Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  “Good day to you, sir.” An owlish and distinguished elderly gentleman, complete with measuring tape draped from his neck, approached. He nodded formally. “My name is Crispin Dirge. How may I be of assistance?”

  Grislington returned the nod and shook the proprietor’s hand.

  “Without wishing to overstate, I’m here to purchase an entirely new wardrobe. I’ve been transferred from the Perish branch, and one of my new underlings at the Ministry recommends your fine establishment as the tailors to visit before I start work next week.”

  Dirge simpered, “Then you’ve certainly come to the right place. We have been serving His Infernal Majesty and his Blue Suits for well over a hundred years now. May I ask what it is exactly that you require?”

  “Both formal and informal attire.” Grislington feigned indifference, fingering several cloth reels as he spoke. “I’ll be here for some time, so as well as a dozen pinstripes solely for the office, I hope to acquire at least twice that number of suits for both business and casual wear. I was thinking, perhaps a combination of pure wool worsted and mohair might be a good place to start. Oh, and sports jackets. I’ll need sports jackets, too . . . say, half a dozen?”

  Dirge’s eyes flared as the size of the order grew.

  Damned souls. How easily they are swayed by the thought of material gain.

  Grislington grinned, and Dirge responded to the expression with approval:

  “That would be a most excellent start,” the tailor gushed. “Needless to say, with an order that size, I’ll ensure to put our current commissions on hold until we’ve completed say, half your request? Forgive me, but it takes at least four fittings and seventy to seventy-five hours to prepare a suit meeting our exacting standards; and even with my staff working around the clock, the first part of your batch won’t be ready for three days.”

  “That sounds ideal. I wouldn’t want you to rush. With the monumental task I have ahead of me, I must look my very best.” Grislington reached into his pocket and removed a small gemlike object that sparkled like a thousand stars in a moonlit sky. He placed it on the counter. “Would this be enough for a down payment?”

  Dirge’s jaw dropped.

  “Is tha– Is that seraphinite?”

  “Yes, of course. My only condition in securing your services will be your absolute discretion.” Grislington flashed a winning smile. “Due to the nature of my work. I’m sure you understand.”

  “But . . . but that’s over a million diablos. Your complete wardrobe, with shirts, pants, socks and ties won’t come to more than sixty, perhaps seventy thousand . . .”

  “Then it looks like you’ll have my custom for some time to come, doesn’t it, Crispin?”

  “Er, yes, sir. That you will.”

  Grislington studied his latest catch closely.

  I do believe I have a winner.

  The realization of what this new order would mean for his business suddenly registered on the elderly man’s face.

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll need a name and address to open your account.”

  “Of course. The name’s Giseldone, Angelus Giseldone, and I’ve moved in just around the corner. I’m staying at Number One Brute Street.”

  “But that’s perfect, your being so close will help expedite your request. I take it you have no objection to providing your initial measurements now? With something this important, one wants to get straight down to business.”

  A man after my own heart. “Then by all means, Crispin, please lead the way, and let’s get to it.”

  *

  The Undertaker rushed along a final passageway and emerged onto the central corridor. Once there, he slowed his pace to straighten his necktie and be sure the buttons of his lab coat were properly fastened. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass of one notice board, and hastily smoothed his hair back into place.

  That’ll have to do.

  Arriving outside his office, he took a final deep breath to calm his nerves, grasped the handle, and opened the door. His Infernal Majesty already sat inside, occupying the Undertaker’s favorite high-backed chair, next to the bureau.

  The Undertaker couldn’t have hoped for better. Satan was wearing his businessman’s guise of pinstripe suit and cashmere overcoat. That usually meant he’d come to discuss things, rather than punish outright. But the devil didn’t like to be kept waiting. Long fingers rapped like a squad of drummers on the desktop, and from where the Undertaker stood, he could see chips of wood and green leather on the floor about his master’s feet.

  “Your Majesty,” the Undertaker intoned, “to what do I owe the pleasure?” As if I can’t guess.

  “It’s been four days, and for some reason I can’t fathom, you haven’t yet updated me as to the condition of the renegade . . . or my people. Why is that?”

  “Your Majesty, you must understand —”

  “I must do nothing,” Satan cut in, “except make certain that the Devil’s Own within my intelligence teams have all the particulars they need to protect my realm. Mayhap you’ve not noticed, hidden away in the bowels of this mortuary, but hell is under attack. Not only have we suffered a string of unexplained seismic incidents, but the Juxtapose level has been wrecked. Huge areas along the banks of the River Tombs have been completely destroyed or reduced to rubble. While Samael and his brethren are doing their best, such investigations are not their area of expertise. I need my primary teams back on the job. I want to know what’s happening, where Yamato and Champ are, and why everything has gone tits up. Obviously, I can’t do that while Cream, Nimrod, and Strawberry languish here in blissful inactivity. So tell me, please, I’d love to know. What’s the delay?”

  “Sire, let me assure you, I am aware of your concerns. I have made haste to secure the particulars you require. Cream’s memories proved an absolute goldmine of information. I have wiped them clean whilst preserving his every thought, every nuance for your scrutiny. You will find what I have discovered most informative. Due to the stresses of late, I was merely waiting to revive both Strawberry and Nimrod before updating you, so I could present a bundle of good news all at once. I apologize if I erred in that regard.”

  The Undertaker sighed. Would Satan take the bait?

  Visibly relaxing, the devil asked, “By that inference, I take it both Nimrod and Strawberry are ready?”

  “Of course.”

  “So why did you take so long to revive them?”

  “My Lord, you know the constitutions of the Hounds and Inquisitors are vastly different to those of the riffraff. I had to ensure the nucleus of each identity fully integrated before resuscitating them. Not only that, but their recollections were chock-full of fresh intelligence regarding what influence the artifacts, once triggered, had on each soul. We might have missed something had I not been so careful. And, of course, there was the other matter of the modification you wished added to Strawberry’s genetic profile.”

  “Ah yes.” Satan’s eyes narrowed. “I take it that has proved successful?”

  “Completely. She will no longer be able to embrace Grim without . . . consequences.”

  “Excellent. There’s much to do, and their attachment was interfering with their efficiency. Both of them need to be focused in the days ahead, especially Daemon.”

  The Undertaker seized his opening: “Talking of the Reaper, have you decided on the option you’d prefer?”

  Satan pondered for a moment.

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Part of him is, and always has been, although you might look on it more as a state of suspended animation while his body strives to repair itself. As you know, there is no love lost between us but, I must admit, I am fascinated by his constitution. The enhancements you bestowed on him when he arrived in the underworld are truly remarkable. He lost his epidermis, dermis, and subcutaneous fat layers. His muscles and connective tissue were vaporized, as were most of his organs. In fact, the only parts of him to survive intact are his brain, heart, skeletal structur
e, and the core essence of his psyche. And yet, despite such appalling injuries, he has refused to die.” Here goes nothing. “May I ask . . . what is he?”

  “You may not.” Satan’s eyes hardened in warning. “Fulfill your obligations and leave his spirit untouched. I will see to that aspect personally, after his reanimation.”

  “As you wish. Nevertheless, I still require your direction as to your preference.”

  “I need him sooner rather than later. Which is the speedier alternative?”

  “Without a doubt, the second choice I listed in my report is quickest. As I mentioned, his wounds were so severe even his self-rejuvenating matrix was damaged. This takes time to recover. Because you do not wish him tainted by spare parts, we must wait months while the plexus repairs itself. Even then, the process may be delayed by any trauma he suffers in the meantime. Therefore, prudence suggests arresting his regenerative process until his core recovers. I can do that quite simply. In effect, his body will remain frozen in its current condition. Autonomous and esoteric function will be unaffected, as will his ability to operate. The consequence of such a choice is that he will appear to be nothing more than a skeleton.”

  “How he looks has little significance. He is my Reaper, not an Adonis seeking the adulation of fawning masses. I know Daemon intimately. He is as unconcerned by vanity as am I.”

  That’s exactly what worries me.

  “I appreciate what you say, Lord, but what of his face?”

  “His face must remain as it has become, veiled within a skein of darkest necromancy.”

  Oh shit!

  “Your Satanic Majesty, I take it you will explain these . . . ‘modifications’ you are requesting? As I mentioned, there is no love lost between us, and he might think I have deliberately sought to interfere with him. Forgive me, but I have no wish to end up on the receiving end of his ire.”

  “I will explain nothing! You will do as you are told, as will Daemon. If he is ready to be revived, do it quickly. Have him report to my private suite over in Juxtapose by this time tomorrow. Believe me, once I have empowered him, he will be occupied by more pressing matters than your petty jealousy. Rebels must be brought to injustice, ancient relics must be recovered, hot and bloody revenge must be wrought. Do you understand?”

  “Completely, Sire.”

  The Undertaker bowed. As he did so, a sharp “phhft” announced the moment the Dark Lord vanished in a puff of smoke.

  Charming!

  With the pungent aroma of rotten eggs filling his office, the Undertaker saw with irritation that once again his master’s departure had scorched his favorite carpet.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

  No wonder I’m getting so many headaches lately. So much to do, so little time.

  Then he considered the task ahead of him and sighed deeply.

  Oh well, I’d better get this over with.

  *

  Through my bedroom window atop the Black Tower I surveyed the sprawling grounds of the Den of Iniquity. As usual, the high-pitched screams of those being questioned by my Inquisitors far below serenaded the regular gathering of hell-ravens lining the battlements.

  They jostled each other for position and croaked at each other, their harsh counterpoint serving as a reminder to the interrogators that they were hungry, and still waiting on the daily allowance of bloody morsels and shredded tidbits they took as their due.

  Beyond the walls, Olde London Town smoldered where fires still raged from the recent attacks. Her soot-stained rooftops and smog-laden streets appeared somehow darker, more somber, and their brooding sense of menace more pervasive than I’d thought possible.

  Well, this is hell, after all. Uncountable damned souls survive, and they’ll learn to adapt. I turned to regard the image of a stranger in the full-length mirror. As must we all.

  I strode across the room to give myself a closer once-over.

  My mind was still wonky after the revival process, my memories patchy at best, so whenever I caught sight of my new reflection out of the corner of one eye, I’d think an impostor was shadowing me.

  “I’ll get used to it, I suppose,” I mumbled, “not that I have much choice in the matter.”

  The joy of finally apprehending Cream had been soured by the flight of Chopin and Tesla, as well as the artfully-crafted escape of Grislington. For some reason, His Infernal Majesty hadn’t been all that pissed.

  It’s not like him to be so understanding. An awful lot of extra shit was dredged up that I never realized even existed, let alone imagined I’d need to deal with along the way.

  I studied my new look.

  And, of course, his impatience has probably got something to do with this.

  Most of my physical body had been extirpated in a cataclysmic release of celestial energies. My life force also should have been extinguished by such a blast, but wasn’t, emphasizing I was much harder to kill than even I had realized.

  How in Azazel’s name was I not obliterated? Or at the very least consigned for reassignment?

  Still, as tough as I was, there’d been a price to pay.

  And then some . . .

  Fortunately, Lucifer had stepped in to assist me by donating an extraordinary legacy: a suit of armor he himself had worn during the original rebellion.

  Made of palladinium, its variegated gray-and-black coloring made it look as if the metal had tarnished, like antique silver. In truth, the armor might be far more durable than even my medusanite scythe.

  Polymorphic in nature, this gift was one of a kind, fitting around my skeleton like a synthesized second skin. I could feel sensations through its structure, as if the nature of the palladinium now compensated for the loss of my mundane nervous system.

  Lightning played within its depths, a sure indicator of reserves of arcane might simmering just below the surface. And if there was any doubt that this armor was the result of the darkest theurgy, its surface had been gilded in occult embellishment and Hadean glyphs of diabolical power.

  As I stood there, I could sense its vitality coursing through my ethereal complexus and marveled at the way it responded to my every thought.

  I allowed my gaze to wander over its facets.

  Because the palladinium was liquescent in nature, the cuirass had been forged out of a single measure, without seam or crease. The gorget was a more intricate affair. Molded in the form of an aegis, it had been gilded with flying serpents.

  The pauldrons adorning my shoulders were emblazoned with Lucifer’s own standard, while the vambraces had been configured with retractable battle spurs, each of which carried my own crossed-scythes emblem. Shaped like dragon claws, the spikes were razor sharp, designed for offense as well as defense. They were a particular favorite of mine, and appeared capable of tearing a hole in the side of a tank.

  The cuisse, greaves, and sabatons were equally fluidic and resilient, allowing for a remarkable range of movement. In fact, despite being armored from head to foot, the entire ensemble was so light I truly felt as if I were naked.

  I raised my hands and clenched my fists. Poison-tipped and studded spikes sprang from each knuckle. Not that I’d need them. From what Satan had intimated, the influence of my death touch had been increased tenfold. Now I need only will it so, and my authority could kill on contact through my gauntlets.

  Finally, I leaned forward and peered at the space where my face had been.

  Although I knew my head was protected by a Spartan-style helm, I couldn’t see it. I reached up and illuminated the strip-light above the mirror. No difference. My profile didn’t exist. My face was only a veil of dense smoke, as if the very pits of Hades were smoldering in a condensed brume above my shoulders. As luck would have it, my Dark Lord had seen fit to spare me the accompanying stench of sulfur, and supplied me with a brand new cowl to replace my trench coat.

  While it fitted snugly across the crown of my skull and gave me a vaguely human silhouette, the shawl remained loose enough
to complement the flow of the rest of my cloak, and ensured the interior of the hood remained in shadow.

  To be honest, I liked it. It added a certain je ne sais quoi that would cause everyday denizens to shit themselves from looking at me.

  “Perfect.” My voice sounded completely natural. “Thus equipped, I’ll be able —”

  Daemon?

  A telepathic hail thundered into my head. I instantly recognized the mind of His Infernal Majesty.

  If you’d care to leave off admiring your new look for a moment? I’m in my drawing room in the adjacent tower, and we have revenge and bloody murder to plot.

  Yes!

  My new eyes flared in delight, and twin stars ignited within the miasma that my face had become. Strontium red in color, they shone from swirling depths with a promise of the violence to come.

  I extended my arm. My scythe flew across the room and slammed into my hand with a satisfying clang.

  “I’m on my way.”