Seven Kinds of Hell

by Dana Cameron

  And then I saw it.

  It was a marble statuette, a Venus, modestly posed as if caught emerging from the bath, maybe twenty inches high, but perfect in every way. Intact sculptures of this sort were rare, and when they were found, much was made of them. This one had been displayed at the Hermitage with huge fanfare. I remembered because it made all the news and was the sort of find people asked you about, no matter what part of the discipline you specialized in. Three months later, a curator and a security guard were murdered late one night and the statuette taken. Nothing else—including gold and religious objects—had been touched. It had been a brutal, and very specific, robbery.

  I now couldn’t imagine Venus’s marble without bloodstains.

  Rupert Grayling wasn’t an aging crank with a fetish for classical history. He wasn’t someone who skimmed the rough edge of unethical behavior, buying goods with a provenience no more detailed than “the private collection of a recently deceased gentleman from Geneva.”

  He was someone who dealt in violence to feed his obsessions.

  What would happen if he figured out I had the clay figurines with me now? I thought of the dead museum employees. Marco’s maimed hand.

  He caught me staring at the statuette a little too long. He knew that I knew its recent history and he was waiting for my reaction.

  Would he prefer my horror, fear, or disgust? Quick, Zoe! What would set him off, what would placate him? What would get me what I needed to save Danny?

  Something nudged me, and I took another risk.

  I went closer and examined the marble carefully. Never touching it, yet giving every indication I wanted to.

  Finally I looked up. “It’s superb. Extraordinary.”

  He beamed.

  “It’s almost perfect.”

  A dangerous light kindled in Grayling’s eyes. “Almost?”

  “There’s a certain heaviness about the legs that I think diminishes it. But that slight flaw, that element of human imperfection, of course adds to its…charm.”

  Grayling’s mouth twitched, then went still. Under his stare, I felt exactly like one of his artifacts. His was a weighty and penetrating gaze.

  I’d called an astonishing artifact “charming,” as if it was Grandma’s quilt or a Victorian silhouette. He’d either kill me, stroke out, or…

  “Almost perfect, indeed. Quite right.”

  There was an invitation in his words. I prayed I wasn’t mistaken. “What do you have that is perfect? That’s truly peerless?”

  I could tell by the way he fussed over a speck of dust on the base of the marble. He wanted to show me something else, and yet he still hesitated.

  “You wish to see that which is peerless. You come with a startling reference, one I certainly never expected to see. It is almost enough to recommend you to me. You come with a story, one guaranteed not to please me, but which has the ring of truth. That interests me. But you claim to know Dmitri. Knowing him, in whatever capacity, works against you.”

  I held my breath. The longer I kept him engaged, the better chance I had of getting near that figurine.

  “Follow me,” he said finally. “Touch nothing.”

  I’d passed some kind of test.

  We went into the kitchen; even those hoarders on TV would have drawn back in disgust. No wonder he ate out. There was no room to eat here among the filthy plates and piles of reeking trash bags, so different from the other rooms. A door that led, presumably, to the basement or a mud room, or whatever it was called in England, had another door behind a shelf. He moved a dusty jar and hit a switch or a lever I couldn’t see. The shelf unlatched from the floor, and he was able to swing it out on hidden hinges. The door behind it was nearly invisible, certainly not recognizable as a door, until he pressed a release, and that swung away, too, to reveal a panel. He looked at me pointedly, until I turned my back. I heard him press in a code.

  Like I said, I’d always had pretty good hearing, though, and a memory for sounds. Just recently, I’d found out why those skills came to me so easily.

  An almost inaudible click, and another door opened. Layers and layers, but all to protect his pride and joy, I hoped.

  I was only slightly surprised, then, to see a small room, nearly empty, save for a chair, a pedestal, and a carefully adjusted light that flickered on as the door opened. Triggered, no doubt, by the correct alarm code signaling the owner’s entrance.

  On the pedestal was the crowning glory of Grayling’s collection. His prized “perfect” object.

  It might have been perfect, but it wasn’t peerless.

  I had two of them in my backpack.

  This figurine was the same size as mine, about four inches long. It too had a human body, but this one had the obvious helm and shield of Athena. Amazingly, the spear and arms were intact—such slender clay fragments should have broken off long ago—and the painting was less faded than on the figurines I had. With her arms outstretched, I could now see how the figurine would fit the curve of the pot it decorated.

  It wasn’t the archaeologist in me that was riveted; it was the Beast. Oddly, it wasn’t snarling for release, but quiet, patient.

  Wait was the surprising impulse I had from it. Restraint.

  Circling the pedestal, taking it in from every angle, I realized it was the closest to pure reverence I’d ever felt. I reached for it, then caught myself, glancing at Grayling, who nodded once. His own eyes were riveted by the object, and to judge by the wear on the chair and the floor, he’d owned this for decades. Stared at it for hours at a time.

  It was cold to the touch; I’d expected it to be warm, the way it glowed, blue-white. Then I realized it might not be glowing; it was some trick of my Beastly eyes.

  I could barely tear my gaze away from it. I felt certain that if I turned, I would miss something terribly important. For all its humble appearance, it was, quite literally, enchanting.

  “So?” I said, finally turning my back on the thing, working to make my voice casual, even dismissive. “Maybe it’s not tourist junk from the nineteenth century like I thought when I first saw one; but it’s not even a votive offering. It’s some kind of pottery decoration. Old, but not that valuable.”

  “So wrong, so wrong. You see, it’s the key to Pandora’s Box.”

  “Pandora’s Box—?”

  “Of course you’ve heard of it. Pandora, the first woman, created by Hephaestus, and given all the gifts of the gods: talents and curiosity. When Prometheus gave fire to mankind, as part of his punishment, Zeus gave Pandora to his brother Epimetheus. He also gave her a vessel, which he warned her never to open. With her gods-given curiosity, she couldn’t resist, and on opening it, unleashed all evil onto humankind. Which was the plan of Zeus all along, if you believe the traditional stories.”

  I waved my hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know the story. It’s just…stupid. Pandora’s Box is a myth, a metaphor. No real Pandora, no real Box.”

  “No more a myth than you or I.” Grayling blotted his face with his handkerchief. “There are objects in the world with untold powers to confer on their possessor, scattered and hidden. That idiot Parshin wants these because he wants the unspeakable power that he believes comes with them. I have seen documents, carefully guarded, by those who don’t want the Box found. But my colleagues and I are very close to locating it, so close. Do you have any idea the value of such a thing? Of what secrets it would unlock?”

  He gestured to the figurine. “And this is the key. Rather, one key of four.”

  Hadn’t Claudia said something about the Fangborn being “Pandora’s Orphans”? But it had to be a metaphor, nothing more. Right? And, oh God, who were Grayling’s “colleagues”?

  I couldn’t help looking back at the figurine. The Beast certainly thought it was real; it might be nerves, but I could almost feel the two figurines vibrating inside my backpack.

  A prickle up my spine forced me to turn away from Athena.

  Grayling held a large pistol, pointed at me. He wasn’t e
nchanted any longer, but he was very pleased with himself.

  “Give the figurine to me,” he said. “I know you have it with you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You wouldn’t dare leave it anywhere else. Open your bag, now.”

  “I can’t! Dmitri—!”

  “I have no desire for Dmitri to get near this. You can leave that over there and then remove yourself before I call the police. I’m sure they’d be very surprised to hear you broke into my house in order to add to your collection of ill-gotten antiquities.”

  “Your word against mine,” I said. “People saw us in the restaurant.”

  “Yes, but I’d have shot you first. You’d have no words at all.”

  I stared. The Beast was strangely absent when I could have used it most. I reached into my bag and pulled out a figurine.

  Disaster. It was the wrong one, the broken figurine I’d identified from my treasure box just that morning. Why on earth—?

  Too late. I’d never felt so human, so vulnerable. The Beast should be raging, that pistol so close to me, but there was nothing. A calm hollow in the back of my head that I couldn’t extend to the rest of me.

  Grayling glanced at the figurine in my hand. His face paled, then flushed.

  After a moment he said, “My dear. You are full of surprises. This is not what you acquired from the museum. The source that tracked that key to the museum had a description of it; many people are looking for it. And in this room, we have three of the four keys to the Box, from the oracular temples of Didyma, Delos, and Delphi. That puts us close, oh so very close. We only need that from Claros.” He snapped his fingers. “Place it on the pedestal. And the other. Quickly. Now.”

  Cursing the lack of the Beast, instead of placing my figurine on the pedestal, I grabbed at Grayling’s. It was fastened to the base and didn’t move.

  The pedestal was rigged. An alarm went off. Grayling did not look concerned. “You have thirty seconds before the police come. You can leave the other figurines here now and live, or you can stay and die.”

  He was telling the truth. I couldn’t even attack him in my human form and hope to escape in time. The police wouldn’t help me rescue Danny, and he knew it. I dumped out the third figurine, took my bag, and fled through the secret door and out into the garden, tears burning my eyes.

  I didn’t go far. Hugging the wall, I watched and waited from the shadows of the next house over. This wasn’t over, I promised myself. There had to be another way; crazy as he was, dangerous as he was, Grayling wasn’t invulnerable.

  I had to get back in there, get my figurines and the one Dmitri wanted.

  Seconds later, a police car pulled up. Grayling met them at the gate, an apologetic look on his face. My hearing was so acute, I could follow it all: He traded pleasantries with the two cops, an accidental trigger of the alarm. There was no mention of me. They returned to the car and left shortly thereafter.

  I waited a few more moments, giving Grayling time to reassure himself he was safe. I was about to go in there and try again, but just as I was summoning myself, another car pulled up to the house.

  This was driven by a man I hadn’t seen before, but for some reason, when he got out of the car, I was paralyzed by the sight of him. I’ve learned if you pay attention to the little things about people, you can read them pretty well, and this guy was the worst kind of trouble. Didn’t need the Beast to tell me that. His menace was subtle. It wasn’t a swagger, but a kind of assurance that said he knew how to get what he wanted. It was like a billboard, too: clean-headed with three parallel scars along the back of his skull; clothing that was expensive but too tight because his muscles were jacked; nose busted and rearranged a few times; eyes that saw everything.

  He went to the door, knocked. When Grayling answered, he invited himself inside and shut the door behind them.

  I looked at the passenger seat of the car; it was one of the cops who’d been by earlier.

  The television went on then, too loud. A police drama, by the sounds of it; a repeat of an American show I’d seen a dozen times. Then I realized that some of the noises didn’t make sense.

  My skin went cold, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I was listening to the sounds of violence between Grayling and his guest. I tried desperately to summon the Beast—now was exactly the time for it! I closed my eyes, tried to remember what it felt like, tried to play on my fears, the bad taste in my mouth when I saw the clean-shaven guy—

  But the Beast was strangely absent. I knew it wasn’t only a threat to me that brought the Beast, not after the episode with the guy at the theater years ago. I cursed my ineffectiveness.

  Any impulse I might have had to do something—rescue Grayling, call the police—was quashed when I looked toward the unmarked police car. The officer was smoking, his head turned away. No way he couldn’t hear it. He was in on it.

  I waited, praying it would end soon.

  It ended too soon. The stranger left hurriedly, tucking something into his pocket, a frown on his face. He hadn’t gotten what he’d gone in there for, I could tell. The cop stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his shoe, placed the butt in his pocket. Without a word, they drove away.

  I hated what I was about to do, but I was desperate to save Danny. I was about to take advantage of what I knew was a crime scene—possibly a murder—in order to get my figurines back.

  To my shame, the thought that I might save Grayling’s life hadn’t occurred to me.

  The smell bludgeoned me before I reached the front steps. It was like a butcher shop, meat and blood heavy on the air. Holding my breath, I went in—the front door had been left unlocked—and was astonished at the amount of blood. Although the walls and the artifacts were dripping with scarlet spatters, a massive puddle had been spilled in the center of the room, soaking into the mosaic floor. Although one side of the puddle retained its perfect edge, the rest had been smeared, by Grayling being dragged or crawling away. A small amount of rough twine was soaking scarlet, a visceral image. His pistol was on the floor, its bullets scattered and useless. He’d never had a chance to use it, had been overpowered too quickly. The bloody smear led out to the room with the reconstructed painted walls.

  The Beast was back, making up for its brief, calamitous absence with its response to Grayling’s blood. The effect was the same as in Danny’s apartment: Grayling’s blood smelled like him. I would recognize it again, even just by the sight of it, I was convinced. The molecules danced, eager to share their story with me…

  I felt the Beast pacing in the back of my skull, but couldn’t afford to be a wolf now. Why hadn’t it showed up before, when I could have used it? I tamped down the wolfy urges, even though I had the distinct impression that if I let the Beast out, I would be able to read Grayling’s blood like it was the contents of his wallet. But there was no time for that now and no place for a wolf now.

  Grayling had, quite remarkably, pulled himself up against the nearest wall. A hundred little cuts covered his body, leaving a bloody patchwork. A piece of duct tape covered his mouth, abrasions on his wrists where he’d been tied. Panic filled his eyes when he realized someone was in the room with him, but he relaxed, only a little, when he recognized me.

  I stooped, motioning to the duct tape. He nodded. I made a face—this is gonna hurt—and he nodded again. I pulled it off, taking a bit of skin with the tape. But now he could breathe more easily; his nose had been smashed in. I could see a splinter of cartilage gleaming through the tear in the skin. This wasn’t good.

  “Who was it?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t—” He coughed. More blood. “Don’t know. Not Dmitri. Someone…I’ve never seen before. He smelled of the law, of governments, to me.”

  No time for a dying old crook to wax poetic. “What did they want?”

  “The figurines. I could not…would not…let him have them.”

  I swore.

  “He also asked about you,” he said. He gasped as
he tried to sit up. “There wasn’t much I could tell him.”

  A cold, lead weight settled in my stomach. “I’m going to call 911,” I said.

  “No—”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not going to stick around. I’m going to take my figurines and leave. I’ll call before I leave. Fewer questions for everyone.”

  “No, I mean—” He coughed again. “The emergency response number is 999.”

  “They’re in the secret room?”

  He nodded.

  I went to the kitchen. The door was shut, but the shelves were askew. No one looking, however, would have noticed anything else.

  Careful not to touch anything, using the sleeve of my hoodie to cover my hand, I pushed the keypad, entering the code Grayling had used. I opened the door.

  My two figurines were there. But this time, so was the other figurine, the one Dmitri wanted, loosed from the pedestal. Grayling had been comparing them when his unwanted callers arrived.

  Now I felt the Beast grow urgent: Go now, quickly. Was it some kind of Beastly magic, or just common sense and panic?

  I didn’t think about it. I snatched them up and returned to the main part of the house, shutting the doors behind me.

  I held up the three artifacts. “I’m taking yours, too. I would have paid before, but now I’m thinking I’m owed something for having a gun pointed at me.” Maybe I could use the third to bargain for Danny.

  Grayling was gray now. I stashed the three figurines in my bag, found his phone, and using a pencil, tapped on the buttons. When the operator answered, I gave him the address. “An ambulance. Hurry.”

  I hung up and turned back to Grayling. He held something in his hand, and for a moment I was afraid he had another pistol.

  It was an address book.

  “Take it. There are two keys tucked into the back. At the Paris address—Rue Mouffetard—in the cupboard opened with the smaller key, there is something that may help you. Someone else is now interested in the figurines. Take it, but whatever you do, keep all these things out of Dmitri’s hands.”