Darkest Thoughts

by P W Hillard

  “And you, are you stuck in your ways, Perrin?”

  “I like to think not.” Her eyes met Darren’s, for a brief moment. “We better get going,” Perrin said, snapping her head away and turning on her heels. She stepped forward, scooping up her bag from the bed.

  “Yes, of course, looking forward to it,” Darren said through a fake smile. “Can’t wait.”

  ***

  The room wasn't large, a full third of its size taken up by a stage that had been hastily assembled along one wall, the kind made of large white blocks pushed together. It had been framed by a set of large black curtains attached to a scaffold. The whole thing had the air of a high-school play. On the centre of a stage was a podium, an old wooden thing, scratched at the edges. A microphone poked from the top like the light from an anglerfish, tempting people into the trap of long speeches and ill-thought-out comedy.

  The rest of the room was taken up by large round tables, plastic chairs set at each. Each had a large beige cloth draped over them, a simple paper sign had been placed in the middle of each, directing the show attendees to the right one.

  The room was already near full when Darren and Perrin arrived, the low murmur of a dozen conversations filling the air. They reached the back of a short queue; other attendees before them were being directed to their seats by an usher at the door.

  The usher wasn't hotel staff, or at least, Darren hoped he wasn't. The man was tall, unnaturally so, looming upwards, his height impeded by the door frame. His skin was pale white, a near-perfect alabaster. His tongue was long, dropping to his belt. The damp muscle was wrapped in thick leather belts, each held shut with a tiny padlock, most pink flesh overflowing the straps. His eyes were gone. Through each empty socket, a ring of nails had been hammered, their points meeting perfectly in each ocular void. His grotesque body was made all the stranger by the otherwise perfectly normal, if immaculately tailored, suit he wore.

  “Names?” the usher said, his voice a strained groan, his tongue lashing as he struggled to speak.

  “Perrin and Darren Bolton, we’re part of the Sumerian party,” Perrin said. She lent forward, tapping on the clipboard the usher held in his emaciated hands.

  “Very good.” He turned, his arm extending slowly. “In the back corner.”

  “Thanks,” Perrin said, smiling happily.

  “Uh, yeah, thanks,” Darren said, forcing a smile. The creature had no thoughts, none that he could hear anyway. Just looking at the thing made his stomach churn.

  “You are welcome,” the usher said. It’s face cracked open into a smile, revealing a set of rotten, mangled teeth.

  Darren hurried after Perrin, trying not to look behind him at the strange creature. He held tight onto his suit jacket, the buttons threatening to pop as he walked.

  “What was that?” Darren said, placing his hand her shoulder, whispering in her ear.

  “What was what?”

  “That thing! At the door.” Darren thumbed over his shoulder.

  “An usher?” Perrin said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Perrin sighed. "He's nothing important. Your average everyday Cambion. Probably the only time he can let himself really be himself. No-one here is what the seem, Darren, not even me. It's all largely projections, magic of a kind. Some of the people here, their real forms don't even work here, reality just rejects them."

  “Could be that’s a hint for them,” Darren said. Perrin shot him a glance that pierced his soul, her thoughts turning to a raging avalanche. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. It’s still a lot for me, all of this.”

  “No excuse for being a dickhead.”

  “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.” Darren let his shoulders drop.

  Perrin stopped, taking a seat at the table. It was empty, tucked away at the far side of the room. She pulled out a plastic chair and sat down, placing her clutch bag on the table, her elbows falling into place beside it as she leant forward.

  Darren sat beside her. On the centre of the table was a sign. It simply read “other.”

  “Guess we aren’t important enough to warrant our own table,” Darren said. “At least if something happens, we have a wall of people in front of us.”

  Perrin sighed. “I thought maybe, we had some clout left. A little. We didn’t even get our names on the fucking table.”

  “Why don’t you pack it all in?”

  “I can’t I couldn’t leave my mum. All my other siblings have, over the ages. Don’t know what became of them, probably settled in some field somewhere, moss growing on them. She would be all alone if it weren’t for me, and honestly, she would never give this up. I don’t think she could if she tried.” Perrin lifted herself from the table, leaning back in her chair. It creaked loudly.

  “That whole, place in the universe, stuck in her ways thing?” Darren said. He unfolded one of the napkins on the table and pulled a pen from his pocket.

  “Yeah. Even if she had a choice, she’s stubborn enough that she wouldn’t. Speak of the devil…”

  “Your mum coming?” Darren said as he doodled. The same strange shapes had come pouring out. Since he had learnt they were runes of protection, left lingering in his mind by Anne, he had taken to drawing them as often as he could.

  “Yes, but I’m more talking about who is with her.”

  Darren turned in his chair. Anne was walking across the room. She was wearing a simple black trouser suit. Next to her was the woman Mickey had pointed out. That woman had her hair down, her locks long and jet black. She had chosen a vivid red form-fitting dress. Behind them walked a third woman, her face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat with a ridiculous veil on it.

  “Evening,” Anne said as she reached the table. “I see you found our table all right.” Anne picked up the sign from the centre of the table. “Other?” Anne sighed. “At least that means we have illustrious company. I would like to introduce you to Lucille, and Abbie.”

  The two women waved and smiled nervously, before taking their seats at the table. Lucille chose the one next to Darren, sliding into it. Darren could feel something from her, but it wasn’t clear. It was as though her thoughts were locked behind a barrier, sealed away.

  “Don’t worry,” Lucille said. “I don’t bite.”

  Chapter Eight

  The lights were low, the illumination of the stage making it sparkle in the dark like a constellation. In the centre of the stage, behind the worn podium was a man. Or at least, it had the vague appearance of a man. Its skin was deathly pale, it’s eyes sunken, like he had gone for weeks without sleep. His hair was unkempt, the kind of mop normally reserved for small children who had escaped the comb during the rush for the school bus. He gripped the podium with both hands, smiling eagerly whilst the assembled crowd lowered their voices.

  “Ladies, gentleman, and other assembled entities. Welcome! To this, the seventy-eighth annual, Association of Hells industry awards.” The host smiled, and the room burst into a round of clapping, half-hearted and out of time with each other. “I know the lead up to this year’s event has been…fraught, but tonight, we’re all here to have a good time, right?”

  “Get on with it!” shouted a heckler from the crowd, a thin man with high cheekbones.

  “Sheesh,” the host said, tugging at his collar. “I had a better reception last time I went to visit my mother in law. And she's dead!” The crowd all laughed, except Darren, who was bemused by the poor attempt at a joke. “Moving swiftly on then, the first award is for outstanding excellence in the field of torture. The nominees are…" A drumroll started, and a projector sprang to life from the ceiling, stretched flickering images casting across the back wall.

  ***

  “Somehow, this is worse than I expected,” Lucille said, nudging at Darren’s side. “So, what brings you here then?” Across the room, the winner of the award was giving a speech, thanking mostly himself. “You’re a human, right?”

  “Right,” Darren sai
d. He was whispering, trying desperately to make himself unseen. The weight of emotions in the room, the roiling blood-soaked images, was almost crushing. He was trying to focus on Perrin’s mind, desperately trying to cling to the calming feelings that washed out of her. A drowned man clinging for life to a rock jutting out of the raging sea.

  “Go on then,” Lucille said backwards, her voice lowering to match his.

  “Go on?”

  “Ask. I know you want to.”

  Darren suddenly felt exposed in a way like he had never felt before. He was so used to reading the thoughts of others, that someone guessing his felt like a strange intrusion. “Ask?”

  “Come on dude, let’s not do this dance.” Lucille waved to the strange usher. He had taken to meandering through the hall, carrying a large tray of vol-au-vents. He offered the silver tray to Lucille, who hungrily swept an entire row into her hands. The usher’s eyes were somehow disapproving, despite the lack of eyeballs.

  “Are you?” Darren said, waiting for the usher to leave. “Are you the devil?”

  “Yep.” Lucille bit down into one of the pastries. Her nose wrinkled disapprovingly, and she lifted a napkin from the table, spitting the half-chewed food into it. “Sorry, this is all a bit new to me.”

  “You’re new to being the devil?”

  “What? No. I’ve been the devil for as long as I can remember. As long as anyone can remember. Longer maybe. No, I did a favour for my fucking arsehole brother and it all went tits up." Lucille picked up another vol-au-vent, this time with a different filling, and sniffed at it. "Went and got myself stripped of my power, didn't I? Stuck as a boring-ass human now. No offence."

  “I’m not sure I understand. Why would you help your brother? He’s an angel, right? Isn’t that working for the other side.” Darren watched the woman examining the food before her. “Try the chicken ones. The one on the left.”

  “That’s a long, sad story. Too long for now frankly. The short side is decided I had quite enough of the whole heaven and hell bullshit and handed myself into to the coppers. Dragged Abbie here along for the ride.”

  “And the police just believed you when some woman walked in saying she was Satan?”

  “You would be surprised.” Lucille placed the food Darren had picked out into her mouth. She nodded happily. “Got myself a cushy witness protection deal, my own bar. A nice little life,” Lucille said in between chews.

  “What happened?” Darren said. He had found his tone changing, slipping into what his secretary had once called his therapist voice. He found his hands picking up the pen he had brought with him, habits coming to the surface.

  “I got bored.”

  “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

  Lucille chuckled. “Decided I wanted out and got offered a way. Both sides were mighty pissed at me for vanishing. Put a real fucking dampener in the whole, apocalypse they’ve been planning. I do this one job for my brother, amnesty from both sides.”

  Darren nodded. His pen was moving across a napkin, idly doodling as he listened. “Our families can be our biggest burden sometimes.”

  “You got that fucking right.” Lucille sighed. “Now I’m out, back in the world again, I got invited to this thing, and well, I can’t refuse. I’m not really in a position to piss anyone off right now.”

  “It makes you angry?”

  “Damn right!”

  “Angry enough to do something?” Darren said. “To one of the attendees?”

  Lucille picked up another of the chicken vol-au-vents. “Not bad. I know some coppers who would be impressed. No, I didn’t kill Yanlou. I couldn’t kill anyone here, not in my current state. Fuck, not even as I was before. No one was even sure someone like him could die until now. Everyone here is quietly freaking out.”

  “Putting on a brave face in front of their rivals.”

  “You some kind of quack?” Lucille asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

  Darren nodded. “A therapist.”

  “So, how did a human therapist end up here?”

  The applause that had periodically filled the room had died down, the next award ready to present. The host adjusted his suit, tugging at his tie slightly.

  “Our next award is a big one folks. When I passed away, well, honestly, I expected to find myself upstairs. Guess some of my act was a little too risqué." The host paused for the chuckle. "When I didn't, I was surprised to find the recipient of our next award was AWOL. I tell you, folks, I spent my life telling jokes, and that was one big cosmic punchline. Didn't see that one coming."

  “Put a pin in that question,” Lucille said with a groan. “Looks like I’m up.”

  “And to present this lifetime achievement award, a first for our little event, here from the other side of the tracks, Mickey!”

  The angel appeared, slipping onto the stage from the brief infinity between moments. He had discarded the tracksuit, swapping it for an immaculately tailored three-piece suit. It was all a brilliant, aside from the tie which was a light beige. Mickey had lost the cap, his curled blonde hair thick with gel.

  “For fuck's sake, he looks like a fucking Backstreet Boy,” Lucille said. “All the money and time in the world to spend on high-end gear, but none of the fucking foresight to actually look good."

  “I am so pleased to be here,” Mickey said, leaning close to the microphone. His words were distorted, the metal tendril bumping against his lips. “There's been a lot of bad blood in the past between our organisations, and I think now, it's a chance to move forward. Together.” The crowd didn't respond, instead staring at him with simmering anger. “Not much of a togetherness kind of audience. Right. Ok well, then.”

  “He’s dying up there,” Abbie said, her face hidden behind her veil. Her thoughts unsettled Darren, filled with swarms of twisted insects.

  “I wish,” Lucille said.

  “The recipient of our award has been…retired for a while, but in her day ran the largest hell this universe has ever seen. One that still dominates the industry today, even without her influence. I want you to put your hands together, for Lucille!”

  Lucille stood up, tugging at the bottom of her dress as she did so. She went to begin the long, embarrassing walk to the stage but stopped. Instead, she stared at her brother.

  “Mickey,” Lucille said.

  “Come on Luci, no need to be shy.”

  “Mickey, walk away from the podium, slowly.” Lucille's voice was low, carrying across the room, riding on the silence that had fallen. Dozens of eyes were locked on the same thing.

  It was standing at the back of the stage, leaning out from the perfect spot of darkness in the centre, left untouched from the lights. Long arms trailed out, deadly talons scratching against the perfect white of the angel’s suit.

  Mickey was a lot of things. Arsehole, nuisance, the kind of brother willing to travel to a hotel to troll his sister. What he wasn’t was a coward. He dropped down, spinning around. As he turned, a sword appeared in his hand, simple bronze thing, slipping into reality in an instant. It cut through the towering golem of nothingness in a single stroke. It collapsed, splattering against the ground as it had done in Darren’s room. This time, it didn’t leak through the cracks, the puddle of darkness pooling nearby. It stretched upwards, reforming back into the creature. It crouched low, arms outstretched, keeping the angel and his weapon at arm’s length.

  “You’re real interesting, aren’t you,” Mickey said. He flicked his wrist and roaring orange flames spread across his sword. “What are you?”

  “Fuck,” Darren said, muttering beneath his breath. “It’s that fucking thing again.”

  “You’ve seen this before?” Lucille asked.

  “Yeah, it attacked him in his room, I scared it off,” Perrin said. She had stood up, pushing her chair back with a squeal. She had tossed her clutch bag onto the table and was stretching her hands ready to fight.

  “Why?” Lucille said.


  “Why what?”

  “Why in Darren’s room?”

  “I swapped with Yanlou, something about a trouser press,” Darren said. He was slowly moving around the table, trying to get behind Perrin. “I just assumed it got the rooms wrong.”

  “Something like this doesn’t make mistakes like that, someone is-” Lucille was cut off by a scream.

  At the opposite corner of the room, Ammit was struggling. Claws dug deep into her chest, hands reaching over her shoulders from the darkness. It stepped forward, a second of the creatures. It pulled and Ammit torn, organs spilling out onto the ground. Too many organs, a tidal wave of hearts and livers pouring out, a tsunami of blood and gore.

  Helen stood up from next to Ammit, blood now covering her emerald green dress. She reached down the front of the dress, rummaging about as if looking for coins in her bra. Her hand reappeared carrying a large blade, pulling out an impossible length. Its hilt was ornately carved, its blade ferociously sharp. She held the blade outwards, ready to strike.

  The two creatures were silent, letting out no noise as they both advanced, two mirror conflicts occurring on opposite sides of the chamber. That room was rapidly emptying, some of its occupants fleeing through the doorway, others winking out of existence. Bravery it seemed was in short supply amongst the denizens of the hells.

  Lucille glared at Darren, her eyes tunnelling into him.

  “Why are you here? This can’t be a coincidence.”

  “I…I read minds! Anne brought me to help her, in case someone tried something!” Darren spluttered. Despite Lucille’s story, her tale of losing her powers, her stare felt weighty, like shackles being locked around Darren’s feet.

  “What are these?” Lucille said, snatching up the napkin from the table, examining Darren’s doodles.

  “Just doodles, runes of protection! Anne showed me how to draw them.” Darren looked around for his patron. He couldn’t see her and assumed she had fled with the others.

  “Runes of protection my fucking arse!” Lucille said. “These,” she pointed to the napkin, “are runes of summoning! It’s you, you’re doing this!”