The Underground

by Michelle E Lowe

  “I suppose,” he said, pointing to the urn. “Is that . . .?”

  “Aye,” answered Heber, holding it up. “Stored in here are the ashes of none other than the late Joshua McDay.”

  Joaquin didn’t know much about cremation, only that it took several hours for a body to burn away into ash. How long had he been upstairs? Since Heber had spotted him, he decided to follow him into the library, where nude bodies and empty alcohol bottles were strewn across the floor. A couple of naked people lay asleep atop the billiards table, while a pair were still going at it in the corner.

  “Chairman,” Heber said, going over to a chair in front of the glowing fireplace.

  “Sì?”

  When Joaquin rounded the chair, he saw a naked woman also facing the hearth, moving up and down on Benito. Benito, also completely nude, gripped her tightly by the waist.

  They didn’t stop even when Heber spoke.

  “The remains are ready.”

  The Italian grinned and moved the woman faster. He bowed his head, letting out moans and grunts while the smacking of skin echoed. Joaquin and Heber stood there awkwardly until it was over.

  Seconds later, Benito grunted loudly, stopped moving the woman, and said breathlessly, “Take them to the lab.”

  “Aye, Chairman.”

  As Heber left, Benito noticed Joaquin.

  “Mr. Marsh,” he huffed, face drenched with sweat.

  He slapped the lass on the rear and told her something in Italian. She stood and left the room. Joaquin watched her instead of the nude man in the chair.

  “How was your time with Emilia?” the chairman asked, pulling his britches up from around his ankles. “She’s wanted you ever since you arrived.”

  “Has she?” Joaquin smirked, clasping his hands behind his scratched up back. “I hope, then, that I didn’t disappoint.”

  “I doubt it,” Benito said, slipping on his shirt. “Come. I want to show you something.”

  “Are we sacrificing again?”

  “No. We don’t sacrifice often. Nor do we do so randomly. Let me take you to the lab, sì?”

  Joaquin, playing a passive part, bowed to him. “Sì.”

  The Italian grinned and led the way out of the library and to the other side of the house and to a door. They descended a staircase.

  “In my youth, I had studied many things. My master insisted on it, you understand.”

  Joaquin did not, but said nothing.

  “The Demon King wants his soldiers well read,” the chairman added.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and entered a brightly lit basement. The light source came from hanging gas-lamps that hovered over a long table. Upon the table were many scientific items Joaquin could not distinguish. What he did recognize were some microscopes, double spout beaker glasses in different sizes, and a few bell jars.

  “What do ye do in ’ere?”

  Benito walked over to Heber and took the urn from him. “We make diamonds.”

  “Sorry? Ye make diamonds?”

  “Sì,” he said, carrying the urn over to the table.

  He poured the ashes into a spout beaker. It spilled out like grey dust, filling the glass past the second measuring line imprinted on it.

  “First, the remains need to be purified by extracting the carbon, and then it needs to be heated into graphite. Then it can be cut.”

  Fuckin’ hell! The diamonds the Hellfire Club wear—their special diamonds—they’re made from the remains of their sacrifices!

  Using a teaspoon, Benito poured some kind of clear liquid chemical into the ashes and added the fluid in the spout beaker. He sloshed it around until the ashes darkened the fluid. He studied the contents and nodded in approval.

  “Naturally, it takes diamonds thousands of years to form,” Benito explained.

  Benito carried the spout beaker over to a large black iron box with a round glass porthole and fat bolts lining the sides. It was wired to a four-foot voltaic pile battery nearby. Benito turned the spoke handle and pulled the door open. Curious, Joaquin came up alongside him and watched as he slid out a tray.

  “That’s a long time to wait,” Joaquin remarked as Benito poured the mixture into each individual pit inside the tray.

  Benito snorted. “It is. That’s why the ashes are placed in this specialized kiln, put under extremely high pressure, and heated to 2,500 degrees Fahrenheit. How long the remains are heated determines the size of the diamonds.”

  He poured the rest of the ashes into the last pit and slid the tray into the kiln.

  “The late Joshua McDay will be made into small gems, so it’ll take but hours to complete.”

  “What do ye do with ’em?” Joaquin asked, at odds as to how he felt about this conversation. “Other than wear ’em, that is?”

  “We sell them,” he answered, closing the iron door and spinning the spoke handle. “They are real, after all. We don’t let on as to where they come from, of course. Besides, how else would I be able to pay for this mansion?”

  Joaquin saw his point.

  “This is the reason my master requires his servants to be educated—so we are able to serve him while providing for ourselves and our mortal needs.”

  “Who is this master of yours? The de’il?”

  Benito again snorted. “He can be the devil, if that’s the religion you follow.”

  “Eh?”

  “It all depends on your point of view, Mr. Marsh. In Egypt, the Demon King is called Typhon. In the Orient, he’s known as Yama. The Pueblo called him the serpent Pishuni. The Demon King is his own being, but he has fallen into other beliefs and stories throughout the centuries in order to give himself an identity.”

  “And if I say he’s the de’il?”

  Benito pressed a few buttons on the kiln and turned a dial. The machine hummed loudly.

  “Again, it depends on your point of view.”

  “Is that the other reason for the sacrifices? Does this Demon King need souls?”

  “A soul can never be contained once it’s been freed from the body. However, there are those out there trying. Sightings of ‘ghosts’ are simply the echoes of where a person has been to during their life. They are not truly the spirit of the departed. Very rarely do the dead linger on Earth.” Benito paused and stared at him before continuing. “A sacrifice is nothing more than payment, Mr. Marsh. It’s a testament to how far someone is willing to go in order to be granted their wishes or to appease their spiritual master, capish?”

  “No,” he answered honestly. “I don’t capish.”

  “You’re very fortunate,” Benito said, ignoring his confusion. “I am envious of what is within your easy reach.”

  “I don’t follow,” Joaquin confessed again.

  “You shall, soon enough.”

  Fed up with this entire cryptic conversation, Joaquin sighed. “Forgive me if I’m prying, but what did ye mean about the Signing tomorra? What is the Signing?”

  “Ah,” Benito said, heading for the stairs. “Come with me.”

  Benito led him up into his bedroom and showed him the glass pyramid where the canister sat, just as Pierce had described. As Benito walked over to the casing, Joaquin studied what he was doing without being obvious about it. He expected Benito to take a key out from somewhere, perhaps on a chain around his neck or from the drawer of the bedside table the glass pyramid sat on. Maybe even an obtuse place like underneath his pillow. He produced no key. Instead, he pinched the lock and turned it counterclockwise. When it turned enough, it clicked and the triangle’s door popped from the black metal frame. When Benito looked over at him, Joaquin quickly acted as if he was cleaning his fingernails. He seemed to buy it. Benito might be book smart, but he lacked common sense.

  “What is that? A container of some sorts?” Joaquin asked as if he didn’t already know.

  “It keeps a very important document safe,” he explained, bringing out the glass cylinder.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I st
ole it from a lowlife whisky brewer named Coira MacCrum.”

  “Did you now? How did ye find out about it?”

  “Coira has a betrayer within her little circle of thugs, someone who is willing to shift sides for profit. I was also told how to open it.”

  So, there is a way. Joaquin thought. Taisia was right.

  Joaquin held out his hands. “May I see?”

  Benito seemed apprehensive but handed it over.

  “Be very careful, per favore.”

  Joaquin gently took the canister and examined it. The container was twelve inches long, with a domed end and a flat end, both made of brass. On the domed end there were small wedges encircling it, while the flat end was fastened on by spur-shaped rivets. The clear glass was thick and filled halfway with the yellow muriatic acid that surrounded the tube inside where the rolled-up deed resided.

  “You have demon blood in you,” Benito blurted unexpectedly.

  Joaquin snapped his head up and said before he could stop himself, “How do ye know?”

  “I saw it last night. I have met demons before, Mr. Marsh. They have those same red eyes. My master wants you as his son.”

  Joaquin nearly dropped the canister. “Sorry?”

  “It is a great honor,” Benito continued. “You have the chance to be in the ranks of the most powerful beings on Earth. You’d be detached from human emotions. No more worry or guilt or illness.”

  That piqued Joaquin’s interests.

  “You would become a force so strong that none could harm you. You shall inherit the power to possess anything you have ever desired.”

  Joaquin glanced down at the canister, briefly wondering how he could open it, before returning his focus to Benito.

  “Why does he want me?”

  “It is your bloodline. You have many gifted elements residing in you, and the demon blood connects you directly to him.”

  “What’s the catch? What would I have to do?”

  Benito grimaced at the question. “You have to offer payment. You would have to sacrifice someone you care about.”

  “Someone I care about?” he repeated icily.

  Sensing the aggravation in his tone, Benito took the canister back. “Sì.”

  Joaquin’s muscles tightened and his jaw clenched. He strained to stay in character. “Are ye suggesting I kill me wife?”

  Benito became very uneasy now, as though worried Joaquin might attack.

  “Once you cross that line, Mr. Marsh, your mortal flaws will rush out of you like bad secrets, setting you freer than you have ever been before.”

  The sincerity in Benito’s voice told Joaquin that he truly believed what he was telling him.

  “Think it over, Mr. Marsh. Believe me, however, when I say that the reward will be great.”

  Going off topic before he was exposed, Joaquin tapped the canister. “What’s the document for?”

  “A deed to something very special,” Benito explained while admiring it lovingly. “My master promised I could have it when the time comes.”

  “Ye mean the Signing?”

  “Sì. Tomorrow morning, Coira’s name on the deed expires and mine will replace it.”

  “What are you planning to do with the Vaults?”

  Benito looked confused. “The Vaults? Why would I want that dirty old place?”

  Joaquin knitted his eyebrows. “If not the Vaults, then what’s the deed for?”

  Benito smiled. “Ownership to Coira’s demon.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Don’t Believe It

  Taisia’s moans grew louder, causing Pierce’s passion to rise. Pierce sat against a tree with her moving over him, her nails clutching his shoulders. The rough bark scratched against his bare back. He didn’t mind, for he had her beautiful body to look at and touch.

  How fortunate he was to have found her, this intelligent, brave, headstrong woman. Every minute with her gave him a sense of peace and contentment. Each time they made love, it was the best he had ever experienced.

  Being with her in this moment was no different.

  Her moans increased. The fog of her breath thickened and her fingers dug deeper into him. She was about to reach her peak, and that excited him enough to bring him to his own crowing point. His hold on her hips tightened and he grunted through his teeth as he climaxed. The blissful rush, the sound of her pleasurable cry as she crested right along with him, was overwhelmingly intense.

  As their apex surge subsided, it left him quivering. He raised his eyes to her and saw her staring at him. The glow of the surviving candles inside the hanging bottles radiated off her dark skin. Her eyes spoke of satisfaction and happiness, two sentiments he hoped always to give her. She brushed his sweat-drenched hair away from his face and ran her hand over his scalp, which tingled under her touch. He drew her toward him and kissed her passionately before he could even catch his breath.

  * * *

  Hot blood rolled thickly from the deep wounds on Faolan’s back. After so many years, he was being reminded of that terrible whip again.

  The cat o’ nine tails Coira used was the worst of her collection of whips. It had nine leather tails that slashed mercilessly through his skin. In the beginning, she would use it often whenever he rebelled. Another form of punishment she favored was fucking him and, just as he was about to reach climacteric bliss, she’d order him not to, leaving him in regrettable agony. It wasn’t until he began behaving that the whippings mostly stopped and he was allowed his release when she took him.

  Coira MacCrum had put him through so much anguish in such a short period of time. He never would have thought it possible.

  “Ye bastard!” she yelled. “What have ye been doin’ behind me back?”

  She gave him no chance to answer before she lashed her whip. His torn flesh made him wish for death.

  “Nothing!” he cried.

  He could no longer feel his hands. The leather straps binding his wrists had cut off his circulation. The straps were connected to chains that kept his arms suspended over his head. Blood had poured down from his many wounds and had drenched his trousers. He’d need to get a new pair.

  Coira snapped the bloody whip against the floor with a loud crack.

  “Don’t ye tell me nothing when Ruairi and Tavish saw ye with Franklin and his wife, who apparently ain’t his wife.”

  “It’s true,” Tavish spoke up, standing amongst the throng being entertained by the torture. “They left together, and I watched Franklin’s bonnie lass get proposed to by some another man.” He smirked. “Those two soon went at it, they did. Quite the show.”

  “Ye know who these people really are, Faolan,” Coira seethed. “And ye best start talkin’. I order it.”

  Faolan closed his eyes and dropped his head with a deep sigh. The sad truth was that she didn’t need to use the whip to get him to talk. She just wanted to punish him first before starting her interrogation.

  “Their real names are Taisia, Joaquin, and . . . Pierce.”

  “Pierce?” she gasped out.

  “Aye.”

  There was a pause.

  “Joaquin. I know that name,” Coira mused. “He’s Pierce’s brother?”

  Faolan nodded. “Aye.”

  “I’ll be,” Andrew chimed in. “Do ye think it’s Pierce Landcross, Madam MacCrum?”

  “It must be,” she said. “Let him down.”

  Andrew took the chain links off the spikes nailed in the wall and Faolan dropped to his knees, his bound wrists falling between them. He needed to untie his bonds himself. It was part of his punishment.

  As he worked to loosen the thick leather knots, the tendons in his arms tightened like violin strings being wrenched straight. The hot sting nearly paralyzed him. Coira came around beside him. The strain in his neck almost kept him from lifting his chin up when she commanded him to look at her. He did so with strawberry-blond hair stuck to his sweat-soaked skin.

  “I want ye to tell me everything. Describe Pierce to me. If it so
unds like the Pierce I know, then I have a task for ye.”

  “What sort of task?”

  Her wicked smile chilled him.

  “If he has proposed to this Taisia, then that means he loves her very much, aye?”

  Faolan knew exactly what she had in mind.

  * * *

  Pierce wanted to stay at the grove with his fiancée, but he needed to return to the hotel and wait for Joaquin. If he couldn’t get the canister, then Pierce would take some lock picking tools and open the blasted glass box himself. The faster Joaquin had the demon extract his poisonous blood, the sooner they could start their new lives—all of them.

  Before they left the grove, Pierce disguised himself in his wig and beard. He also suggested Taisia go on ahead in order to keep from being seen together by one of Coira’s cronies.

  “I love you,” he whispered fondly as he watched her ride away. “My wife-to-be.”

  Pierce eventually returned to his room, removed his disguise and gun belt, and waited a couple of hours for Joaquin before his exhaustion took him over. He had drifted off for a lousy moment when a frantic pounding got him stirring.

  “Pierce!” Faolan called. “Pierce, are ye in there? Open up!”

  With a heavy groan, Pierce rose to his full height and staggered blindly toward the door.

  “Pierce!”

  “Bloody hell,” he grumbled, turning the lock. “Just wait a damn minute.”

  He swung the door open and was immediately greeted by Faolan’s panicked face. “What is it?”

  Faolan unexpectedly gripped both sides of Pierce’s head. For a split second, Pierce resisted, then, oddly, surrendered to Faolan’s firm grasp.

  “Listen to me,” Faolan ordered earnestly. “Taisia is in danger. Coira found her out and has her at Mary King’s Close.”

  The exhaustion dissipated, allowing his terror to rush in.

  “We need to get to your woman before she’s killed,” Faolan urged, letting go. “C’mon.”

  Pierce snatched his Oak Leaf pistol from its holster and bolted down the corridor. Fortunately, while waiting for Joaquin, Pierce had fallen asleep in full garb, boots and all. Faolan followed him outside and pointed to a horse nearby. “Over there.”