by Lisa Morton
Hob turned and grinned when he realized they stopped behind him. He seemed pleased by Diana’s expression. “But Lady Furnaval, we thought you of all people would appreciate this example of industry at its finest.”
She looked at the walls of great machines lining the rows of toiling children; the machines displayed small lights in colors she’d never seen outside of carnivals, and she knew nothing like them existed in her world. “This isn’t industry—”
Hob cut her off: “Oh, but it will be. You see, because time runs differently here in the Netherworld—a fact which I think you might have ascertained,” Robin added with a wink that turned Diana’s stomach, “we’ve seen the future of industry, and this is it. This is the endpoint of your beloved progress.”
“Ridiculous,” Diana scoffed. “Progress is forward movement. This isn’t progress, this is some Netherworld farce, and I’m afraid I’m not amused.”
“You weren’t meant to be,” Hob added, and then turned away.
Yi-kin watched the demon stride off, and then murmured to her, “I do not know this word, ‘progress.’ What is progress?”
She shook her head, then followed after Hob. “Not this,” she called back over her shoulder.
None of the children turned to watch them go; they were too preoccupied building weapons.
Hob led them out of the hellish factory and down several streets—passing more of the city’s zombie-like inhabitants—until they came to a large guarded enclave of some kind, bordered walls of black marble that bespoke wealth and crushing power. The sentries appeared to be normal until Diana examined them closely, and found that they were each horribly deformed or transfigured: Their features were broad and fleshy, their eyes too small, their hair bristle-like.
They were boar-like abominations, dressed incongruously in well-tailored black uniforms with gleaming brass buttons.
The porcine creatures acknowledged Hob as he led the pair past them, showing the way into the interior of what Diana now knew must be the lord’s palace. By contrast, the sentries eyed Diana and Yi-kin with hungry stares, and several even licked their flabby lips with over-long, wet tongues. They stank of rotted meat and dung.
Beyond the guards and the outer wall now, Hob led them across a small courtyard towards a flight of wide steps. At the top of the stairs was a landing and portico; huge columns stood on either side of a vast doorway, which Diana thought could have admitted an elephant. Above this doorways stood a sculpted frieze, which seemed to be obscured by smoke. They climbed the steps and as they neared the portico, Diana realized the vaporous, hazy movement she imagined was actually movement in the frieze. The entire stone bas-relief—which depicted horrific creatures descending on terrified humanity—was writhing. marble minotaurs, harpies, devils and gods skewered, strangled, bludgeoned, drowned and beat their victims. At the center of the frieze only one figure remained unmoving, a great horned and winged ruler that could only be Asmodeus, the demon general savoring his victory, maliciously serene in his pose.
As they reached the landing, huge doors—which looked to be made of a dark wood, perhaps mahogany, perhaps something that flourished only in the Netherworld—swung inward of their own accord. Diana forced her gaze away from the horrifying tableau (noting as she did so that Yi-kin was as transfixed by it as she’d been), and looked inside, expecting…what, a Gothic dungeon? Another industrial nightmare?
Instead, Hob brought them into a foyer that would compliment any of London’s exclusive clubs: Luxuriously panelled walls were punctuated by tasteful wall sconces (that glowed with a steady light, although no sort of filament or jet was visible) and paintings in gold frames; the floors were tiled, and their heels clicked loudly, echoing off the expensive wood adorning the walls.
Diana would have liked to examine the art, which she was sure would have provided invaluable clues to the history and culture of the Netherworld, but Hob’s pace quickened down the broad hallway, and she had only time enough to glance at them: Here a portrait of a haughty-visaged demon prince; there a battle scene of winged figures (angels?) fighting towering horned men.
Still, if the subject of the art were gruesome, the surroundings were not, and Diana began to wonder if this had been constructed to lure visitors (or, specifically—her?) into a state of false comfort, making their eventual torture that much more humiliating. Arrogant on her part, perhaps…but she suspected that, even had the factory not been constructed specifically for her, Hob had nonetheless been directed to take her through it. It didn’t seem likely that Lord Asmodeus’ usual guests would first be led through a weapon manufacturing plant.
They came to an intersecting hallway, and Hob turned, leading them into a new corridor which was smaller than the first, though no less elegant. They’d passed several closed doors when he stopped and opened one, gesturing within, wordless.
Diana hesitated, looking inside. She saw a tastefully-appointed guest room, one that would not have been out of place in any English manor house; chairs, tables, a canopy bed and a blazing hearth were all provided.
She turned to eye the demon, curious—did they intend for her to stay here? Was she to be treated as an honored guest? Hob’s flat expression gave no clue; he only gestured again, suggesting—no, she knew it was ordering—that she enter.
She did—and instantly the door shut behind her, sealing her off alone.
She whirled and tried the doorknob, not particularly surprised to find it locked. As she spun back to the room, her hand went to the knife at her side, her eyes darted about, looking for danger.
There was none.
After a few seconds she relaxed slightly, lowering the knife she’d unsheathed and stepping away from the door. The room was quite large, and it took her the better part of a minute to examine it thoroughly. She peered behind draperies, into wardrobes, beneath the bed, expecting at any instant an assault from some horrific, hidden abomination—but the room was empty, save for her.
After being satisfied that she was alone—and hoping that Yi-kin was similarly placed in a nearby room—she moved up by the fire, which crackled with the same expected warmth and orange light of any earthbound fire. She stood before it, grateful to feel its heat on her hands and face. Her feet were aching after the long ordeal through the necropolis, and so she tentatively lowered herself into an overstuffed armchair near the hearth, half expecting the chair to suddenly spring to life in a smothering grip. Instead, she found only the pleasure of familiar comfort after a long journey.
She’d been that way for some time—ten minutes? An hour?—when the door opened. She was instantly out of the chair, knife in hand, ready to spring—
—when she saw William enter.
The door closed behind him and it took a second for his eyes to find her. Then his expression changed, from confused and terrified to disbelief and even great joy. “Diana—!”
Diana wanted to throw herself at him, to cry in relief as she buried herself in his arms, but she’d been tempted too many times by the Netherworld with the image of a man she longed for; and so she held her ground, eyeing him suspiciously. It certainly looked like her husband, with his unruly dark hair, pale skin, gray eyes and fine build; and his pleasing baritone sounded like her beloved. She knew well that voice—often felt its timber vibrating within her as he rested his head upon her breast and spoke sweetly to her while they lay together in their bed at home….
He stepped forward, his expression growing more confused and desperate with each step. “Darling, it’s me, it’s William—!”
Diana hefted the knife.
He saw it and stopped. “Diana, what—”
“If you’re really William, then prove it,” she commanded.
William—if such he were– gaped for a moment, then: “Diana, of course I’m William, I—”
“Prove it.”
His eyes darted away, as he thought. After a moment, he turned to her, and began spilling out words so quickly they tumbled over themselves as they left his mouth. �
�Of course you don’t believe it’s me here…remember that trip we took to London when we went to Highcastle and saw the carnival, and you looked at the sword swallower and said, ‘That’s obviously a fake sword,’ and he heard you and stabbed the tip of the sword through your hat and took it clean off your head…or the night we were wed, when I tried to carry you all the way up the stairs and I nearly broke both our necks as I stumbled on that last step, and you laughed so hard I had to set you down—”
Then she knew it was him, her William. The knife dropped from her fingers to the carpet before the hearth and she flung herself at him, letting the tears flow. “William…oh my god, William, I thought you were dead, I thought you….”
His arms were around her, and all she could think for a moment was how good he felt, how strong and familiar, and how lovely his hair felt under his fingers, and he was real, this was no shapeshifting illusion, but a real flesh-and-blood man….
He looked at her distress and couldn’t help but laugh. “Diana, what—?”
“It’s been so long, William, so many years—”
He pulled away from her, puzzled. “Years? But I swear they only just brought me here….”
She started to question him, or tell him he was wrong…and then she burst into laughter.
Time was impossible to reckon in the Netherworld.
When she’d contained herself again, she said, “Never mind. It doesn’t really matter.”
He kissed her again, sweetly this time, then pulled away to look at her. “How did you get here? Were you also brought here, as I was?”
She shook her head. “I came on my own. You’ll have to trust me when I tell you that I’ve…recently learned a great deal. Asmodeus is planning to lead an army into our world. We have to stop him.”
“My God,” William said, looking away thoughtfully. “Did you see the factories out there? That explains the weapons.”
Of course, Diana thought. Then she said, “Well, at least we know they can’t just make weapons magically appear.”
William smiled, then was looking at her again. “Has it really been years for you?”
“Four, to be precise.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He kissed her again, but this time the kiss didn’t stop. It was rich and deep, and Diana was instantly lost in it. His lips moved down her jaw line to her ear, her neck, as his hands came up and found her breasts beneath the man’s shirt she wore, and the woman’s stays.
She let out a gasp, and her fingers tangled in his hair, holding his head as his mouth slid further down her neck, and his fingers worked at her more insistently. Her back arched towards him, and her quickening pulse moved to the space between her legs.
And yet….
She inhaled deeply of his hair, and a small spark of alarm was lit somewhere in the back of her mind.
It wasn’t William’s scent.
She knew his smell so well, the combination of sage and soap and musk that she so loved, and yet now it wasn’t to be found on him. In fact, he had absolutely no scent at all, and somehow she found that even more disturbing.
Her hands moved to his face, and for the first time she realized that his skin was cold, as if chilled from within. She began to struggle to pull back from him. “William….”
She couldn’t push him away. He clung to her with ferocity suddenly, his lips on her neck—and something else….
Instinctively Diana reached into a pocket of her gentleman’s riding jacket and found what she’d placed there: The crucifix. She was removing it when there was a pain at her neck, sudden and sharp, and she cried out as her hand came up, dashing the crucifix against his face.
He shrieked in agony, an inhuman cry of fury, and staggered back as his cold skin smoked, a large cross-shaped brand beneath his left eye. Long fangs jutted from under his top lip, fangs that had just begun to open the skin of her neck.
She instinctively clapped a hand to her neck, then pulled away, trying to gauge the extent of her wound. Good—the blood on her fingers was minimal. She’d managed to pull away before he’d accomplished the killing bite.
He snarled once more, then his fangs retracted, sheathing themselves in his upper jaw, and some of the crimson fire left his eyes. “Diana, don’t—”
She thrust the crucifix forward once more, indicating that she had no intention of surrendering.
He turned away from it, unable to look at her, and pleaded, “Diana, it’s still me, William, your husband—”
She saw the blood on her fingers again, and held the crucifix out with trembling fingers. “William would never try to kill me.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t,” he said, and now he turned his back on her completely. “It’s not real death. Diana, I want us to be together forever. We can be.”
Somehow seeing his back turned to her, not being able to see his face, was even more unnerving. “Turn around so I can see you,” she ordered.
He did so, looking fully human once more. “You have no idea how much I love you—”
She felt a rush of heartbreak, and swept away tears from her eyes, leaving a swath of blood across her face. “Don’t say that to me. You’re not William.”
“It would be so easy, love,” he said, and his voice was a low purr now, “one moment of pain, then an eternity of happiness together.”
“Doing what?” she said, “Laying waste to our world alongside our demon lord?”
“We could stop him.”
She blinked in surprise—she hadn’t expected that answer.
“You won’t be able to defeat him as a human, Diana. But together, with new strength, new gifts….”
She wanted to believe that. It almost makes sense, she thought, and it would have been so easy to lay down the crucifix and welcome his last kiss, to reawaken free of her weaknesses and doubts, to tell Stephen—
Stephen.
She understood his answers about William—neither dead nor alive. What would Stephen say if she surrendered now, because of the promise of a monster.
A vampire.
William recognized her indecision and leapt forward. Nearly caught by surprise, she stumbled back towards the hearth, raising the crucifix again. He saw the symbol of good and hissed, drawing back.
She had to slay him.
She wasn’t sure she had strength—either emotionally or physically—but Yi-kin wasn’t here, and this was her task and hers alone. If she didn’t…eventually she’d tire, he’d be on her, and the Netherworld would win.
She could not let that happen.
She needed a stake, and then realized Yi-kin had their backpack of equipment with him. The other means of protection she had with her—the gun, the knife, the herbs—might slow William down briefly, but they wouldn’t slay him. No, she needed a wooden stake. She glanced around frantically, and saw a small branch of kindling in the fire; about the thickness of her wrist and the length of her forearm, the end had been partly charred to a rough point. It would have to do.
She leapt forward with the crucifix, forcing William to turn away, and in that brief instant she dashed her hand into the fire and grabbed the end of the impromptu stake, ignoring the searing pain that coursed up her arm. Forcing herself to keep hold of the hot wood, smelling the sickening odor of her own flesh cooking, she saw William look at her with a combination of fear and amusement.
“You can’t be serious, Diana,” was all he said.
The fire at the end of the burning stake had died down now, and she switched it to her right hand, taking the crucifix gingerly in her left. “If you were still William, you wouldn’t ask that.”
The reddish flames returned to his eyes, and his lips curled up in a bestial manner as he began to edge away from her. “You can’t do this. Not alone.”
“I know I can.”
She pressed forward again with the crucifix, and he roared, now terrified, stumbling backward. She stepped slightly to the side—she wanted to trap him in a corner of the room—and pushed the cross at h
im again.
He fell back into the corner. She knew that if she failed to time this correctly, he could easily reach out and snap her wrists, and then his teeth would be buried in her throat and Asmodeus would be leading his army through the gateways. She had a split second as he turned away from the Holy relic, before he realized what she meant to do—
—and then she rammed the stake into his chest, putting all of her power behind the blow.
She was immediately rewarded with another ear-splitting scream, and a fountain of cold blood splattered across her. She closed her eyes against the gore and tossed the crucifix onto his chest so she could place both hands on the stake, driving it further into him. She felt the stake hit the wall behind him, but she didn’t let up, she kept pushing, and he writhed and convulsed, and the wall behind him gave way with a loud crack, and more blood splattered Diana but she held on, ignoring the agony in her burned hand as she clutched the end of the stake so tightly that her muscles were corded like iron bars.
Finally it was over. Without opening her eyes, she heard the screaming become hissing and at long last silence; the movements juddering up through the stake ceased. She waited a few extra seconds, then took one hand from the stake, wiped the blood from her brow, and opened her eyes.
The vampire was dead. She’d pinned to the wall, fouled with its own blood; its head hung to one side.
Diana pulled her other hand away from the stake and took one step back, still watching him for any signs of life. There were none.
When she was certain, she let herself fall back to the canopied bed, and sank down onto the edge. She removed her gore-soaked jacket, and used it to wipe her face. She was dimly aware that, sometime during the struggle, her hair had come loose from its usual proper mass atop her head, and had also been drenched in William’s blood. She didn’t care. She only wanted it off her face, out of her eyes and nose and mouth. She wanted the tears gone, too.
When she’d cleaned herself as best she could, she pulled the few things she thought she might still need from the jacket, and put them into her trouser pockets instead. She retrieved the crucifix from the floor, and then before she knew it she was pounding on the room’s locked door and screaming: