by Jackie May
“And the second part?”
“Easier. Marco and Deus.”
“Imperium Immortalis, Marco Deus?”
“That’s it. Meaning?”
“‘Immortal power, banner of the gods.’”
“Oh, is that all? Underachievers.”
“Basically.” Jay adds, “It says ‘Necromancers wanted, apply within.’”
Hillerman turns to Russo. “That means you. Got that business card?”
He pulls it from his coat pocket. “This gate, though. Unless somebody brought bolt cutters…” His voice trails off when the thick chains go slack, then fall from the bars. The gate swings open with a low, ominous creak.
Russo takes a deep breath. “After you guys.”
“The card was given to you, Detective Russo. Only you.”
“Tough titties,” I say. “We’re not letting him go in alone, are you kidding? You. You’re the demon expert. You’re going in with him.”
“Out of the question. You’ve seen how demons react to me. I hardly think I’d be welcome. We can’t risk it. I’m sorry, Detective Russo. Would I? Yes. Should I? No.”
“Just Danny,” he says. “Call me Danny.”
Kicking absently at a weed growing out of the snow, she says quietly, “All right. Danny.”
“Talk to me. What do I do?”
“Simple. You walk right up to the front door. After that, I’m sure the way will present itself, just like this gate opening. Another possibility is instruction. It’s likely you might hear voices, like whispers in your mind, telling you what to do.” The idea seems to appall Russo, so Hillerman moves on quickly. “I can tell you that we know of at least one person who came here, and he was just fine.”
“Who?” I ask.
“King Paul. He swore fealty to East Side and wielded the power of necromancy. At some point he must have come through here, and he was fine.”
“Sure, yeah, he was dandy, except for the part where he was a psychopathic serial killer, and now he’s dead.”
“Yes, except for that. Thank you. You’re so helpful.”
“No worries,” Russo says. “If Charlotte says it’s fine, it’s fine.”
To me, she says sharply, “It’s fine.” Then she directs a much softer tone at Russo. “I’m not trying to push you, Detective—” She corrects herself. “Danny. Believe it or not, I still remember how it feels to be in your shoes. It never really goes away or gets any easier.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not gonna lie. The night club, I was definitely feeling. This place, not so much.”
“See, and that’s it, right there. That’s why you’re so well equipped for this. You’re not going to crack, when others would.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’re not putting on a front right now. You’re scared, and you’re nervous, but you’re not trying to act otherwise. You’re an honest and open person with no filter. You don’t lie—not to others and especially not to yourself—not even in the form of exaggeration, because when you do talk a big game, it’s because you actually believe every word of it. Bottom line—there’s nothing false about you, which makes you damn near demon-proof. They won’t be able to worm their lies and deceit and corruption into such a genuine mind. The first false note out of your mouth, we’d recognize it—even me, and I just met you.”
Russo stands in awe of her assessment, which would have come across as flattery if it weren’t so spot-on, as though she’s known him for years. They stand there looking at each other in silence, each true to form—Hillerman unreadable and Russo an open book. He’s absolutely conquered. Stick a fork in this one—he’s done. As chemistry arcs between them, I try to make eyes at Brenner, but he’s too busy studying the lovebirds closely.
Hillerman breaks eye contact first, kicking at that weed again. “Or…I could be totally wrong about you.”
“You’re not,” Jay says quickly. “He’s the real deal.”
Russo winks at me. “My wingman, everybody. None better. Feeling it right here.” He taps a fist to his chest. “Group hug?”
“Go,” Hillerman barks.
“Already gone.” He enters the courtyard, walking past rows of headstones. Twice, he whirls suddenly, startled.
Hillerman curses under her breath. “We’re attracting too much attention.”
“You see them?”
“They’re watching through the gate. They don’t seem to want to go into the courtyard. Not sure if that’s good or bad.”
“But they’re just ghosts. They can’t do anything.”
“Yes, they can, and they’re doing it right now.”
I jump back from the iron gate. “What? Are they touching me?”
“They don’t have to. They bring an aura, and the more there are of them, the stronger the aura. You’re feeling it right now. Fear and anxiety.”
“My heart’s pounding,” Russo says. “Something’s not right.”
“Don’t stop.”
Russo slows his steps. “If I keep going, something bad will happen to you guys.”
“No, it won’t. That’s just what they want you to feel. It’s manufactured. Push through it.”
I hear leaves crunching behind me. Jay whips around, raises his gun. When he starts to move away from us, toward the sound, Hillerman loses it. “Dammit, stay your ass put, Brenner, do you hear me? There’s a whole lot of chatter going on right now. I need you to listen to me. My voice. Brenner?”
“I hear you.”
“Get over here next to me. None of us goes off on our own. Not for any reason. Got it?”
As Jay obeys, sidestepping toward Hillerman, I feel a slight tickle at the base of my spine. It starts as nothing but a breeze, raising goose bumps across my back, but then it seems to thicken somehow, gaining weight and form—the form of five fingers and a palm, sliding effortlessly beneath my clothes to caress my waist. Even though I haven’t made a sound, Hillerman turns toward me, and her mouth drops open. She’s looking at something behind me, just over my shoulder.
I want to cry out, but an ice-cold dread has lodged in my throat. When I try to move, the hand tightens, digging its fingertips into my skin.
“Don’t,” Hillerman warns me. “Don’t move.”
The hand creeps around my waist to my belly, then brushes my rib cage and savors the valley between my breasts on its way toward my throat.
Hillerman keeps her eyes on me while she speaks urgently. “Russo? Danny?”
“I hear you.” His breathing has turned ragged. “Keep talking. It helps.”
“I know you’re hearing many different voices right now, but I need you to only hear mine.”
I feel the phantom fingers exploring my neck. Another hand materializes at the base of my skull. This one doesn’t glide; it walks like a spider, moving up through my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to focus on Hillerman’s voice.
“Tell me what you see, Danny.”
“I’m at the steps. There’s a door, but no handle. It’s solid stone.”
“What else? There’s got to be something.”
“Dragons. Or gargoyles, I don’t know. Carved in stone all around the door. But no handle. There’s no…”
“Danny?”
The hands roam. One gliding up my throat, the other creeping over the top of my head.
“There is something,” Russo announces. “On the mantle above the door, a rectangle carved into the stone.”
“A rectangle?”
“The same size as the business card.”
“Put it in,” Hillerman orders.
The spider hand crawls out of my hair onto my forehead. The slithering fingers prod at my closed lips. They want in.
“Put it in, Danny.”
“What will happen?”
The creeper pokes at my eyes. The other hand pushes between my teeth. I might throw up.
“At the club, you gave your will over to Elle, Danny. You trusted her completely. I’m asking you for the same. Yo
u can choose fear, or you can choose me.”
“Hell, that’s easy,” he responds with renewed confidence. “Trick or treat, bitches.” He slaps the invite against the mantle, and instantly the hands recede from my face, then disappear altogether. I release a long-held breath, gasping. All my muscles relax at once. Brenner drops to his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“Why’s the door not opening?” Hillerman asks impatiently. “Do you see a handle? A way in?”
Russo sounds hesitant. “Well. No…”
“But?”
“But…” He pushes overgrown ivy away from the wall. “One of these gargoyles just opened its mouth.”
“What’s inside?”
“Nothing. It’s just a hole. And don’t say—”
Hillerman says it. “Stick your hand in there.”
Russo sighs.
We watch as Russo hovers his hand just inside the gargoyle’s mouth, then quickly pulls it back. He tries again, leaving his hand in for longer this time. When nothing happens, he pushes his hand all the way in. I can’t see the details of the gargoyle from where we are. All I see is a black hole and Russo’s whole hand disappearing inside it. Then his whole wrist. Then his entire forearm. Russo is gagging. “Oh man, oh, ew, that’s just…”
“What?” I ask.
“It’s smooshy. And wet.”
“Child’s play,” Hillerman says. “We all did this at Halloween parties as kids, right? Reach your hand into a box labeled intestines, but it’s really just spaghetti.”
“This doesn’t feel like spaghetti. Spaghetti doesn’t have a heartbeat.” Russo pushes until he’s in that thing past his elbow, and finally he announces, “There. I got something. It’s either a hairy doorknob or this thing’s balls.”
“Either way, turn it,” Hillerman says.
“I am. Nothing’s happening.”
“This isn’t good.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve decided it’s definitely not a doorknob.”
“I mean, it’s not good that it’s to one side of the door. Why not in the middle?”
I read her meaning. “You think it takes two?”
“Danny, what’s on the other side of the door?”
“More gargoyles, I think. The ivy is covering them. Look, I’d go over there and check, but if I pull my hand outta this thing’s guts, there’s no way I’m putting it back in again.”
“I’ll go,” Jay volunteers.
Hillerman steps between him and the gate. “It’s a nice instinct, but think about it. If you were in his place, who would you really want going in there with you?”
Jay immediately looks at me.
“Another good instinct.”
I feel a little slow. “Me?”
“She’s right, babe. Let’s not take any chances with Russo. We play our best hand. That’s you.”
Hillerman steps away from the gate, as if to invite me in. “It’s called witching hour for a reason. We don’t have long.”
I want to complain. I want to whine something pathetic, like, Let’s not take chances with Russo? What about taking chances with me! But apparently my ego still trumps self-preservation, because I summon a totally fake bravado and trudge through the courtyard.
“Bad-ass, Shayne,” Russo says. “By popular demand. Must be nice, huh?”
“What?”
“Having friends who think so highly of you.”
I stomp up the steps and start pulling at the ivy vines. “Oh, it’s just swell. There’s no end to the privileges they volunteer me for. Like getting to be elbow deep in a gargoyle’s…” I quickly drop the vines back into place. “I’m sorry, we’ll need a plan B. What if we come back with a truckload of dynamite?”
Hillerman kicks the gate. “No. There’s got to be another hole. Look harder.”
“Oh, there’s a hole. The problem isn’t that there’s no hole. The problem is that the hole isn’t a mouth.” I jerk the vines away for all the world to see the glorious invitation awaiting my arm: a large, bulbous buttocks above hind legs, with a curly pitch-forked tail. Between butt cheeks of polished stone is a perfectly round hole the size of a softball.
I get no response. Everybody just stares.
“Hello? Is this thing on? In case you can’t see, it’s an ass. And no, not a biblical ass. An ass-ass!”
Hillerman shakes the iron gate and growls through clenched teeth. “We get it. We see it. We hear you, and yes, it’s gross. Now, please stick your arm up that gargoyle’s asshole and squeeze its balls so we can all get the hell out of here!”
I look at Russo, at a loss for words. He’s got nothing to offer me but a shrug. And he’s absolutely right. I have to agree. What Hillerman has just said is so profound—so unique in the history of spoken words—that the only appropriate response is to immediately put them into action. I stick my arm up the gargoyle’s asshole—elbow deep in warm, sticky innards—and squish its hairy balls as hard as I can.
Several things happen at once. All throughout the courtyard, candles spontaneously ignite with sickly green flames. The gargoyle’s asshole clenches tightly against my arm. It’s searing hot, burning through my jacket into my flesh. The same happens to Russo—the gargoyle’s mouth chomping down on his bicep, sinking teeth into his muscle. We both cry out in pain. The solid stone door rumbles, then swings open. The gargoyles release us and close their orifices tightly.
My jacket is unharmed, but when I pull my arm out of the sleeve, steam rises from a dark ring of burnt flesh all the way around my arm above the elbow. Russo’s bicep is bleeding from several deep bite marks. As we grumble in pain, Hillerman says, “Look above the door. What’s happening?”
The invitation card is on fire. Green flame engulfs its left edge and slowly moves to the right. It reminds me of a loading bar on a computer screen.
“I think we’re on the clock,” I say. “Like a timer.”
Jay says, “Shayne, your arm…”
I slip it gingerly inside my jacket sleeve. “We’ll look at it later. I really don’t want to be inside this thing when the timer goes up. Russo?”
“Copy that.” He leads us into the mausoleum.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The room is enormous—much bigger than the outside, which should be impossible, but I no longer try to make sense of demon things. Torches lit with green flames line the circular wall, creating an otherworldly glow with no shadows.
Towering over us are three colossal statues—a leopard ready to pounce, a roaring lion, and a fierce wolf with teeth bared. At their feet is a passageway cut into the stone floor. Stairs lead down into darkness.
After I describe it, Hillerman explains, “It’s a representation of Hell. From Dante’s allegory.”
“From whosits whatsit?”
“A poem. 14th century Christian. The dark woods, the circular room, the animal guards. It’s Dante’s Inferno.”
“You know what’s down these stairs, then?”
“Various levels of sin and depravity, what else?”
“Sounds like New Year’s Eve with my family. What are we waiting for?”
Standing at the top step, Russo stares down into the blackness with an uneasy look.
“This isn’t really a ‘ladies first’ kind of place, Russo.” He nods and swallows hard, but can’t seem to make himself take that first step, so I suck it up and say, “Then again, I’m not really a ‘ladies first’ kind of lady, am I?”
I take the lead, stepping carefully down and down and down. Total darkness eventually gives way to a soft blue glow. Wet moss grows from cracks in the stone. Water trickles from the low ceiling just above our heads. It’s not quiet anymore. There are now two unmistakable sounds: the patter of rain against windows and the ecstatic cries of sexual pleasure.
“Right, so…I take it the first sin is lust?”
“Why? What do you see?” Hillerman says.
“You wish. If you wanted to see, you should have come down yourself.”
We get to a landing that splits in two directions. Straight ahead, the steps continue downward. To our left, a carpeted hallway leads to an extravagant bedroom. Floor-to -ceiling windows awash with rain scatter a kaleidoscope of sensual moonlight. The euphoric moans don’t come from any one place. They are all around. Not loud, but close-sounding, right in my ear. Maybe they’re even coming from me. It sounds like me. It feels like sounds I could make, if only Jay were here.
There he is, in fact. Standing naked by the bed. He’s mostly in shadow, but I know that athletic silhouette. That wedge of blonde hair, tattoos of chemical formulas around his neck.
He turns toward the windows, and in the shimmering moonlight I see he is smiling. His eyes are soft and clear and untroubled. This is the other Jay, from before the underworld shattered his existence. I met this Jay once. We talked over a game of poker about normal things. He was low-key charming and a big-time sweetheart. The kind that is so earnest in bed. I wonder what pleasureful faces he would make if I took him by the—
Hillerman’s voice comes crashing into my ears. “—said before to not let your minds wander. Can I get an answer? Anybody?”
It dawns on me that I’ve seen this place before. Back in Arael’s East Side lair. The bed and the rain and the sounds, everything. Only that time, I saw both me and Jay tangling our naked bodies together in the bed. Since then, we’ve made that vision a reality, many times over. Was I seeing the future back then? Can demons know the future?
“Give me an answer, Shayne. The timer’s going fast.”
I hope they can’t tell the future, because this time, I’m not in the picture. There’s a busty woman behind Jay. Her hands glide up his hips and the ridges of his abs, and his sharply-cut pecs. She spreads her arms wide to become black-feathered wings. She rises to her full height, towering over Jay with a crow’s head—that enormous needle of a beak.
There’s a scream, and this time I know it definitely comes from me.
“There you are,” Hillerman says in my ear. “What the hell’s happening?”
“We’re moving on.”
“The timer—”
“I know; we’re going. Russo.” He stands transfixed, staring down a blank hallway, nothing but stone. I jerk on his arm. “We’re going.”
