Montrose wondered if "Mama" had had wavy auburn hair. "I'm sorry," he said, "but no, I'm not."
The Drone continued forward. "Mama, Mama." He tried to enfold Montrose in a clumsy embrace;.
The Scot pushed him back. The Drone tripped over his own feet and fell. Montrose hurried away as quickly as he could. With the leg irons, it wasn't all that fast, but the addled wraith didn't pursue him. He just lay on the ground and blubbered.
Montrose shivered with revulsion and the ghastly chill. For some reason the pit felt nearly as cold as the Artificers' forging chamber itself, as if, in some sense, the inmates were already burning in the freezing fires. Squinting against the darkness, he moved on, grimly intent on charting the precise dimensions of his predicament.
As he'd anticipated, the majority of the inmates did indeed seem to be somnolent Drones. Of the others, some sat sobbing uncontrollably, or, bright-eyed, babbled frantic insanities. Yet another contingent diverted themselves with the torture and rape of their fellows. At first Montrose managed to avoid the predators. Then a lean, crouched man glided out of the shadows. He had a bristling mane of hair like a porcupine's quills and disproportionately long arms. His teeth and nails had metamorphosed into glinting black fangs and claws. Montrose inferred that either the man had already been a Spectre when the: Artificers had thrown him into the cave, or else the torments of his captivity had crushed his psyche and warped him into one.
"Fresh meat," said the Spectre, leering. "Bend over, meat. I might not kill you if you behave yourself."
"Back off," said Montrose, raising his fists.
"Too bad," said the Spectre. "And you were such a pretty piece of meat, too." He lunged.
Montrose twisted aside, remembering his shackles just in time to shorten his step and avoid stumbling. As his attacker plunged by, claws missing him by an inch, the Scot slammed the edge of his stiffened hand against the nape of his opponent's neck. Bone, or the ghostly equivalent, cracked.
The Spectre sprawled on his face. Intent on finishing him off, Montrose tried to dive on top of him.
Unfortunately his first blow hadn't hurt the servant of Oblivion as badly as he'd hoped. Just as he sprang, the Spectre scrambled to his knees, pivoted, and lashed out with his talons. The attack caught Montrose in midair, tearing open his belly and tumbling him to one side.
The injury paralyzed the Scot for a moment, and then the reflexes, the grim discipline of an expert combatant, blocked out the shock and the first swell of pain. He thrust up his hands just in time to keep the Spectre from leaping on top of him and pinning him.
Grappling, thrashing, the two fighters rolled over the ground. The Spectre bit at Montrose's head and shoulders and scrabbled at his torso. Finally the Hierarch managed to ram his knee into his assailant's groin.
The Spectre gasped and went rigid. Montrose grasped the creature's head—the quills rattled and pricked the palms of his hands—and dashed it against a rocky bump in the ground.
More bone Crunched, and the Spectre's eyes rolled up in their sockets. Montrose kept pounding until waves of shadow began to sweep through the other wraith's flesh, washing it away into the Void. A few more seconds and it was gone.
Now that the fight was over, agony flamed in Montrose's stomach. Fie clutched at his middle, holding the wound together. He knew that, unlike a mortal, he didn't have any viscera to spill out of the breach, but even so, he couldn't resist the impulse.
He could feel a whimper swelling in his throat, pressing against his lips, struggling to escape. Pride barely sufficed to hold it in. Dignity didn't seem to matter so much without an audience capable of appreciating it, and all he had were the mindless and the mad. He wondered how long it would take for this hellish place to reduce him to their level.
Dear god, how had it come to this! When breathing, he'd embraced the lofty ideals of his family and church, and in consequence suffered betrayal and defeat. Disillusioned, as a wraith he'd followed a different path, committing himself to guile and ambition as fervently as he'd ever striven in the service of God and country. Yet here he was again, a condemned man awaiting an ignominious death, while somewhere his foes gloated over his ruin.
Perhaps it hadn't mattered what he'd done. Perhaps some inimical power had decreed it his destiny to suffer and to fail. If he were truly wise, he might as well abandon all hope of anything better and open himself to the lunacy festering all around him. It might be the only way to blunt the pain.
He felt his Shadow, quiescent since it had exhausted its strength possessing him back in the United States, stirring in the depths of his mind. If you want to end the misery, he seemed to hear it say, just let go. Let me out. It will be just like falling asleep.
"No!" Montrose shouted. He slammed his fist down on the cold, hard floor of the cave, using the shock to drive the terrible temptation out of his mind. Not long ago, he'd thought he'd be well on his way to becoming a belt buckle or a stack of oboli by now. Instead he was here, still in human form and, if scarcely free, at least no longer closely supervised by his captors. Luck had given him one more chance to save himself, and somehow he was going to. take advantage of it. Because, despite the grimness and haunting incompleteness of being one of the Restless even at the best of times, on some fundamental level he still valued his existence. Because this time around, he wanted to win. And because someone should neutralize the dire threat Katrina had spoken of, and it didn't appear that anyone else was available.
The altruism of that last reflection bemused him. It seemed a sentiment more appropriate to the feckless mortal Montrose than his cynical wraith successor. But he supposed a fellow could purge himself of chivalrous delusions and still take a rational interest in defending the Hierarchy. After all, according to Stygian dogma, the Legions were the only force holding Oblivion at bay. And if the Void ever swallowed the universe, each and every inhabitant would perforce go along for the ride.
Checking his wound, Montrose saw that it had partially healed. He clambered to his feet and stalked on across the pit. As he approached the far wall, he heard something clink.
At first he mistook it for the faint clangor of the Artificers' hammers, audible even here. Then he discerned that the source was closer at hand.
He crept onward, bypassed another trudging, zombie-like Drone, and spotted a narrow hollow in the cavern wall. Within it sat a trio of wraiths, all shackled, methodically pounding their chains with pieces of stone, Four other captives lounged like sentinels before the opening. Two of the watchmen wore leg irons also.
These, Montrose surmised, must be the handful of his fellow captives who were neither Drones, Spectres, nor incapacitated by insanity or despair. They'd banded together for mutual defense and to plot their escape.
Delighted to discover them, the Scot strode forward. He opened his mouth to announce his presence, and then caught his first good look at the features of the slender, honey-blond woman sitting cross-legged at the back of the hollow.
He froze. Because the beautiful wraith was Louise.
Trembling, Montrose recalled that he himself had sentenced Louise to the Soulforges. The Legionnaires he'd assigned to take her to Stygia would of course have handed her over to Artificers laboring in the service of his and their own master. Thus her presence in this particular dungeon wasn't all that unlikely a coincidence.
But it was both an excruciating torment and a glorious opportunity for a second and more intimate revenge. He felt his mouth contort into a snarl or grin. His hands closed and opened repeatedly.
He vaguely remembered Katrina's admonitions. The Ferryman had foreseen that Montrose would encounter Louise. She'd warned him to be merciful. He hadn't, at least not merciful enough, and his indulgence of his lust for vengeance was, in large measure, what had enabled his Shadow to possess him.
But what did it matter now? The damage was done. At this point, surely he had nothing to lose by raping Louise and rending her flesh as he'd so desperately yearned to before.
No! That
was a nonsensical thought, one his Shadow had insinuated into his mind. If he charged out of the darkness and attacked the bitch, her comrades would defend her. They might well destroy him, and even if they didn't, they'd never permit him to join them.
Still, to have his betrayer screaming and thrashing helplessly beneath him, to grind his fingers into her eyes—
He wrenched himself around, blocking out the sight of her, and clawed at the half-healed wound in his belly, tearing open the bloodless white lips of the cuts. The flashes of pain cleared his head to a degree.
When he felt more or less in control, he took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and turned back around.
As soon as he glimpsed her, he felt his muscles tensing, the anger building. Clamping down on it, struggling to smile, he marched forward. "Hello," he called.
The wraiths snapped around and peered at him warily. He realized that from their perspective, neither a human face nor a calm demeanor would guarantee that a stranger wasn't a Spectre or dangerously insane. It was quite possible there were Doppelgangers, minions of the Void all but indistinguishable from ordinary ghosts, roaming the pit, and some lunatics appeared rational at first acquaintance.
Louise gasped.
At her reaction Montrose realized that, muddled by hatred and the blandishments of his dark half, he still wasn't thinking rationally. He'd overlooked the fact that Louise was his enemy as much as he was hers. And in all likelihood her friends were Renegades and Heretics too, rebels who'd harbored a bitter hatred for Hierarchs even before their imprisonment. Once she'd identified him as a disgraced Anacreon, she shouldn't have any trouble persuading them to tear him apart. He halted, poising himself for flight.
A scrawny man with sharp, intelligent features, one of the two unencumbered by a chain, gave Louise an inquiring look. "You recognize this palooka, my little crumb cake?"
Louise stared at Montrose for several seconds. He couldn't read her expression. Finally she said, "It's James Graham, isn't it? From that Renegade Circle in Cincinnati."
After a moment's hesitation, Montrose said, "That's right."
"Small Underworld," said the skinny man. "No wonder it's so hard to find a clean rest room. Then I take it the guy's okay?"
"Yes," said Louise.
"Too bad," said the other prisoner. "I hate his hair. He looks like he's got a hunk of cotton candy growing out of his neck." He favored Montrose with a leer. "But what the hey, we'll lower our standards. Welcome, Jimmy. Welcome to our little chapter of the Iron Hills Nudist Association and Future Knickknacks of Stygia. You can call me Artie. Comedian extraordinaire and the slickest abolitionist who ever helped a runaway Thrall along the Underground Railroad, even if my career is in a teeny bit of a slump at the moment." Pointing, he introduced the rest of his companions, coupling each name with a humorous insult.
Still half expecting Louise to denounce him, Montrose walked forward. "I'm honored to meet you all," he said, glancing at his new companions' shackles. Despite the hammering, they were unmarked. "I saw you pounding on your chains. I gather that you aren't entirely reconciled to a future as knickknacks."
"Aw contraire," said Artie. "I've always had a fantasy about being reborn as a
The drumming throbbed through Bellamy's head. If he hadn't known better, he might have imagined he still had a heartbeat. The words of the chanted litany tugged at his attention, and vague images drifted through his head. Monkeys chattering in a tree. Huge gray elephants on a dusty yellow plain. Towering, shadowy figures— Orishas, living gods, or so he'd been informed—striding through darkness. And the Queen of New Orleans, a slender, striking woman with amber eyes and skin like polished ebony, whom he'd seen only once in reality. In his vision she sat straight and severe on her ivory throne, invested with at least a portion of the majesty of the deities who had supposedly anointed her.
The prisoner beside: Bellamy moaned and swayed. Fler eyelids fluttered as she succumbed to the spell of the ritual. Bellamy struggled to stay alert while pretending he'd gone under. He scrutinized the drummers, priest, and guards, awaiting his chance.
So far, existence as a ghostly Thrall was nothing like he might have imagined. Logically, a slave should expect to be put to hard labor, but it seemed that, in a place With a paucity of material objects and little industry, a realm where the inhabitants didn't even require food, there wasn't an excess of tangible work to do. Rather than being forced to toil, Bellamy and his fellow unfortunates were receiving an indoctrination intended to make them revere the Queen and believe in the mythology which legitimized her authority.
At first Bellamy had thought the brainwashing was simply intended to make new slaves docile. Then he'd overheard one of the priests remark that their devotion would give the Queen and her agents a kind of magical strength. The notion didn't make a lot of sense to him, but then, nothing else about being dead did, either.
Letting, his head nod toward his chest, peering through slitted eyes, he watched the nearest guard slump and riearly drop his spear. The FBI man hastily checked the rest of the captors. They all looked at least a little spaced out, too. That was the problem with the drum magic. It was so hypnotic that even its makers could find themselves slipping in and out of a trance, Bellamy had taken pains to make sure he wound up standing at the rear of the room. Now he stepped backwards, into the wall. He hoped that, as dark and crowded as the chamber Was, no one would notice his absence for some time.
He lurched around. The space he'd entered had no lamps or candles burning, but a bit of faint gray light leaked in from somewhere. Barely sufficient for the hypersensitive eyes of a ghost—or ibambo, to use his captors' word—the illumination revealed he was alotte in a Small, musty-smelling room. A web of jagged Nihil cracks hissed in the far corner.
vibrator, a: French tickler, or even a humble dildo. People have told me there's already a resemblance. But still, yeah, we have been known to kick around the possibility of escape. You never know, the Artificers might turn us into, suppositories."
Bellamy sat down on the floor and attacked the coarse rope hobbling his ankles. At one point the complex knots had been so tight:, so resistant to tampering, that he suspected that they, like nearly everything else in this ghastly place, contained some sort of sorcery. But he'd been struggling with them relentlessly since the last time a guard had checked them, and after a minute or two, they-yielded.
Rising, he started to toss the tope aside, then stuffed it in his pocket instead. It might come in handy, and in any case, any object which existed on the ghostly side of the Shroud had value. He'd begun to learn that lesson only minutes after his death, when his captors had plundered h® belongings. In retrospect, he supposed he'd been lucky they'd permitted him to keep his shirt and jeans.
He crept to the door and cautiously pushed hisface through the panel. No one was in the bOrridor on the other side, though a single barrow-flame lamp radiated wan greenish light and chill from a sconce on the wall, a warning that the Queen's people did traverse this part of the huge old house from time to time. Intent on escaping the ruinous mansion—once, he'd been advised, the palatial home of a filibuster an entrepreneur who'd fomented revolution in South America to line his; own pockets—Bellamy slipped through the substance of the door and glided on down the hall. The floor was cold and gritty beneath his feet.
Actually, the corridor was an option, not a necessity. He could move through one wall and one space after another until he ifeached the outdoors. But he'd discovered that, novice ghost that he was, each passage through S.kinlands matter took a modest toll on his strength. Besides, he was afraid of stepping through a wall and finding himself in the midst of a group of his captors. Whereas skulking down a hall, he should be able to spot trouble from a distance.
Murky portraits of smug robber barons, their dull-eyed wives, and their sullen children regarded him from amid the peeling wallpaper. The drums and chanting still pulsed at his back, while vermin scratched along behind the wainscot. For a moment the memory of some
terrible grief jangled his nerves, sickening and invigorating him at the same time. He'd learned that suffering left a residue in the places where it occurred, an energy from which ghosts derived vitality. The knowledge revolted him. It made him feel as much of a vampire as Daimler or Miss Paris.
The corridor led him to a large parlor with a dusty marble mantelpiece. A crystal chandelier hung lopsided, looking as if its weight was gradually dragging it loose from the ceiling. Drop cloths covered the furniture. A rank odor revealed that mice had nested in the cushions of a nearby sofa.
Bellamy peered warily into the open area. Nothing stirred. He started forward.
And then something moved, a long, low shape which, in the gloom, he'd mistaken for an ottoman or a table. Its four stubby legs carried it forward with startling speed. Its striped, pointed tail swished along the moldering carpet. Slit-pupiled eyes gleamed behind its scaly snout. Absurdly, it had a bandanna printed with the same zebra- stripe pattern as the capes of the Queen's soldiers tied around its neck.
It's a gator, Bellamy thought. And since it wasn't surrounded by an outline of flickering, multicolored light, the Signature of life, the creature evidently existed in the Shadowlands. He'd seen other wraiths who'd used magic to change their appearances, acquiring skull faces or the spotted pelts of leopards, but never one who'd so. thoroughly dispensed with the human form. Heck, the;, gator didn't even have hands. Still, he couldn't imagine what else the beast could be.
Bellamy began to backpedal. The alligator hissed. It was clearly a warning, and the fugitive froze.
"Who are you?" the reptile asked. His rasping, guttural voice was nearly as intimidating as his hiss, Bellamy didn't want to answer truthfully for fear that the gator would recognize his name as that of one of the new slates. "Bill Dunn," he replied.
The other spirit made a rhythmic barking sound. It took Bellamy a moment to realize the noise was laughter.
"Poor little Lemure," thei.gator said. "You don't know what you're dealing with. You can't fool Antoine, warmblood. Animals don't lie to themselves, so no one else can lie to them either. Bare feet. Rope marks on your ankles. You smell like a runaway to me."
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