How could Joey murder Vanessa two days ago when he was in the bayou of Louisiana? How did he get around? The parishioners suspected he had a Mirror in the swamps. Was it like a transporter?
She set the crossword back on the arm of the couch, deep in thought.
Her heart stopped at the sound of a man’s voice behind her.
“Vanessa isn’t here.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Emily swallowed a yelp and spun toward the voice. She was so convinced it was Joey, for a moment she thought she saw him standing there, his menacing form outlined by the light from the kitchen.
Not Joey. Officer Harris.
Emily grasped her chest, panting. “You startled me.”
Harris sighed. “There are laws against breaking into a person’s home, Miss Goodman.”
“I didn’t break in. The door was open.”
“But that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to enter.” He looked exasperated, like he wanted to shake her. “What is it with reporters?”
“I want to speak with Vanessa. Do you know where she is?”
“She’s missing. Hasn’t made her appointments in two days.”
“Oh, no,” Emily breathed. How could she get into the Mirror now?
Harris motioned. “All right. Let’s go.”
“There’s a bad smell here. It’s why I came in. Could Vanessa be dead?”
“We found her bedroom closet stuffed full of rabbit skins, some with the heads attached. They weren’t preserved in any way, so they were decomposing. By the look of it, she’d been collecting them for years.”
“Wait a minute. Rabbits?” Emily stepped forward. “There were rabbits in that house on Weeden Street, remember?”
“Yes.” He motioned again and led her out the apartment, closing the door behind them. “I hope you didn’t touch things in there.”
“Just the newspaper. Why? Is it a crime scene?”
“Not at the moment.”
She walked down the stairs. The stench of dead rabbits was on her clothes. “Quite a coincidence, you showing up.”
“We’re keeping an eye on the apartment. When the patrolling officer did a drive-by, she noticed your car and contacted me.”
“How did she know it was my car? Am I on a watch list?”
“More or less. Your name put up a flag at the car rental.” He walked with her down the alley. “I was surprised to see you back in Saint Augustine. The last I heard you were in Hackberry, Louisiana.”
“Yeah, I met the sheriff there.”
“I know. Sheriff LaRouge reported the scuffle you had with Joey Mastrianni, but I don’t see how his account could be accurate. Joey’s been spotted several times in town.”
“It’s accurate, all right.” Emily touched her throat. “We ran into each other in a swamp.”
“He tried to hurt you?”
“He tried to kill me.”
They came around the side of the building, heading for her car.
Harris shook his head. “No one matching Joey’s description has boarded a flight in any of the nearby airports.”
“Yet he seems to get around.”
“So do you.” He looked at her. “Where are you staying?”
She stammered. “I didn’t get a room. I don’t plan to be in town that long.”
He held the car door for her as she slid behind the wheel. Emily started the engine. Harris tapped the glass, and she lowered the window.
He leaned in, looking grave. “Stay away from this apartment. Stay away from Vanessa. If there’s been foul play, you don’t want to be mixed up in it.”
“You have my word.” She nodded, trying to match his solemn stare—but an idea struck her. “Say, you can’t get into the parlor, can you? I would like to take a look at the tapestries hanging there.”
“I’m serious,” he said, straightening. “I know you’re frantic and looking for answers, but if I catch you trespassing again, I will arrest you.” He got into his squad car, pulled a U-turn, and drove away.
Emily covered her face with her hands. What was she going to do? Trust Vanessa to disappear right when she needed her. The fortunetelling bitch.
And why did she ask to see the tapestries? The question surprised even her. Something was percolating in the back of her mind. Something in her subconscious. But what was it? Why were the tapestries important?
She’d downloaded the pictures from Dan’s camera onto her home computer. Had she synched her laptop? It was so routine she couldn’t remember whether she had.
Emily popped the trunk, walked to the back of her car and took out the computer case. She returned to the front seat and booted the laptop. The battery was low. Might be worth getting a room just to charge up. But, no—she needed to leave tonight. She couldn’t take a computer where she was going.
The screen lit, and she then navigated to My Pictures and scrolled down a list of batch numbers. There they were—the last on the list.
Emily bit her lip. She brought up the photos. The tapestries were rich in detail, beautiful in spite of their subject matter. They appeared to depict scenes from Revelations. One showed a line of people traversing a stone wasteland. They were naked; their limbs were gangly and thin. Those in the back of the group cowered with their arms over their heads. Their mouths gaped as if screaming.
Dogs were on their heels, but not like any dogs Emily had ever seen—these were barrel-chested beasts with snakelike faces and red eyes. Chastity’s hellhounds.
She clicked the next photo. The second tapestry was a faded mass of red and orange. It reminded her of fire. A lake of fire. And within the flames, black stick figures. Her stomach lurched and she turned away.
The last tapestry showed a medieval castle standing on a hill of human skulls. It had a dark moat and a drawbridge. Emily zoomed in, trying to discern the seven levels Chastity told her about. Where would April be kept? How could Emily get to her?
Above the castle were wispy circles. Clouds. Or smoke rings.
Then the significance of the objects became apparent—they were the transporter tunnels Chastity described. She said they sometimes swooped to within fifteen feet of the ground. She said she actually saw a man drop out of one once—the connection must have broken before he arrived at the castle.
Fifteen feet wasn’t that high. If Emily could get up into one, if she climbed one of Chastity’s trees or made her own little hill of demon bones to stand on—if she could get up there, it should transport her and April home.
She turned off the computer with a grim enthusiasm. She had her way out, now she needed a way in. Vanessa may be gone, but Emily knew the Mirror’s origin.
She would break into the house on Weeden Street and open Satan’s Mirror herself.
TWENTY-SIX
Emily parked at the Fisherman’s Lounge facing the street so her car would be noticed if the police passed by. If she was on their watch list, she wanted them watching somewhere other than Weeden Street. She went inside the bar. It was a nice place, right on the water. It had a stage set up for live entertainment, but no one was playing so early in the evening.
She ordered blackened tilapia and forced herself to eat, knowing it could be her last meal. She had to eat for April’s sake, had to stay strong. Poor little April hadn’t eaten or drank in three days.
Her precious child. Suffering. Would Emily see her again? To break into hell seemed impossible, not to mention breaking out again. But she had to try. She had to find her little girl, even if it meant being trapped in hell forever.
Leaving a twenty under her plate, she picked up her backpack and the arrow case and walked in the direction of the Ladies Room. Before she reached it, however, she turned down a short hall and snuck out a side door.
Emily found herself on a wharf, buffeted by a northerly breeze from a fast-approaching rainstorm. Water lapped the boats. Conversation drifted from the dock. In the darkness, a cigarette glowed. She turned away, thinking of Joey.
Emily skirted the parking lot, avoi
ding her car in case anyone noticed her. She crossed Avenida Menendez and entered a maze of residential roads. Old-fashioned street lamps lent a hazy glow over manicured lawns and sculpted flowerbeds. Air conditioning units cycled on and off, and she heard an occasional television. A woman passed walking her dog, but she didn’t acknowledge Emily. Even the dog averted its eyes.
When Emily reached Weeden Street, she found it as silent and foreboding as she remembered. She stood across from the house stymied by memories—the devil asking if she was afraid, Joey’s silhouette darkening the porch. The terror she felt that night left her a quivering wreck, unable to function. What made her think she would be any stronger now?
A small voice reared up inside her. She would be strong. She had no choice. She promised April she would save her from monsters.
Before anyone could stop her, before she could stop herself, Emily rushed across the street and entered the shadows between the buildings. Overgrown bushes cascaded overhead; vines trailed over her face. She felt a tug and wheeled about, but it was only a branch caught on her bag.
Movement filled the gusty night. Wide eyed, she stumbled through the gloom, struggling to keep her balance on the uneven ground. She tried not to think of what she was about to do, tried not to dwell on demons and hounds and hell. All she wanted was to get to the house.
She jarred to a stop.
A pair of green-gold eyes stared at her. Emily gasped, heart pounding, drawing her blade from a pocket of her coat. For a moment, the night turned silent. Then a cat darted across her path and disappeared.
She clutched her chest, whispered, “Damn it,” and moved on.
Emily slipped through the hole in the fence, and into the backyard. She ran her gaze over the forgotten garden, listening. Dry leaves rustled in the breeze. There was no other sound.
Satisfied she was alone, she approached the house, trying to remember which window had the broken sash. She tugged at each, but none would open. Someone had repaired it.
Now what? With her shoulder braced against the window frame, Emily swung her elbow. The glass cracked but didn’t break. She swung again, and it shattered. The noise was louder than she intended. Emily bit her lip. After clearing away the larger shards, she reached through and twisted the latch. Then, pulling the hinged window, she ducked beneath the casement and climbed inside.
The room was pitch dark. Emily crouched against the wall while her eyes adjusted. Tugging her clothes out of her backpack, she dressed in the pants she bought and a tunic she made from the leather Mr. Snow gave her. She sheathed her knife at her waist, strapped the bow and the quiver of arrows to her back, and slung Chastity’s water-filled goat bladder over her shoulder.
She trembled so hard her legs felt weak and her jaw ached with the chattering of her teeth. Taking a deep breath, she headed for the staircase.
Lamplight spilled from the front windows. A car went down the street, causing shadows in the room to jump, and her heart to jump with them. Her hand on the banister, she gazed at the landing, straining to catch a hint of movement, to hear the slightest sound. She eased up the stairs.
Halfway up, she heard a low whistle. Emily froze. Was Joey there, perhaps watching from a doorway? Did she dare face him? Keeping her eyes trained above, she unsheathed her knife.
The whistle sounded again.
She pressed against the wall, hoping to blend with the darkness, creeping sideways up the steps. The whistle rose in pitch, almost a howl. Eerie. It didn’t sound human.
Why hadn’t she brought a flashlight?
Or a gun?
On the landing, she thrust with her knife, slicing the shadows. She spun about, kicking in all directions, imagining Joey’s face leaping out at her, imagining him reaching for her throat or shoving her backwards down the stairs.
When no one attacked, she crouched in a fighting stance. The noise came from the bedroom where she’d first seen Satan’s Mirror. Scarcely breathing, she peered around the doorjamb.
Rain beat the window. The sparkling glass threw streaks of light onto the walls. Knife outstretched, Emily crossed the room on tiptoe. The window was open half an inch, just enough to get a fingertip underneath. Wind whistled through the crack.
Outside, a large tree grew at the side of the house. Was this Joey’s secret entrance? She closed and latched the window.
Hands shaking, she faced the room. The floor held the ghost of a pentagram, but the candles and the offering plate were gone. The air was fresh, no trace of brimstone or cigarette smoke. There were no rabbits. The police must have taken them away.
With her shoulders back and her chin jutted out defiantly, Emily addressed the wall. “I’m here. Come and get me.”
Nothing happened. She waited, staring at the darkness, hands clenched. “Open up, damn you. Open Sesame.”
A glimmer touched the wall. Her heart leapt, but she realized just as suddenly that it was car lights from several blocks away shining through the tree branches. Despondency crushed her chest.
Muscles coiled, eyes smarting with tears, Emily sat cross-legged in the leftover pentagram. She’d thought it would be easy—just show up in the house and the Mirror would appear. She needed Vanessa. Damn that woman.
Chastity had said Vanessa was tethered to hell. Did that mean the devil knew she was gone? If Vanessa was dead, was the house dead, too? Emily buried her face in the crook of her arm, fighting a wail of grief. She had to be strong, had to be ready in case the devil came.
But he did not come.
It was dawn when she got to her feet. Emily ached from head to toe. She’d been ready to go, wanted to go. What was she going to do? She didn’t know anyone other than Vanessa and Joey who could open a portal to hell.
But that wasn’t true.
Emily froze, remembering. While researching the Mirror, she read about a place called Cowbell Corners and a coven of witches who opened the Devil’s Eye. They had a website and a newsletter—obviously dying for recognition.
If Emily played it right, if she used her status as a television personality, she might talk them into giving an interview. She would insist on a demonstration.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Satan dressed in his formal thong. The front pouched a bit to house his ample gonads, and the back trailed a pair of barbed tails. He felt regal and in high spirits as he entered the smoky, torch-lined corridor to greet the chancellor.
He’d ordered his attendants to spruce up the castle in anticipation of the chancellor’s visit. They rose to the task admirably. They replaced the dead spinner bugs, and now the ceilings billowed with fresh webs. They scattered aromatic harpy feathers and dung over the floors. The dung attracted more of the planet’s only indigenous life form, a flat brown insect that nested in corners and scaled the dark, rough walls. Overall, he was pleased with the castle’s ambiance.
As he strode down the corridor, Satan nodded to one of his transportation officers. He wore a necklace similar to his own. It allowed him to open and close the conduit that linked this world with home. The officer’s position was critical. Inbound patrons expected a smooth transition, and those returning carried their first impressions with them.
Per his station, the chancellor chose the longest staircase for his arrival. This meant Satan would not see him coming until he was halfway down the stairs. Fortunately, the conduit flashed upon materialization, giving Satan time to lower to one knee and bow his head.
“Satan, my old friend,” the chancellor said as he descended the stone steps. “It has been too long.”
“Chancellor Adramelech,” said Satan, eyes downcast, “I welcome you to Wormwood.”
“Tut, tut. No need for formalities,” said the chancellor, waggling his fingers. “Have my nephew and his newling arrived?”
“Not yet.” Satan stood.
The chancellor was shorter than when he’d seen him last. Shrinking with age, Satan thought. His horns were withered and dry; his once bright-red skin had a grayish cast. Nevertheless, he wore the heavy gi
rdle of office with vigor and fortitude. Satan expected Adramelech would hold his chancellorship for another millennia, at least.
“Come to my drawing room. We can await your nephew.”
“Fine.” The chancellor stepped beside him, as spry as ever. “I want to thank you for going out of your way to accommodate the child.”
“Not at all. Many newlings come of age at Wormwood.”
“But he’s not the average newling. He is fragile, sometimes doesn’t eat for days. And the questions he asks.”
“Does he have emotions?” Satan asked.
“Who knows? Children these days… But true emotion is rare. You have been blessed, as was Lucifer before you, with the uncanny ability to hate. Without it, you would not have secured this position.”
Satan’s temper flared. “There’s more to me than hatred, more to running Wormwood than procuring subjects. If that was all it took, I would be no better than Nergal or Yama.”
“Fine successors they would make,” the chancellor said. “But don’t misunderstand. I am not criticizing your management of this place. On the contrary. I have seen the numbers. Patronage is at an all time high.”
Satan nodded, trying to bank his ire. He led down a short staircase marked with the customary broken statue.
“Of course, you can’t take full credit for the increase in thrill seekers,” the chancellor said as they walked. “It is the era we live in. The prophecy. Everyone wants to say they were there when the deity returned.”
“If you believe in that sort of thing.”
“Sacrilege,” the chancellor muttered. “Do not let anyone hear you speak such.”
They passed the entrance to the reception chamber. The sound of whimpering coming from the room bolstered Satan’s spirits. The orgy he had arranged was winding down. For a moment, he was tempted to partake of the desserts himself.
Then a patron recognized Chancellor Adramelech and bowed low. The chancellor ignored him. Satan recognized that the attention was unwanted. Turning away, he climbed the stairs leading to his drawing room, speaking as if there had been no interruption. “Forgive me, sir, but I cannot see why any deity would appear in this forsaken place.”
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