by Matt Turner
“What?”
“I said, ONLY YOU CAN SEE ME,” he bellowed directly in her face.
Vera jerked backward in her chair in surprise, clattering her chains loudly against the stone floor.
One of Signy’s eyelids flickered open from where she was slumped down. “Quit making that racket,” she growled. “Fucking chains.” Her gaze flickered directly over the stranger—and then she closed her eye again.
“You see?” the man said. “Bear in mind, others can’t see or hear me…but they can hear you, Vera Figner.”
“What the hell is this?” Vera demanded of him. “Are you my conscience or something?”
“Vera. Shut. Up,” Signy mumbled.
He chuckled. “Your conscience? How quaint. No, Vera, I’m afraid you murdered that thing in its sleep years ago. My name is Seth.”
“Fine, Seth. The fuck are you doing here, Seth?” Vera said sarcastically. “Why’d you break my nose, Seth?”
“I saved you from a fate worse than death,” Seth said in a solemn tone. “If your face had been intact when the slavers found you, you wouldn’t be working in a lowly factory in the Fourth Circle—no, you’d be in one of the brothels of Dis.”
“I have to hand it to you, Seth.” Vera chuckled. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time. Breaking my nose so that I’d die of slave labor in a hell-factory teeming with rapists and murderers…that’s one very interesting definition of ‘saved.’”
“In Dis, the Prophets would have found you within a week,” Seth explained. “Here on the outskirts of the Kingdom, you are safer. Even if it is in…” He poked the remnants of her dinner with a grimace. “Less than ideal circumstances.”
“Prophets?”
“Vera, I swear to God, I need my beauty sleep,” Signy bitched under her breath.
“The chief enforcers of the Kingdom.” Seth frowned. “They’re a ragged, filthy bunch. Some are old Horsemen from before the Third Rebellion, some are damned who managed to get their hands on the few demons that survived the purges, and the rest are just hateful and vicious enough to play with the big boys.” He pointed down at Vera’s ankle. “And all of them would be extremely interested in that Mark you bear.”
She had known that there was something special about the strange growth on her ankle all along, knew that it was somehow connected to her newfound abilities, but to finally hear it out loud! “I knew it.” Vera smiled. “I knew it!” She raised her left foot and placed it on Seth’s knee, smearing dirt all over his exquisite robes. “So what is this thing, anyway?”
“It’s an abomination,” Seth hissed. He recoiled from her foot in disgust and nearly fell off the table. “It is a Mark from the very depths of Judecca, a symbol of the darkest evil in the hearts of men, a blot on Creation—”
“—A tool for the Revolution,” Vera finished for him.
Seth’s eyes widened. “No, Vera, no. That is why I came here. I know what you are planning, and you must not follow through with it. More hinges on this than you can possibly comprehend.”
“Are you God in disguise or some shit?” Vera flatly asked him.
“What?” Seth blinked in surprise. “No, Vera, I serve as His emissary—”
“Are you an angel then?”
“No, Vera,” Seth said in a voice that betrayed his growing irritation. “I am a man, made of flesh and blood, same as you.”
“Then—” Vera leaned as close to Seth’s face as her chains would allow and looked the man dead in the eyes. In a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, she unleashed her trump card: “Go fuck yourself.”
“Don’t be a child, Vera.” Seth rolled his eyes. “Of all the new Horsemen, I was told that you are the one most amenable to reason. One is a bloody-minded tyrant, one is a spineless worm, and one is utterly beyond any hope, but you are supposed to be different. Just listen to me, for Heaven’s sake, and forget your plans of rebellion and escape. Stay here, Vera.”
“Stay here? Really?” Vera demanded. “You want me to sit here quietly like a good little girl and wait for Cenodoxa to throw me under a steam press once Pliers is done raping me?”
“Be careful, Vera Figner,” Seth said in an eerily soft voice. “You have no idea what the consequences would be if you use that—thing—on your ankle. The Prophets won’t be the only ones hunting you. Every warlord from the First Circle to the Eighth will be after the power you possess.” His eyes took on a steely glint. “And the one who gave you that Mark will want it back. Better to suffer through all the fires of Hell than face him.”
In spite of herself, Vera couldn’t help but feel a shiver of fear run down her spine. “And if this fellow catches me?”
“Thanks to the Harrowing and the various rebellions, Hell is now but a shadow of its former self,” Seth said. “But if the one in Judecca strips you of your Mark and breaks his chains… Hell will be reignited, and the fires will burn hotter than ever before. Billions of souls will be broken.”
Vera was silent at the thought of that. “And if I stay here…” she whispered, more to herself than to Seth, “what will happen to Pliers and Cenodoxa?”
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” Seth quoted. “The Final Judgment will come for all of us, Vera. Great and small, sinful and righteous, in both Heaven and Hell.”
She looked up at him. “Do you see the Lord here, Seth?”
“Hell is forsaken of God.” He frowned. “The damned are the farthest from His love.”
“And when is this Final Judgment of yours coming?”
He rolled his eyes again. “I see where you’re trying to go with this, Vera, and it’s not going to work. No one knows the day of His judgment, obviously.”
“Then mine will have to suffice in the meantime,” Vera growled. “Now piss off, Seth. You’re ruining my dinner.” She ever-so-slightly reached out and brushed her little finger against the back of his hand, so lightly that he didn’t even seem to notice. A little seed, Vera thought. Just in case.
Seth sighed and rubbed his temples. “You fool,” he said in a voice tinged with sadness. “You poor, damned fool.” He slid off the table and gave her a little bow. “My time grows short, but this conversation is not over. Even more than the fate of the damned rests on you, Vera Figner. We shall meet again.”
“Then next time, bring me some real fucking food,” Vera complained. “Surely the Pearly Gates could spare a cabbage or two for a poor Russian down on her luck?”
Seth snapped his fingers. “That reminds me—I have a message for you. Anatoly says that he forgives you.”
She gave him a blank stare. “Who?”
“Anatoly Krakowsky. The lieutenant.” He sighed again at her ignorance. “The man whose throat you slit on the day of your death.”
“Ohhhh, him.” Vera nodded as she remembered. “Tell him…tell him that I did it for the people.”
Seth gave her an exasperated look. “You do know that that doesn’t make it any better, right?”
“Fine. Then tell him that he pissed himself when he died. I don’t care.”
“Good-bye, Vera.” And with that, Seth gave her a little bow of his head. There was a flash of light that briefly blinded her, and then he was gone, leaving her alone with the remnants of her horrible meal.
“Vera,” a voice said. She turned to see Signy’s bloodshot eyes glaring daggers at her. “You are the loudest goddamned bitch I have ever met in my life,” Signy growled. “For God’s sake, just let me sleep. Please.”
Later on in the shift, as Vera’s mind desperately raced and plotted, an image suddenly shot across it: she saw Tituba, the woman chained to the crank downstairs, finally collapse to the floor as the hellish heat and steam finally overcame her—and then she saw Pliers dragging herself down to the crank, chaining her to it, and laughing as the howling machines systematically destroyed every scrap of strength in her body. The vision was so real it took her breath away.
A vision of the future? she wondered as her ankle burned. Could she even do that?
Or was it just the ravings of her imagination?
Either way, one thing was certain: her time was very nearly up. She had minutes, possibly even seconds, before her fate was sealed. “Signy,” she croaked out in a voice tight with anxiety. “Be ready.”
Signy glanced at her and frowned. “Can you do this?” she quietly asked, in a voice that was oddly gentle. “You know nothing of war, Vera.”
“I know a few things,” Vera said defensively. She glanced up at the catwalks and saw Roy smirking down at the two of them, a rifle in his hands. “And I’m ready to learn.”
“You’re with the best damn teacher in Hell, then.” Signy grinned. Out of the corner of her mouth, she spat one of her nails into her hands and began to work on her shackles. A strange look crossed her emaciated, angular face for just an instant. “But Vera, if this doesn’t work, I—”
“It will work,” Vera promised. “Nothing can stop the Revolution.”
“Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough,” Signy said after a pause. It was the only one of Marx’s quotes that she had taken any sort of interest in.
“Right.” Vera smiled tightly. She angled her head upward to meet Roy’s eye, and flashed him her most charming smile. “Roy!” she called out. “You want to fuck?”
Roy’s shocked response was inarticulate, but the pounding of his feet on the catwalk wasn’t. “That was easy,” Vera muttered under her breath as he swiftly approached.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Signy grunted as one of her shackles came loose. “You’re not that pretty.”
There was no time for a smartass response, for Roy was almost upon them.
“What did you say to me, pretty lady?” He grinned nastily and stroked the rifle in his hands. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you said you were looking for a fuck—”
Vera tensed as he slid his rifle into one hand and reached out for her with the other. You have nothing to lose but your chains, she told herself as his soft, greasy hand touched her cheek. For the Revolution.
And then her war began.
22
Hell had no true nights; only a slight darkening of the empty, sunless sky that went away after several hours. Once they had finally landed their boat on the opposite shore, Plague insisted that they only travel during these periods anyway. “We’re in Upper Hell now,” he explained to John. “Once you cross the Phlegethon, the Kingdom gets a hell of a lot stronger. Even the Master had trouble taming Lower Hell when he ruled.”
“Why’s that?” John asked.
“More people like us.” Plague grinned. “Violence against others, and violence against nature. The original Designer of Hell does not like either of those things, no He does not. Lower Hell has the warlords, the nomads, even a leftover demon or two…if the rumors are true, of course.”
“It sounds like a place you’d like,” John said before he could shut his mouth.
Plague raised an eyebrow. “Was that lip I just heard from you, Famine? Seems like I’m a bad influence. But yes—it is rather delightful. No annoying Prophets, no irritating Kingdoms, just an eternal Valhalla of blood and killing and war. Humans finally having a chance to be themselves.”
“How long until you take us there?”
“You’re sharp today, aren’t you? We will go there once we’ve collected War and Death, of course.”
“And is that where he is?” John pressed. He motioned to his body. “The one who made me like this?”
“For the last time, John, you made yourself look like that,” Plague said. “The Master was the one who blessed you with your abilities. What, you think every Suicide can sprout branches and vines at will? Why the everlasting fuck would someone build a Hell where the damned are rewarded like that?”
“Then why?” John pressed. “What does Ca—” He stopped the name midway when he saw the expression of mingled fear and rage building on Plague’s face. “What does the Master want with us?”
“War,” a voice croaked out from one of the bags attached to Plague’s belt. “War.”
John looked down at the dripping bag in astonishment. “What the hell is that?”
“That would be news,” Plague said merrily. He took the bag from his belt and held it up to his ear. “Who, where, and when?” he demanded.
“Death, the Horseman. Factory C-112, Fourth Circle. Less than five minutes.”
It began to dawn on John that both of the bags that had dangled from Plague’s belt were about the same size and shape as Brother Vaux’s head. I should really be used to this sort of thing by now, he thought.
“Damnit,” Plague cursed. “That idiot. I knew she was in the Fourth Circle, but that close to the Kingdom’s capital…they’ll crush her like a bug.” He hurled one of his knives into the ground in frustration. “Your timing is as useful as always, Manto.”
“I serve the Master,” the bag whispered back.
“Factory C-112,” Plague muttered to himself as he retied the bag to his belt. “That should be low-quality industrial equipment, I think. Screws maybe? Or nails? What a waste of her talents.”
“Who is your friend?” John pointed to the dripping, silent bag.
“That’s Manto,” Plague said dismissively. “She’s an old Theban oracle, comes in handy when her prophecies aren’t delivered five minutes before they come true.” He untied the other bag and held it up to his face. “We need a passage to the Fourth Circle, on the double.”
“I only possess enough strength for this one passage,” the second bag warned. Manto’s voice had been tired and weak, but this one was surprisingly strong and deep. “You will only be able to leave the Fourth through conventional means.”
“That damned fool,” Plague cursed. “Making me waste this on her… Fine, goddammit, take us to the Fourth.”
“I serve the Master,” the second voice said. The dirt around Plague’s knife began to shift and tremble as the ground quaked, opening up a dark hole just in front of them.
“This passage will take us to the Fourth Circle,” Plague explained. He tied the bag back to his belt and retrieved his knife. “It’s a waste, but we need to reach Death before the Prophets do. Just close your eyes and try not to breathe.” With that, he nimbly leapt into the blackness of the small chasm.
“Wait, isn’t the Fourth Circle above us?” John tried to ask, but Plague was already gone. “Oh God.” John groaned as he gazed down into the hole. Its interior was so dark that it went down for ten feet or ten miles, for all he knew. “God, please help me,” he begged, and he leapt after Plague. It was only as he was falling into the void that he wondered what possible reason God would ever have for helping him.
23
Simon spent a long, uncomfortable silence in the antechamber as he waited for Fritz and Longinus to return. What could they possibly be talking about? Whatever it was, it couldn’t be anything good. He had seen the way Fritz’s eyes turned black with envy whenever the Prophet thought he wasn’t looking, and it was blatantly obvious that no true Prophet required a “bodyguard” or whatever Simon was supposed to be. That left only one possibility: Fritz was planning to use him for something.
In the prime of his earthly career, Simon had led one of the greatest Crusades in memory. He had toppled entire kingdoms, stained all of southern France red with heretic blood, and had had peasants and lords alike tremble at his feet. And through it all, there had been hundreds of parasites who had tried to latch onto his glory and steal it for themselves. Bishop Vaux, the king, many of his brothers-in-arms, and even the Holy Father himself…they had always been at the edge of his power, gnawing away to make a nest for themselves. Attack this city instead of this one, they had said. Grant me ownership of these lands. Let me give his lordship some advice…
Simon had taken one ironclad lesson from their constant attempts to influence and sway him: He did not like to be used. He wrapped his hand on the hilt of the massive Zweihänder. You gave me this blade, Fritz. Soon I’ll give it back.
“So what
does Lord Prophet Fritz have you doing?” The male whore popped a small object into his mouth and started rolling it around with his tongue. “You don’t strike me as being his type.” Simon pointedly ignored him, but he seemed to take it as an invitation, leaning in closer with his loose-fitting clothes that seemed as though they were on the verge of falling off his body. “So what is your type, old man?”
“Eunuchs.” Simon glared. “Now piss off before I make you one.”
The whore recoiled in mock horror. “You shouldn’t joke about such things. Lady Prophet Salome would have you torn apart if she heard that.”
Salome… Something about that name sounded vaguely familiar. Simon wondered whether he had known her in life. It was hard to say; a great deal of the people he had met in his life had died immediately afterward, making them difficult to remember. Come to think of it, even the details of his death were blurry… He remembered flashes of blood and steel, a young heretic clutching at the empty sockets of his eyes, and a strange knight who had whispered something in his ear. What did he say to me…?
“Judecca,” the whore said.
Simon jerked his gaze back to the other man. “What did you say, whore?”
“My name is Lao Ai.” His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened, and quite suddenly Lao Ai appeared to be a very different man—harder, crueler, and far, far older. “The knight told you to meet him in Judecca, just before you died. That’s what you were thinking about, wasn’t it?”
“Witchcraft,” Simon breathed. “How did you—”
“The Master told me.” Lao reached up to his face and slowly peeled down his eyelid, exposing a single red spot amid the veins and muscles. “Not all Marks have to be on the outside, you know. Some of us Marked are far more subtle than others.”
“What are you talking about?” Simon demanded. “Marks?”
“Yours is on your right shoulder blade,” Lao said. “I’m sure you’ve noticed it. It should start hurting like hell right about now.”
A flash of pain stabbed through Simon’s shoulder blade to his right hand, making his entire arm briefly paralyzed. “Witch,” he breathed. “Release this sorcery, now.”