago was that?” I demanded.
“Just over three months now. But don’t worry, Judas is very efficient. If there’s anything out of the ordinary in here, he’ll spot it.”
“Then we won’t hold you up.” I placed one of my cards on the desk. “The moment you have anything useful, call that number. My secretary will take a message. If it’s important, I’ll get back to you.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Good. Before we go, I’ll send out one or two articles for sulforensic examination. Make sure Judas is apprised of these items . . .” I quickly strolled around the office and selected the gun, wine and one of the parchments. “When I’ve finished with them, I’ll make sure you get them back.”
“Thank you, I’ll make sure he knows.”
I placed the evidence on a separate chair. Stepping back, I removed my scythe, opened my mind, and sent a long distance hail.
Bella? Donna? Can you hear me?
Whoa! Loud and clear, big boy, Donna came back. It’s just me at the moment, Bella’s in the middle of an interrogation. By the way, are you okay? We heard you’d had a run-in with those Sibitti assholes.
Nothing the Bãlefire couldn’t sort out, but we’ll chat about that another time. Listen, I’ve made one or two breakthroughs regarding our most recent problem. I’m about to send you a few bits and bobs to look at. I’m hoping you’ll find them useful. Watch out for the bullets in particular. I suspect they may be Tesla’s latest toys, similar in function to a ripcord. A rather brutal method of ensuring information doesn’t fall into the wrong hands, but effective nonetheless.
Really? How in the Seven Hells did he manage that?
That’s what I’m hoping you’ll find out . . .
I concentrated for a moment, depressed the second gem from bottom on my staff, and opened a portal. My scant pile of treasure disappeared.
The package is on its way. And Donna? Be as quick as you can, I’d hate to imagine the repercussions if ammunition like that became widely available.
Got it! We’ll get onto this as a priority.
Excellent. Look, I’ve got to get going. I’m following up on a fresh lead. If you —
I know! If we get anything new, we’ll call.
The ether went dead.
Good girl.
>
I nodded to Nimrod, and we made our way toward the exit. Benedict was already on the phone, shouting and screaming at someone to “move your ass, this is urgent!” He noticed us leaving, gave us a thumbs-up, and turned his back. The guy was on a roll and didn’t want to spoil his momentum.
He’ll do nicely.
As we walked briskly down the corridor, Nimrod edged closer, whispering, “From the way you’re virtually skipping, I take it you know where we’re going next?”
“I do. If the references to ‘insincere and unholy behavior’ weren’t enough, who else do you know who dress ‘in shadows, possess black hearts and do dark deeds’?”
“Besides the Dread-Locks?”
“Think about it. We’re talking normal, quotidian citizens of the underworlds here. Those who have a special place where they can literally enact the line ‘We flay your mind and risk the void.’ Do you get it now?”
Nimrod mulled it over, and then slapped his hand against his forehead.
“Of course! The Gray . . . sorry, Grey Friars . . .” His face suddenly dropped. “Oh shit!”
“Yup! The Grey Friars. And to get there, we need to get past the Knights Tempter and their damned bridge. Ready for a spot of jousting?”
*
To describe Frédéric Chopin as vexed was an understatement. Lately it took far too long for him to recover following a seizure, and the gnawing ache that afflicted his joints all day and night made concentration increasingly difficult. His music had declined long ago — while he was still alive, in fact — and although he’d adjusted to the loss quite well, his condition now was deteriorating far beyond what he deemed acceptable.
My mind isn’t what it was. I’m starting to lose it.
Frédéric suspected His Diabolical Majesty had arranged this malady so that no matter how he tried to cope, Satan would always have the last laugh. He picked up a drink from the salver beside him, extended the glass into the air, and whispered, “Touché, mon Capitane.”
Then he considered the extent of his plans, and a wry thought intruded. Or so he would believe. Frédéric raised a second toast. “Better still, en garde.”
He took a long pull of wine before he held his drink up to the light of the chandelier. The bubbles ascending from the bottom of the goblet refracted a thousand rainbows back at him. Unfortunately, their effervescence only soured his mood.
I need to distract myself . . . Aha! I know, I’ll go and see how Cream is getting along in his laboratory. He’s been down there for the past two hours, and only gets up to mischief when left to his own devices.
Although he wasn’t a heavy drinker, Frédéric took his wine with him. This particular vintage was best served chilled, which meant the glass was always cold in his grasp, a welcome boon that helped ease his hands’ discomfort.
As he descended the wide baroque stairway, Frédéric considered the compromises he had made to ensure his goals could be reached.
He loved his solitude, but had been willing to forgo seclusion to recruit the services of a most aggravating partner in crime, Dr. Thomas Neill Cream.
Cream is an unsophisticated, self-centered buffoon. What he lacks in finesse he more than makes up for by serving as the perfect distraction. The Reaper appears so consumed with catching him that he scarcely regards the real reasons behind the “good” doctor’s miraculous successes. And so long as it stays that way . . . all well and good. Meanwhile, unmolested, I can collect the artifacts I need to prepare for the ultimate confrontation.
Then there was the involvement of Erra and his Sibitti assassins.
I thought them an unfortunate necessity, due to the attention they’d draw to this endeavor. But what a blessing in disguise that turned out to be, for it focused Satan’s attentions onto a far grander playing field than actually exists. If I can keep him guessing and looking in the wrong direction, I just might be able to pull this off.
The face of Frédéric’s beloved, his sole purpose for existing, briefly clouded his vision: Not long now, my love. Not long now. Your patience will be rewarded.
He pondered one more recollection of happier times, then banished such distractions from his mind. Fortunately, he had arrived at the basement. He opened the door . . . and staggered.
The stench was overpowering. Frédéric didn’t at first know if the reek was due to the festering pall generated by the multitude of concoctions boiling and bubbling away in the tubes and jars strewn across every available work surface, or because the test subject had soiled himself again. But even from this distance, he could see the poor wretch was sitting in a huge pool of feces and urine.
He took another long draft to fortify himself against the assault on his olfactory nerves and asked, “How are things progressing?”
Ever full of self-importance, Cream refrained from answering immediately, merely raising one finger and continuing to work on his “patient.”
Frédéric watched from the doorway as the doctor used a teat pipette to place three drops of a gelatinous amber liquid onto the puppet’s tongue. Finally, Cream sat back.
The unfortunate subject convulsed for a moment, and such was the strength of his spasms that the restraints creaked in protest. Then, as suddenly as it started, the disturbing exhibition was over. A whoosh escaped the subject’s lungs; his face relaxed; his tail went limp. As his ponderous head sagged forward, he let out a final sigh and fell asleep.
Only then did the Lambeth Poisoner turn from his work. “Fine. Everything is progressing as anticipated. This latest batch contains exactly the hypnotic element I was striving for. All I must do now is adjust the dosage, and we’ll completely avoid the initial reaction you just saw as the neural inhibitors are circumvented.”
“And the current side effects?”
“Thankfully, the bouts of confusion and altered lucidity already displayed by our candidates can easily be explained away by a combination of overwork, fatigue and stress. This new potion won’t produce anything like that. Well, nothing noticeable, that is.”
“But there will be an accumulative consequence?”
“Of course! Unless you’ve changed your mind and want our fall-guys to live?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. The fewer loose ends we have, the better. How long do you think it will take to prepare this latest consignment for full delivery?”
Cream pursed his lips. “If I’m left alone to get on with it? By this time tomorrow.”
“Excellent news.” Frédéric cast his gaze about the room one final time. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”
He closed the door behind him and ascended the stairs. To no one in particular, he muttered, “No . . . it won’t be long at all.”
*
Cream watched as Chopin, his partner in crime, left the room. The door clicked quietly shut, and the sound of receding footsteps faded into the distance.
He followed the troubled genius with his mind’s eye and hissed, “You are a fool if you think me blind to your machinations. I know what you crave, and how quickly you’d replace me given the chance. I’ll not have you waste my future; yours alone is this fallacy of unrequited love. She deemed you a burden in life; she’ll view you as an imbecile for even daring to think she would willingly join you here. And while I don’t display your ability for uncovering arcane secrets, I do possess a rather potent concoction to help me retain the upper hand. A most fitting turn of events, I’d say, for all duplicitous acts have their consequences.”
He turned back to his patient.
“Right, time to clean you up and get you back where you need to be.” Leaning forward, Cream lowered his voice. “I’m going to count backward from ten. As I do so, all recollections of this place and the events that have occurred here will fade from your memory. When you wake, you will feel completely refreshed and relaxed. You will, of course, be horrified that you became so inebriated last night that you soiled yourself. But after a shower and change of clothing, even that embarrassment will simply slip your mind, leaving only a
n overwhelming compulsion to carry out your assignment. Nothing else matters. Nothing will distract you from your task. Once completed, you will end your life as instructed.
“Now, are you sitting comfortably? Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
Chapter 14: A Moment of Clarity
In the Juxtapose level of hell, I found Olde London Town a conundrum at the best of times: a heady mix of the implausibly warped and secularly grotesque. Its denizens were the perfect accompaniment to their city, a stir-fried hotchpotch of condemned souls who took the geophysical and temporal irregularities of their hometown in their stride.
Everyday afterlife here was as much an enigma as a challenge. You’d think that, having lived here for centuries, I’d be used to it by now. Yet I was still caught by surprise from time to time, boundaries between eras being as fluid here as they were temperamental. In this place more than any other, I’d discovered that even if you knew a surprise was coming, forewarned was definitely not forearmed.
As was the case regarding my current predicament.
Nimrod and I were en route to the Grey Friars. In the land of the living, Greyfriars had been the site of a Franciscan friary that existed from 1225 – 1538, in a northwestern part of the City of London called St Nicholas on the Shambles. That great establishment had included one of the largest conventional churches in the capital. It had also been home to a Studium, an extensive library of logical and theological texts so important it was rivaled only by Oxford University, thus achieving a level of cultural prestige that drew people from all over the then-known world, until Thomas Cromwell — a man who became a good friend of mine — ordered the transcripts seized during the English Reformation. Under his enlightened guidance, the Greyfriars’ estates were confiscated, the order itself disbanded, and most of its monks banished or executed.
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 19
