Dust (Hellsong: Infidels: Cris Book 3)

by Shaun O. McCoy

  Igraine stretches, and I see the pull of the black fabric across her modest breasts. “I do believe you are Cris.”

  I almost sigh in relief. This is my moment. I need to get out from under Keith’s thumb. Is Igraine worse than he is? Probably, but I have to try to play some cards here.

  “There are things I need to tell you,” I say. “Things I cannot share in public. I need to meet with you privately.”

  Igraine becomes truly amused now, and Keith’s head jerks toward me.

  “He’s an infidel!” Keith warns. “He escaped from Xyn’s prison when everyone thought he was beaten beyond the ability to move. Then he came back and killed Xyn.”

  Igraine gives her pouty-frown-face again for a half second. “He was no Infidel Friend when he was with Myla.”

  “He is dangerous,” Keith says. “If you alone must hear him, rupture a guard’s eardrums.”

  Durgan steps forward again. “It is known that when the infidels sense an Archdevil encroaching upon their territory, they call their men out. Then they send in someone like Endymion, or one of the Kin to slay the Archdevil. This is what happened in Maylay Beighlay, and Cris is the one who came. I do not know how he escaped from our cell, but I would consider him incredibly dangerous. I would not recommend you be alone in the same room as he.”

  Durgan stops, surely realizing he just played right into my hands.

  “La’Ferve,” Igraine’s voice is like honey. “Take the Order to a cell. And please, have someone prepare my home chamber. I want to speak with the . . . infidel,” and she laughs, “alone.”

  Guards, dressed in black with purple trim, flank me as I painfully limp my way through the halls behind Igraine’s stage. I’m not sure where she went, but she left shortly before I was taken away. The four of them stay close but do not put their hands on me. As we pass other slaves and soldiers, I do my best to pretend these guards are an escort, not a prison detail.

  I’m unsure if it helps.

  The halls themselves are Carrionesque. The black hellstone is interrupted by deep purple bricks. In this inner sanctum, all of the stone faces have been polished. I see a dark reflection of myself limping alongside me.

  Hang tough there, little reflection. I’ll see what I can do to get us out of this.

  The people we pass in the halls are almost always robed women, priestesses of some kind or another, and quite a few of them are Little Ladies. There are men walking around as well, but they’re not the soldier type. I believe they’re a flavor of slave—but are well fed, oiled, and almost always nude. When they’re wearing anything at all, it’s usually some sort of jewelry, or boots, or wrist brace—something to highlight their nudity rather than cover it.

  Torchlight shines out from behind a bend in the corridor before us, and when we take the turn, I see a silver double door. The right one’s ajar.

  “You may enter,” one of the guards says.

  My heart goes apeshit in my chest. I reach out and grab one of the silver handles, brace myself on my good foot, and pull. It opens easily on greased hinges.

  I behold Igraine’s chamber.

  For Igraine, I realize, some of the old world rules still apply. You could tell a lot about a woman from her room back up there. In Hell, a girl’s home is mostly a thing of necessity, but when she has this much power, I’ve no doubt her chambers say a good bit about her.

  The floor is covered by hound hides, their even cut and brushed fur giving me the impression of carpet. The hounds they’d chosen were black with red fringes, and the arrangement makes the accented colors look like veins in marble. The left wall, save for a squared off extension, is made of either ironglass or steelglass. Behind it, water, lit up with blue and purple hues, gently flows.

  This is one of the light sources of the room.

  The other is the right wall, beyond which seems to flow a slow river of molten lava. That would mean it had to be steelglass or something even stronger. It couldn’t be lava, could it? It must be some sort of illusion.

  But nonetheless, heat radiates from the right wall, while cold air comes from the left. The differences in temperature are not unpleasant, and the mixed lighting means that all the furniture and statues in the room are colored in both cool and hot tones.

  The furniture has almost certainly been cannibalized from the ancients. Divans, a few lounge chairs and couches make separate blocks where people might come to sit and talk in groups. Some seats, and what might have been an early version of a futon, surround a dinner table. The arms of the chairs are often carved into the faces of men, or gods, or mythological beasts. The embroidery on the seat backs and cushions are almost always gold, and are filled with flowers, and trees, and strangely, some have spiderwebs. Cupboards, their doors inlaid with glass so I can see the fine dishes beyond, line some of the walls.

  In the extension on the left wall, I see her bed. It’s a four poster, a fully-canopied Emperor-sized mattress with old world sheets.

  At one table sits Igraine.

  She is perhaps even more striking up close. Her blonde hair smoothly drapes across one shoulder, tumbling down her back in a series of loose curls. Not one of those hairs is out of place.

  Her arms are completely feminine, long, and graceful—smooth enough to hide any cut of muscle, but shapely enough to be devoid of any excess fat. Adorning her is the same black and purple dress she wore on the throne. She’s simultaneously both at ease and holding herself with perfect posture, one long smooth leg crossed over the other. Again I find the sandal-like ties, which rise from her high heels and snake around her shapely calf, strangely seductive.

  She’s wearing makeup, I believe, because her eyelashes are probably too long and too dark to be natural. Her lips, their color deepened by the light of the magma, are a deep red and her blue eyes belie a great intelligence.

  “You may close the door behind you,” her high, supremely confident voice intones.

  I do as she suggests, happy to put a closed door between myself and the guards.

  On the table before her, just inches away from her manicured fingernails, lies a pistol.

  With a parsimonious yet supple gesture, she motions to the room around me, perhaps giving me permission to take the rest of it in.

  The statues here suit my neoclassical aesthetic and are either renaissance or were carved by the ancients. At first I think they must be later sculptings, not just because of the preternatural skill, but because the women are slender and muscular. In the old world, the Greeks and Romans generally preferred a less fit feminine body type. But I begin to suspect Hell changed what they wanted in a woman. You see, the renaissance artists tended not to be very athletic, so when they sculpted men standing in contrapposto, their subjects seemed off balance. But the Greeks, and the Romans after them, had no such trouble. I think they understood the position as a modified fighting stance, but whatever it was, their subjects didn’t look like they were going to tip the fuck over.

  The skill here is truly extraordinary, and I almost jump when I see a face I recognize. One of these men has been carved to look like Ares. And, in the odd way that the Romans would, he was made to look like the God Ares, his shield crested with a vulture and a hound.

  Then I see the Infidel’s statue.

  I had seen him once in Soulfall, or at least a reflection of him, but this one is so much more real. The man who carved this piece of art, I realize, must have been looking into the actual Infidel’s eyes.

  The Infidel is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. His face the most human. His hair short and unstyled. About his shoulders hangs the carved representation of robes—but I stop looking as I’m caught by the statue’s eyes. Devoid of color, as is the rest of his marble visage, I nonetheless sense there is something unimaginably powerful behind them. Unlike old world statues, the individual details of the man’s iris had been represented here in the grey on grey stone. Maybe it’s the limit of the abilities of the sculptor which leaves the nature of the Infidel’s emotion opaq
ue to me. Maybe. But this much I can tell, whatever the infidel was thinking, however he was feeling, it was . . . world changing. Mind boggling. An epiphany of a sort. Of the sort I’d once felt from Cid and Q.

  There’s a similarity between all the Infidel Friend, and I’m beginning to realize it doesn’t stem so much from their culture as it does from this man. It is his likeness in some way stamped onto their minds, or their moralities, or their bodies.

  And in a way, it’s the part of them I admire the most. The strength. The capability. The compassion. But there is something else they carry. A willingness to coldly turn their backs on what might be our greater calling. But does that stem from him? Or is that something the desperation of Hell implants upon survivors?

  Igraine’s voice reaches my ears from where she sits behind me. “It must be a terrible burden for you infidels, to worship a man in place of a god.”

  And I think about this. Is it?

  Surely, as a person, he must have some biases or weaknesses. He must have at some point acted with caprice. A god with human failings would be a terrible thing indeed . . . but then again, I’d never heard of a god who didn’t have human failings.

  I’d asked to be alone with her for a reason. This is it. I’ve got to play my bluff, my gambit, because it’s my only chance.

  “Is it?” I ask without turning around. “He answers more prayers than most gods.”

  Because I’d bladed my wrist when Fin tied me, I should be able to slip my hand out. I became aware of the trick from working with an illusionist on Earth, but I can’t remember how I’m supposed to get my wrist free. Is it thumb first? No, that didn’t work. I try to keep my motions small so she doesn’t know what I’m doing. Pinky first. Nope. Thumb? Pinky? Each attempt slides my hand farther out. Got it.

  I drop the ropes to the ground at my feet as I turn. Then, steeling myself with the strength of the stone man behind me, I take my first step toward her. My ankle explodes with pain, wanting to give way, but I won’t let it. Each step is agony, but the sudden narrowing of her eyes as she sees me, unbound and walking unwounded, makes the excruciation worth bearing.

  I sit down at the table across from her.

  “Keith doesn’t know why I’ve come,” I tell her, “and it’s very important that you listen to me extremely carefully.”

  Her composure isn’t really lost, but she’s frozen, a tableau of elegance instead of its living, moving embodiment. Then, after a few long seconds pass, she puts her hand on the gun and spins it on the table.

  “Okay,” she says, “Cris with no ‘h.’ You’ve got my attention.”

  Cid had perfect posture, but Q didn’t always, instead sometimes carrying himself in a languid and relaxed manner. Ares, I remember him having, well, both at the same time, which probably isn’t possible. Given the choices on offer, I opt to emulate Q. First, he was the guy who trained me, after all, and secondly, it’s not like I had enough energy to go all Emily Post on this bitch. I lean back into my seat and do my best to exude confidence.

  My ankle is shouting, “What the fuck did you just do that for?” he must be saying. “There was no reason to walk on me like that.”

  He’s very shortsighted, my ankle.

  I hear a perfunctory double knock on her door.

  She raises her chin just slightly. “Enter.”

  A gorgeous man steps into the room. Like the statues here, he’s slender, and I can see he’s got a good build. It is, however, an odd kind of muscle definition. His body still looks smooth and soft. His left side is illuminated in rippling blue, his center purple, and his right in red. In none of those hues do I see much in the way of veins. There is none of the excessive bulk of muscle that comes with body building, nor the harsh cut that comes with functional athletic strength. He’s a pretty boy, in the gym for looks and nothing more.

  I don’t think any of the men she’s held in thrall would have had trouble finding pornography gigs in the old world, and this one is no exception. Igraine, it appears, is a size queen.

  Blue eyeshadow surrounds his eyes, and his lashes have been darkened with some artificial substance. In his right arm he carries a tray. On it is a decanter of bloodwater, some sinfruit and some bread.

  Moments after I see the platter, the smell of the bread hits me.

  My stomach ruins the illusion of my infidel demeanor by growling angrily.

  Traitor.

  The slave walks over, toe touching before heel as if he’s some kind of dancer, gracefully placing the tray on the table between us.

  “Two glasses, Methadonis,” Igraine orders.

  He’s got zero control of his facial expressions because I can immediately tell he’s become perturbed.

  “You said we could drink together,” he whines.

  “I like to indulge you, my sweet, but your Domina has business.”

  He pouts like a three-year-old and, with about as much passive aggressive clanking as a person can muster, fetches two glasses out of a cupboard and pours us some bloodwater. My cup is noticeably under-filled.

  “Now, Meth,” she says in a husky and, if I’m reading her right, somewhat aroused voice, “You don’t want me to be harsh with you. Treat our guest right.”

  He glares at me, and reluctantly pours more into my glass. It’s just a shade below the level of Igraine’s.

  “Meth?” she says lightly.

  He’s stirring at her voice, which is making me slightly uncomfortable, but—no, no it doesn’t, because infidels do not care about nudity.

  He pours more, and if he’s shorted me at all, I cannot tell.

  “You are excused,” Igraine says.

  “But—”

  “Do you want another session with Maab?” Igraine asks in a firm tone.

  His eyes widen, and his testicles raise quickly at the mention of Maab.

  “No, Domina.”

  “You want to be a good boy, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Domina.”

  He leaves in a hurry, closing the door behind him.

  Keith’s boys had spoken of Maab and mentioned she might lead a coup. This should be a good opportunity for me to play infidel, and while their information might not be accurate, this is all a longshot anyway.

  “Maab will try to remove you soon,” I say, testing the waters while doing my best to avoid looking at the bread. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Igraine reaches out and breaks the bread in two. “Do you infidels ever stop? Must you always try to destroy us from the inside?”

  She hands one half of the bread to me and then begins to cut up the sinfruit.

  My belly gives out a roar.

  Okay, stomach, buddy of mine, this is how it’s going to work. I’m going to pull a chunk off this bread and eat it as if I’m just barely hungry. Hell, I’m not even hungry at all. I’m just eating this shit to be polite. Got it?

  I pull off a chunk and place it in my mouth. I chew it as my stomach continues to commit mutiny. Hey, your life’s on the line too, bud.

  “We can stop escalating your internal strife,” I say, “and in return maybe you could stop keeping slaves.”

  As poised as ever, she takes a sip of her bloodwater. “I tolerate you infidels because some of you are women,” she says. “And because you make the lives of the Order miserable, and I enjoy seeing that. And because you often have information. But rest assured, it is only a matter of time before I get angry and send my tribes to expunge you from the Carrion. You’re weak here, you know that, don’t you? Do you know why?”

  Because who the fuck would want to live in the Carrion?

  “I’ll bite,” I say, popping another piece of bread in my mouth, “why?”

  My stomach, finally silent, seems to be getting on board with the plan here, and it’s about damn time.

  “Because your strategy, your thinking, your very way of being is too masculine.”

  I shrug. “It’s sexy, though.”

  Her face becomes a rictus sneer of disgust. “The opposite. M
en are too dumb to know how to face the devils. It’s in your damn balls, all that testosterone. You just have to go out there and fight the evil mano a mano. But that’s not the best way to live in damnation. You must bend rather than stand firm. You must never face the devils directly. You have to let them wash around you, and not touch you. You must hide and furtively leave your sanctuary only to find food and supplies. This is how you survive in Hell, Cris with no ‘h.’ No other way will do.”

  I take a sip of my bloodwater.

  Holy fuck it’s wine. It’s actual fucking wine. This is terrible. I hate wine, and I’m wasting an entire glass of it. Damnation is literally filled with assholes who enjoy this stuff, and here my good-for-nothing ass is, pretending to like it.

  The fire hits my stomach, and our current understanding holds . . . though just barely.

  I take another bite of bread to still the fire in my esophagus and the upcoming bitching of my guts.

  “You and I are in fundamental disagreement on femininity, then,” I say.

  “Oh?”

  “In my view, the ideal woman doesn’t have much use for sex slaves. It’s a little bit, uh, rapey.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Your kind have caused no end of death, and the only way to keep you from murdering others with your own overinflated sense of machismo is to keep you in chains. That’s not a duty I take lightly, or even want to perform.”

  I take a bite of sinfruit, letting the sweet juices roll around in my mouth.

  Now I realize why my stomach has been quiet. It’s posing me with quite another form of mutiny. I feel pressure building in my abdomen and pressing against my asshole.

  I’m deciding this right now, oh stomach of mine, we are not shitting. Infidels do not soil themselves.

  “So this what’s-his-name, Methadonis, he’s free?”

  She nods. “He is. He chooses to be this way. Those men can do as they choose.”

  “Unless of course, he chooses to be male? Or disobey you?”