Soulfall (Hellsong: Infidels: Cris Book 2)

by Shaun O. McCoy

  El Cid says, “Probably, but hard to know. Keith has proved wily so far. Let’s not underestimate him.”

  I hear someone walking up the steps. My hand drops to my pistol again and I turn. Jeeves looks at me, and he bows. Then he turns around and walks back down the stairs.

  Jesus.

  “These bodies are corpses,” Q says, pointing toward the suspended Thinker.

  “Yeah, no shit, asshole,” I whisper.

  El Cid makes a chopping motion, her hand passing in front of her face. That’s her cut-it-out-right-fucking-now gesticulation. In deference to her, I shut the hell up.

  Step. Step. Step.

  Is that Jeeves on the stairs? No, I can hear him, too, in the room below.

  Step, step, drag . . . step.

  But they’re getting softer, the other footsteps are getting louder.

  Step. Step. Step.

  These are bootsteps, at times crunching the ice crystals on the floor. I see the grey blur of a man walking on the other side of the far wall.

  Step. Step. Step.

  His image becomes crystal clear as his figure passes by one of the ice sheets. He’s got black boots, maybe made out of rubber. Their tops are hidden under an all grey overcoat.

  Step. Step. Step.

  He stops in a doorway and looks at us.

  I have never seen a man more Aryan. His hair is very blond, though it is just dark enough to where I wouldn’t call him a towhead. Even from across the room, I can tell his eyes are blue—a light blue, made to look almost grey by his overcoat. Two lightning bolts, made out of silver, adorn his collar. Not just lightning bolts, I realize. That marking signifies the SS. Well one thing’s for sure, this man hasn’t let the past go.

  “Grüße Ungläubigen,” he says, whatever the fuck that means.

  “Guten Tag, Schweineficker,” El Cid says.

  I can only hope she just called him a pig fucker.

  “Come,” Nebuchadnezzar answers, unperturbed by whatever the hell she just said. “I’ve started a fire for you. Best not to waste it.”

  Fire? I wiggle my toes in my frozen shoes.

  Hell, maybe he’s not all bad.

  Aiden moans in his sleep as we follow the necromancer through the ice halls to his parlor room.

  “It’s okay, son,” I whisper. “Soon it’ll all be okay.”

  It strikes me now that Nebuchadnezzar deals in death. As far as he’s concerned, he might like my son better as a wight.

  Nebuchadnezzar’s parlor room is exquisitely designed. He’s got a table made of the same dark red wood as the outside door. The fireplace is a half dome of ice set into the wall. Fire burning under ice—it makes no sense to me. Maybe it’s a Hell thing, or maybe it’s something that just works. I remember that Eskimos used to light fires in their igloos.

  Either way, the fire burns peacefully in its icy fireplace beneath its icy mantel. A stack of dry logs, the Devil knew where they’d come from, lies on one side. On the mantelpiece is a golden eagle, its proud head in profile. For a second I think it’s American, then Roman, then I realize it must be a Nazi relic.

  “We need to administer medicine to the boy,” Cid tells Nebuchadnezzar. “He might resist.”

  The Aryan necromancer waves a gloved hand toward the empty table. “Be my guest.”

  He has no accent, not a German one at least—and there is something quaint about his voice, something that reminds me of old movies. Black and white ones, maybe, or the ones that came out just after where the color wasn’t quite right. It’s a decidedly American accent. Not British at all.

  Oh hell, now I understand. I add spy to his list of negative attributes. Nazi war criminal, necromancer, and spy.

  Q unbuckles Aiden from my back. I help unwrap my boy’s blanket and lay him down on the table.

  Aiden gives a shout.

  “It’ll be fine, young one,” El Cid whispers to him. “Drink this, the pain will go away.”

  He struggles anyway, closing his mouth and turning his head. Sometimes it’s like this. Sometimes he fights us.

  “Hold him down,” El Cid orders.

  Q grabs one arm and puts his other hand on Aiden’s shoulder. I do the same. Aiden twists his head back and forth, shouting. El Cid jumps up on the table and sits on his chest, putting one leg out past me and over his shoulder. She reaches with one hand and cups the back of his neck. She leans away, pulling his head up.

  “His mouth, Cris.”

  I work at his jaw. “It’s okay, son. Drink this, it’s okay.”

  He opens his mouth voluntarily, which is a relief, but even so, I can’t watch his pain anymore. I look to Nebuchadnezzar instead. There’s no expression on his face, and that bothers me. At first I can’t tell why. After all, I’m surrounded by infidels, and none of them are particularly expressive. But this guy’s face really is expressionless—not stoic. He honestly doesn’t care. The whimpering calls of my dying son, the cries which tear my heart asunder, which shake the universe of my mind, which cause my fists to clench and my blood to boil and my soul to die—they don’t mean a damn thing to Nebuchadnezzar.

  “Cris,” El Cid says.

  “Huh?”

  She touches my arm. “You can let go now.”

  Aiden has stopped struggling. Q has already backed away. My son is still in pain, but he’s fighting it well. There’s a strap El Cid has been letting him bite down on. He’s biting the hell out of it now.

  El Cid hops off the table, somehow landing on the ice floor as if it were stone. Nebuchadnezzar and Q are moving gracefully, too, but I’m sliding every few steps. It’s got to be Jessica’s damn boots.

  “My apologies,” El Cid says.

  Nebuchadnezzar shrugs. “You have not come for a social reason, I assume. That boy, he’s on edge, isn’t he?”

  El Cid looks at Aiden’s shaking form. “Yes.”

  There are eight chairs around the table. He walks to the one at the head, closest to the fire, and pulls it back. Each chair has been made out of what looks like wicker. Maybe from dried sinfruit vines or something . . . but again, I have no idea where he’d find that around here.

  Nebuchadnezzar flashes a set of white teeth at us and motions to the fire. “You have until the fire burns out, then you must leave.”

  His voice bugs the shit out of me. It sounds like the voice of a hero. Like that of a clean-cut man. I could shove coals down his throat and fix that.

  Later. I can do that later.

  El Cid and Q sit down on the left side of the table while I take a seat on the right. I scoot my chair closer to Aiden, reaching out with two fingers to touch his cool, clammy forehead. El Cid raises her hand, palm open. She doesn’t make that chopping motion, but I can tell she wants to. I get the hint. She wants to do this negotiation, so I shut my mouth.

  El Cid’s green eyes narrow. “We’ve come to ask you for help with the boy.”

  Nebuchadnezzar smiles. “I’d heard you infidels are the keepers of knowledge.”

  “We try. We don’t have time to make it to those of us who know enough.”

  His smile widens and those white teeth glint in the firelight. “I can’t imagine you’d think I’d be willing to help you.”

  El Cid comes slowly to her feet. “I don’t know why you think you have the right to live,” she whispers, her chair toppling behind her. “Maybe you could take this moment as one of absolution? Maybe you could use all that perverse knowledge you’ve gathered to heal someone?”

  Her words don’t faze him. There’s something about Nebuchadnezzar’s smile that unsettles me, but what? Ah, it’s that the smile is real. It touches his eyes. He’s genuinely happy at her suffering. At mine, at Aiden’s. That, or he’s so good at acting as to be completely unreadable. Either possibility makes him pretty damn monstrous.

  “Such anger,” Nebuchadnezzar notes. “Did I take someone from you? Did my people?”

  El Cid shrugs. “You did, right before my people took away your Reich.”

  I’m all
for her. Fuck him, you know. But damn, Cid, Aiden needs his help.

  Q leans forward. “Even if you won’t help, studying him should be something that is . . . edifying.”

  Nebuchadnezzar stands. He loosens each finger on the glove of his right hand before he pulls it off. “Strip the boy, I’ll take a look.”

  He tosses the glove on the table.

  I notice Jeeves entering the room.

  I bow to him, and he bows back.

  Q and I strip Aiden. He looks so small. Skin and bone, his little muscles long and stringy on his arms and legs. His blue veins stick out in the cold—and they turn black at the dead portions of his body. Goosebumps rise from the living flesh, but don’t where he’s turned wight. He’s not all the way unconscious yet, and he covers himself with his hands.

  Nebuchadnezzar opens one of Aiden’s eyelids and peers into the dim eye. “You’ve cut out the dead parts to see how they grow back?”

  “Yes,” El Cid confirms, “they come back as wightflesh.”

  “His soul is on edge.” Nebuchadnezzar’s hands move across Aiden’s chest. “How long has he been like this?”

  “A week,” El Cid says.

  The man’s blond eyebrows arch up with a detached curiosity. “I’m amazed the stilling hasn’t taken him. He’s got a very strong will.”

  El Cid says, “Stubborn fucktardedness runs in the family.”

  Jeeves bends down and picks up the chair El Cid had knocked over. I bow to him. He bows back.

  Nebuchadnezzar purses his lips. “I owe the Infidel nothing. You understand? Nothing. I have no reason to help you. I have many experiments going on right now, and I don’t have time to try to help you. Kill him now, or, when his will does break and the stilling takes him, that part of his soul which is wight will spread like cancer. When he rises, he will just be that much harder to put down.”

  It’s my turn to speak. “Is the life of a wight worth living?”

  The room goes silent except for the crackle of the fire and the step, step, drag . . . step of Jeeves.

  Nebuchadnezzar’s blue eyes focus on me intensely. “Are you even an infidel?”

  “He will be soon enough.” There’s an odd glint to El Cid’s eyes, like she’s proud of me or something.

  “So you owe the Infidel nothing,” I say quickly, “but what if I owed you something. I can get things for you, or kill someone for you. You name it, I don’t care what.”

  “Cris!” Q warns me. “You cannot put your soul into the hands of this man.”

  That warm-seeming smile touches the necromancer’s eyes again. “You must be the stubborn fucktard.”

  I nod.

  Nebuchadnezzar looks to the dismal fire. “Your time is almost up.”

  I pull my shirt over my head and toss it into the fire. “Please. I’ll watch your experiments. I’ll run them if I have to. Is there anything you can do to help my boy? Anything? Did you ever have a son?”

  Those blue eyes go cold.

  I had done it. I’d touched a nerve. It had been a shot in the dark, but I’d just nicked whatever was left of the soul of that monster.

  The fire flares up, consuming my shirt in a blaze.

  He picks up his glove from the table. “You, your Jew, and your nigger have nothing I want.”

  It’s Q’s turn to show his infidel colors, and he does so beautifully. I’m almost unsure if he even heard the slur.

  I stand, sliding the chair back. I catch it before it tips over and smile apologetically toward Jeeves. He bows.

  “Then I’ll get you something you want. Anything. I’ll go anywhere.”

  Nebuchadnezzar sneers at Aiden. “You don’t have time. I saw how much ferment you gave him, and I know you infidels make it strong. You’ve got a week, maybe a week and a half at most. You’re useless to me.”

  “We can teach you things,” I blurt out. “How to make infidel fire. How to—”

  He gives his German laugh. “The Infidel himself already came and taught me about necromancy. You know nothing I need to know.”

  “Then we’ll kill you!” I shout.

  Nebuchadnezzar shakes his head. “I don’t care.”

  “Then I’ll kill your undead. The ice statues. I’ll kill Jeeves.” I stop.

  Nebuchadnezzar seems confused. He doesn’t know who Jeeves is, of course.

  “You mistake me for someone else, infidel-to-be. I have no friends.”

  Suddenly I know what he wants. Suddenly I know what I can give to help him.

  “Eva,” I say.

  Nebuchadnezzar’s head jerks up. Twice, twice I’ve touched his nerves.

  “You heard me,” I say. “Eva Braun. I know where she is—was, rather. I know where she appeared in Hell. You’d be able to track her.”

  He takes a half step forward.

  “She was looking for her sister’s husband,” I continue. “Some SS guy, so she might have left.”

  He looks away. “I’m not a member of the Party anymore.”

  Suddenly I feel the cold on my bare arms and chest. “I don’t think she is, either.”

  The fire is almost out.

  “I’d have nothing to say to her.” Nebuchadnezzar’s mask is almost back on.

  “No?” I ask. “Isn’t there anything you’d like to ask her?”

  Those baby blue, master-race eyes are in turmoil.

  I look to El Cid. I know what she is thinking. She’s thinking that I’m lying. I know I’m not supposed to lie, but Hell, I’m only an infidel in training. And it isn’t completely a lie. I had heard the rumor.

  He turns to Jeeves. “Hansel, get this man a shirt. Shirt? You understand. Shirt.”

  Jeeves bows and walks away.

  Step, step, drag . . . step. Step, step, drag . . . step.

  “Very well, I will help, you stubborn fucktard,” Nebuchadnezzar says.

  “That’s Cris for short,” I tell him, my heart leaping in my chest. “No ‘h,’ to avoid confusion.”

  I turn to Q. He’s grinning.

  Aiden lives.

  It’s seriously cold as fuck in here. I blow into my hands to try and warm them, but my breath just isn’t enough. If anything, the moisture that collects on my fingers makes them colder.

  “So you do know a way to help save him?” El Cid asks.

  I haven’t known El Cid very long, but the bitch has an ego on her. I think this is going to piss her off. She won’t like having to admit someone can think of something she can’t.

  “I do,” Nebuchadnezzar says, “but the solution is something I can’t say while the lad is present . . . asleep or no. These are words even his unconscious should not hear.”

  Q picks my boy up off the table and rests him over one shoulder. With his free hand, he grabs a wicker chair. “We’ll be in the other room.”

  There isn’t a man in Hell like Q. I can’t even say how much he’s done for me—but I can’t let him do this.

  “I need your opinion, Q,” I tell him. “Set Aiden down outside. He’ll be safe enough.” I turn to Nebuchadnezzar. “Won’t he?”

  His Aryan head nods.

  Step, step, drag . . . step. Step, step, drag . . . step. Jeeves, or Hansel as Nebuchadnezzar calls him, has returned, a shirt in his hands.

  El Cid’s eyes narrow.

  She’s not happy to see this. I’m not sure how hard it is to make an undead follow your commands, but I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Maybe Jeeves is just a leper that’s really far gone.

  Step, step, drag . . . step. He bows to Nebuchadnezzar and offers him the shirt. The Nazi shakes his head and points at me. Jeeves turns, handing me the shirt.

  El Cid takes in a quick breath.

  It’s a black, soft thing, thick. I put it on quickly.

  “You can make them talk, too,” Nebuchadnezzar says to Cid. “Did you know that? The Infidel taught me how.”

  El Cid’s green eyes bore into him.

  He gives that genuine-ass smile again. “You mean to say he fucked you, and never t
old you about these things?” Suddenly his German accent comes through a little. “He did fuck you, didn’t he? That’s what they say, you know. The Infidel and I talked about many things when he came here. Maybe one of them was your cunt, do you think?”

  She crosses her arms beneath her small breasts. “Look here, Planck dick, how long is this cure going to take?”

  The necromancer’s face becomes serious. He pauses for a second as Q joins us.

  “Once you’re on edge,” Nebuchadnezzar says, “you almost always end up being a wight. Think of the soul as something that tries to heal itself. If there’s just a little bit of wight corruption, the living side will heal it out. Only, the wight part of your soul is trying to heal itself too. That balance, I’ve induced it in people. It’s a damn painful thing. Never seen anyone last for more than a day.”

  Aiden has been on edge for a week. But then again, I’m not sure Nebuchadnezzar’s subjects had much to motivate them.

  I wonder what it is that keeps my son alive. Love? Hate?

  “But it is curable?” Q asks.

  “It is,” Nebuchadnezzar answers. “In fact, even if you become a wight completely, it’s still curable—only you need their cooperation.”

  El Cid’s tiny jaw opens a little. “You’re shitting me.”

  “No shitting,” he says. “Understandably, for practical reasons, that cooperation is impossible to get. But with your boy, we may be able to manage it.”

  “I’m listening,” El Cid says.

  “This Hell, like Earth before it, is objective. If your son were to die, and go to the next Hell, the Hell you infidels call Sheol, he could believe himself into health because it’s subjective. Now obviously, coaching your son how to heal himself in Sheol now and then killing him to send him there would defeat the purpose . . . but there is a place where Sheol and Gehenna meet.”

  I have no fucking clue what they’re talking about. “You want to say that in English, buddy?”

  El Cid ignores me. “The Erebus. You want to take him to the Erebus.”

  Nebuchadnezzar nods. “Now the mind can play tricks on a person, particularly a boy. It’s best if we don’t leave it up to his will. We’ll tell him that the Erebus will cure him if he stands in it, that way his expectation will—”