“Chopin?”
“That’s right. Frédéric Chopin, the burnt-out musical genius from Warsaw in Poland. He was a true virtuoso until struck down by a series of mystery illnesses, which included temporal lobe epilepsy. His combined maladies robbed him of all ability to express his brilliance and, in the end, despite the care of his longtime lover Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin, he simply wasted away. Because his life ended in Paris, Chopin is damned to serve out infernity here, in the Hellanese representation of his final home above.”
My jaw hung open like a Venus flytrap. “How in Satan’s name do you know that? Was it in the text?”
“The address check was, but the rest . . .” He shrugged. “That’s down to National Gehennagraphic, every Frightday evening on PBS.” In response to my look of incredulity, he concluded, “I’m a lot older than I look, don’t forget, and I love most aspects of Hellonian history and culture. Chopin’s exposé ran for a whole week only last month. You really ought to check out that show. It provides a lot of background information on all sorts of denizens, very handy in our line of work.”
“Evidently,” I muttered. Then with a sweep of my arms, I added, “C’mon, maestro, let’s go find out how a true celebrity lives, and why he’s mixing with the wrong crowd.”
As we approached, I issued instructions based on my brief once-over:
“The property is a five-story house, and that includes the cellar. Apart from the main door, there are two rear exits; one at ground level and a smaller one from the basement itself. My scan showed nobody’s home, but we need to confirm that. Neither did I sense the presence of esoteric wards or booby traps. But we’re here because of Cream, so stay alert. When we enter, you start at the bottom and work up. I’ll hit the roof space and head downward. Check for life signs only on the initial sweep. Once we’re back together, we’ll clear the premises slowly, floor by floor, until we can determine exactly why we’ve been led here. After that, I’ll get Sulforensics in. Understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“Okay, here we are.”
We strode up the steps, and I removed one of my gloves. Placing my fingers to the lock, I said, “Mi dreósgadh ânise! (Open to me now!)”
The door opened with a sharp click.
“Go!”
As Nimrod sprinted forward, I phased and simply interpenetrated the structure of the ceilings and floorboards. My heightened senses pulsed outward like radar as I rose and skimmed across and through the constitution of the walls, furnishings, and fittings.
I was impressed by the quality of the décor. Whoever Chopin might turn out to be, he had good taste and high standards. Meticulous, if first impressions were anything to go by. Somehow, he’d managed blend eighteenth-century rococo glitz and modern-day efficiency without letting things become gaudy.
I completed my first round of inspection, and found myself in the loft.
No signs of human or demonic life whatsoever. Something caught my eye. But what do we have here?
Although tidy, the attic had nevertheless attracted the dust and detritus of sparse use and near abandonment. Mystery articles lay shrouded beneath large tarpaulins and old tapestries. Languishing in the far corner amid a pile of neatly stacked suitcases and chests I saw a rather large gap.
I hovered closer and examined fresh marks on the floor between the trunks. A sure sign that items had recently been moved.
He’s gone, all right. Did he know we were coming?
After taking a moment to update Nimrod, I started my descent, concentrating on purely esoteric energy signatures. I took my time, slowly filtering down through the infrastructure, alert for traps and hidden danger.
An area on the first floor landing drew my interest. I scanned it again and, sure enough, my probe seemed to skip past a large storage cupboard. I materialized and stood outside the entrance. Moments later, I heard Nimrod thundering up the stairs behind me.
“Anything?” I called.
“It would appear Chopin and Cream did indeed know each other. There’s a full laboratory setup in the basement that’s now abandoned. Very extensive. Cells, too. So it looks like they were experimenting on people as part of whatever they were doing. Needless to say, any notebooks and files that might shed light on the matter are missing.”
“Do you think that might explain the Blue Suit connection? Unwilling innocents as opposed to suicidal volunteers?”
“Hard to say. But I’m sure we’ll find out soon.”
“What about the ground floor?”
“Apart from a fully-stocked wine rack and larder, nothing useful. They obviously entertained guests down there. And from what I can surmise, they left in a hurry. Nothing personal is in evidence. No, it’s this level where we really need to start . . .” Nimrod’s voice trailed away and his brows furrowed as he noticed the closet for the first time. “What’s that?”
“Yes, it caught my attention too. Somewhat out of place, isn’t it?”
“I know my hunter’s senses don’t have anywhere near the finesse of your abilities, but when I look at it, all I see is a blank. It’s like staring at a void.”
“Precisely what I thought. And where better to hide something?”
I stepped forward to get a better impression of what I was dealing with, but every time I attempted to analyze the barrier, my probe was absorbed and compressed until it faded from existence.
Unholy shit, but that’s strong! What are they keeping in here? Oh, it can’t be?
Snippets from two recent conversations came back to haunt me. The first with François de UnBorn:
“It’s just that . . . this person possessed a great deal of knowledge of things that shouldn’t be spoken of. Things from . . . the Time of Sundering . . . in 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 . . . he was not only aware of their existence, but was willing to part with a vast fortune to gain information as to the possible whereabouts of one or all of those artifacts.”
François must have been talking about Chopin, our mysterious hand-wringing player.
Then I made another connection.
Damn. So that means Chopin’s also linked to Tesla. I glanced about me at the corroborating evidence. He has access to an absolute fortune if he’s able to offer millions up-front for information, and can afford a place like this. But where did it come from?
Then, part of my exchange with Lemuel Tuck struck a chord:
“How do you think our intruder actually managed to enter then? From what you’ve intimated, the barricades surrounding this actual site are formidable. If they’re breached, there’s a danger they’ll fall. Our burglar didn’t want that to happen, so he took precautions. But why? And how, exactly, would he do that? I could list the possible candidates on one hand, fallen angels and their mystic weapons included.”
“Ah, I see what you mean. I fear the answer may lie in the realms of the forbidden. Things proscribed since the Time of Sundering . . . As the protector of the Key, it is my function to know everything that might present a danger. Having studied the factors of this incident closely, I feel we may be forced to consider one or two utensils that should have been vitiated long ago. The Sword of Damocles, or the Mermaid’s Pin.”
“What do these artifacts do?”
“The Sword negates all power, no matter the source. The Pin is able to pierce the strongest barrier. They can only be used by those in corporeal form once, and even then at great cost, and both were ordered destroyed millennia ago.”
Hellfire! There could be anything on the other side, waiting to neutralize me once I’ve stuck my fat head in.
“Stand behind me,” I ordered, “just in case.”
As carefully as I could, I deployed my scythe and raised a powerful defense. Once I was prepared, I cast a spell similar to the one I’d used to enter the property itself.
“Mi dreósgadh ânise! (Open to m
e now!)”
A brief vibration juddered through the floorboards, and nothing else.
Okay, I’ll use a hex instead.
This time, I placed the tip of my weapon against the handle, summoned my potential, and in a clear voice, said, “An a’ Satanas aínim, se thu àithen do ânise! (In the name of Satan, I command you to open!)”
The air sizzled. Then the entire house rocked to its foundations, causing the chandeliers to chime loudly and plaster to fall from the cornices. Despite this, the way remained barred.
Nimrod and I glanced at each other in shock.
“That’s an incredibly potent ward to be able to resist my hex,” I acknowledged.
“What are you going to do?” Nimrod asked. “If you blast it open, it might destroy any evidence inside or, worse still, trigger a booby trap that could unleash Satan knows what upon us.”
I had an idea. “Then I won’t blast it. Remember, the Reaper has many attributes he can call upon. Brute strength and occult might are but two of the arrows in my quiver.”
Before he could ask what I meant, I handed Nimrod my sickle, removed my gloves, and took a deep breath to calm my nerves. Then I leaned forward and pressed both hands against the door.
“Tav yey qa-fé Ko- elaá, pa-the eyl e-na shavat. (In the name of the Almighty, open to me now.)”
The resonance of the divine language operated on an entirely different pitch. Its purity breached the shield wall and negated the charms barring access to the threshold. The doorway vanished, revealing an open portal into a vaultlike cavern. Unfortunately, the only things I could see within were bare rocks and flagstones.
“That’s impressive,” Nimrod breathed, “to sustain an active wormhole leading to your very own Fort Knox, even if it has been emptied.”
“It may be empty now,” I murmured, “but only a short while ago, it wasn’t.”
The atmosphere inside was drenched in the vibrant residue of deviltry and angelic power, and I became lightheaded as soon as I inhaled its essence.
A fleeting glimpse of clashing energies flashed through my mind. I staggered, only to be steadied by a pair of strong, sure hands.
“Are you okay?” Nimrod’s concern was evident.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just an esoteric flashback. Even though the chamber is devoid of icons, the spoor is much more concentrated than I expected.”
He steered me toward an open door just off the landing. “Then let’s leave that for the investigators and check out what’s in here instead.”
He ushered me into a bright and spacious living area. Double windows at either end of the room indicated it ran the entire length of the house, and the open space was enhanced by a simple cream-and-white color scheme. A fireplace yawned opposite us against the far wall. Clustered around it were a large rectangular coffee table and three comfortable-looking sofas. The highly polished wooden floor was carpeted here and there with several strategically placed Persian rugs, focal points to catch the eye.
To my left, a Steinway grand piano filled one corner. Adorned with mother of pearl inlay, it made a dark and grainy island amid the sea of discarded sheet music scattered about its feet. A modern-day mini-fridge next to it looked out of place.
On the right, by the window, sat a simple writing bureau, easy chair and footstool. Various parchments and envelopes swamped the work surface, and crumpled paper spilled from the wastebasket.
Another beep alerted Nimrod to an incoming message.
“More info about our absent host?”
“Certainly is.” He scanned the latest update. “After Chopin arrived in hell, the Undertaker compounded his earthborn afflictions a hundredfold, especially the unprovoked seizures caused by his epilepsy. It says here, Chopin would start to play a recital or compose a new work only to be kept from completing them due to the severity of his spasms. These convulsions were so powerful they actually broke his fingers.” Nimrod chuckled. “And that’s the way he’s been ever since. Chopin is so deeply afflicted that he cannot finish what he starts, be it the playing of music, its composition, even the instruction of students. Satan has decreed that everything the maestro does remains unfinished.”
A tingle skittered along surface of my skin.
“That’s definitely our mystery player.” I nodded toward the heavily laden desk. “Let’s check over here first . . . Oh, and by the way, when you reply to that text, get another team sent over, pronto.”
“I’m on it.”
As Nimrod’s thumbs flashed over his keypad, I strolled across to the secretaire, pulled out the chair, and took a seat. Every inch of the tabletop was littered with notes, part-written scores, and unfinished musings.
Where the heck do I start?
A notepaper with yesterday’s date scrawled across the top caught my eye.
Hello? This is recent.
I picked it out:
‘Dearest George,
Cling to hope. Soon, I shall acquire the means of true love’s salvation, and free you from false grace. This past century has been fraught with bitterness and frustration, but fear not, our reunion will be christened upon a . . .’
Thereafter the handwriting deteriorated until it was unintelligible.
This is our man, all right.
I discarded the letter and started digging around for something else. Nimrod joined me and began sorting through a pile of communiqués neatly stacked within a wire basket.
I uncovered a leather-bound diary. The page was open at an entry from the previous week. Bold red letters declared: ‘George — I will send for you upon your first awakening. False grace cannot hold you for much longer . . .’
Even that short passage was marred by Chopin’s bane.
“So who is this George fellow?” I mused. “Another bloody accomplice we’ve overlooked?”
I showed the pieces I’d already viewed to Nimrod, and his eyes widened in surprise.
“Oh! No, no, no. That would be George Sands, aka Amantine Dupin. I mentioned her earlier: Chopin’s lover. He couldn’t stand her when they first met, but, as is the way with human relationships, things changed the longer they were together. As his health deteriorated, however, their roles reversed. She cared for him to begin with, but Chopin developed an unhealthy interest in her daughter, Solange. Needless to say, that soured their affair, and she came to detest the sight of him. In fact, it was reported Sands began to view Chopin as another child, in the sense that he needed constant supervision. Because of his illness, Chopin never realized she despised him.” Nimrod gestured. “Apparently, no one he met here in hell has thought to correct his misassumption.”
“Ouch! Love’s a bitch.” I laughed aloud. Then I glanced through one or two passages again. “And he thinks he’s going to rescue her from ‘false grace’? Is he referring to the Almighty’s Grace? As in heaven?”
Despite my bravado, something about Chopin’s confidence made me uneasy.
How the bloody hell does he think he’ll be able to . . .? Oh shit, the artifacts.
Nimrod abruptly jumped forward and snatched a large notepad from the desktop. He held it up to the light and looked across the surface of the uppermost leaf of paper.
“Excellent!” he purred. “You don’t happen to have a pencil, do you?”
I rummaged through the secretary drawers until I found one.
“Here you go. What have you got?”
Nimrod laid the jotter flat and as lightly as he could drew the tip of the pencil back and forth across its surface.
“Because of his affliction,” he explained, “I’ve noticed Chopin tends to use a heavy hand. He wrote something on the sheet above this one that I’d be very interested to read.”
I watched as the white surface of the paper turned gray. As it did so, a uniform selection of words gradually stood forth.
Nimrod snorted. “It’s a versed letter, to George herself.”
“Here, let me.”
Taking the pad from him, I expanded the stenciled message in my mind until
we could both read what it said:
Most Precious George,
I wish to bathe in the crimson pulse
Of our hearts’ fondest desire,
Each beat, a wash of life
Upon the shore of your prison’s demise.
The tide recedes,
And my pursuit ends before it begins
Across a sea of Bitter consequence,
The fruition of our reunion grows near.
So take heart, my love,
For soon, your bosom will be free of grief.
My eye was drawn to one reference in particular, and my blood ran cold:
A sea of Bitter consequence? But that’s impossible. Not only is such a thing prohibited by law, under pain of unspeakable suffering, but those waters are murderous, even at the best of times.
I decided it might be best to keep this information to myself. At least until I could be sure.
Aloud, I said, “Can you see any reference here to a connection with the Devil’s Children? You know, anything that might help us narrow down our search to fewer departments?”
“Daemon,” Nimrod replied, “that’ll take a lot of digging. You need to get someone in here you can trust.”
Good point!
I refined a complex telepathic probe and sent it hurtling through the ether toward a pair of minds I knew were loyal to a tee.
Donna answered first: Problems?
You could say that. I paused to transfer a concise package of recent intelligence, including my concerns. If you don’t mind, I’d like you two to manage this stage of the operation personally. Choose your team carefully, and if you can, try to get bods from the Devil’s Own. As you know, all those chosen for the special division of the Devil’s Children are beyond reproach and I have a feeling we’ll need their single minded devotion to cut through the chaff.
Will do!
Bella chimed in: Are you constrained for time? It’s just that, the smaller the numbers, the better we can maintain control. Obviously, that’ll mean it will take longer.
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 27
