Seth sighed and rolled the window down. “Hey!” The man ignored him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Seth leaned out the window. “Hey, you, digging in the damn trash cans!”
The man turned about, every movement turtle slow. Seth watched as he did so, taking the old man in. His torso was a rainbow of coats, each one a different shade, only the filth and crust smeared across them tying the outfit together. Seth chuckled. In one hand, the man held a half-eaten burger from some local food joint, the yellow wrapper covered in grease and mold. In the other hand, he clasped a limp, black kitten, its fur tattered and ratty. Its head lolled over the man’s fingers, obviously long dead.
“That’s attractive,” Seth muttered.
“Just ask him.”
“Sure, let me yell out across the alley that we’re looking for drugs because that’d be fucking discreet.” He shook his head and waved the man over. “Come here a second, yeah?” He waved a twenty where it could be seen.
The old man hobbled toward the car, recessed brown—or black, Seth couldn’t tell—eyes peering out from under the wreckage of his hair, strands stuck to his cheeks, obscuring his features. His jaw opened and closed in constant motion, like he was chewing something or mumbling to himself. He staggered toward the car and Seth caught scent of him several minutes before he’d even drawn close.
“Daaaaamn,” Seth huffed, reaching over and turning the AC up in hopes of blowing away some of the stench. When he looked back, the old man was there, just outside his window. He stared without saying a word, shuffling from foot to foot as if barely able to retain his balance. “So, yeah, you know where to buy any dope out here, old man?”
The homeless man cocked his head to the side like a dog. Still, he said nothing.
Seth sighed. “That a no?” He pulled his hand back a bit, threatening to keep the twenty. “We’re just looking for a good dope spot, man. Help a brother out, yeah?”
The old man grinned, blackened, rotting teeth on full display. He chuckled and Seth eased back inside the vehicle, doing his best not to breathe.
“Sure,” he said after a moment, the word dragged out. “I know where you can find something.”
Seth waited, one eyebrow raised like a heavy metal Spock, waiting for the guy to tell them. After a minute of them just staring at each other, he finally cracked. “Yeah? You going to tell us, or what, man?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The man lifted the discarded burger to his mouth and took a big bite, tearing bits and pieces of paper right along with it, eating it all as if it were a delicacy. Masticated pieces fell from his open mouth as he chewed. A piece of wilted, green-black lettuce dangled from his ratty beard, jumping with every movement of his mouth.
“Fuck this!” Seth dropped the twenty out the window.
“No, wait,” the man said, dropping the burger and latching onto the car door so Seth couldn’t roll the window up. “I’ll tell you.”
“Today?”
The old man chuckled again. “Yeah.”
Seth grunted. “Then get on with it, man.”
“Yeah, I can tell you,” he repeated, shuffling in closer and lowering his head so his face was level with Seth’s, “but shouldn’t you be recording an album?”
It took a moment for the words to sink in.
“What the fuck?”
The old man smiled. “The new album. Shouldn’t you two be at Wex’s, getting the band together, and working on the new disc?”
Seth snapped his head to look at Sunny to see if she heard the man. Her wide-eyed, slack-jawed expression told him she had. Without even thinking about it, Seth popped the car in gear and hit the gas, but the Mercury sputtered and died without moving so much as an inch. All the dash lights winking and dying without fanfare.
“Oh, now you want to hurry?” the old man asked, his words wreathed in laughter. “Thought you wanted dope.”
Seth shrimped into his seat, staring at the old man. He clenched a fist, ready to bash the guy’s face in, but some niggling sense of self-preservation kept him from following through. “Who are you? Oh…wait…”
“Now you’re getting it.” The homeless man’s smile grew even wider, offering up a piranha’s grin of sharpened black teeth. “But you shouldn’t worry so much about who I am and you probably should worry more about where you’re supposed to be right now.” He straightened, shaking off the image of a destitute old man, his outfit wavering and warping before Seth and Sunny’s eyes. The multitude of coats shimmered and shifted, the rainbow ensemble melting away into a long leather duster that grew toward the ground. His pants transformed and his bare feet were covered in calf-high, shit-kickers before Seth could even comprehend the change. He glanced back up at the man and saw the same face he remembered from his nightmares, the man who had come to the them that night and offered Damaged the world on silver platter.
The same man Seth had seen just a week before, the one he’d begged for a new deal.
“Oh, fuck!” Sunny squealed. Seth heard her grabbing at the door handle but without power, there was no getting out of the Mercury.
“Oh fuck, indeed,” Lou said. Smoke rose up where his hand rested on the window, the scent of burnet rubber filling the car. “We have a deal, do we not?”
Seth nodded. He didn’t bother to see what Sunny did. The last thing he wanted to do was piss off the Devil. Too much rode on making him happy so he’d fulfill his end of the bargain Seth had struck with him.
“Yeah, we’re on our way now,” he said, doing his best not the meet the Devil’s eyes. “We were just…you know.”
“Then I suggest you do as expected. There is little time left to you. Should Damaged fail to honor its obligations…” He let the threat hang and lifted the dead cat to his mouth, taking a bite. Fur and stretchy red flesh peeled away in his teeth, dark, black blood spilling across his fingers, a crimson rivulet streaking his chin.
Seth’s stomach roiled and he heard Sunny gasp and start to choke. “Don’t you dare—” he started, turning to her just as she spewed her guts all over his floorboard, the warm, rancid stench hitting him like a tsunami. “Fuuuuuck.”
Satan laughed and tossed a bag of red and white-laced dope in Seth’s lap. “Get the album done,” he growled.
The devil pulled his hand from the car, the vehicle roaring to life as soon as it was gone. Seth didn’t wait for anything else. He slammed on the gas and peeled off down the alley.
It wasn’t until he was miles away that he noticed the scorched, black handprint that scored the paint on the door.
19
South of Heaven
Maximillian
Max hunkered in the bushes. Sweat dotted his forehead despite the cool evening temperature. We wiped it away with his suit sleeve.
He didn’t want to believe Nils—or Lord Bolvrkr, as the Norwegian man called himself, though Max would be damned if he followed suit—even after all the pictures and stories. There had to be some excuse, some explanation for them. Still, as much as he wanted to dismiss the things he’d seen, some part of him couldn’t help but believe. There was something…magical, if that was the word, about the band. No matter what they did, no matter how badly they acted in public or treated people or fucked up, ending up splattered across the tabloids, the offers just kept rolling in.
Wex had taken a shit on a contract by Paramount—literally, took a shit on it—because he didn’t like the actor they’d chosen to play him in the upcoming biographical movie they’d optioned. Still, a steaming pile staining the pages an ugly brown on top of their $12,000 boardroom table, the executives stayed put and offered Wex the choice of leads. They didn’t even bother cleaning the shit off the table before caving in and giving the band what they wanted. The contract was signed to the scent of Wex’s ass.
Max had sat there dumbfounded, barely able to believe that the heads of Paramount could ignore what the singer had done and still offer a contract, one even better than the one Wex had defiled. It defied explanation.
But
that was the way things were with Damaged. Every day there were offers being hurled at the band. So much so that Max had to decline most of them because there simply wasn’t enough time in the day to comply with them. The band would never have a moment’s peace if he took on everything offered. Never in his career of thirty years had he managed such a successful band, yet it was still the easiest job he ever had. He got to pick and choose the contracts they signed, and he earned his percentage off the top, and never once did he need to hunt down a deal.
But if what Nils told him was true, something he resisted believing until just now, all of that had been a lie.
The Norwegian chuckled, muffling the sound behind his scarred hand. “It would be impolite of me to say I told you so…”
Max ignored the man and stared across the yard, his gaze locked on the rectangle of brightness illuminating the dark night. There, just beyond the glass stood Wex and Michael. They argued, Michael pacing back and forth around the kitchen as Wex grinned stupidly. More likely drunkenly, Max thought. And there, between the two of them, splayed out across the tiles, was a woman. The unmistakable shimmer of blood surrounded her, too much to be healthy. Her arm stretched from her body, finger extended as if pointing at Wex. There was no mistaking the rigidity that told of her condition. She was dead.
“How did you…?”
Nils shrugged. “I didn’t know for sure this was what we’d find,” he admitted, “but I was certain we’d find something.” He chuckled again. “The deal they’ve made requires sacrifices. Blood sacrifices. It was only a matter of time until they were forced to do something more drastic in order to appease their master.”
“The Devil?” The name sounded bitter on Max’s tongue, unbelievable. This wasn’t some horror movie. It was real life. Things like this didn’t happen outside of Hollywood. Did it?
“Exactly that,” Nils answered, “and it will only get worse.” He pointed to the body cooling on the kitchen floor. “They’ve been doing this a long time and they’ve started to take the deal for granted.”
“What…what do you mean?” Max wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he had to. His stomach churned.
“They’ve stopped singing his praises.” Max listened as he watched Michael screaming at Wex through the window, the sound a muffled roar. “They’ve done nothing recently. No album, no tour, no anything that honors their master. They’ve been quiet for years, soaking in the benefits of the deal without giving their proper due, hiding their affiliation. Lucifer is a vain and jealous beastie. No matter how many platinum albums Damaged has, their songs are being relegated to the classics on the few metal channels out there, Liquid Metal being about the only one still playing them in regular rotation. Shawn the Butcher and Jose Mangin love these guys, but there’s so much new metal out there these days that Damaged is barely a footnote in the scene. Even those two dudes can’t keep the band relevant no matter how many questions they ask on Into the Trivia Pit.”
“The new album…”
Nils nodded. “Exactly. That’s why they need the new one. Their deal demands they sing the dark lord’s praises, scream his name from the rooftops or, in this case, in stadiums around the world. They haven’t been doing their part for a long, long time now, and he’s grown impatient.”
“How do you know all this?” Max asked, pulling his gaze from the dead woman spilling her blood in Wex’s kitchen.
“Right place, right time.” Nils grinned. “But that doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is that you, Maximillian August, are in concert with the Devil and his henchmen, whether you want to be or not.” He pointed to the window. “That girl’s death is as much on your shoulders as it is the band’s.”
Max spun on the Norwegian, letting his anger chase the sickness from his guts. “I’ve got nothing to do with this.”
“Ah, but you do. It’s you who’s been signing the deals that allow them to stay hidden, to creep through the shadows without giving their lord the praise he’s due. It’s you who facilitates their defiance.” Nils met his eyes and Max felt the cold chill of disgust spidering along his spine. “The Devil cares not for excuses or reasons. Either the band honors their contract or Satan destroys them, a warning to those who come after…and everyone who enabled them.” Nils poked Max in the chest with his index finger. “That means you.”
Max stumbled back, shaking his head. “No!” Once more he looked to the corpse. “I’ll go to the cops, tell them everything you told me, tell them what they’ve done. This isn’t my burden.”
“You can’t do that, Max,” Nils said.
“Why not? They’ve a damn dead body right there.”
Nils nodded. “Their deal protects them, at least as long as it’s still in effect. No matter the evidence, the facts will fall into place that this was an accident, a suicide maybe, the young woman killing herself because Wex scorned her or something similarly mundane. Lucifer will not allow his thralls to fall prey to such inanity, even if he is pissed at them. For all the press the murder would bring to the band—and Satan—he is better served by them being free to pursue their music, their subjugation of the impressionable youth. He will not let anyone stand between him and his goals. The contract forbids it. You ever wonder why no one’s sued the band all these years?”
Max sank to his knees, ignoring the wet grass that stained his suit pants. It made too much sense. “What…what then?” All this time he’d managed a group of killers, of real Satanists, and he hadn’t given it a second thought. It had all been an act, or so he’d told himself, yet the truth of what was going on was right there before his eyes. Even if what Nils told him wasn’t true, the band were killers, plain and simple. The evidence was right in front of him. Max couldn’t go to the police for fear of them blaming him for supporting Damaged, facilitating their darkness. The media would crucify him, and he’d never work again. “What…?” He couldn’t even finish the question.
“There’s a way to stop this, to stop them, once and for all.”
Max’s head snapped up to stare at the Norwegian, hope buoying his chin and giving him the strength to meet the man’s eyes. “How?”
Nils smiled, his sharpened teeth reflecting the window’s light. “While Lucifer will allow no outside force to alter what he has wrought, there is one thing that can bring their Satanic house of cards toppling down.”
“Tell me,” Max whispered.
Nils dropped to his knees in front of Max, his grin never wavering. “They must destroy themselves.”
20
Walk with me in Hell
Michael
Michael hated this more than the rituals. This girl had been an innocent victim of Wex’s violent tendencies, not some an animal they had been commanded to sacrifice. This had been a human being, and Michael was not only horrified, he was also an accessory to murder now, thanks to Wex.
Michael paced the living room after Wex had gone upstairs to get some things. He had told Michael he would be back in a few minutes with some stuff to cover her up for now and keep the blood from drying up until after the others arrived.
“What are you going to do after the ritual is complete? If you think I’m going to hang her in the shower and go Scarface, you got another thing coming,” Michael had said.
“Gross, bro. Can’t cut her up like that,” Wex had said.
“Glad to know where to draw the line,” Michael had muttered. This was so stupid. He should have gotten back in his car, called the cops, and then waited for them to arrive.
But then what? Wex in jail, no more rituals? No more music? What would happen to them?
He paced in front of a brown Italian leather reclining sofa. From the entryway, it had looked like a work of art. Up close, it was clear the piece of furniture was old and hadn’t been taken care of. Cracks in the rich leather met stains. The center seat’s head rest was a study in competing hair care products. It was stained so badly some spots were nearly black.
Michael put his hands on his hips and studied the mur
al on the southern wall. It was at least fifteen feet long and featured Damaged on stage in their prime. The faces were decent but their bodies had been embellished. Wex wore a torn black T-shirt and had bulging biceps and a full head of hair that hung around his shoulders.
Seth had his typical stance, right foot forward, head back so he was staring at the ceiling. His mural had him dressed in a bright white shirt covered in pentagrams. Sunny perched behind her drums with one hand raised, drumstick pointing upward.
Michael glowered at his own face on the wall. He stood to the side, far away from the rest of the band. While his features were accurate, someone had painted a little Hitler mustache on his face. He also held an old Les Paul, a guitar he hadn’t taken on stage since he was eighteen. Back then the old knock off was all he could afford.
The band played in front of many people who had fingers in the classic devil horns. Behind the band, the stage was surrounded by flames. The backdrop featured a bright image of a skull, surrounded by flames and weird symbols. A guitar neck had been smashed into the top of the skull so the headstock impaled the stage.
“What an asshole,” Michael muttered to himself, thinking of Wex commissioning this nightmare.
The back of his neck itched. He spun and looked out the big bay window half expecting someone to be standing there watching him. But the drapes were partially closed and the only thing out there was the dimly illuminated back yard. Just a bush and a tree looking back at him. No bogeyman.
Where the fuck was Wex?
Michael shook off the feeling of being watched and put the brown envelope back on the coffee table. Then he tried to rearrange everything so it didn’t look like he’d been nosing around.
“Wex!” He yelled.
Wex didn’t answer.
Michael moved back to the kitchen and looked down at the body. She was so small. He opened up cabinets looking for cleaning supplies. They’d need bleach or maybe something stronger. He had Giselle had watched a bunch of CSI shows but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how to get all traces of blood up.
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