by Brom
“Hey,” Chet said, raising his voice. “Just got a question.”
The couple looked up, startled. The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What d’you want?” The man dropped the plank he’d been carrying and set his hand on the hilt of his knife.
“Whoa,” Chet said, putting his hands up. “We don’t want any trouble. Just looking for the bloodseekers.”
“They’re gone,” the man said. “The Defenders, again. Drove ’em all off.”
“Them Green Coat bastards is taking over,” the woman added. “I think when the Red Lady finds out what they’ve done here, she’s going to be out for blood. And from what I hear, her wrath can be murderous, as in apocalyptic. But between us, I wouldn’t mind seeing them so-called Defenders taken down a notch or two, or even three or four.”
“Yeah,” the man said. “A lot of folks believe things is gonna be better without the ancients meddling in our business. But I’ll take a few crazy gods any day over these Green Coat assholes.”
“So there’s no more bloodseekers . . . anywhere?” Chet asked.
“There’s that spider lady,” the woman said. “She’s still here. Take more than those Green Coats to scare her off.”
The man shook his head. “Well, wouldn’t be advising anyone to go near her. She’s a frightful creature. Folks gone in there that ain’t never come back out.”
“You don’t know beans, Bernard.” She looked at Chet. “Don’t pay him no mind, he’s always exaggerating. That’s her temple down there. See?” She pointed. “You can just see it. The one with the green dome.”
Chet thanked her and the three of them continued down the steps.
“Ana, look at that sky,” Johnny said. “The colors. Have you ever seen anything like that?”
Chet looked skyward, they all did, watching the coppery clouds churned together as light fluttered deep within. Chet noticed torches glittering far below in the mist leading out onto a valley, mountains beyond, and beyond that, far, far in the distance, a hint of fiery clouds. There was no denying the beauty.
“You guys ever think that maybe none of this is even real?” Johnny asked. “That maybe it’s all part of some hallucination I’m having while waiting to drown?”
“Well if it is,” Ana said, “I wish you’d just hurry up and drown so I can be done with it.”
“Seems to be getting darker,” Johnny said. “Wonder if they have night here.”
They found a path leading to the temple and followed a winding terrace strewn with broken furniture, smashed vases, and soggy, ash-covered tapestries. The terrace led to a red door set into an arch, framed by two narrow windows. Over the door, written in red dripping letters, was DO NOT FEED THE GODS.
Chet walked up, tried to peer in through a window. All was dark. He stepped to the door, noticed it was busted, that someone had done a hasty job to repair it. He knocked. Waited. Nothing.
“Looks like we might be too late,” Ana said.
Chet knocked again. Louder.
“Try it,” Johnny said.
Chet did. The door slid inward a few inches. He gave the door a shove, it slid in farther, and suddenly Chet found a spear pointed at his neck.
“State your business,” someone growled from within the shadows. “Quick.”
“Uh, the . . . spider. I’m looking for the seeker, the bloodseeker.”
The owner of the voice stepped forward, a dwarfish figure with a bristling beard and fierce eyes. “She’s not here. Now leave.”
“I need to see her . . . to help me find someone. I can pay.”
The man pressed the blade. “I won’t tell you again. Be gone.”
“We were sent by the sisters,” Ana said. “Do you know who I mean?”
“I don’t care if Jesus sent—”
“Otis,” a silky voice called behind him. “Send him to us.”
Otis grimaced, shook his head. “If you’re with the Green Coats, you won’t make it out of here with your head.”
“I’m not.”
“Leave the club.”
Chet sat his club on the ground.
The dwarf gestured down the hall.
Chet walked in. Johnny and Ana started to follow but the dwarf jabbed the spear at them. “No one invited you.”
Johnny started to protest, but Chet shook his head. Johnny let out a sigh, stepped back. “Fine, but we’re right here, little man. So you better watch yourself.”
The dwarf shoved the door shut and braced it with a plank.
Chet made out a tunnel disappearing into darkness. He hesitated.
“What’s the matter?” the dwarf smirked. “Change your mind?”
Chet drew in a breath and headed into the passage. The dim, dirty light fell behind, leaving him in complete darkness. He realized he was alone, that the dwarf hadn’t followed. He took small careful steps on the uneven floor, feeling sure he would step off into a bottomless void at any moment. He stumbled, catching himself on the wall, his hand landing in something stringy and sticky. He snatched his hand free and forced himself to press on. Soon the echoes of his footsteps deepened and though he couldn’t see the walls, he could tell he’d entered a large chamber. The tang of cinnamon and mint met his nose; it seemed to be masking a deeper smell, that of rot and decay.
He stopped.
Something was breathing, a soft, rasping sound. It moved around him, closer and closer. Chet fought the urge to turn and bolt.
“Are you scared, little fly?” A woman’s voice, soft and silky.
“I need your help.”
Six tiny orbs appeared before him. They blinked.
“Come closer that we may better see you.”
Chet stepped closer.
“Not much to look at.” She sounded disappointed. “Another sad soul, with another sad story.”
An emerald glow appeared above the orbs. A stone, or gem, placed into some sort of delicate wickerwork. It brightened just enough for Chet to see that the orbs were eyes set in the forehead of a pale oval face—tiny eyes, no bigger than peas. Her face was feminine, beautiful in spite of its strangeness. There were two more eyes, very human in shape, set in the middle of her face, and a larger, seventh eye centered between the six in her forehead. It remained closed.
“So the sisters sent you to us?”
Chet nodded.
“And does the Red Lady still watch over them?”
He nodded again.
A pale, delicate hand, set upon an arm as thin as a pipe, rose and tapped a stone with one long, spindly finger. The stone began to glow. Another hand rose, another, and another, six in all. Each tapped a stone, each stone bloomed to life, bathing the creature in their soft emerald glow. The stones were set into a throne of woven, silky webbing that fanned outward, into the darkness. Chet wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, but the webbing appeared to move, squirm, like a nest of worms, forming and reforming into intricate patterns. Her hands settled gracefully upon her chest, cradling one another.
“You saw her? The Red Lady? Actually saw her here in Styga?”
“Yeah. No mistake there.”
Her face grew pensive. Her small, dark lips, little more than a splotch, pursed tightly together. “And yet she does nothing.” She wrung her tiny bone white hands together.
The stones continued to brighten, revealing an ornate headdress with two small curling horns jutting from each side and bits of jewelry and beads woven into its silky fabric. She had no legs, but six arms sprouting from a torso that was wrapped in layers of black webbing and adorned in feathers, jewelry, and beads, the lacy webbing covering her from her wrists to just below her tiny chin. Her cinched waist, a waist Chet could have wrapped his thumb and forefinger around, and broad abdomen gave the overall impression of a corseted Victorian lady in all her finery.
“As you can see . . . we have had visitors,” she said bitterly. “They were very ill-mannered.”
Chet glanced around; the chamber was in shambles, broken pottery, furniture, the pieces of what look
ed like a giant loom. He noticed small arms, legs, and heads, had a moment of shock and revulsion, then realized that they belonged to dolls—silk dolls, torn and shredded, lying about like mutilated children.
“What is your name?”
“Chet.”
“Just Chet?”
“Chet Moran.”
“Do you know my name?”
He shook his head and saw her disappointment.
“I am Yevabog.” She waited, searching his face for some sign of recognition. “Have you heard that name?” It was almost a plea.
Again he shook his head.
“Never? Not in all your time on the earth above?”
He shrugged.
Her face darkened. “It is a hard thing to be forgotten.” She was quiet for a long moment. “It is what they want . . . these godless men. They burn the temples and still the Red Lady does nothing.” She waved a thin arm at the wreckage. “They fouled my sanctuary. It was a warning, they said. Leave, they said. Leave or burn.” Her eyes drifted upward to the ceiling. “I cannot leave.” Her voice cracked. “I love them, my husbands . . . each and every one. They are my heart . . . my soul.”
Chet followed her eyes and his breath caught in his chest. Hanging above him, figures wrapped in silky webbing, like cocoons, perhaps as many as twenty.
“If I leave, there will be none to protect them. They will burn along with everything else and then . . . and then I will truly be forgotten.” She trailed off, her two human eyes sad and distant. She closed them, closed all her eyes.
Chet waited for several minutes for her to speak, to open her eyes, to do something.
“Ma’am . . .”
She didn’t seem to hear him.
He spoke up. “Ma’am . . . Ma’am?”
Her eyes slowly opened, looking at him as though for the first time.
“I’m sorry about all this,” Chet said. “And I hate to bother you at such a time, but . . . see, you’re my only shot at this point. So . . . I was hoping maybe you could help me out? Help me find my grandfather?”
She continued to stare at him.
Chet swallowed. “I can pay.” He untied the pouch, removed a handful of pennies, held them out to her.
She gazed at the coins, sighed. “In better times, on earth above, they would bring me songs and dance, harvest and the flesh of their beasts. They gave of themselves, of their blood. Sometimes offering even their own children. Asking nothing more in return than my blessing. Is that not so, Ivan?” Her eyes drifted up to the wrapped bodies.
A moan from above startled Chet. He realized one of the bodies was squirming.
“They loved me. All of them and I . . . I loved them. But I have so few now.” Her eyes settled on Chet. “You are fresh dead. Yet unsoiled by the grime of death.” Her middle eye opened, fixed on him unblinking, a pulsing green glow; he couldn’t look away.
She leaned toward him, extended a hand, slowly touching his cheek with the backside of her fingers—the lightest caress. “Your flesh still soft. Pliable.” A chill rolled down his spine. He knew he should run, yet he didn’t.
She slid forward until her face was inches from his, her lips near his ear. He felt her breath on his neck. “I have much to offer.” She was in his head, his heart, like a sweet song. He felt calm, he felt loved.
“Come into my arms.”
But it was no longer the spider he saw in his mind, in his heart, he saw Lamia—Lamia crouched over his body, drinking his blood. No, he thought. “No.” He jerked back, pulling away from her grasp. “No.”
Her hand hung there, her fingers drooping like a withering flower. Her arm drifted back to her breast. She cradled it as though it were injured. Her middle eye closed. She appeared confused, staring at Chet, the stare turning into a glare, the confusion into anger. Her dark lips peeled back, revealing tiny sharp teeth. All six of her hands clenched into small fists. “I shall not seek. Not for you . . . not for any soul . . . never again. I am done.” Her voice became shrill. “Done. Done. Done with it all!”
The fire left her, just went out. She sagged, fell back into her throne. A great sigh, almost a moan, escaped her lips. “How sad I have become. How utterly pathetic. There was a time when the earth was my playing field, when men and women lined up to be mine, would have cut out their own eyes for a chance at my attentions. Now, none even know my name. Not on earth above, not in death below. What is left when I cannot seduce even a common oaf . . .” Her voice faded. “Let them burn my temple down around me, for I am done . . . all done.” Her eyes fell shut.
Chet waited, waited as long as he could stand it, glancing anxiously about, shifting from foot to foot. “Ma’am?”
She didn’t respond.
“Ma’am, please.”
No answer.
“Ma’am, I don’t know where else to go. I’ll beg you if that’s what you want. I’ll give you my blood . . . my flesh. Just tell me what you want.”
Still she didn’t answer, didn’t move, not a breath. He continued to wait, the minutes sliding slowly by, until finally it struck him that maybe she’d expired, had just let go. He slipped up closer, leaned over, peering into her face. She’s dead, he thought, felt sure of it. He reached out then, touched her, the slightest poke on her arm.
A flash of movement. A sharp sting.
“Oww, fuck!” Chet cried, stumbling back, clasping his neck.
She glared at him, holding up a finger, a dab of his black oily blood staining her pointed nail.
“What’d you do that for?” Chet mumbled as his vision blurred. His knees grew weak and he sat down hard.
“You dare touch me, you lowly sod of a man?” she muttered. “Touch a god. Do you know the penalty for such? I may be forgotten, but I am still a god, not some lowly seeker peddling tricks for a pittance. Now leave. Leave me before I suck out every last drop of your soul.” She licked his blood from her fingernail.
Chet grabbed hold of an overturned table and tried to pull himself up, but slid back down.
She watched him, amused, then slowly her face changed. She licked her lips as though tasting something bitter. Her brow furrowed as she stared at her fingernail. “That cannot be.” She licked the nail again and a spark came into her eyes, a slight glow. She leaned forward. “Who is your mother, Chet Moran?”
“My mother?”
She waited.
“Cynthia.”
“Cynthia. No . . . that is not right. Your grandmother. What is her name?”
“Lamia.”
“Lamia?” She tapped her lips, considering. “Yes, Lamia, one of the liliths. There were her sisters, Eisheth, Igrath, the others . . . I do not recall all their names, but Lamia I remember. She was fierce, that one, a demon to be reckoned with.” She gave Chet a curious look. “How is it you should have Lamia’s blood?” She seemed to be asking herself, then her eyes grew even larger. “Tell me, is she . . . is Lamia, still on earth above?”
Chet nodded.
Yevabog fell quiet, lost in thought. “Lamia, the firebrand. Who else? Who else would have the will, the tenacity, the spirit.” She smiled. “So, at least one ancient still roams earth above. Still defies the One Gods. She is a wonder.”
“She’s a murderer. She killed me. And I think she killed hundreds of others, hundreds of children.”
“Thousands.”
“What?”
“She has slain thousands . . . maybe tens of thousands.”
“And you call her a wonder?”
“She is a lilith.” Yevabog said this as though it excused everything.
“She’s evil. A demon. You said so yourself.”
“Who is to say what is evil? The Christ god tried to bend her to his will. Bend all the liliths. Have them serve men . . . bear their children.” Yevabog smiled. “The liliths, they turned that around. Oh, by the stars did they.” Yevabog gleamed. “Using their blood not to breed for men, but to feed on them. It gives one heart.” The spider god smiled. “And now, to hear she still lives, still wa
lks earth above . . . a bright light in this twilight of the ancients.” Yevabog studied Chet. “Yet, somehow your spirit escaped her spell.” Her voice changed yet again, almost playful. “Why, Chet Moran, blood child of Lamia, you are a riddle. A delicious curiosity. Come closer.”
Chet stayed where he was.
“Come, do not be afraid.”
Chet didn’t move.
“Do you wish to find your grandfather? Come, I shall show you.”
Chet glanced up at the bodies hanging in their cocoons above. Every instinct told him to leave. Instead, he pulled himself up on unsteady feet and stumbled forward. He knew he was a fool, but he also knew he had no other options. She took his right hand in two of hers, pulled him close. With a third hand she clasped his wrist. With a fourth, she danced her fingers across one of the glowing gems on the throne. A small compartment rolled open, revealing dozens of vials and pins of various shapes, colors, and sizes. She plucked out a vial and held it up, examining its dark contents.
“Show me your mark.”
She knows, he thought. Of course she does. He opened his hand.
“A penny, now.”
He pulled out a penny, gave it to her.
She examined the coin, tasted it, appeared pleased. “Copper binds the spell, binds all spells.” She placed the penny on top of the mark, then pulled the cork, and held the vial over Chet’s palm. “We must blind Lucifer. Doors can open both ways when one seeks.”
She tilted the vial; a single drop fell onto the coin. There came a sizzle, then searing pain shot up Chet’s arm as the penny melted into the mark. She held his wrist tight. He gritted his teeth, surprised by her strength. The mark lit up, angry red, then both the mark and the pain receded.
Yevabog set a hand atop his, pressing their palms together, closed all of her eyes. The green stones dimmed. Her hand grew warm. Her eye, the one in the center of her forehead, opened. Again it drew him in—deeper and deeper. He felt her many hands upon him, her fingers crawling up his arms, along his neck, his face, then through his hair, probing, prodding. Felt as though they were in his head, four little spiders crawling around in his mind.
“Think of her. Of Lamia.”
“No,” he said, only he wasn’t speaking, but talking to her from within. “My grandfather. Need to find my—”