“Catch him?”
“Yes, look.” I held out the note and read aloud, “‘Now freed by a trifling passion, I long to possess what you have. Please, accept this small token, for Arthur’s folly leads the way.’”
I came to a decision — one I thought I’d never entertain where the Undertaker was concerned. “I’ll ask His Excellency to update you with what he deems you should know. It’ll probably be necessary anyway, to ensure the appropriate mind-wipe takes place before his next reassignment.”
In reply to the look of confusion that clouded the Undertaker’s face, I explained: “Basically, Cream is doing what he’s doing in a vain attempt to increase his notoriety. He doesn’t simply want to stand condemned; he wants to revel in it. Don’t let appearances fool you. He will do anything, risk everything — even a thousand years in Hades and Purgatory — to go down in history as . . .” I caught myself just in time. “Let’s just say, he’s having a dig at me, and hinting where I might find a further breadcrumb or two. Something about Arthur’s folly? Evidently, it will lead the way to the next clue.”
“So that’s why he left this?” the Undertaker gasped, holding out the strange stone toward me. “I thought it an odd choice of paperweight.”
Taking possession of the rock, I got an instant hit of residual, ancient power. Its texture was much smoother than I expected.
The Undertaker continued, “The token he’s left you isn’t what you think. I’ve examined it myself and was shocked to discover it’s actually a piece of carbonized bone . . . of angelic origins.”
“Angelic? How the blazes did it get here?”
“Such things are rumored to exist.” He shrugged. “Remember, after the war that led to the ousting and the division of the brethren, both Yahweh and Satan lost many of their strongest advocates. Scores perished in deep darkness, thought to be lost forever.”
“So you’re suggesting this fragment is from one of the Heavenly Host, fallen in battle? But if that’s true, where did Cream find it? How did he find it, come to that? And what does all this have to do with me?”
“Perhaps this ‘Arthur’s folly’ will begin to lead the way?”
Something the Undertaker once said now gave me an idea. It can’t be that obvious . . . can it? I suppressed a snigger, and turned to my new best friend. “You were involved in quite a public spectacle last year, weren’t you? I remember reading about it in the Sinday Times. Couldn’t miss it, really, seeing as they splashed your antics across the entire front cover. What was it again? Ah yes, the InfernoCon 666 Convention. When asked why you caused such carnage, you were quoted as saying, ‘the folly of this debacle shouldn’t be —’”
“‘The folly of this pretentious, poetic debacle shouldn’t be allowed to detract from the fact that there is no such thing as salvation, here in hell,’” the Undertaker interjected, quoting himself, “no hope of redemption. No chance of deliverance. No possibility of escape.”
“Precisely. And that was just across the street from here, wasn’t it?”
“Why, yes it was. Do you think . . . ?”
“I do. Not only was Cream here, but he had the nerve to remain close-by. Close enough to include a jibe that links your antics to Arthurian legend and Excalibur. Or, as we refer to it here . . .”
“The Hexcalibur Hotel!”
“Give the man a cigar. From what I’ve heard about the place, blood-soaked and piss-stained sheets are an everyday occurrence. Cream’s leaving a trail for me to follow. So, while you determine exactly how the little fucker managed to avoid reassignment, I’m going to start pecking at breadcrumbs.”
Chapter 3: The Game’s Afoot
Arranged over sixty-six levels, the Hexcalibur Hotel was a dominant feature of the New Hell skyline. Ideally situated for Dr. Thomas Neill Cream’s purposes, it not only attracted denizens from both ends of the social ladder, but also from far-ranging time periods and other realms.
Kings, queens, and despots graced the penthouse suites with their extravagant excesses; princes and princesses the staterooms; from where they would plan minion-hunting purges and engage in drunken revelry. Even the mundane, everyday riffraff were welcome since the establishment regularly hosted all manner of themed soirées popular among the masses. Many an illicit tryst and murderous plot had been fomented within the eight hundred and fifty-eight rooms that made up this shining beacon to depravity. So ready, in fact, were the staff to turn a blind eye to just about anything except sedition that the hotel regularly attracted the likes of fallen angels and demon lords, and agents of Satan’s intelligence network who wished to remain anonymous.
Due to its proximity to the Mortuary and a nearby rift gate, the Hexcalibur had become a fashionable rendezvous for huge ranks of Blue Suits gathering in force to welcome back colleagues slain in the line of their ever unpopular duty. Indeed, at this very minute both the ground and first-floor foyers were packed with well-heeled clientele. As such, the distinguished-looking gentleman sitting on the tearoom balcony overlooking the busy street attracted no attention whatsoever. And although his top hat and tails, heavily waxed mustache, thick-rimmed glasses and ornate walking cane set him apart from the usual briefcase-wielding crowd, nothing about this soul appeared exceptional.
But that was exactly the effect that Cream hoped to achieve.
Come on, come on. Where are you, for goodness sake? I’d have thought your golden-balls would have cottoned on by now.
He replaced his bone-china cup on its saucer, fished about inside his jacket, and removed an antique pocket watch. Flipping the lid, he assessed the time.
Just after noon. He’s been in there for nearly two hours. Surely . . . ?
The revolving door of the building opposite began to turn. Cream caught his breath and sat forward in his seat. Moments later, he whistled a sigh of relief as his target stepped out into the midday gloom.
“There you are, my boy,” he muttered. “So, you’ve taken the bait, have you, Grim?”
He looked on as Satan’s Reaper stopped for a moment, checked his watch, then appeared to evaluate the bulwark of the hotel’s façade.
Cream tensed again, absentmindedly fiddling with an ornate bracelet about his wrist as if the action provided a degree of security. Hatred welled up from the depths of his dark and embittered soul.
“You thought to deny me my rightful place among the elite of the underworld. A foolish endeavor, for while I don’t deny your power, you are nothing but a blunt instrument, a tool to be used and discarded at whim,” Cream muttered aloud as Grim strode purposefully out into the traffic without looking left or right.
Brakes squealed. Horns blared. The sound of shattering glass and metal rending metal cut through the din. Curses rang back and forth until the creature below made eye contact with his hecklers. Then all protestations abruptly ceased as people scrambled to get out of the Reaper’s way.
“I rest my case” Cream said softly.
The chaos below filled Cream with a surge of optimism. Grasping his walking stick, he caressed the neon-blue gem in its handle, allowing its radiance to infuse him with a calm that soothed his beating heart.
He glanced down at the street for a final time. “Oh yes. It would appear the game’s afoot. Let’s see how good you are, my boy, and if you can keep up after you’ve tasted my little distraction.”
*
I stepped out of the Mortuary and into blissful fresh air, or at least, whatever it was that passed for fresh air here. To be honest, after a visit with the Undertaker I couldn’t think of anywhere in the underverse that wouldn’t smell like roses in comparison.
A quick check of the time revealed it was just after midday.
Is that all? I can’t believe it was only this morning I was still in Juxtapose.
A fleeting image of what I’d left behind fluttered through my mind.
Strawberry.
I glanced at my watch again. A Rolhex Sky-Fall, it was brand new, and a gift from Strawberry herself. She’d bought it as a re
placement for my previous timepiece, a Denizen 6000, smashed to pieces three months ago by Kroyęl Ash Fangs, an overly ambitious demon lord who’d violently disagreed with Satan’s ruling that he be relocated to the frigid depths of Niflheim. Part of me could understand his reticence at being banished to freeze his ass off for a thousand years.
But he didn’t have to take it out on my Denizen 6000. Bastard! I’d had that for over two centuries. It never lost a second . . . until he put his fat cloven hoof through it.
For Strawberry to buy me a present like this meant something. Not that we could get engaged or anything. One of the quirks of unlife here — privileges or not — was that such relationships were simply not allowed. Exclusivity was frowned upon, unless it was directed in His Satanic Majesty’s direction, of course.
Still, we have what we have . . .
Shaking my thoughts clear, I stared up at the imposing height of the Hexcalibur Hotel and studied the gargoyles adorning its weathered crown over eight hundred feet above me.
From what I remember, it covers sixty-six floors and has thirteen apartments on each level. Where would I stay if I was leaving a trail to follow?
A cacophony of horns and intermingled shouts of alarm intruded, and my attention abruptly snapped back to the here and now. I was greeted by a sea of angry faces and shaking fists. Without realizing it, I had started to cross the road , paying no heed to my surroundings.
My trademark death’s-head stare silenced the dissenters almost immediately, and I breezed across the broad street unhindered.
The wash of malevolent energies that bathed my senses as I entered the hotel’s main foyer was overpowering. Some patrons scrutinized my presence with disdain. Others tactfully ignored me, refusing to make eye contact. A few blatantly sized me up, as if eager to test their strength against the Reaper. But that was to be expected. This was hell, after all, and the halls of this establishment were as blighted by the ignorant and foolish as they were by the elite and proud.
So long as they don’t try to interfere in my business, I’ll let them walk away.
My romantically naïve sentiments were crushed almost immediately:
The moment he saw me, a hulking great brute with no discernible neck detached himself from the cocktail bar. Dragging his hairy knuckles along behind him, he approached with the swaggering confidence of one newly dead, someone who hadn’t yet found his place in the greater scheme of things.
I was puzzled. Does he normally look like that, or was the Undertaker tripping when he experimented on this one?
A sense of imminent conflict radiated around the room, and between us grew an empty space. A hush descended. More worryingly, it actually went dark as the Neanderthal loomed over me.
“Hello, Chuckles, I don’t believe we’ve met?” I began, hoping to diffuse the situation with humor. “My name’s — shit a brick!”
Despite his size, the missing link was exceedingly swift.
A huge club of a fist appeared and buried itself up to the wrist in the lobby’s highly polished granite floor. I stared in amazement at the cracks spiderwebbing outward from the exact spot where I’d been standing only a split second before.
If I hadn’t been fast enough, my new watch would have been buggered! Or my head, come to that. Aloud, I advised, “Whoa, big boy. I suggest you rein in the aggression, or aim it at someone else . . .”
Chuckles wasn’t paying attention. He seemed more content to work himself into a frothing frenzy as he struggled to retrieve his hand. With a mighty heave he wrenched it free amid a shower of stone chips and debris, and immediately took another swing.
“Look,” I continued, ducking, “I appreciate you haven’t been here long but if you don’t listen, this will end badly. Now, back off.”
My words were like a red flag to a bull. No sooner had I spoken than he dropped his head, threw his arms wide, and charged. Once again I was shocked by his speed, for he managed to catch me around the waist and lift me off the floor. With a roar, he slammed us both into the nearest coffee table.
Wood and glass flew in every direction as furniture disintegrated under our weight. Several bystanders, too slow to get out of the way, were pulled into the fray. We tumbled over and over in a tangle of arms, legs, and briefcases. Fortunately, the confusion gave me the opportunity to kick out and roll sideways, away from danger. I regained my feet and circled my opponent.
My skin tingled as I automatically healed the multiple lacerations covering my face.
Something about this situation doesn’t feel right.
I stared into his eyes, trying to get a clearer picture of where this guy was coming from. Nothing concrete came back, except that I was dealing with someone stir-fry crazy and wound to fever pitch.
But why? How does he know me?
He gathered himself to leap again.
In the name of all that’s unholy! I don’t have time for this. I was faced with a choice. If I manifested, this debacle would be over instantly. The trouble was I’d use up precious vitality; vitality I simply didn’t have to spare as I hadn’t yet recharged my essence within the Bãlefire. I needed my remaining potency to close on Cream. With so many witnesses, however, I couldn’t let this challenge against Satan’s authority go unanswered.
Time to make a statement.
As the meathead launched himself toward me I jumped forward, putting all my strength into the Hail Mary of sucker punches. Our combined momentum did the trick. As my fist connected with his face, a tremendous shockwave ran the length of my arm and down through my boots. The sharp report of snapping teeth and crushed cartilage rang out, loud and clear. I went numb to the shoulder.
Stunned, I stepped back, doing my best to hide my discomfort.
Hellfire! What’s this guy made of, steel?
Chuckles stood stock still, disbelief etching his features. Blood flowed freely from his shattered nose and pulped mouth. With infinite slowness, he raised one hand to his face to check the damage. When his fingers came away scarlet, he stared intently at them, as if fascinated by the fact he was injured. He turned to look at me, and his gaze managed to convey an unspoken question just before his eyes rolled into the back of his head. A brief pause followed; then his knees folded and he crashed to the floor like an avalanche run amok.
The entire room quaked from the impact.
A red and green gem rolled out from one of his pockets.
Is that a bloodstone? That’s worth a hundred diablos. Where did he get money like that so quickly?
The penny dropped.
I spun in a tight circle and drew my telescopic scythe from its sheath. People screamed in alarm and drew back, fearful of being reaped. I scanned the foyer, searching for anyone else who might be involved in the distraction.
When I found no one, I positioned myself above the poor dupe who had been conned into delaying me, pictured the Undertaker’s gut-churning face, and opened my mind. Despite our agreement, I still felt dirty.
Did you see that?
I did, the Undertaker replied, it would appear you are on the right track and Doctor Cream is keen to ensure the trail doesn’t go cold.
That’s what worries me. He knows how costly a trip topside can be, and seems intent on preventing my rejuvenation. I’m about to send you my mystery party-pooper. Before you go all Picasso on him, would you please ensure his memories are extracted and examined thoroughly?
Seriously? With the obvious forethought Cream has given this little venture, do you honestly think there’ll be anything of evidential value in there?
It’s doubtful. But aren’t you supposed to be an expert? Of course, if you don’t feel up to it . . .
I left my thought unfinished, and instead conveyed a vivid scene of my Inquisitors getting down and dirty with the Neanderthal’s brain.
No! No! The Undertaker shrieked in panicked alarm. The extraction of detailed recollections is a delicate procedure, best conducted on a freshly revived corpse. Do not let your butchers anywhere near his skull;
otherwise I might never discover how my own security was breached.
Very well, but don’t forget. There are larger fish to fry here than your pathetic security measures. Anyone and everyone with knowledge of what Cream’s up to must be caught and interrogated. Get what you can, then permanently zombify him. Understood?
The Undertaker failed to reply, but I knew he’d heard me. The astral finger he projected through the ether was a dead giveaway.
That settled, I cleaved my attacker in two.
He disappeared amid a sulfurous cloud of vapor, and as the last whiff dissipated, a momentary pulse of approval thrummed along my nerves from someplace else.
Hmm. It seems my Infernal Father is also keeping an eye on events.
It didn’t surprise me. He was never far away.
I glanced around the lobby again, trying to assess how many in the crowd might be members of one of his many secret intelligence agencies. Even I couldn’t keep tabs on all of them.
Then I had a spur of the moment idea.
Boss? You know how important it is I keep this situation sanitized. If you can think of a way of reenergizing my spirit without me having to lose a day in limbo, I’d be grateful.
A vision of another finger, this one even larger and with a bloody great talon on the end loomed toward me, accompanied by a throb of echoing laughter and a sound like boulders being crushed.
His parting thought was crystal clear. Stick that where Paradise doesn’t shine and pull your socks up . . . or else!
He was more annoyed at Cream being on the loose than I had first appreciated; I sobered instantly.
Right, I’d better get down to business.
I approached the reception desk, where a diminutive woman with ridiculously large, beaverlike front teeth studied my every step through thick-rimmed spectacles. A duty manager, her whole soul smacked of fastidious attention to detail.
The name tag said it all: Nora Woods.
Another stunning example of the Undertaker’s razor-sharp wit.
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 4