“All back,” it said.
I drew my fingers down through the goo. When I raised my fingers at the end they were completely dry. The stuff did not stick at all.
“More. Give liffe, Liffer. Give liffe.”
I had no idea what it meant, but more curious now than disgusted, I repeated the motion. This time I touched the black spot. It felt different, smoother. And it moved. I jerked my hand back.
“No sstop. Give liffe.”
I stroked again. The black shape wriggled under my fingers. Tiny legs appeared. Oh, man. With each stroke the shape swelled and became more animated. I forgot about the goop. Fascinated, I watched a miniature Golem take form. Soon, it raised its head and began to struggle with the goo. I slipped both hands under it and raised it up. The goo slid off, leaving it dry and glossy. Its color lightened to match my hands. I set it down on the rock.
The larger golem lay still for a minute; I thought it might be dead. Then it slithered to the floor. Still covered with goo, it waddled tiredly to a far corner of the room. It raised up on its stubby legs and shook from head to tail. The goo sloughed off. Within seconds tiny furry creatures appeared from tiny holes and began eating the goo. The Golem snatched one up in its mouth and dropped it in front of the “baby” Golem. The little one ate it.
I sat back and took in the last ten minutes. Damn, there was something I never thought I'd put on my resumé—Golem obstetrician. I had a hundred questions—from how do baby Golems get started to where do they go when they grow up? Mama, or Papa, or Mama/Papa Golem had no time for them and neither did I.
“You have given liffe,” it said. “Have paid pricce. I sshow you to FFire Cliffss, now.”
“What about the little one?” I asked.
“Iss ssaffe. Come, now.”
Good luck, kid, I thought. Godfather to a Golem. There was something Destiny couldn't claim, I bet.
The Golem set a quick pace. I followed it through innumerable passageways, right, left, up, down. I began to sense a rhythm to the jets of flame that lit our way. Like something very big breathing. I didn't want to think about that. Though the cave walls seemed more forgiving than regular rock.
A five foot drop at the end of a passage and we were there. The normal stink of Hell was roses and lavender compared to the Golem's quarters. I almost swooned at the thrill of it.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You pay pricce,” the Golem said. “I sshow way.”
“I may want to come back with one other. Is there another price to pay?”
“Always pricce to pay,” it said. “You give liffe. Already pay. Call, I come.”
“What is your name?”
“Desstiny call Heyjoe.” Destiny. Great. “What call you?”
“Getter.”
“Yess. I know Getter.”
“How....?” It was gone. And coming toward me were two of Mephisto's elite guards.
Chapter Thirty-seven
The hole Heyjoe left me in was eight feet above the ground. I ducked back in. The Guards missed me, though they were alert, for Hell guards in general, and looking. These were not just some slacker privates in the regular demon army. They were Devil Demons. Sharp faced, sharp toothed, pointy eared, armored demons in the classic mode, whose favorite pastime, after torturing souls, was sharpening the point at the end of their tails.
Every section of Hell has its own weather and time. Night had fallen over the Fire Cliffs. There was no reason for the darkness that I could figure except to bring out the drama of the jetting fire. It was spectacular. And the dark gave me cover. Neither I nor the Find detected any more Guards close by. I dropped out, ran to the larger boulders, and made my way along them.
Mephisto held Sneaker, expecting me to try and rescue her. He might have told the Guards not to see me even if they had. Let me get close. Then snag me red-handed. I had to snag Sneaker out of a trap I knew waited for me. The problem was I didn't know how smart Mephisto was. Could he figure out what I would do, knowing I was thinking about what he was thinking about what I was figuring he would figure out? Too confusing for me. Go in from the side, keep my ears and eyes open, figure it out as I went along.
A quarter mile from the cliff exit I moved into the jumble of rocks and headed in full stealth mode toward Mephisto's camp. From ten feet up, I peered between two smaller rocks at Mephisto's camp.
I saw one big tent, gaudy with red, green, yellow, and black swirly stripes, two slightly smaller ones on each side of it and about twenty-four demon tents circling an open area. In the middle of the area stood a crude stone cross blackened by smoke. Sneaker hung from it, arms bound to the crossmember, feet a foot off the ground. My heart rose as my stomach sank. I inspected her with my mini binoculars. No movement. Bloody, beaten, coveralls ripped and ragged. In the uneven light from the Fire Cliff flames, I couldn't tell if she lived.
I had to look away and calm myself. Charging down in a rage would not help anybody, except Mephisto. She had to be alive. Dead bait in a trap wasn't very effective.
I inspected her again, then the surrounding area. On the far side of the camp I spied a group of large shadows. It took a moment to recognize Demon Horses. Truly a beast to be afraid of, they made Clydesdales look like ponies. Fast and dangerous, they'd make a run across the Styx Plain a fool's rush. Most of the small tents were dark and quiet. One of the bigger tents emitted light and rough laughter and the clunk of stone cups on stone tables. A Guard staggered out, cup in hand. He stumbled over to Sneaker.
I drew my gun, with its two rounds left, and tensed.
The Guard spoke to her. No answer. He spoke again. Poked her with a claw tipped finger. Fresh blood dripped from her chest. Still no response. The Guard slapped her few times and walked away with disgust.
Sneaker raised her head and silently spit at his back.
She was alive! That was Sneaker all over, alive and spitting. I willed her to look at me and know help was there. She struggled against her bonds while looking around, then went limp. I searched for the danger she saw. I saw nothing. Figured someone watched her from the farthest big tent.
The Guard went into the rocks close to me, probably looking for an impromptu latrine. With a plan in mind, I followed.
Seeing him up close, I let some of the rage through. Part of the Hell Cop Code is to leave as little trace as possible. Something I hadn't lived up to on that trip. I've killed demons in self-defense, never in cold-blood. I needed the anger to do what I had to do.
Devil Guards are only vulnerable to a blade at the front of the throat. Their armor is made from a composite of Spine Pine sap and Ironweed grass. My gun firing Hellshot might penetrate. Any blade I could wield, never. A hard collar protected the back of their necks.
I had to dispatch him quickly and quietly without allowing myself to think about it too much. He walked past me. I knocked his feet out from under him with my staff. He fell backward. I grabbed his sword as he fell. Spun, and caught him under the chin with the blade. He was dead as he hit the ground.
Thankfully the killing only took one blow. I don't know if I could have struck again. He was a demon who with glee would have tortured and killed me or Sneaker. I still didn't feel good about it.
I threw down the sword and began the grim process of taking what I needed. Ten minutes later I strolled behind the larger tents as if I belonged there. The armor was light weight, but loose, having been made for a demon four inches taller and a lot broader than me. I passed behind the biggest tent, heard voices, stopped to listen.
Mephisto's voice, not happy, “Find them. I want to know what happened to them. They or you will go to the fires.” A phone crashed down.
“What happened?” another voice said. Familiar?
“Two Pragons from the attack are unaccounted for.”
“Do ye think it's him?”
I stopped breathing. Though muffled, I knew that accent. Scottish. Old Scottish.
“Maybe, but I think he would be more likely to sneak in than try
a full assault.” Mephisto had that right.
“You do think he'll come, then?” Gregory? How did he get here? Why is he here? What happened to the others?
“He'll come,” Mephisto said, sure of himself. “Those Lifers think so much of life. They have no appreciation of the pleasures of death.”
“Aye, having been alive and now dead, I quite agree.” No, not Gregory, the voice older, colder.
“Yes, you would. The screams of the young soul I sent to you were quite satisfying. No, Getter will come, and I will catch him, and he can watch me cut off the head of the one he loves, like he did to my daughter.”
“Aye, General, I know how ya feel. I had a boy once who took advantage of my daughter. I made sure he suffers in Hell now and forever.”
Not Gregory. The man who murdered him, McFetter. Now thrown in with Mephisto. Gregory will not be happy to learn that, I thought. There was a silence inside while I controlled my desire to march into the tent and shoot both of them.
A bottle clinked against glass inside.
“Thank you, General,” McFetter said. “May I make a request of you? A few minutes with the woman before she dies? I owe Hell Cops something. The scream of a live one will be so much more satisfying than those from a dead soul.”
“When I catch Getter, maybe I will grant your request.”
“Your trap will work, do you think?”
“Yes, it will. Patience, McFetter. You must learn patience.”
Another Guard, who looked like he really belonged there, came into view. I moved along.
“Hey, Private.”
I thought the Guard behind me had caught up. To run was useless. I stopped, gripped the hilt of my sword.
“Right face, you idiot!”
The voice came from the rocks on my right. I peered into a narrow space about four feet off the ground. A small Guard without his armor peered out at me over a gray cloth. If he hadn't called to me I'd have walked right by him.
“Get me a mug of Brimstone beer from the mess tent. I ain't sitting here for eternity watching that Lifer without a praised beer to suck on. You get that, Private?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir? I ain't no Sir. What kind of Guard are you can't recognize a Sergeant First from an officer?”
He leaned forward, face a foot from mine. Two seconds, he knew I was no Devil Guard. He opened his big mouth to yell. I glanced right. The Guard behind me was gone. I drew my sword and thrust it into the dark, narrow space.
The Sergeant's expression expressed his astonishment. His two clawed hands grasped the blade and yanked it out of his chest. Then, with a sigh, he settled back and died. I had no time to debate matters of self-defense with myself. I replaced the cloth and turned away.
No alarm blared, no hue and cry went up. Nobody had seen me except Sneaker. I moved to the edge of the tent and removed my helmet. Sneaker's astonishment matched the Guard's. Suddenly she dropped her head and hung limp.
Two Guards stumbled a circuitous route from the mess tent to Sneaker. One lifted her head, then let it drop when she remained unresponsive. They moved on.
Sneaker looked at me, looked around the camp, then shrugged a question as well as she could tied to a cross—What are you waiting for?
I waited because the two Guards, drunk as they were, had avoided the same area in front of Sneaker as the first drunken Guard had. A coincidence or a trap? If one trap, the watcher, why not two?
The camp was quiet. I replaced my helmet, scanned the space with my Find, and quickly walked toward Sneaker. I avoided the same area as the Guards had and stepped right into trap number two.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Demons are alive. They have their own life force and when they die they lose that life force. Where that force, or soul, goes when they die, I don't know. Possibly they have their own Heaven and Hell with unique angels and demons of their own.
The life force of Demons is different from the life force of Lifers. It is detectable by the Finds. Many of the creatures of Hell can also tell the difference by some esoteric internal sensor. Some that rely on concealment to obtain their prey have learned to mask their life force from detection. That's why my Find did not warn me of the Cage Spider waiting for a Lifer life force to pounce on.
As I stepped on the buried beast, the thing jumped up from under ground, snagged my leg, and yanked me into its shallow pit. Then it stood over the hole, legs forming bars. Its solid, flat body pressed me down. I heard a short scream from Sneaker, a grunt from me, a deep satisfied laugh from Mephisto.
“You see,” McFetter said. “I told you a raid on Sanctuary would get you the Lifers you sought.”
Mephisto's horned feet appeared in my limited view. He kicked dust in my face, rather childish I thought.
“And I told you, McFetter,” Mephisto said, pleased with himself. “He'd fall for my trap.”
Mephisto knelt down so he could see me, and I could see him gloat. “So, Getter, no smart remarks? No running away with little souls that belong to me?”
“The souls belong to Satan, not you,” I said.
“HA! You know nothing. Satan's just an old demon sitting up in his Golden Palace reliving past triumphs over and over and over again. He doesn't care about one little soul, or two sneaky Hell Cops, or managing Hell the way it should be—hard and painful and scary. And no more letting you damn Hell Cops come here and take souls that belong to me. I run Hell now.”
He had a truly evil glint in his big red eyes. He didn't run Hell yet, or he'd be lounging up in the Golden Palace barking orders and torturing Hell Cops.
“Does Satan know that?”
“He will when I take over. What's it to you? You'll be in too much pain to care. Then you'll be dead.” He leaned in close to emphasize his point. “Like my daughter.”
A three inch claw extended from his finger. He reached in and, grinning, drew it across my throat. Then he stroked the spider's hairy head. “Release,” Mephisto said.
The spider didn't like that idea. It wanted to eat me, taking two weeks to do it. As it lowered its head, a drop of liquid dripped from its left mandible on to my cheek. It felt ice cold. If it bit me I'd be paralyzed, but still feel the pain as it randomly ripped me apart.
“Release!” Mephisto kicked the spider. It scrunched up into a ball, rolled a short distance, then sprang to its clawed feet. “Go eat a soul. Damn thing,” Mephisto said.
The spider raised and lowered his heavy body several times while staring with arachnid impassivity at the group watching it. Otherwise it did not move. Even Mephisto did not have complete control over an insect, and he knew it.
“Go ahead and take your mate with you,” he said, waving his arm dismissively.
Another Cage Spider emerged from the ground behind Sneaker. From the reaction of the Guards they hadn't known about it. The two spiders scuttled off into the night.
I climbed out of the pit, dusted myself off. Guards were all around us. They took my equipment. They must have thought my fists were clenched in fear of their bad selves, not because I was hiding something. In short order they erected another cross next to Sneaker and lashed me to it.
I got a good look at McFetter when he shoved his face in mine and looked me over. He had a thin body and a fat head. His face was square with craggy eyebrows over wide set hard eyes and a pushed in nose. It was the face of a man who had probably never loved anyone in his life, let alone death. “Aye, you're the one was with Gregory, the damned little bastard.”
“You're the damned one,” I told him. “Not Gregory.”
He slapped me.
“He defiled my daughter. He tried to take my daughter away from me.”
“Having you as a Father was probably no picnic. Maybe she wanted to leave?”
He slammed my head against the cross with the palm of his hand. Anger boiled in me. For a few seconds I tried to break off the arms of the cross and beat him to a bloody pulp that would take a thousand years to flow into the River of Souls.
“Never! She was my daughter. It was her duty to stay.”
Despite my vulnerability I couldn't keep quiet. “Maybe she wanted love and freedom instead of duty and abuse.”
He whipped out a knife and held it to my neck. “Aye. She got her freedom, she did. From this.”
He was only a soul, but the knife was real. I felt the sting of the blade slice through my skin. I curbed my tongue before he cut it out.
His Scottish accent grew thick with anger. “Nothing more to say? Damned righteous Hell Cop. I was a good one, ye know. Aye, I got my souls to the Gate. But ye noble Hell Cops were always quoting the Code and giving grief about what I did to the other poor, damned souls. They're in Hell for a reason, boy, to be tormented and to suffer. I just gave them what they deserved.”
His eyes glistened with evil, and he turned them on Sneaker. He stood in front of her. He looked her over, barely able to contain his desire to make her pay for the disrespect he thought Hell Cops had shown him. His hands roamed her body, squeezing, stroking.
Hell Cop Code or no, I swore I'd cut off his hands. If the daggers from Sneaker's glare didn't do it first.
“Can I have her now?” McFetter asked Mephisto, his voice breathy with craving.
“Patience,” the General said. “Let the desire build in you, and the fear in them.” He took hold of McFetter's arm. “Go, have a drink. No hurry.”
As McFetter headed toward the striped tent, Sneaker said, her voice rough with dryness, “I won't scream, McFetter. You'll never make me scream.”
McFetter went for her. Hate disfigured his face. Mephisto grabbed him with one hand, threw him backward where he landed in a heap.
Mephisto approached Sneaker. Her feet hung a foot off the dirt. Even so, Mephisto stood over a foot taller than her. She seemed a child next to him. He stood very close. Gentle as a kiss, he brushed the hair from her face with a claw. He stroked her cheek, tilted her head back for her to see his eyes. His hips rubbed against hers with an unmistakable slow rhythm. Their eyes locked. The back of his huge hand caressed her breast. She rose and fell against the cross in response to the press of his hips. She bit her lip. She did not flinch. She did not turn away.
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