Brimstone Blues: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Yancy Lazarus Series Book 5)

by James Hunter

  We padded toward the street, keeping our heads low. We were far enough away from the Crossroad Saloon to put me at ease, but still close enough for me to get an eyeful. A trio of Flesh Eaters loitered out front, preventing anyone from going in, while other Flesh Eaters marched patrons out through the front door. Everyone who exited was frisked, searched, and smell-checked by a skeletal Flesh Eater with gangly arms and bright pink liberty spikes running down the center of his head.

  Heckabe tugged at my arm, urging me to follow, but I swatted her hand away with disdain, committed to watching how this thing played out. Committed to seeing that Ma Rainey and the Blues gang made it out in one piece. Those were my heroes in there. I crept over to the alley wall and pressed my shoulder into the black stone. It only took a few minutes for the club to empty—Rainey, Johnson, and the rest of the crew were the last to leave. Then, just as they cleared the entrance, an explosion rocked the street, flames bellowing through the front door like dragon’s breath.

  They’d blown the place up.

  Those dirty, brohole dickbaskets.

  Liberty Spikes took a can of spray paint and hastily marked the wall while the rest of the Flesh Eaters dispersed the crowd, shoving them away from the burning building. Even from a block away I could read the giant warning painted onto the wall. TRAITORS BURN! LONG LIVE KING ASMODEUS! I watched in silent shock as Robert Johnson grabbed Rainey by the arm and dragged her off into the ebb and flow of foot traffic, disappearing before the Flesh Eaters could question them further.

  A relief, though only a small one.

  “Let’s go.” I turned my back on the scene, ready to barbeque Asmodeus over an open flame. Up until now, I’d been after the Demon King because I wanted to leave Hell, but now it was personal. No one messes with the Blues, dammit.

  We slipped into the throng of looky-loos lining the street and headed uptown, away from the saloon. Even three blocks away, I could see the choking plume of smoke drifting skyward. Yep, those bastards were gonna pay big time—ol’ Liberty Spikes had better pray I never saw his lanky ass again. We headed deeper into the city, cutting through narrow alleys and shady red-light districts filled with unspeakable visual horrors, until we finally came to what could only be described as the asshole of Pandæmonium.

  The road was packed full of garbage: broken bottles, piles of rubble, bits of rusted steel, burning tires, and the charred husks of smoldering cars. And shit. Literal puddles of waste so vile I had to plug my nose with one hand to keep from vomiting. Lining both sides of the street was a shantytown of lopsided houses built from rusted rebar, pieces of cardboard, and warped plywood covered in mold and mildew despite the terrible heat.

  Tight pockets of Hellions roamed the roads, searching for any sign of trouble. That or looking for easy marks to take advantage of. More Hellions, these completely naked or dressed in tattered scraps of clothing, huddled in narrow alleyways or cowered in their dilapidated homes. Their cheeks were gaunt, their flesh paper-thin, their eyes too big and often vacant. These pitiful creatures looked less like the spawn of Satan and more like refugees fleeing a war zone. I spotted a scrawny girl of maybe thirteen, sitting behind a broken pallet, clutching a scruffy blanket to her sunken chest.

  I tried to ignore her and push on—to focus on the mission—but just like with the Skinless, I couldn’t do it. A wave of guilt burned in my gut as I looked at that kid. What was she doing here?

  “Give me your money,” I said, slapping Levi on the arm.

  The MudMan frowned, but complied, digging into his coat pocket and liberating a handful of the foreign coins. I took them without comment or explanation and headed over to the poor Hellion kid with her pitiful blanket. She recoiled as I got closer, scooting farther back, trying to will herself invisible. I didn’t want her to bolt, so I stopped at the mouth of the alley and squatted down. The kid eyed me through a mop of brown hair, lips trembling.

  But she didn’t run.

  When I was sure I had her eye, I opened my hand, revealing the glint of gold.

  Still, she scooted back, suspicion splashed across her features as she pulled coltish legs into her chest like a shield. There are no free lunches in Hell, that look said. I knew there was nothing I could do to reassure her, so I didn’t try. Instead, I simply stacked the coins into a neat little pile in plain view, then raised my hands and slowly backed away. I caught Levi looking at me askew as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of me—eventually, he just shook his head, mumbling under his breath as he trudged on.

  We carved our way through the shantytown to a set of uneven stairs, which ended at a crimson door with no hinges and no doorknob. There was, however, a glowing black handprint burned into the center of the surface.

  TWENTY-SIX:

  Floating Market

  “Hold on tight,” Heckabe said as she headed for the strange door. “And prepare for some pain.” She purred the words, as though she were looking forward to it. “These things tend to have a kick.” She grinned at us over one shoulder and pressed her palm against the charred handprint. And then? Then, she was gone. Poof. Disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving behind only a subtle crackle of power and the faint scent of ozone.

  “The crap is that?” I asked, hunching forward to study the door.

  “Purgatory gate,” Levi said, shrugging his Carhartt-clad shoulders as though that explained everything. He headed on without another word, and followed suit, pressing his palm into the door just as Heckabe had done. A second later, he too was gone, the scent of ozone growing stronger in the air. I ground my teeth in frustration, sick to death of not remembering things and not knowing what everybody else seemed to, but there was nothing left to do except suck it up and play follow-the-leader.

  Begrudgingly, I inched forward, sweat breaking out across my forehead as I grumbled under my breath.

  Curiously, I ran one finger over the surface. It looked like wood, but it was actually some sort of metal, cold to the touch. Next, I traced a finger along the handprint, feeling a potent thrum of power buzzing beneath the mark—equal parts radiant heat, earthen force, and raw, twisting Nox. A gateway, if I had to guess. After another brief moment of hesitation, I took a deep breath and pressed my sweaty palm against the charred handprint. The world vanished in an explosion of light as a bolt of electricity flowed through my hand and into my arm.

  My teeth chattered, my muscles went rigid, and suddenly the hair on my arms and legs stood at attention as every molecule in my body ripped apart all at once. It felt like some colossal dickhead had tossed me face-first into a wood chipper. A wood chipper built from razor blades, lemon juice, and Tasers. The light faded, guttered, and died as darkness invaded in all around me, the only sound in the world the thunderous beating of my heart.

  Then, just as quickly as the darkness had come, it burned away as I stumbled onto a stone pad, wreathed in bloody red light. I dropped to a knee, hunching forward, one hand pressed into my gut as the world spun around me like a top, and a wave of soul-crushing vertigo beat the shit outta me. Eventually, the dizziness passed, and I glanced up to find Levi staring down at me, his arms crossed and the faintest hint of amusement playing across his usually dour features.

  Asshole.

  “They have a way of doing that to you,” he said, stalking over, offering me a hand, and rudely pulling me to my feet.

  “What is this place?” I asked, squinting against the harsh red light and rubbing at the bridge of my nose, trying to clear my head.

  He turned, slinging an arm around my shoulders as he motioned to the black void all around us. “Told you. That was a Purgatory gate. And this is Purgatory. Well, some folks, they call it Purgatory anyway. It’s just sort of the empty spaces that exist between the different levels of the Inferno. Sort of a no man’s land. A place to avoid the politics. It’s an outlaw haven run by the Free-Folk. It’s also the easiest way to move around the Pit. To travel between the different cities.”

  He paused for a moment, surveying the space w
ith an unreadable look on his face. “I’ve been to a couple of different parts of Purgatory, but not here. Heard of it, though. The Floating Market.”

  It was easy to see where the place got its name.

  Blackness stretched around us in every direction, interrupted by pockets of wandering red light, which flashed into and out of existence like miniature lightning storms, washing everything in flickering crimson. The blackness wasn’t empty, though. Jagged stones, each the size of a small battleship, floated in the air. Suspended from nothing, held by nothing, as though the laws of gravity didn’t exist in this place. The rocks held shops in a hundred different makes and models. Sandstone shrines with golden minarets. Mud huts. Sprawling wooden stalls.

  The floating islands themselves were linked together by a myriad of different means—a haphazard iron staircase here, a bit of free-standing scaffolding there, a rickety wooden bridge farther on, which looked one step away from evaporating into dust. Everything was a chaotic jumble that looked like a cross between an MC Escher painting and a Bangkok construction site. Despite the yawning blackness and the haphazard walkways, Hellions bustled along. They chitchatted idly with friends while leaning on precarious handrails. Some drank booze or smoked cheap cigarettes, which filled the air with a sharp reek of stale nicotine.

  “Should we be on the lookout here?” I asked Levi, stealing a suspicious look around.

  “You should always be on the lookout in Hell,” he replied, nudging me into motion with his fleshy palm. “But it’s a little better here. Safer. Sure, there are things that’ll eat you—maybe even steal your soul—but there won’t be any Flesh Eaters. Not here. Nobody owns Purgatory, not even Lucifer. This is”—he seesawed his head to the left and right, searching for the right word—“neutral territory, or as close as you’re gonna get down here.”

  We trailed after Heckabe, navigating the warren of ascending metal staircases, wobbly wooden bridges, and crude ladders, passing by a host of bizarre shops and odd Hellions. One knickknack stand, presided over by a Hellion with mottled green skin and translucent bat wings, offered to sell me a Hand of Glory—go figure. When I politely turned him down, he tried to sweeten the pot by tossing in the Spear of Destiny, because apparently, I have “Sucker” tattooed across my forehead.

  I brushed him and his bogus offers off, slipping across a rope bridge before he could follow.

  Heckabe strolled through the market like she lived there, guiding us to a tiny stall with wooden walls and a rusted roof.

  The dried husks of small scorpion-like creatures dangled from the ceiling on thin pieces of fraying twine, while dead bats swung lazily in an unfelt breeze, their desiccated crimson wings bound tightly to their shriveled bodies. A series of rough shelves ran along the left-hand wall, crammed from top to bottom with jars, books, and bits of old, yellowing bone. A thick round carpet adorned the ground, and lounging on it was a slug. But not your normal, run-of-the-mill garden slug.

  Nope. This thing was the size of a man, with burnt orange skin, fifteen or so arms protruding from his amorphous body, and toad-like eyes nesting over a rough gash of a mouth.

  “Welcome,” the creature gurgled, dipping its head in a bow despite not having a neck. “I have a cure for all that ails you. A bout of wormwood gut?” He waved one of his many hands toward a jar filled with green goop and a ball of hair. “A splash of pruhigrass will set you right in a week’s time. Or perhaps it’s bloodfire or ironbark pox, eh?” He waved at two more vials, each grosser than the last. “Witch’s cinnamon and blight petal will do the trick.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Murkly,” Heckabe said flatly, her eyes flashing an angry gold. “You know me. You know I don’t want any of your silly tonics. What need do I have of such things?”

  “Not bullshit,” the slug sneered, dropping his good-natured salesman pitch. He wormed forward, stealing a glance to the left and right, ensuring no one else was close enough to see or hear anything. “Now what do you and your queen want? This is neutral territory, your word doesn’t mean so much down here. We stay out of politics.”

  “This is off the books,” she replied, then held up one hand, coarse brown fur sprouting along the back of her palm while her nails elongated into wickedly sharp claws. “And it’s not my words you need to worry about, Murkly. I want access to the Undercroft.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he gurgled, crossing several sets of arms at the same time.

  “This doesn’t have to turn ugly,” she replied, apparently unconcerned with his denial. “I know you scavenge the Undercroft to make your little potions and brews. Let us through, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  He hesitated, a giant black tongue protruding from his mouth, and he licked his barely-there lips. “There’s nothing back there but the dead. Plus, Flesh Eaters patrol the working parts of the Undercroft.”

  “We’re not looking for access to the regular parts of the Undercroft, we want into the Nekropolis,” I said, shoving past Levi.

  “Why would you want to go there? No one wants to go there,” he said, a furious pout filling his amorphous face. “Besides, the Flesh Eaters have the Nekropolis barred. There’s a magically reinforced door with a single runic key, and that key passes between watch leaders. There’s no way to open the door without that key, and no way to get that key without starting an unwinnable war.”

  “And yet,” Heckabe said, her eyes a deadly bronze, tufts of chocolate fur springing up along her cheekbones, “that’s where you go to collect your ingredients. Everyone here knows you scavenge in the Nekropolis. So obviously, you must have a way in.”

  “Had a way in,” he snapped, great beads of sickly green sweat oozing down his brow. “My makeshift key is gone. Stolen. A few weeks ago, someone else stopped by”—he shuddered at the memory, his whole body quivering—“and took it from me.”

  Inspiration struck like a lightning bolt. On gut instinct, I reached down into the drop pouch at my side and pulled free the trinket I’d liberated from Azazel’s office. The Hand of Glory, wrapped in a silk kerchief. “Look familiar?” I asked, pulling aside the cloth to reveal the shriveled hand.

  Murkly faltered, his reptilian eyes bulging in his head. “But how … the demon who took that …” He trailed off, the color draining from his skin as he looked at me for the first time. “You.” He said the last word like a fearful curse. “It was you.”

  “Close enough,” I said, pointing a finger gun at his head. “Now show us the way to the door. And as an added incentive, if we make it back alive, I’ll even give this gross thing”—I lifted the Hand—“back.”

  His frog-eyes narrowed to slits, and his bulbous tongue ran over his bottom lip, but he nodded. “Fine. This way then, this way.” He turned, his movements ponderous and labored, and guided us through his shop, past a hanging curtain, into a slime-covered living space, then through a padlocked steel door to what looked like a broom closet. At the other side of said broom closet, however, was another Purgatory gate with a burnt black handprint smack-dab in the center.

  “They don’t know about this one,” he said, looking around furtively as though afraid of being overheard. “It lets out in a small alcove in the Undercroft with a false wall concealing it. It’s not far from the gateway to the Nekropolis. But tread carefully once inside. The area near the gate is relatively benign, but the farther in you go, the more dangerous it becomes. Where are you bound for?”

  Levi took out Azazel’s map of the Nekropolis, unfolded it, and pointed at the section directly beneath the colosseum. “There. That’s where we’re going.”

  Murkly’s gash of a mouth pulled back in a lipless smile as he laughed. The sound was disgusting—like hearing an oil spill in real time.

  “What’s so funny?” Levi asked, his brow furrowed in concern as he carefully refolded the map.

  “That’s the Bone Collector’s Nest,” the slug-man chortled. “It feeds on the remains of the Reckoning. And if that’s where you’re going, you’ll never make
it out alive. Not in a thousand years.” He doubled over, gasping for air as his multitude of arms clasped at his elongated gut.

  Heckabe scowled and shoved him aside. “We’ll see about that, you pile of shit,” she said, pressing her hand into the charred print and disappearing in a flash. Levi and I followed, pursued by the cackling sound of sludgy laughter as the world vanished around us.

  TWENTY-SEVEN:

  Locked Doors

  Our little party skirted along the narrow catwalks lining a channel six feet wide and brimming with a knee-deep river of muck. It was actual shit, and smelled worse than a truck-stop bathroom with a sewage leak in August heat. Even worse than the terrible smell were the bits and pieces of bodies bobbing along like logs floating down stream. Most of the corpses were little more than a torso—arms and legs hacked away—the skin mottled and festering, but despite that, they were alive.

  As alive as anything else in the Pit, anyway.

  They had no eyes, no ears, no noses or tongues—all were missing, gnawed away by the rabid cat-sized gar-rats patrolling the waters, hiding just out of view.

  Speaking of, a faint hissing squeal rose on my right, and I swiveled at the hips, hurling a spear of Nox-powered ice as one of the nasty gar-rats leaped from the water in a splash. Its lips were pulled back from a mouthful of rusty-red piranha teeth, and its gray scales shimmered in the light of my flashlight. The spear caught it through the throat, spilling a line of fetid black blood as it toppled back into the waters, disappearing below the surface with a burble.