Torment_Caulborn 6

by Nicholas Olivo

  The red and blue lights on Croatoan’s shell flickered as Megan said this, as if in annoyance.

  “We think,” Xavier said, “that this facility may be Treggen’s only chance. The clones he’s been using are temporary shells. Any damage they suffer reduces them to ash almost immediately. This facility is likely his only hope of creating a permanent body. Croatoan, the surviving information implies that a being was imprisoned within this facility. What can you tell us about this being? Can it be reasoned with? Could it be persuaded to side with us against Treggen?”

  “Oh, who gives a damn?” Croatoan said, and his voice had completely changed. Gone were the high-pitched, scraping tones, replaced by a much smoother, much more sinister voice. “Xavier, you are one of the most aggravating people I’ve ever come to know, and I’ve been around for thousands of years.”

  “Treggen,” I whispered.

  “Very good, Corinthos,” Croatoan-Treggen said. “I’d applaud if I had hands. Here.” A beam of light shot from the ball and fell on Xavier’s computer. A file called golfClap.mp3 opened onscreen, and the sound of polite applause came from the speakers.

  Xavier had sprung up from the table and was reaching for the door, no doubt to raise an alarm. But before he could go any further, a beam of green light shot from Croa-Treggen and blew a hole through the back of Xavier’s head. There was no blood splatter, no gore, as the energy blast had neatly cauterized the wound. The Inquisitor dropped to the floor, the smell of cooked meat hanging in the air.

  Two separate trains of thought spun out in my head. The first was shock at Xavier’s sudden demise. The Inquisitor and I were far from close, but I’d genuinely come to respect him. The bulk of my mind, however, was focused on how to get out of this. If I distracted Treggen, maybe Megan could conjure her transdimensional pocket cannon and—

  “As for you two,” the malevolent bowling ball hissed, “you will sit quite still.” A green beam blossomed and settled between Megan’s breasts. “You wouldn’t want to risk breaking your promise, would you, Corinthos?”

  I swallowed. Of course Treggen would know about the promise. He’d been riding along inside Megan’s head for who knew how long. He’d probably been there when I’d made it, when I’d promised Megan that she would be fine.

  Megan, for her part, had assumed her diplomat’s mask. “What is it you want, Treggen?” she asked, her voice level and cool.

  “What do I want?” Treggen repeated. “Now, that question has an undefined scale to it. I want a grilled cheese sandwich, made with sourdough bread and perhaps a side of waffle fries. I also want a stomach and mouth with which to enjoy said sandwich, as I no longer have those.”

  What the hell? This wasn’t the Treggen I knew. It sounded like he had a screw knocked loose.

  “I meant what do you want from us?” Megan asked, her tone still even and controlled.

  Treggen laughed. “You are a darling, Megan Hayes. I know how terrified you must be right now. You only display that level of calm when you’re nearly crawling out of your skin. I’ve lived in that pretty little head of yours, I know every trick you have, every tactic you’re capable of, and I know you’re cycling through them all right now. So I will explain something. I am not interested in the Hoosac Tunnel cloning facility. Xavier was right, it was a point of interest for me for a time, but now that I have this shell, I no longer need it.

  “What do I want? Oh, I have a great many things I want, and many more things I must attend to, now that I am free of you. Do you know how inane it is inside this woman’s head, Corinthos? Everything in her mind is neatly boxed into little categories: Cross-stitching and field hockey and negotiating tactics and firearms. Her only ambition is to lead the Caulborn someday, and for genuinely altruistic purposes. She has no hidden depths, no angst, no ulterior motives; that overly perky outlook is one hundred percent genuine, and it’s a miracle she doesn’t give herself cavities. I nearly went mad.” The bead of light grew brighter. “And don’t even think about using extradimensional energy, Corinthos. I can sense it now. You try to create a portal, and I will kill her.”

  “You haven’t answered her question,” I said, releasing the threads of extradimensional energy I’d been gathering. I’d done it on reflex, even though I knew that Chuck’s wards wouldn’t let me portal. “What do you want?”

  “Well, despite the fact that Ms. Hayes is an overly saccharine individual, I believe she still has her uses. Two of them in fact. The first, of course, is that she provides me a way to finally remove you from the equation once and for all.”

  And with that, the beam of light on Megan’s chest intensified and blasted clean out her back. Megan’s eyes barely had time to widen before she collapsed and slid out of her chair.

  “No!” I screamed, my chair toppling over as I leaped across the table toward her. No, no, no. No, I could get to her, I could reach her, I could fix this. Golden healing light was already enveloping my hands as I stretched out for her.

  Something snaked around my leg and pulled me back. Somewhere in the distance I heard bells tolling. I hit the floor face first, Megan’s limp body just a few feet away. The healing energy was illuminating under the table, casting wild shadows on the stiff industrial carpet. The hole in her chest was the size of a baseball, and her sweater was smoldering. There wasn’t much blood; Treggen’s beam had cauterized the wound, as it had with Xavier’s, and the sickly sweet smell of roasted flesh and burned wool and Megan’s perfume assailed my nostrils.

  I tried to conjure a portal, to put the other end so I could touch Megan, but the extradimensional energy fizzled and died, blocked by the wards. I flopped over onto my back as whatever was wrapped around my leg began pulling me away from Megan. It was a thick, black iron chain, pitted and rusted. I struck at it with kobold fire, to no avail. My Olympian steel switchblade dropped into my hand and I severed the chain with one frantic blow, then scrambled to get my feet under me. I hadn’t even stood up when four more chains burst up from the floor, wrapping around my wrists and ankles. I strained, cursing, yelling for help, but Xavier’s wards prevented anyone outside the room from hearing me.

  The bells tolled again.

  On the table, Treggen was laughing. By the door, Xavier’s body lay in a crumpled heap. But all I could see were Megan’s ice-blue eyes staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. The chains were pulling me toward a spinning black vortex that had appeared on the wall closest to me. The smells of brimstone and rot gave me a really good idea of where I was going. And the bells tolled again.

  The chains constricted sharply around my limbs, and I cried out as my bones cracked and I crashed to the ground. I struggled to my knees, already feeling my healing factor kicking in, but that brief delay had been enough for the chains to pull me into the vortex, and then I was falling down, down, down.

  Into the Pit.

  Chapter 2

  Lots of people are afraid of falling. Thing is, falling never killed anyone. It’s the sudden stop at the end of the fall that’s the problem. I was pretty sure I’d already hit terminal velocity, and yet the chains were pulling me down even faster. The ground, a hellish black stone landscape slashed with rivers of flame, surged up to meet me. I landed on my back and felt every bone in my body shatter. I screamed, or at least tried to. The pain raged across my entire body, fire and ice and acid, and yet somehow I didn’t black out. I couldn’t move my head, and one of my eyes wasn’t working, but I could see at least one of my ribs sticking out through a bloody gash in my shirt. The ringing in my ears drowned out any other sound that might have been in the area, including my own screams. Assuming I was screaming, which honestly, I couldn’t tell.

  Blood sprayed from my lips as I coughed, and a trickle of blood ran into my good eye. I tried to blink it away, but even this seemingly insignificant action was excruciating. My healing factor had kicked in, I could feel my bones and tendons shi
fting of their own accord back into their proper places. It would still be a long time before I could move, but both my eyes seemed to be working now. I blinked, which still hurt like hell, and realized I wasn’t alone.

  A small, red-skinned demon about the size of a toddler was staring at me from about fifteen feet away. Wearing a ragged leather loincloth, he had a spear resting across his lap, and was lounging against a rock as if he were a passenger on a luxury cruise. A pair of horns like a bull’s curved out from his head, and his yellow eyes twinkled as he regarded my suffering.

  His voice was just barely audible over the ringing in my ears. “That looked like it hurt,” he grinned, his accent sounding like Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins. “Sure’n it did, I’ll wager.”

  Speech wasn’t easy; it felt like one of my lungs might have burst on impact. That would explain why I was having so much trouble breathing. After a few attempts, I managed a weak, “Help.”

  The demon chuckled. “‘Help,’ he says. Mate, don’t ya know where ya are? This is Tartarus, realm of the damned. There’s no help here. Bet yer wondering why ya didn’t black out; why the impact didn’t liquefy ya. Cuz here in the Pit, you’re never spared from pain or suffering. Ya can’t pass out; ya feel everything. Ya can’t sustain fatal wounds; everything heals eventually. Yer pullin’ yerself back together now, cancha feel it? Looks like ya recover faster than most, too.” He grinned at me, his pointed, white teeth gleaming. “Are ya one o’ them people who heals faster naturally? Oh, that’s delectable, that is.” He hopped to his cloven feet and clopped over to me, then leaned down, his face mere inches from my own. His breath smelled like brimstone. “From what I hear, people who heal faster up there” — he pointed toward the sky, which was nothing but roiling black clouds — “well, you’ll still heal faster down here”— he pointed to the seared rock I lay on — “but the difference is, everything’ll hurt twice as much. Isn’t that glorious. It’s a two-fer, ya know. Twice the pain and suffering for twice the healing.”

  The bells tolled again, seeming to reverberate through my entire body. I cried out in pain despite myself.

  The demon sighed. “Ah, Hell’s Bells. Honestly, I don’t think AC/DC did ’em justice in that song.”

  I coughed again, and this time, no blood came out.

  The little demon considered me. “My, yer getting fixed up right quick, aren’t ya? Well, I best call this in. The boys’ll wanna know that we’ve got a new guest ready for reception.” He produced a small device that looked something like a cell phone from thin air and began pecking at it with the tip of one clawed finger.

  “That won’t be necessary, Scathiks,” a new voice said. I managed to loll my head to one side to see Orcus, god of oaths, striding toward me. His normally rumpled gray suit looked like it had just come from the cleaners, and he moved with the purpose and confidence of a shark about to eat a wounded dolphin.

  The little demon — Scathiks — stood tall, snapped his spear over his shoulder, puffed out his chest, and gave a salute. “Lord Orcus, sir. I didn’t realize you were personally interested in this one, sir. Forgive me, I would have sent word to you straight away, had I known.” His voice was formal now, and I couldn’t tell if the demon was repressing his accent or if he had just been putting on an act.

  “No trouble at all, Scathiks,” Orcus said, waving a dismissive hand. “Vincent’s arrival here was unexpected, but inevitable.” He turned his gaze upon me, his red eyes locking with mine. From out of nowhere, he conjured that damned ironbound book, the one with the promise I’d made to Megan. Orcus opened the book, licked a finger, and paged through a few of its leaves. “Here we are,” he said. “‘I, Vincent Corinthos, have promised Megan Hayes that she will be fine. I swear this upon penalty of loss of power, loss of followers, and eternal damnation in Tartarus.’” He snapped the book shut. “Megan Hayes just died. You’ve failed to keep your promise.”

  To the side, Scathiks gave a sharp intake of breath. Orcus ignored him. “I warned you, kid.” He sighed as he shook his head. “I really tried. I told you to keep your mouth shut, and yet you just didn’t listen.” He sighed again, and the book vanished from his hand. “Well, there’s nothing for it but to begin the arrangements. Scathiks” — he snapped his fingers at the little demon, who jumped and looked attentive — “Send word to the Reception Hall. Tell them that we have a broken promise to celebrate. And send a brute to collect Vincent here. I’m not carting him all the way down there myself. He’ll bleed on my suit.”

  Scathiks’s sinister face lit up with delight. “Straight away, sir, straight away. Shall I summon some crows to feast on his organs while we wait for the brute?”

  Orcus pursed his lips as he considered this, then shrugged. “Why not. But don’t delay the brute for that. We have a lot of work to do to process this one.” Orcus walked off, his shiny black shoes seeming to repel the rock dust and grit that swirled around me in a hot wind. He paused, bent down, and picked up my switchblade. Pursing his lips, Orcus considered the weapon. “Olympian steel,” he mused. “Hephaestus’s work?” I nodded weakly. “You won’t be needing this, kid. I’ll keep it safe for you.” Orcus folded the blade and tucked it into his pocket while Scathiks jabbered into his cell phone-ish thing in a language I assumed was Infernal. Just the sound of it hurt my ears. Something shifted back into place in my chest, and I was finally able to take a deep breath. The air of the Pit was rancid, like breathing through an old gym sock that had been marinated in sewage. I still couldn’t move, but I could hear the sound of approaching crows.

  “Ya hear that?” Scathiks asked, his eyes twinkling, and his accent returning. “That’s one of the biggest murders of crows we’ve got down here. That’s what a flock of crows is called, ya know, a murder. Right poetic that is, innit? Well, I’m bettin’ if ya know Lord Orcus, ya must’ve heard of Prometheus, right?” I had, but didn’t get a chance to reply as Scathiks just kept going. “He’s this bugger who stole fire from the gods, and so as a punishment, every day, his liver gets pecked out by a vulture, and then it grows back, and the vulture pecks it out again. This has been going on for thousands of years, and it never gets old, let me tell ya. So now, we make it part of the ‘welcome package.’” He actually made air quotes with his taloned index fingers. “Now, ya might be wondering why I’m sending crows instead of vultures. Well, the truth of the matter is, I think crows are a sight prettier than vultures. There, I said it.” He gave himself a nod as if he’d just won an argument with someone. “At any rate, the brute’ll be here soon to collect ya, but he can’t walk as fast as these lovely little carrion pickers can fly.” His face grew very serious, and he leaned in conspiratorially. “But don’t ya worry none, my friend. I’ll make sure that they don’t eat too much of ya.”

  He skittered back to his rock and sat cross-legged, like a kindergartener waiting for a magic show to begin. A cloud of black squawking feathers descended upon me, and the pain began anew. Beaks and talons tore at my body as I screamed and thrashed. It seemed to go on for hours, my flesh being shredded and ripped, and then came the sound of something swatting the birds away, sending the little bastards back up into the sky.

  I’d lost both eyes to the murder’s beaks, so I had no idea what was picking me up and heaving me over its shoulder. Something that felt like a foot-long spike punctured my stomach and went out my back. I screamed and flailed, finally managing to grab onto something that felt like a handle and brace myself so my stomach didn’t rip further. I steadied myself with one hand, then took in what I could of this thing by touch. Its skin was tough and scaly, and the smell coming off of it reminded me of the monkey house at the zoo.

  The rib that had healed earlier broke again and re-punctured my lung. Blood burst from my mouth as the thing — the brute, Scathiks had called it — began taking lumbering steps. Scathiks was hurrying along behind, compensating for my lack of sight with a running commentary of what we
were passing. “Right, so now we’re crossing the Plains of the Damned, catchy name, innit? It’s where we receive all the new arrivals. We’re heading down to the main Reception Hall. Usually what happens is we throw ya into a cell and then the good doctor’ll come and examine ya. He’s a very educated man, the good doctor. Normally, he’d prescribe a specific torment for ya that’d be most excruciating. Thing is, since Lord Orcus seems to know ya, there’ll likely be something different in store for ya. Oh, this is quite exciting, quite exciting, indeed. I thought I’d drawn the short straw in getting Plains duty today, but I can tell you’re going to be something special, and the others’ll be right jealous of my bringing ya in for processing.”

  He continued on like this for an eternity, and I began to realize that this was just yet another form of torment that the Pit offered: the incessant ramblings of an annoying little jackoff. While I couldn’t black out from the pain, I could focus on it exclusively and thus tune out Scathiks’s voice. It worked for a while until the brute came to a stop and heaved me off its back, where again I slammed into a hard, flat surface.

  By this point, my eyes had regenerated enough that I could take in my surroundings. The brute was at least eight feet tall and looked like a cross between an elephant and a salamander. It was the kind of thing Dr. Seuss might have come up with if he’d been illustrating the Book of Revelations. Its skin was red and gold, and it had seven eyes situated in a ring around its head, which was covered with bony protrusions. A lance of bone jutting out from its right shoulder was covered in blood, and I realized that it had staked me on that, like one of those old-fashioned receipt holders you see in the movies, the kind that’s just a big spike that you stab the papers on.