by Brom
“It was the candles that did it. They were purple and he wanted to know why she’d put purple candles on a boy’s cake. She told him they were the only ones on hand. His eyes started twitching then, the way they’d get when something was bothering him. He shook his head, said, you can’t put girl candles on a boy’s cake. She laughed, said it’d be all right, that nobody would ever know but us. He told her, no, it’s not all right to put sissy candles on his son’s cake. I said I didn’t mind. Asked him if I could please just blow out the candles.
“I could see Mom’s hands shaking. She asked him then, asked real nice for him not to make a fuss, not on my birthday. He slapped her . . . hard enough to knock her out of her chair.
“Mom didn’t say anything else, just got up holding the side of her face and went into the bedroom.
“Dad sat there staring at the candles with those twitchy eyes. I was too scared to move, too scared to do anything but watch the candles melt all over my cake.
“After a bit he got up and went back to the bedroom.” Coach was quiet a minute. “He was yelling at her at first. She was crying. Then I could hear every blow . . . every blow. She started screaming, begging him to stop. I remember staring at the phone, it was right there in the kitchen. Mom had put the police and fire number below it, told me to call them in case of an emergency. I kept trying to make myself pick up that phone. But I . . . didn’t. I was scared. Scared he’d beat me.
“After a while she stopped screaming . . . I could still hear the sound of his fist hitting her body. Just whap, whap, whap, whap. God, when will I ever stop hearing that?”
“I’m sorry,” Ado whispered.
Coach looked at Ado. “I don’t care what happens to me down here. Not so long as I get a chance to tell her I’m sorry . . . sorry for being such a coward.”
“Get some rest,” Ado said, lying down on the dirt. “If you want to see your mother again, you will need some rest.”
Chet lay down next to Ado and closed his eyes, trying to find sleep, but found himself staring at the ceiling. “Do we sleep?”
“If you are lucky,” Ado said. “Real sleep is a thing to treasure. For when you sleep . . . you dream of life.”
Water continued dripping from the grate, a steady, twack, twack, twack, and all Chet could hear was the sound of Coach’s dad beating a dead body. He forced his mind away, replaying all the moves Ado had shown him. Slowly his thoughts turned to Trish, her eyes, her smile, the feel of his unborn daughter kicking against his hand. I have to stay alive. Have to.
CHAPTER 37
Carlos and his Defenders rode up to the base of a towering figure and came to a halt, all staring up at the giant statue—a two-headed woman with six breasts sagging atop her swollen belly and three pairs of arms, each ending in giant hooves. One of her heads smiled perpetually heavenward while the other frowned down upon them. She was cast from iron, the ore pitted and streaked red with rust.
Carlos nodded to Hugo. “Light her up.”
The statue’s belly formed a cage, a cage large enough to hold dozens of souls. The belly was supported by a large oven. The men rounded up chunks of old bone, shoved them into the oven, and set them to blaze. A few minutes later green smoke began to rise, spewing from the statue’s mouths and eyes.
Carlos was glad Mother Eye was full open; even after all these years, he didn’t care for meeting with demons in the dark. “Keep watch,” he said. “They’ll be coming from the south.” He tugged a silver lighter from his breast pocket, followed by a cigarette, cupping his hands around the flame as he lit it. He inhaled deeply, letting the sour-smelling bone-spice seep its way deep inside him. He closed his eyes as the rush hit him. It reminded him of cocaine the way it pumped him up, made him feel alive, ready for anything, even a band of demons from Hell itself. Carlos felt there were really just two kinds of souls in purgatory: those that drank Lethe and those that smoked the bone-spice. The ones that drank Lethe, they were the walking dead, pathetic rueful souls who wanted little more than to pass on from this world for good. Those that smoked the bone-spice, though, they wanted to live—to make something of this life after death. Carlos had already wasted one life and had no intention of wasting another.
“Must’ve been a hell of a sight,” Ansel said.
Carlos realized he was talking to him. “What’s that?”
“The iron lady there, she belonged to Lord Osiris. Still does I guess, but looks like she ain’t been visited in a long spell. She’s called Osiris’s Mother and they say that in his glory days Osiris used to burn a hundred souls in her belly at a time. Not slaves neither, but his worshippers. Supposed to be some great honor to be chosen. They believed their ashes would rise up to earth above and they’d be reborn.”
Carlos tried to image a hundred souls crammed into the iron giant, screaming and squirming against the blistering metal as they cooked. And to go willingly, he thought. God, what would it be like to wield such power? To lord over a kingdom, to bend souls to my will, to cook them in an oven if it pleased me. Now, that . . . that would be worth getting out of bed for.
“Purgatory’s gonna be a better place once all these gods is gone,” Ansel said. “Yes, sir.”
For some, Carlos thought. Those with a plan. What fools like this man don’t understand is that there’ll always be someone lording over them. If not a god, then a man. And Carlos intended to be that man, because he’d spent his whole life being told what to do—the nuns as a child, with their endless rules and sharp rulers, his brief stint in the military, then all those years in prison—and he was done with it. Always someone waiting to beat you down. Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s if you don’t wish to be beaten, then you’d better be the one holding the whip.
“There, boss,” Hugo said, pointing to a figure on the near ridge. The figure signaled and seven horsemen trotted out from the canyon, followed by a black wagon.
Carlos scanned his men, his Defenders, hard men, some of his best. Most had been with him since his early soul-hunting days. Yet they too appeared on edge. Demons had a way of doing that to you. He glanced over at the Colonel’s two men. Ansel appeared nervous as well, but not the other one, the one with the cold eyes—he appeared almost bored.
Carlos dismounted and waited beside the wagon. He spotted Gar, Lord Kashaol’s warden, riding in the lead and relaxed somewhat. The two of them went back more than a decade now, starting out with a bit of soul trading, building into so much more. Gar wasn’t one of the Fallen, but close. Carlos still didn’t fully understand demon hierarchy. He did know that there were as many types of demons as there were bones in purgatory, that the Fallen, the original angels cast out by God, were on top, lording over the vast realms of Hell in various factions and kingdoms. All part of a tenuous alliance held together by Lucifer himself.
Gar rode up, pulled his mount to a halt. The hell horse stomped and snorted as molten flame dripped from its eyes and muzzle. Hell horses weren’t soul-shifts, but demons, stupid and dangerous, known to eat souls if given the chance.
Six demons rode behind Gar. They appeared to be lower-caste, beastly creatures with long, snoutish faces and burning yellow eyes. Gar, by contrast, appeared almost human, and Carlos could see he was anxious, glancing around furtively, that he didn’t like being so far out. The two of them usually met much closer to Hell’s border when Carlos brought souls in.
“Relax, Gar,” Carlos called. “The Red Lady’s nowhere near.”
“Easy for you to say,” he retorted. “It is not you that she hunts.”
“She cannot smell you from Styga. Saw her there just yesterday.”
Gar appeared to relax a degree. His eyes flashed to the tarp in the back of the wagon. “Is that what I hope it is?”
Carlos flipped the tarp down, revealing Horkos.
Gar stared in amazement. “You have done it?” Gar guided his mount closer to the wagon, reached down, and grabbed hold of Horkos by the hair, tugging him up for the other demons to see. They let loos
e a savage howl that set Carlos’s teeth on edge.
Horkos’s one eye bulged at the sight of the demons. It was clear he saw his fate. Carlos wondered what the demons would do with the god. Gar had only said Horkos would be going to a place of no return, which was exactly what Carlos wanted to hear, as gods had a way of coming back.
“Lord Kashaol’s plan comes together,” Gar said, speaking like a man finding his faith.
Carlos nodded. It had been Kashaol, through his emissary, who had asked him, “Why be a soul hunter, when you can be a lord?” It was Kashaol who’d instructed Carlos on how to lead the Colonel down the road of temptation by offering him that which he most wanted, had explained to Carlos how if you wanted to rob your fellow man blind, just tell him you’re doing it for the betterment of all. Everything had changed after that, joining the Colonel’s revolution creating the perfect guise for Carlos to seize power and take over the docks, then most of Styga, and all in the good name of freedom.
“Now,” Gar said, dismounting, “I have something for you.” He led Carlos over to the black wagon. A stack of crates sat in the back. He lifted the lid off one, revealing several muskets. He pulled one out and handed it to Carlos.
Carlos ran his hand along the barrel. “The ore . . . why, it’s flawless.”
“Forged in Hell’s flame. These will not explode in your face like those made in Styga.” He patted one of the smaller crates. “Powder here, balls there. Enough to fight a war.”
“Indeed,” Carlos said. “Tell me, Gar. Any news on the cannon?”
“It is a marvel.”
“It’s done?”
“Yes, Lord Kashaol’s weapons smith is gathering bits and pieces of broken weapons from the Fallen to create shot for it. They are not easy to come by, but Kashaol is going to extraordinary measures. It will be ready in a few days and Lord Kashaol intends to deliver it in person.”
Carlos’s thick brows rose in surprise. “In person?”
“Yes, he wishes to meet you. To better know the soul in which he is placing so much trust.”
Until now, all Carlos’s dealings with Lord Kashaol had been through Gar. Carlos didn’t know whether to be pleased or fearful. Lords of Hell didn’t come wandering into the river realms without good cause.
“Tell Lord Kashaol it would be my pleasure to meet with him. And, oh, I got a little extra something for him.” Carlos turned, looked at the Colonel’s two men sitting on the wagon bench; the sack of heads lay directly behind the stoned-faced man. It took him a second to recall his name. “Gavin, toss me that sack.”
The man stared at him.
“I said toss it here.”
The man just continued to stare at him with those dead eyes.
“You hard of hearing or plain stupid?” Carlos knew Gar was watching, felt his face heating up. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
Gavin spat in the dirt.
Carlos went for his gun, then saw that Gavin already had his out. Christ, didn’t even see him move.
Defenders and demons alike tugged out their weapons.
“Whoa! Whoa, now!” Ansel yelled. “Everybody just put their dicks back in their pants. Here. Here’s your godforsaken heads, you soul-trading lowlife.” He hefted the sack and tossed it on the ground in front of Carlos.
Another moment went by with everyone watching one another, all except Gavin, who kept his eyes locked on Carlos.
“Put it away, Gavin,” Ansel said. “C’mon now.”
Carlos sucked in a deep breath, struggling to keep his anger in check. Later, he told himself, deal with him later. He pushed his gun back into its holster, stooped, picked up the sack, and walked Gar over to the black wagon. “He’s one of the Colonel’s men,” Carlos said to Gar. “They lack for discipline.”
The demon nodded. “They hate those who hunt the damned.”
Yeah, Carlos thought as he untied the sack, they sure do. He often wondered why souls would even allow the damned among them, much less feel a need to harbor them. Didn’t they understand that these were men and women who’d committed grave sins of one kind or another? To Carlos, the damned were no different than the horrible men he’d served prison time with.
Carlos held the sack open for Gar to see the three heads inside. “A small token of things to come.”
Gar peered in and his face lit up. “Ah, Lord Kashaol will be pleased.” He took the sack.
“Once the Red Lady is out of the way, there won’t be anyplace left for them to hide.”
Gar glanced back at Gavin, spoke low to Carlos. “I tell you something, that man . . . he is damned. I smell his mark.”
This didn’t surprise Carlos. There were a handful of damned among the Rangers, even a few among his Defenders. Hell’s borders were vast and porous. Carlos knew the only reason he himself didn’t wear the mark was that he’d never believed, not in any of it. He’d always thought religion was for suckers, had often joked that the only church he belonged to was the Church of Carlos.
“Those guns that man carries,” Gar continued. “Those are Hell forged. He did not trade or bargain for those . . . he killed for them . . . killed a high-caste demon. Bring that man’s head to Lord Kashaol, and he will reward you well.”
Carlos nodded. “It would be my pleasure.”
CHAPTER 38
He’s still following us,” Isabel said.
Mary nodded. “I know.” The man had been trailing them ever since they’d left Styga. He had done an admirable job of staying hidden, but out here in the Barrens, among the bones, it wasn’t so easy to remain unseen.
Mary surveyed the line of carts, nine all together, forty-six sisters, and even armed as they were with swords and spears, it wasn’t easy sheltering infants and children, not out where so many unnamed things stalked the hills and ravines hungry for their flesh. But the Red Lady walked with them, as she had been doing for decades. Mary knew no sane soul would dare challenge them so long as she was their escort, and that was what made her most uneasy about their follower.
“Keep everyone moving along,” Mary said. “I’m staying here. I think it’s time to have a talk with our trail mate.”
Isabel started to protest, but Mary cut her off. “It’s better if it’s just me; one less might go unnoticed.”
When the carts entered a cluster of boulders, Mary slipped out of line and into the shadows of the leaning stones, drew her sword, and waited. She didn’t have to wait long before she felt him, sensing him through the jewel in her forehead—contempt, hatred, arrogance. It was that last, she knew, that would be his undoing. Men had a tendency to underestimate her because she was a woman, a mistake that had cost many dearly.
She waited until he passed—creeping by without any idea she was there—then slipped out, moving quickly and quietly up on him from behind. He turned at the last moment and she cut his neck from his shoulders, watching dispassionately as both his body and head thumped to the dirt.
She squatted next to his head and looked into his wide, horrified eyes. “You have a choice. Answer my questions true and I will grant you oblivion. Answer false and I leave you here for the unnamed.”
He blinked back tears.
“Are you with the Green Coats?” she asked.
“No.”
Mary sensed his lie, or rather her jewel did; she felt its heat. “You’re lying. Should I leave now?”
“I’m not one of them . . . not one of the Defenders. I swear it. They made me follow you. Said they’d throw me in the river if I didn’t.”
More lies. Mary stood up, started away.
“Wait. Wait. Please!”
She continued.
“Okay, yes!” he cried. “I’m with the Defenders.”
She returned. “Why are you following us?”
“Supposed to keep tabs on your whereabouts.”
There was more, she sensed it. “And?”
“And?”
She waited.
“To tell them if you took another road, anything other tha
n Lethe.”
“And why would they need to know that?”
“Don’t know. They didn’t tell me why, didn’t tell me anything. Truly.”
He was speaking the truth.
“Where are they?”
“Ahead . . . somewhere along the road to Lethe.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know,” he was crying. “I’ve told you all I know about them.”
And she could tell he had. She turned, started away.
“Wait. Wait. You promised.”
“And you lied,” she said without looking back.
“No. Don’t leave me,” he cried. “No!”
She continued, moving quickly, the man’s cries fading as she headed over the rise. She caught up with Isabel and the Red Lady shortly thereafter.
“It is time to find a new path. Something is going on. I don’t know what. But I don’t like it. Let us take the road to Osiris’s Mother.”
“You mean through the canyons?” Isabel asked, sounding concerned.
“Yes. I think we should.”
CHAPTER 39
The plated doors rolled upward and the goblin men marched the slaves out into the arena to the beat of the drums, spreading them out along the perimeter of the field. Chet, Coach, and Ado stood together, surveying the field. Chet guessed there to be around sixty souls left, about half the number of yesterday.
“It will be a different game today,” Ado said. “Different strategy. We need to avoid the larger groups this time, as they will only draw the champions.” He scanned the field. “The smoke is denser . . . there, near the gates. When the horn blows we will go there, and use the pits, smoke, and stones to stay clear of the champions.”
Chet nodded, noticing that most of the remaining ring-bearers appeared alert and held their weapons like they meant to use them.
The tall red door slowly opened and the champions marched out. Like yesterday, they paraded around the arena once, hailing the crowd and the gods, then took their stations in the center of the arena beneath their banners. There were nine today, three fewer than yesterday.