by Lori Adams
“So, what look are we going for here?” Degan asks, handing over my mask. He is no doubt a court jester, with black leggings and the black-and-white-diamond smock. He peers through the matching eye mask.
I slip the antiquated mask over my head and adjust it to a clear vision. “Something in the steampunk style, I think,” I say offhandedly. I don’t care what I look like, as long as I don’t draw undue attention getting into this stupid ball.
“Never heard of it,” he says. His head tips up and down so he can inspect me from behind his mask. “It’ll do, but keep that hand in your pocket. Your Chelsea Light is still a bit erratic but definitely noticeable.”
I shove my hand into my pocket and then snuggle the coat around my thighs to hide my weapons.
“We’ll have to hurry,” Rama says. He can see the blue light pulsating through the material. It doesn’t blend with the rest of my costume and will most likely be noticed by anyone paying close attention. Degan agrees and tells Rama to stay along my right side. Any sort of camouflage will help redirect the light. Rama moves beside me in his toga, sandals, and Roman mask, looking very much like Julius Caesar. If Caesar had been fond of dreadlocks.
The moment we leave the chamber and step into the dark stone corridor we’re swept up in a rushing current of activity. The damned, in various costumes from the wild to the simply appalling, are moving as one, in one direction. A solid river with individual parts pushing and shoving. Our only option is to let ourselves get carried along with them.
The tunnel curves and dips and often splits into different directions. I grunt as we’re caught up in the tight hustle and bustle. Heads covered with hideous masks turn and look at us. I hear strange growling and snapping sounds and can only image what lies behind the masks. It would be a lie to say I’m not tempted to draw my dagger and cut them down. The dark energy stirs my blood and gives me impulses that I can’t afford to enjoy at the moment. I would like nothing better than to spill their evil blood. With concentrated effort, I smother my urges and put my mind on the task at hand.
“This way,” Degan says excitedly. He waves us forward as we enter a barrel-shaped cavern where several canals converge. Of course it’s not water in the canals but more molten lava. It’s pouring down the walls like glowing red globs that dump into tributaries leading to the system of canals. A moist red steam rises from the lava, giving the cavern an eerie, ominous atmosphere. Through the steam, I can see slaves in shackles using metal shovels to push the lava along, making sure the canals keep moving. The slaves, in ragged clothes and bare feet, are stooped and injured, their broken bodies glistening with sweat. The metal shovels sizzle, making the flesh on their hands burn and smoke. It’s torturous work. A horrendous existence. But it’s the blank looks on their shiny faces that cut through me, that profound absence of hope.
“Lost souls,” Degan says under his breath. “This is what they have to look forward to when they’re picked off by a soul seeker like me.” I turn and look at him, strangely curious. Why does Degan sound just as appalled as I feel?
My eyes shift beyond him to the horde, in their costumes and extravagant fanfare, rushing toward the boats.
“What about them?” I whisper.
Degan answers without breaking his gaze from mine. “They are the demons and the damned, bound to suffer in Hell. On their way to a party.” His voice is heavy with sarcasm.
“It’s backward,” I say with a fair amount of disgust. The idea that sinners can experience some amount of pleasure while innocent lost souls are made to suffer is revolting. I want to argue but this is not the time or place. Rama nudges my back, telling me to keep moving.
We walk slowly along the bank, making our way toward the docking area. There is a long line of strange boats resting in our immediate canal. Made from some peculiar metal that doesn’t melt in the heat, they vary slightly from one to the other but they all resemble some Viking vessel capped with gargoyles on each end. They are small, seating only five or six, depending on the size of the costume, so there is a lot of pushing and shoving to get on board. The bank along the canal is crowded and stretches far into the distance and disappears around the corner where I assume more boats wait. Keeping some order to it all are strange ape-faced creatures in black tuxedos and bare feet. They herd the masses into order with their hairy ape hands, three-inch talons, and jagged baboon incisors. When they bare their teeth and hiss, even the most monstrous creatures recoil and wait their turn.
The procedure seems basic enough; after the damned are loaded into a boat, the ferryman—some black-winged entity with translucent skin stretched too taut over its bones—pushes away from the bank. By way of gondola style, it moves them down the canal with an iron pole. There is not much of a current so it’s slow going. Their flapping wings help a little. The next boat to push off doesn’t get very far when a fight breaks out. Several of the passengers go after a companion in a white cape and white mask, beating him down until he submits to some accusation.
“I am the One!” their companion wails. “I can save you all!” The ferryman has heard enough. He draws his pole, red with fire from the canal, and shoves it through the man in white. He cries a sickening, gurgling sound that reverberates throughout the caves. Then, lifting the passenger with his pole, the ferryman tosses him into the canal. The body hits the boiling lava and bursts into flames. It writhes in a short, agonizing struggle before disappearing below the surface.
Degan looks back at me and says, “False prophet.” Then his eyes shift behind me and widen in surprise. “Shit!” He grabs my shoulders but I wrench around to look. The lost soul slaves have stopped working. Each one, some fifty odd along the opposite bank, are standing alert as though sensing something in the air. They are particularly sensitive to the supernatural world, things beyond the evil around them.
Gradually, one by one, they swivel their heads in my direction. I catch my breath. Colin Firth is among them! My gut twists in pain and my Chelsea Light throbs warm in my palm. My spiritual energy is stirring at the sight of a lost soul I failed to save.
Oh, God! I need to help him!
Like the other slaves, Colin makes the sign of the cross while his eyes rake over the crowd in search of the epicenter to the sporadic Chelsea Light they can sense. With the glove smothering and displacing its power, they can’t pinpoint just who in the crowd has the light. Colin doesn’t recognize me in this getup, but that doesn’t stop my urge to go to him, to help however I can.
Rama steps between us, cutting off my line of vision. “Get moving!” he whispers aggressively, his hawk eyes bearing down on me. If I’m exposed here and now, this will be over before it starts. For the first time, Rama is afraid, so I spin back around and shove Degan forward.
We push our way through the crowd, making enemies and gathering stares. Too many times I see a pair of eyes track us and then lower to look at my glowing pocket.
“We need to get on the next boat,” I tell Degan urgently. He agrees and approaches an ape-faced creature in charge. I try to stay calm. Even though the crowd is massive and we’re drowning in a cacophony of noise, it feels as though everyone is staring at my light.
I scan the bank along the next dock. The crowd there seems different from ours, more sophisticated and elaborate. Less pedestrian. Some of the costumes are stylish, and others downright gorgeous. The men look regal and the women are beautiful. Or at least their costumes are. Some even have a sense of humor; I swear I saw Darth Maul and Marilyn Manson.
“Go, quickly!” Degan says, thrusting me into the next open boat. I gain my balance and sit down. Rama hops in next to me and then Degan takes a seat on my left. He slips the ferryman something and then, without waiting for more passengers, we shove off.
We don’t speak for a while, just push along and allow the ferryman to gain momentum. He’s tall and gruesome, with fiery red coals for eyes. I wait until we are farther away from the lost souls before looking back. Their slave master has taken a whip to them, beating them
back to their task. Their agonizing cries claw at my ears. My eyes sting with tears and I can’t swallow around the lump in my throat.
The canal grows stuffy and narrow over our heads. We pass other boats being filled along other banks. Each dock the same, more colorful creatures in costumes that look more like a Tim Burton Halloween than a grand masquerade ball.
Degan says it’s the grand grotto, this giant cavern we’re heading toward. It’s supposed to be spectacular, in a sadistic sort of way. But getting there is like traveling through the guts of a rotten pumpkin: stringy veins webbing over our heads, globs of swollen pods threatening to fall on us. Several times we have to duck or risk getting slapped by the black decomposing sludge. Once that clears up, we pass an array of strategically displayed warnings, the first being a vast garden of white hands. Degan says it’s reserved for thieves who didn’t learn their lesson in Hell any better than they did on earth. The hands are buried up to the elbows, with fingers splayed like stiff blooms. Blood is in constant flow down the wrists because the rest of the bodies lie beneath the moving piles of subterranean critters slowly devouring them. On the opposite bank are rows and rows of naked bodies, black and blue and impaled on skewers like meat ready for a barbecue. Like rows of corn, they seem to go on forever. Some are still juicy, the rotten, bloated corpses bubbling with pus. Degan says this is the “waiting room” for those who have displeased The Order. I shudder to think what they will do to me if our plan fails.
On and on, the gruesome scenes come and go. Through the House of Daggers, with its naked sinners begging for forgiveness, to the hollowed-eyed greeter urging us on. Skin as dark as night, she wears a loose, red sarong over her bony frame and a giant wreath of dead flowers. We pass by her and head under an archway decorated with some ancient lettering.
Without looking up, Degan translates in a monotone voice, “We Who Devour the Ashes Await Yours.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
We finally move toward the dock, where we disembark and fall in line with the others, down a few tunnels of uneven terrain and dark alcoves with glowing eyes that shift to look at my pocket. The entrance becomes bottlenecked and we are momentarily stopped. The dark alcove to our right is occupied by something with wide, shimmering yellow eyes. They shift erratically and then hone in on my pocket. The yellow eyes narrow tightly with curiosity. I hold my breath. Rama goes stiff. Then he surprises me by turning and walking directly into the blackened alcove. I take a step toward him but stop as a flash of light streaks back and forth. This is followed by a sizzling sound and a hard thump. Rama reemerges, tucking a spiritual dagger inside the folds of his toga.
I didn’t even know he had a weapon. He moves in beside me and trains his eyes ahead. I don’t say a word.
Clearly, wearing the glove and curling my hand into a fist inside my pocket isn’t enough to hide my light. Playing a hunch, I open my hand, wiggle the Apoctastasis parchment aside, and press my palm tight against my thigh. The effect is similar to when I clasp my hands together; the light is absorbed into my skin. Rather than trying to deflect it, I’ll try to redirect it back into myself. There is a noticeable difference so it might work, if I can keep my hand flush against my leg.
We hear drums beating before we reach the entrance. Slow and methodical, the rhythm seems to be luring us in, as if we were all hypnotized and didn’t come of our own volition. By the time we pass the elaborate archway—a sophisticated carving of hundreds of serpents with dagger fangs—a low, evil chant rises with the drums. It swells into a haunting and dark melody that belongs on some ancient Mayan sacrificial playground. Evil enough to make my heart race.
The grand grotto is just that: a large cavern hollowed out by rivers of lava thousands of years ago. The bare remains have been carved to deliberately resemble a Gothic cathedral with a lofty, ribbed, barrel-vaulted ceiling. It reminds me that Dante once said Hell is steeped in tradition. Earthly aesthetics are highly coveted, and there is an intentional mirror effect of life below to life on the surface.
Yeah, well, it’s an epic fail. Just like everything in Hell.
Despite their best efforts, the cavern resembles the inside of some decaying mammoth rib cage. Towering stone pillars support arches that separate the main nave of sorts from two side aisles. Contorted, demonic gargoyle faces line the moist walls with their forked tongues and bulbous eyes that seem to watch our every move.
I detect the faint scent of cinnamon, and something else, wafting along the red fog that hovers around our feet. According to Degan, the seven-foot-tall candelabras dispersed throughout the cavern are made from human bones; the candles are a mixture of blood and paraffin. For years, red globs have melted down the candles, adding bulk to layers upon layers of glistening red plasma that reeks of death. The effect is a pale red glow that illuminates the grotto, as well as everyone packed inside it. The place is swarming with activity. I scrutinize everything and everyone, looking for Ka or Dante. I’m afraid it will be impossible to find them. At least at a glance.
All around the cavern walls are guards that I’m guessing work for The Order. They are big, covered with black and silver armor, and armed with swords and medieval-looking battle-axes. Everyone else is congregating in the center of the nave. The creatures and general damned, as I think of them, are fairly easy to dissimilate—the who’s who, or what’s what. Those creatures without humps, horns, claws, or tails are the general damned—lesser demons, reapers, and soul seekers. They can look relatively normal, as I remember from La Croix. It’s nearly impossible to tell them apart from the nobles. Add this to the fact that everyone is hiding behind repulsive masks or whirling around the dance floor, and our task becomes truly impossible.
“How will I ever find her?” I whisper to Degan. He is perched on his tiptoes, scoping things out. He’s not having much luck either.
“The best bet is to wait until The Order makes the announcement of their wedding. Then we’ll know for sure where she is.”
“Are you insane?” I snap, jerking him around to face me. “I have to find her, perform the spell, and leave before that! I can’t do it with everybody watching!”
Despite the loud music, we’re drawing attention, so Rama drags us under the arches of a side aisle. “We have to stay together, cha? Look for them, together. So we’ll move clockwise, back to front. Degan, keep an eye out for the guards that follow Ka.”
“Yeah, they’ll be easy to spot, unless they’re in costume,” he says. “Which I doubt. They always wear these freaky-ass skull helmets with bones across the mouthpiece. And they’re big. At least six-foot-seven and over two hundred fifty pounds. There are four of them and they should stand out a bit.”
Okay, so we have a plan. Stick together and find huge guards with freaky-ass skull helmets. Not a problem, except that some of the costumes are so extravagant, they rise well over seven feet: feathers, cones, colored wigs piled three feet high. Some look like they jogged off the savanna grasslands in full headdresses, a Zulu chieftain with a bright red and black wooden mask, complete with spear and loincloth. Others have strolled from the gardens of Versailles with powdered wigs, ruffled shirts, gold knee-pants, white stockings, and rigor mortis masks with protruding red tongues. Still others are like medieval knights with body armor, swords, lances, and full-face masks that resemble severely damaged visors.
I feel a surge of panic. Why didn’t I realize that it would be nearly impossible to find her before the wedding ceremony? Why didn’t I realize just how much attention my Chelsea Light would attract?
And then I see her, moving out of the corner of my eye. A vision of gold and cream, it has to be her.
I push the damned aside, tracking her as she strolls along the perimeter, among the masses that have yet to start dancing. I ignore Degan, who is hard on my heels, hissing at me to slow down. I have to know. I have to see. I weave through the crowded nave. A giant Amazon beast of a thing passes by, momentarily blocking my view, and then suddenly there she is, standing
in a gorgeous golden gown with a sparkling golden mask and delicate veil trailing down her back. She is breathtaking. Smiling. A beautiful bride-to-be with bright blue-green eyes that match my own, catching the attention of others who stop to admire her.
Then I hear her laugh. It’s a familiar, sultry sound that strikes horror in me. It’s not my laugh I recognize. Or even Ka’s laugh that echoes mine. It’s Lovaria I hear. Lovaria I am watching. I grope through my past-life memories, recalling the simple characteristics of the girl I once was: the tilt of her head, the shift of her hips, the pout of her mouth when she is being coy or flirtatious.
A sick feeling rocks my gut. Lovaria has overtaken my twin. She has consumed Ka and my soul, completely. They have become one, and I am standing on the outside as a bystander: the weak link. I suddenly don’t know if it’s within my power—or the power of the Apoctastasis spell—to ever make myself whole again.
