Hellbound Hearts

by Paul Kane

For a moment she felt the old panic. Then it was gone, and bloody tears washed down her face. He had awakened her and given her the gift of life. Her life. Her real life.

  “I’ll take her place,” Jake said. “Only, let her go. I’ll stay with you. I swear it.”

  “He wishes to be tortured in Hell for all eternity, for your sake,” the woman in the gown announced.

  “I-I love you,” Jake whimpered, as the Cenobite with the hooked eyelids laid a cat-o’-nine-tails across his shredded back. He grunted, and slumped.

  “He means it,” said the tattooed, jewel-pinned Cenobite.

  Hooks flew out of nowhere. Lindsay knew those hooks, remembered her screams, and her pleas for mercy. Jake would utter them, would suffer, and suffer more, and then . . .

  “He will never make it to the other side, where you are,” the Ravisher murmured in her ear. “He will remain in torment, endlessly. That would cause you . . . agony, would it not?” His finger became a razor, and sliced down the side of her face. The cut was deep, unkind.

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  One hook sliced through Jake’s forearm. He screamed. The sound bounced off the cold walls of Hell; off the skulls, piled up, of other victims. Playmates. Off the layers of viscera, shimmering and exquisite.

  “Oh, no, no,” Jake gasped. “Oh, God, stop.”

  “He will never understand,” the Ravisher said. His voice spoke of eagerness, cruelty, impatience. A sonnet, a paean to Lindsay’s achievement.

  A second hook caught Jake in the groin, piercing his sex. This time his head fell back and he groaned low in his gut.

  “For some, we are angels,” said the Cenobite with the jewels. “For others . . .”

  Another hook. Lindsay held up her hand.

  “No,” she ordered. Ordered.

  The Ravisher stared at her in disbelief. The others did as well.

  Jake gasped, perhaps at the reprieve.

  The Ravisher dropped her to the floor, glided up to Jake, and grabbed his hair. “You came to make a bargain?” he asked. “You would change places with her?” He gazed hard at Jake. “You would become my property?”

  Before Jake could answer, the Ravisher turned to Lindsay. “You would agree to this?”

  “Let him go,” she said. “I’ll stay.”

  “Lindsay,” Jake whispered.

  “I will stay.” She took a breath. “I want to stay.”

  “You don’t,” Jake gasped, as the Ravisher held her attention with his dark, hellish eyes. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  The room fell silent again. Lindsay heard the tolling bell. Heard, far away, the screams of someone else.

  Then the Ravisher threw back his head and laughed. The other Cenobites joined him, and their howls crackled and reverberated against the bones of Lindsay’s skull, each of which had been crushed and reshaped a dozen times, a hundred.

  The Ravisher rushed like a whirlwind and caught Jake under the chin as if he were hooking a fish. Jake gurgled blood.

  “Is this what you want forever?”

  “I’ll stay!” Lindsay begged.

  The other Cenobites laughed harder. The Ravisher pressed his nose against Jake’s. “That’s what she wants,” he hissed. “She wants to stay. Think of what little you have felt of the gifts we give. I have been infinitely generous with her. Infinitely.” He swiveled his head toward her. “And you want it.”

  “Yes.” She wouldn’t look at Jake. He would never understand.

  “He’s relieved,” the Ravisher told her, grabbing Jake’s head and craning it backward so hard Lindsay braced herself to hear the bones break. “He wants to play the white knight, but he doesn’t really have the balls.”

  “I want to stay,” she said. “It’s what I want.”

  The Ravisher turned away from Jake and returned to Lindsay. He yanked her up to a standing position. “Who are you, either of you, to dictate to us? We don’t make bargains.”

  “Let me stay, please,” Lindsay babbled. “Please.”

  He kissed her, like a human lover, and then he dropped her to the floor. “No,” he said. “You’ll go back with him. You’ll live with him. You’ll fuck him. And if you leave him, or try to end your life . . .” He smiled down on her with demonic glee. “Then we’ll come for him. But only for him.”

  “No,” she wailed. It was too cruel. “I’ll lose myself again.”

  “Lindsay, what the hell are you saying?” Jake screamed, but the Cenobite in the gown slammed her fist against his chin.

  “You’ll leave now. You will never see us again,” the Ravisher commanded.

  Down the corridors, naked, both of them. Jake led the way, holding Lindsay’s hand, as she brokenly, openly wept. She could feel the Ravisher watching her. The other Cenobites were with him, their bon voyage party.

  “You’re in shock,” Jake said. “We’ll be home soon. We’ll be safe.”

  She tried to take comfort in the knowledge that the Ravisher was still torturing her, that, thanks to him, she would be miserable for the rest of her life. But already she could feel her unsureness, her lack of certainty, of self, creeping back over her like a shroud. Death by a thousand denials. Depression was a veil that he had lifted. But now, knowing what she did, losing paradise . . .

  “Lindsay, it’s going to be okay,” Jake said.

  “Don’t look at me,” she begged him.

  “I’ll take you home,” he promised. “It’s going to be all right.”

  She could feel the caving-in. The death. The burial. He would never know. He would assume he had saved her, never realizing that he had smothered her to death.

  Was that true? Was that correct? Or had all that pain driven her insane?

  She considered, searched, sobbed at a sharp stab of pain deep in her soul. There. That was she. She was misery. She would have to hide herself carefully. Guard herself jealously, or she would lose herself, and the Ravisher, forever. Her life would not be Hell, just a pale imitation. And if Jake knew, she would lose even that.

  “Don’t look at me,” she whispered to her husband, as he led her out of the land of the dead. “Ever.”

  Our Lord of Quarters

  Simon Clark

  Constantinople, Ad 1401

  The monk greeted the Emperor’s entourage at the steps of the palace, just as the siege engines recommenced their bombardment of the city. His eyes flashed with fear; his right hand clenched around the Cross of the Orthodox Church. Approaching the Emperor’s Chamberlain, he bowed, trembling.

  “S-sire,” the monk stammered. “I beg to convey the Emperor to the Church of Holy Wisdom.” Terror gripped him. “It’s the Demon, sire . . . the Demon has been prepared.”

  The Chamberlain motioned the monk to lead on. Ahead, the vast dome of the church cut a smooth, dark mound from a star-filled night. The terrified monk moved quickly, head bowed, as he muttered prayers of self-protection.

  Following at the tail of the procession, the Slave. This teenage boy from rural Mistra tingled with excitement. Often he’d been beaten for staring. Yet tonight he could not escape being beguiled by this exotic sight. The Imperial bodyguard flanked His Imperial Majesty, Manuel II. A tall, gray-bearded figure, clad in the gorgeous purple of kings, he glided with serene grace across the square to St. Sophia. This, the greatest cathedral in the world, lay embedded in the pulsating heart of the fabulous city of Constantinople.

  Metropolitan life enchanted the Slave. From the life of a tanner’s boy in a Greek backwater to this splendor! His mother fluttered with pride that her son had been dispatched to the capital. Before he’d left, she urged him to do well. If he impressed his masters, he might become a freedman. Once he attained wealth, he could restore the social standing of his once noble lineage. “But a greater purpose may fall upon you,” his mother had told him. “If your Emperor’s life is in danger, then you must sacrifice your own to preserve his. He protects Mistra from barbarians. Save him, and you save your brothers and sisters, too.”

  At
that moment, his senses overflowed. Beautiful palaces, the elegant homes, the great square that spawned alleyways lined with taverns, warehouses, shops, brothels, workshops. Tonight the streets were deserted of people, yet aromas still thronged the place: mouth-watering scents from the bakeries, spiced lamb roasting in ovens, sandalwood incense from shrines, the rich perfumes of the courtiers. It swamped the Slave’s mind.

  To prevent the city’s charisma from making him giddy, he focused on the Emperor’s fool. Infuriating little beggar! The Clown made the Slave angry. Not because of his vulgar jokes but because he was disrespectful to royalty and commoner alike. He cavorted in a comical cut-down version of the Emperor’s own robes. As he pranced, he brandished a stick. Attached to the end, an inflated pig’s bladder and a fistful of keys that tinkled like bells. “What a beautiful night!” trilled the Clown. “What a gorgeous night for love.” He cupped a hand to his ear. “Hark! A delicious night for a siege.” In the distance, the thump of rocks being hurled into the city by Ottoman catapults the size of beached ships. “Ah! And what a ravishing night to meet the Demon!” With his jester’s bladder-wand, he struck the monk on the buttocks. The weight of the keys hurt the man, which only compounded his misery. Nervous laughter sprang from the lips of the courtiers. The Clown sang out, “Our friend with the tonsure fears the Demon. What! Aren’t Christ’s prayers powerful enough for you! Don’t you believe our saints can protect you from the Devil locked up in that poor little hut?” He pointed at the sacred edifice with its soaring buttresses and mighty dome.

  The Slave gritted his teeth. The Clown is making mischief again by implying that the monk isn’t pious. He wants the man to be whipped.

  “You don’t fear the Demon, do you ladies?” The fool singled out a Duchess in extravagant gold silks. “Oooh, I can just see you ogling the Demon. Yes—ogling! You’ll caress the naked Devil with your glances. Heart pounding in your breast, you will gasp, ‘Oh! Handsome Demon, sir. Will you make me your bride? Hop on board this stately galleon of female flesh. Sail me in umpity-bumpity waters to your heart’s delight!’“

  The courtiers sniggered. This only angered the Slave. Why don’t they cut out the imbecile’s tongue? He’s not amusing; he’s a sadist.

  A rock hurled from a siege engine crashed into a house nearby. Dust, pale as a ghost, rose above the rooftops.

  “What a lovely night for bombardment!” The Clown shrieked with laughter. “What a beautiful night for death!”

  One of the catapults dumped its missile into the square. With a slap hard enough to make the pavement tremble, a headless corpse found the earth again. Unperturbed, the Emperor regarded the cadaver: evidently, from the uniform, a captured Byzantine soldier. The courtiers were less stoic. They fluttered their hands, whimpered, backed away from the bleeding ruin.

  “Fear ye not!” piped the Clown. “Dead men don’t bite. Especially those without a head.” He rapped the cadaver with his bladder-stick.

  The moment he did so, the chest of the decapitated corpse heaved. It seemed as if it had returned to life, and was eager to draw air into its shattered torso.

  “Witchcraft,” cried one of the ladies.

  Even the Clown sheltered behind the dignified stature of the Emperor. Guards drew their swords, ready to battle the enchanted corpse. As horrified courtiers watched the writhing of the bloody husk, pellets of fur sped from its neck.

  “Rats!” squealed the Clown. “The naughty, naughty Ottomans have stitched rats inside the fellow. Then they . . .” He mimed carrying a body to the catapult, lying it in the scoop, kissing it fondly, then pulling a lever to fling it into the heart of the city.

  The Slave knew that Ottoman forces, who now besieged Constantinople, intended the rats to spread disease through its population, so weakening their resolve to hold out. Those scurrying rats unmanned the monk. Screaming in terror, he fled toward the church.

  Several courtiers followed in blind panic. That sacred colossus would, they prayed, offer divine protection.

  “Ah ha!” The Clown applauded their flight. “They’re eager to see the Demon.” Then he fixed the Slave with a cruel eye. “Or have they forgotten that he’s in there? The diabolus. The evil one. The captive Satan.” He winked. “As you, too, had forgotten. Isn’t that so, my little Greek goat?”

  It wasn’t the Slave’s place to answer. Instead, he obediently followed the entourage that remained with His Imperial Majesty. The beautifully clad advisers, the secretaries, the bald eunuchs, and the bodyguard that bristled with weaponry.

  “Here goes, little goat!” The Clown linked arms with the Slave. “Let us lead our Emperor, so he might gaze upon the Demon!” Then he called out to the entourage. “Follow me! Remember! Don’t spit in church. No cursing. No nostril picking. And absolutely no farting!”

  Silence. The cavernous interior of the church lay engulfed in quietude. With total silence came utter stillness. Even smoke from the incense burners appeared to hang motionless within the immense void of the dome: pale ghosts, neither rising nor falling. The myriad pillars that supported the structure were still as cedars in an enchanted forest.

  The courtiers froze at first sight of the Demon. Every single man and woman locked their gaze on that figure. Nobody, it seemed, dare draw breath in its presence. The Slave’s heart pounded. He strived to absorb every detail of the creature that sat on a wooden chest in the center of the floor.

  A man strode from the gloom. His proud military bearing and the arrogant thrust of his jaw proclaimed his exalted rank.

  In a deep voice he boomed, “Don’t be afraid of the beast. He’s uglier than sin itself. But I myself have bound him with straps made from elephant hide. Even Hercules couldn’t break those. Besides, here in this fortress of God, he will be powerless.” He bowed smartly. “Emperor. I am your devoted servant, General Spirodon, commander of your eastern legions. It was I who captured the Demon. I humbly offer the creature to His Majesty.” There was nothing humble about this cocksure soldier. “May it bring you amusement.”

  “The Emperor is most pleased.” The Chamberlain eyed the Demon with unease. “Perhaps you would describe its capture for the court’s edification.”

  “I would be delighted, sire.” The General clearly relished the art of self-glory. “I led my men to scout for Ottoman forces. Whereupon in Edessa, close to the source of the Euphrates, I encountered the town elders. They begged me to save them from a demon that had been discovered beneath a pagan shrine. My men were so frightened by the unnatural darkness within the tomb that I ordered them to stand back. Thereupon, I entered alone.”

  Eyes shining, his voice growing louder, the General declaimed his heroic deeds. Meanwhile, priests lit oil lamps that encircled the thing sitting on the box. The lamps’ glow clearly revealed the Demon in its most awful detail. The seated figure captured the young Slave’s attention. Endlessly, his eyes roved over a body that mingled beauty with repellent monstrosity.

  The Demon appeared to have the dimensions of a mortal man. He sat on the chest of reddish wood as a mortal rests upon a bench. His eyes were closed. He did not move. Yet how could he move? Surely he must be dead. Such a ruinous body could not possibly be alive. In the lamplight, the Slave feasted on the minutiae of its blasphemous anatomy. Perhaps three-quarters of the Demon’s body consisted of dried flesh that adhered like dry mud to a stick. Part of the rib cage lay exposed. Beneath it could be glimpsed a fist-sized brown lump that was the heart. Along one forearm, which rested on its lap, the bone had been entirely denuded of muscle. Yet that limb terminated in a perfectly formed hand. Fingers curled in slightly. Nails, a healthy pink. Short yellow hair framed a blighted face. That countenance resembled those found on the ancient mummies of Egypt. Fissures ran down its cheek. One shoulder was white bone, the other was clad in the firm flesh of an athlete. Likewise, the legs were mainly decaying sticks of shin and thigh. Yet the right leg beneath the knee was clothed in flesh. The foot appeared entirely mortal.

  What struck the Slave most forcefu
lly were the curious additions to the body. Those elephant hide restraints around the wrists were readily explicable. It was the more esoteric accessories that made the Slave tremble. For, running from the heart, which showed behind the ribs, flowed a slender chain. An extraordinary chain, no thicker than a rat’s tail. Its delicate links were of a bloodred metal; they shimmered with an inner radiance. The chain connected the heart to an iron loop in the timber chest. A tether of sorts? Even more striking, the sight of what had been embedded in its flesh—the good flesh, that is.

  There, in the lamplight, gleamed dozens of metal disks. The Slave recognized them as coins. Gold, silver, bronze. Some perfect disks, some misshapen in the manner of archaic currency. Many bore the heads of known kings; others, from distant outlands, had been impressed with mysterious hieroglyphs. By what process he didn’t know but the coins had been neatly embedded. And in rows, so that one slightly overlapped the other until it appeared the metal disks resembled the scales of a fish.

  The General rested his foot on the box as he grandly pointed out features of the Demon. “Behold armor fashioned from coins. See the chain embedded in the heart?”

  Emboldened, the Clown approached. “General, who captured the Demon—yet who missed seeing the Ottoman army march over our borders? Sir, don’t your guts go all watery in the Demon’s presence? Has fear purged your colon? Brave, noble, sir. Aren’t you bedeviled by nightmares?”

  The General had no intention of answering, but the Emperor nodded. “Tell him.”

  “As you desire, Your Highness.” The General had no idea that the Emperor doted on the Clown. “As you might have noticed, the Demon’s eyes are closed. It is quite blind. Nor since its capture has the creature moved even a finger. The Demon is intimidated by my presence.” He pointed at its mouth. “It dare not even speak.”

  “Until now . . .” The Demon’s head darted. Jaws snapped. “There was nobody worth talking to.”

  It spat an object at the Emperor’s feet. The Slave saw it was a bloody finger. The General stumbled backward, blood pumping out over his fist.