by Brom
“It is the price,” she hissed. “Show her to me and I will give you your grandfather.”
Chet did as he was bid, feeling powerless to do otherwise. His mind drifted to his first memory of Lamia: him as a child, the two of them catching frogs. Just a glimpse. The spiders, the ones in his head, seized on it, and it was as if they were plucking his memories like strings on a harp. Images flashed by: Lamia inviting Trish and him into her home, Lamia feeding them, Lamia laughing, Lamia drinking from his corpse.
Yevabog grunted and the spiders clawed deeper. Another vision appeared. It felt real, as though it were happening now: Lamia standing over Trish. Trish staring at the wall, her eyes glazed as though drugged. “No,” he said, from within. “No,” he growled. “NO!”
The spider god released him. The vision disappeared.
Chet gasped, fell back, feeling drained.
Yevabog too, her head down, all eyes closed.
“That was real?” Chet asked. “That last. That’s happening right now? Right?”
She let out a long breath, nodded. “Yes. We touched her.” She opened her eyes.
“What was she doing to Trish?”
“Trish is your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Is she with child?”
“Yes.”
“Your child.”
“What? Of course.”
“A daughter then.”
Chet wondered how she knew that.
“Lamia is an ancient demon, one of the first to plague mankind. But she is unique even among demons in that she feeds only on her own blood. Do you understand what that means?”
Chet shook his head.
“She breeds with men, passes her blood onto her offspring, the blood mixes, and it is this concoction that she needs.”
“Feeds on them? What . . . her own children?”
“Or grandchildren, great-grandchildren even.
“So my mother . . . she was one of these . . . liliths?”
“No, the lilith is the soul, the demon that worms from body to body. But both you and your mother carried the lilith’s blood. Your mother should have been her next vessel; something must have happened. Yes?”
“Vessel? What do you mean?”
“A lilith’s soul is a slippery thing . . . it worms its way from one body to the next. Do you see? Her immortality is dependent on claiming a new vessel before she dies, and that vessel must be female and only of her own bloodline in order for her soul to bond. She breeds to produce children, sons and daughters, not only to feed off, but in the case of her daughters, to also possess as future vessels. And so the cycle goes, on and on through the centuries, passing her blood down the line, then reclaiming it over and over.”
“Feeds off her own children,” Chet whispered, trying hard to understand such a thing, trying hard not to. She knew, he thought. He thought of Lamia’s voice in her head, how she’d called him home to her. He gritted his teeth, recalling the joy on her face when she’d found out Trish was having a girl.
“She will raise your daughter, feeding off her blood, preparing her. When she feels the girl is ready, she will take her body . . . will cast out her soul.”
Chet thought of the children, all their sad eyes, the longing. “There were children, ghosts, hundreds of them following her. Were . . . were those all her children?”
Yevabog nodded.
“But . . . there are so many.”
“I am sorry, Chet Moran.” For the first time he saw sympathy in Yevabog’s eyes. “Once she takes your daughter, your little girl will be one more desperate soul following the lilith until the end of days.”
Chet’s mind reeled, struggling to make sense of any of this, thought of how he’d started hearing Lamia in his head shortly after she’d marked him with blood at his mother’s funeral. Wondered if his mother had heard those voices too, if that was what had driven her mad. He kept seeing Lamia’s face from the vision, the way she was leering at Trish. I will stop her, he thought. Whatever it takes to get that key to Senoy.
“I would never have believed it possible,” Yevabog said somewhat absently. “An ancient still roaming the above. Somehow she has found a way to hide from Gabriel and his wolves.”
Chet looked into Yevabog’s eyes. “Gabriel’s wolves? Did you mean angels?”
“Angels to some, brutal assassins to others. They are the ones who hunted the ancients down. Murdering us or banishing us to the underworld.”
Chet felt a surge of hope. If the angel was indeed real, indeed Lamia’s enemy, then there was truly a chance to stop her. “I need to find my grandfather. You promised.”
“Yes. We will find your grandfather. Just . . . just give me a moment.” She dropped a hand to the drawer, plucking out a red vial. Pulled the cork and took a small swig. She sat dead still for a long minute, appeared to be preparing herself. “Okay . . . your hand.” Again, she sat her palm atop his. Her middle eye opened. “See him. See your grandfather. Call his name.”
“Gavin Moran.”
“Seek. Let yourself go.”
Gavin, he thought, letting his mind drift. Gavin. The spiders returned, only this time they sought with him, calling to Gavin.
A dark shape formed out of shadows. Just a silhouette of a tall man standing on a cliff, but Chet knew it was him. Felt it. Gavin, he called from within. Dim details emerged—a fitted long coat fluttering in the wind, a porkpie hat with a flat, battered brim, knee-high boots, a bandolier slung across his chest, and guns, big guns, hanging from his hips.
The man held something—a sword. There, on the ground before him, a woman, her hands bound. The man’s boot, Gavin’s boot, was planted against her back. Decapitated bodies lay around him, dozens of them, red blood pooling about his feet. The vision came in and out of focus. Suddenly Chet could actually smell the blood, hear the moans—the woman wailing. Gavin, his face like stone, raised his sword, then hesitated and turned as though looking for someone. His dark, brooding eyes stared directly at Chet, directly into him. Chet shuddered. The eyes were cold, dead, devoid of any humanity.
There came a scream, from far, far away. It sounded like Ana. Drumming. Someone hammering on a door. The spiders, the ones in his head, were all hissing, and the hissing grew into a shrill shriek. The vision evaporated.
He was falling.
Chet hit hard stone. He blinked and the chamber came into focus—several men wearing green jackets and bowler hats rushed in carry torches, clubs, and spears.
Yevabog grabbed a vial and threw it at the lead figure, a huge man carrying a spear. He ducked and the vial flew past, smashing into the wall, sizzling upon the stone, sending up a plume of green smoke.
The man charged Yevabog, thrusting his spear into her chest. She screamed, clawing at the weapon. The man drove the spear all the way through her and into the throne, pinning her like an insect to a board.
Chet grabbed his pouch, digging for the knife. Something hit him, knocking him facedown. A boot slammed into his back, pinning him. The huge man, the one who’d just driven his spear through the spider god, reached down, tearing the pouch from his grasp.
Another figure entered the chamber—the man with the wide-brim hat. The big guard handed him the pouch. He took it, and looked at Chet. “It’s time me and you had a talk.”
CHAPTER 20
Gavin Moran stood on the ledge, the black waters of the River Lethe swirling far below. A woman knelt before him, her hands bound behind her back. She looked up at him, her eyes wet, her thick eye shadow running down her cheeks. “Mercy,” she whispered. “Mercy . . . I beg of you.”
She looked no more than fourteen, but Gavin knew that meant nothing, she could be a thousand years old. She was one of Lord Horkos’s creations, creatures of divine beauty whose veins actually ran with warm red blood—a testament to Horkos’s sorcery. Judging by her simple gossamer dress and long loose hair, Gavin guessed her to be a temple servant. Her small hands and delicate fingers probably prepared Lord Horkos’s clothes, maybe pla
yed a flute or harp. In a world of gray withered skin, her soft, pale flesh appeared as though bathed in milk—flesh now smeared in mud and blood.
“Mercy.” Her voice broke into a sob.
Gavin heard the words, just another sound, no different than the river swirling around the rocks below. It had to be done, so it would be done. He brought the sword up, then down. Her head fell from her shoulders; her body toppled over, lifeless. He watched the red blood spurt from her neck.
He stepped over to her head, her eyes still staring at him, still pleading, and felt nothing. He nudged her head with his boot toe, sending it bounding down the boulders and into the river below, and felt nothing. He looked at the pile of bodies, at least twenty now, all dead by his hand, and felt nothing.
A screech drew Gavin’s attention—a ropey, slightly stooped man, one of the longtime rangers, was tussling with a woman. And even though she’d been stripped of her clothes and jewelry, her painted eyes and blue tattoos showed she ranked high in Lord Horkos’s court, possibly even a priestess. Her hands and arms were bound, yet still she kicked and screamed, cursing them all.
“Move, you witch,” Ansel barked as he struggled to drag her over.
Gavin stepped to her. She met his eyes and it was as though his glare sapped away the last of her will. “No,” she moaned.
Gavin dragged her up to the ledge, pinning her beneath his boot. He raised his sword, then hesitated—someone was calling him, calling from far away—yet, near, as though inside his head. The very air appeared to blur. He blinked, fell back a step, lowered the sword, and shut his eyes. He heard his name again, closer. A vision bloomed, slowly coming into focus. The face of a young man with red hair and eyes so pale they were almost silver, peering at him, squinting as though trying to see into the dark. There was something familiar about the face. A scream, but this too from far away. The vision faded.
Gavin opened his eyes.
“You okay?” Ansel asked, giving him a look.
Gavin steadied himself.
“Been a long couple of days,” Ansel added. “Don’t think these folks here will mind a bit if we take a little break.”
Gavin looked at the sword in his hand, all the blood, the stack of bodies as though for the first time. He heard the wails, saw the tears, looked in the eyes of those waiting their turn for his sword, saw their terror and . . . felt it.
He clenched his eyes shut. You don’t care. A voice, a desperate voice, his voice. You are dead and the dead do not care. He gritted his teeth and thought of dirt—mounds of it being shoveled atop of him, deeper and deeper, farther and farther away from the screams, the ones lurking within, waiting for their chance, waiting to remind him of what he did. Dirt. He clenched his eyes tighter, sucked in a breath through his teeth. I am dead. I am dirt in the ground and dirt does not care . . . does not feel.
He opened his eyes. The woman was still there beneath his boot, quivering. Only she wasn’t a woman, she was nothing. “Nothing,” he said and brought the blade up, then down.
The woman jerked away, causing Gavin to miss his mark. The blade bit into her shoulder. She screamed. Blood gushed. He struck again, then again. His face was stone—no anger, no sorrow. It was a chore that needed doing, nothing more. On the fourth blow her head came free, hit the dirt, rolled to his boot. Gavin Moran nudged the head off the ledge, and watched it fall into the river below.
“Dirt,” Gavin said. “Dirt feels nothing.”
CHAPTER 21
The man removed his wide-brim hat, revealing ponderous eyebrows and wavy black hair greased back from his forehead. He opened Chet’s pouch, pulled out the knife, held it up to the torchlight, tugging at his handlebar mustache as he examined it.
Chet made an effort to sit up and the guards kicked him back down, pinning him beneath their boots. He felt a spear tip against the back of his neck.
“There will be a price, Carlos,” Yevabog said, her voice strained.
“Yeah. There’s always a price,” the man with the handlebar mustache answered, not even bothering to look at her. “And it seems your debts have finally come due.”
The wall still sizzled from the broken vial, green smoke drifting about the octagonal chamber. There were six guards in the chamber other than Carlos and the big guard, and they glanced about with wide, nervous eyes.
Carlos walked over to the big guard, held out the knife so the man could get a good look at it. “What d’you think, Troy? This come from Hell?”
Troy was broad-shouldered and thick through the chest, the sleeves of his green dinner jacket cut off at the shoulders to show his muscular arms. Troy shook his head. “Looks to be older. Perhaps before the angels fell.”
Carlos slid out the blade and both their eyes grew wide.
“That’s god gold,” Troy said. “Has to be.”
Carlos took the knife and pressed it against a marble stand. The blade sawed through the marble as though it were paper. “I believe you’re right. So how, then, did some lowly soul bring it across from the other side?”
They both looked at Chet.
“Someone had to have given—” Carlos started.
“I give you fair warning,” Yevabog hissed, her voice rising. “Leave . . . leave now.” She coughed and spat blood. A moan came from above and all eyes went to the hanging bodies. Several of the cocoons squirmed as though the torchlight hurt them.
“See them,” Carlos said, speaking to his men and pointing up at the cocoons. “This is why we fight. To put an end to such evil.” Carlos walked over to Yevabog, held the blade in front of her eyes. “The time of gods feeding on souls has come to an end.”
“You godless souls know nothing of the bonds of gods and men,” she spat. “The tangle of love and worship. But soon”—her eyes cut to the guards—“you will know the suffering incurred by those who trespass.” Her eyes flared; her middle eye opened and glowed. “I set curse upon any who take hand in the spilling of my blood. Their ka shall rot and their ba shall never find a home.”
The guards exchanged anxious looks, sparing glances toward the door.
Carlos shook his head and laughed, then without warning, slashed the knife through one of her arms. The limb fell away, tumbled to the stones.
Yevabog let out a cry.
Carlos bent, retrieved the arm, and held it before Yevabog’s face. “Where’s your curse, monster? Come, smite me. Set me to flame.” He waited. “Your sorcery’s all dried up. Sure as shit. Because you, like so many of your kind, are forgotten.”
He held the arm out to the men. “See there, she’s nothing but an empty shell . . . a husk, another lost god like the rest of them.” He tossed the arm away as though a piece of trash.
Yevabog let out a moan, a guttural, forlorn sound, as though Carlos’s words cut as deep as the spear now pinning her to her throne. Her chin dropped to her chest, eyes squeezed shut.
Carlos pushed back his long coat and hooked a thumb into his fist-size belt buckle—a large brass scorpion—and stared at Chet. “Let’s start this off with an easy one. Tell me your name.”
Chet just glared up at him.
Carlos frowned. “You think this is a game?” He nodded at one of the guards. “Fetch the boy.” The guard ran back up the corridor.
Troy bent down, setting a knee onto Chet’s back, grabbed Chet’s wrist, and looked at his palm.
“Shit, he’s marked,” Carlos said, stunned.
“Sure is,” Troy said. “How do you think he pulled that one off?”
“You got a lot of explaining to do,” Carlos said to Chet. A moment later the guard returned, along with another guard, dragging Johnny between them. Johnny had a gash across his face and one arm was severed below the elbow.
Carlos set the knife against Johnny’s neck and looked at Chet. “Now, I asked you a question.”
“Chet. My name’s Chet.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Chet, if you answer my questions straight, then you and your friends just might leave this place with you
r heads still on. You got that?”
Chet nodded.
“Now tell me. How did a damned soul escape Lucifer’s hounds? How’d you come by this knife? How is it that the Red Lady and her witches just happened to show up at the same time you crossed the river? Why is it you’re here, conspiring with Yeva? What’s going on, Chet? Huh? Talk to me.”
“Conspiring . . . what?” Chet said. “I’m not conspiring with anyone.”
Carlos gave him a look of grave disappointment, then nodded to the guards. The two guards threw Johnny to the ground, onto his stomach, set their knees into his back, and pressed his face against the stone floor. Carlos knelt next to Johnny, setting the point of the blade against the back of his head. Johnny’s eyes found Chet’s; he looked terrified.
“Wait. WAIT!” Chet shouted. “You’ve got things all mixed up. It’s not like you think. I got nothing to do with the Red Lady. I’m just trying to find my grandfather. That’s all!”
Carlos shook his head sadly. “I don’t like games, Chet.” He slowly pressed the point of the knife into Johnny’s flesh. Johnny let out a scream, kicking, fighting to twist free.
“Stop it!” Chet cried, struggling against the guards. “STOP!”
The blade sank deep into Johnny’s skull. Carlos gave the knife a sharp twist. There came a crack and Johnny stopped screaming, his eyes bulging, his mouth gasping.
The room fell silent; even the guards appeared shocked. Chet stopped struggling, just stared.
Carlos slid the knife free and tendrils of wispy, silvery vapors drifted up from the large wound in Johnny’s skull, forming into a wavy version of the boy. Johnny’s smoky form hovered above them, staring down at his body, his face confused. He glanced about, eyes fearful, as though something was coming for him, something terrible.
Carlos waved his hand through the vapors, sending Johnny’s form swirling away into the haze, but as Johnny’s form melted, Chet saw, clearly saw, the boy was screaming.
“Fuck,” Chet whispered, unable to stop staring at Johnny’s split skull. “Fuck!”