Finally, my shoe came off, a sacrifice to the angry beast. I flopped back into the hallway with a thud. Then I crab-walked backward a few feet away from the basement door, my meat-suit’s survival instinct and terror working hand-in-hand to get me the hell away from there and further into the protective candlelight.
Don’t get me wrong —spent and shaken as I was, I appreciated the help. But at that point, it wasn’t strictly necessary.
The creature was gone —swallowed by the darkness below.
22.
Upstairs, a quiet cacophony, like a nightmare cocktail party heard through a shared wall. Myriad drips, drops, and plinks as the torrent outside found its way into the decrepit structure —pooling in depressions, leaking through cracks, pouring off of jagged ledges where the first-floor ceiling had caved in. Dozens of voices, some raised, some quiet, talking all at once in tongues both foreign and familiar. The thud of heavy footsteps above —shuffling, skipping about, and unless I was mistaken, dancing. The crackle of a warped and timeworn record from somewhere far away, playing Patsy Cline at half the speed and twice the warble. And the snap and hiss of candles in the damp.
The hallway I was in extended the length of the building, stretching into murky nothingness to either side of me. The floor and walls were blackened and peeling, as if from fire. The ceiling —plaster, by the look of it —sagged in places, and was entirely absent in others, mildew and yellowed water marks blossoming here and there the length of it.
I picked a direction at random, my one stocking foot stained with ash and soot as I scuffed along the empty hall —wary, alert. I’d never seen the inside of a skim-joint before. I don’t know what I’d been expecting from a place demons go to get whacked out on moments stolen from the humans they profess to despise —something speakeasy-er, I guess —but this sure as hell wasn’t it. This place made your average crack house look like the Ritz. But hey, I’m sure the rent was reasonable.
Beside me was an open door. I ducked inside. A small, square room, with bare wood floors and a ceiling of rotting plaster. In one corner was a candelabrum, anchored to the floor by tiny termite hills of wax, a halo of soot dancing on the wall behind it in the shifting candlelight. In the other corner lay a man. Many men, in fact —though in reality, this thing was not a man at all. His visage shifted as he slouched, eyes fluttering, against the join of the two walls, alternating between a half a dozen human faces at random. His lips moved as he lay there, muttering in a voice that shifted tone to match each face, as though the lot of them were in conversation, each talking over the other in an unintelligible stream of syllables.
Though he lay there helpless and twitching, this creature was no doubt a powerful demon, and one accustomed to dealing with humankind. Demons of the lesser orders are unable to alter their appearance in the eyes of man; their gruesome physiognomy is merely a reflection of their own corrupted natures. Should they desire to walk among the living unnoticed, they’re forced to take a living host —and even then, if they possess that host too long, their nature will begin to warp the host as well. And powerful demons who do not deign to interact with humankind —like, I suspect, the beast I left downstairs —simply do not bother to alter their aspect to accommodate human perception, leaving puny human minds like mine to piece together something that makes sense out of the nonsense that they’re given. But this guy, even ensconced in whatever skim-trip he was on, maintained some semblance of human appearance. Granted, without a conscious, focused will, the shapes didn’t hold for long, but never did he slip from displaying a human form —never did he offer a glimpse of his true nature. That meant power. That meant danger. That meant I was glad he was asleep.
The man-demon shifted in his slumber, and his arm, which had previously rested across his stomach, flopped to the floor. His shirt-sleeve was rolled up to the elbow, and the tender flesh of his forearm was pocked with track marks —though no needle could mark a demon’s flesh for long; the injury would heal itself before any scarring could occur. And indeed, these marks weren’t from a needle at all, but from countless shards of skim. One such shard was in there now, like a jagged bit of colored glass inserted just beneath the skin —I could see it flickering below the surface like lightning contained within a cloud.
He rolled and kicked a leg, like a junkyard dog dreaming of glorious pursuit. His eyes flashed open, locked on mine. His hand lashed out and wrapped itself around my leg. Dark fire —the fire of the Depths —flickered across his arm, and the room seemed suddenly engulfed in their all-consuming flame. It spread outward from his being like the halo of soot from the candles across the room, fluttering like weightless silk as it expanded. Then his lids slammed shut, and the dark fire dissipated. The demon was once more asleep.
I pried my leg from his grasp and retreated to the hall. There was nothing for me in that demon’s room. I wondered if there was anything here for me at all. If I was a fool to have even come. But it was too late for such concerns —I was here. Committed. There was nothing else for me to do but see it through.
As I continued down the hall, I peeked into the rooms I passed, finding some empty, and others flush with three, four, even five demons —most of them foot-soldiers, leathery black and hideous. Some lay still in dream, while others swayed in time with the music, or gestured wildly as they conversed with whoever had a guest-spot in their skim-trip memory. Not a one of them showed any interest in me; occasionally, one would glance my way, but their gazes slid right off of me like I was furniture.
I couldn’t help but wonder what it was like: these fallen angels, these creatures of the Depths, subjecting themselves to human experiences, sensations, emotions, all in the name of feeling closer for a moment to the God that had forsaken them. And I wondered what it must feel like to come down from that, and realize you were once more removed from the light of God’s grace. It must be horrible —a shock akin to their initial fall. It wasn’t hard to see why they —or for that matter, Danny —might get hooked. Why they might keep on coming back.
At the end of the hallway was an empty doorframe crumpled outward at each side, as though something too large to pass through it had decided to force the issue. Beyond the doorway, a staircase led upward. Its banister was of dubious integrity, but the stairs themselves, bowed and scarred though they were, looked broadly feasible. They groaned and popped under my weight, but they held, and so I headed up.
As I climbed the stairs, the strains of music I’d heard below grew louder. Through the scratch and hiss of the weary old vinyl, I heard Patsy’s lament. … I’m crazy for trying, and crazy for crying… and I’m crazy for loving you…
Sounded like her week was going about as well as mine.
The entrance to the second floor was barred by a cave-in just inside the stairwell door; through the starburst pattern in the inlaid safety glass, I saw a pile of rubble four feet high. With luck, I thought, the third floor won’t be similarly afflicted.
It wasn’t. The third floor, like the second, still had a door —a heavy wooden affair inlaid with safety glass —but its top hinge had separated from the doorframe, which left it hanging at a nauseating angle that prevented it from latching. Slowly, carefully, I pushed it open, listening for any indication the movement had been noticed. Apart from a redoubling of the record’s volume, I heard nothing, so I slipped through the doorway, and eased it shut behind me.
The stairwell door opened into a broad room, from which a hallway like the one on the first floor extended. A pile of splintered timber along one wall looked like it had once been some kind of desk, suggesting this had maybe been a nurses’ station. There were candles everywhere —on the floor, atop the rubble of the desk, in the nooks created by the crumbling of the failing walls. An old Victrola cabinet sat in the center of the room, the Cline record spinning beneath its propped lid. Deep gouges furrowed its mahogany frame in sets of four parallel lines each, as though some demon had taken a swipe or two at it in a fit of pique. Apparently skim-trips weren’t all wine-androses after all.
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I heard a low, huffing breath to my left, like a city bus laboring up a hill. Close —too close for my tastes.
I spun around. Behind me, hidden from view around the corner as I’d entered the room, was a demon. A massive demon, sitting beneath a jagged hole in the ceiling, through which poured a torrent of desert rain. Given the size of this monster, I couldn’t help but think that hole must be how it had gotten in.
The demon was maybe ten feet across, and standing no doubt would’ve been twice that high. Its skin was the sickly, glistening white of a creature raised belowground; its body was segmented and striated, like that of a grub. Thick horns of yellow-white protruded from its head on either side, stretching for several feet before curving slightly downward and terminating in two nasty-looking points that scratched the rainsoaked walls. Two rows of six eyes each, milky white in the absence of that trademark demon fire, were wet from rain and tears both. The creature sat with its legs hugged to its chest, rocking back and forth like a child. Its ropy neck flickered like the man-demon’s arm had flickered, indicating skim. In one hand it held a wildflower, brilliant purple in the candlelight.
As it turned its gaze toward me, its awful face broke into a smile.
It extended an arm toward me —an arm that nearly spanned the length of the room —and offered me the flower.
And with a voice as terrible as damnation itself, it said, “Daddy?”
Something in my meat-suit snapped then, and I tore out of the room at a sprint, leaving a puzzled child-demon in my wake. Animal panic coursed through my veins, obliterating reason. I ran like I had the devil at my heels, and as far as this hunk of meat was concerned, I guess I did. I ran past countless rooms like the ones I’d peeked inside downstairs. I ran past demons large and small, their utterances an awful chorus, egging me on. I ran until I reached the far end of the hall, and then my sock-clad foot came down on something sharp, and I stumbled, sprawling into a room brighter and warmer than those I’d seen so far. It was the mirror image of the one that I’d just fled, but this room was not in ruins. Its ceiling was intact, its walls unmarred, and, improbably, a fire crackled in an earthen fireplace along one wall.
I looked around in puzzlement at my surroundings, my heart still thudding in my chest. Beside me, atop an expensive-looking woven rug, sat a highbacked leather chair and a small side-table in the Mission style. A stained-glass lamp on the side-table cast colored shapes around the room, despite its cord dangling frayed and incomplete a foot from its base. Beneath the lamp was a snifter half-full of amber liquid, around which was wrapped a fat, bejeweled hand. The hand, in turn, led to a cuffed wrist, which led to a suit-jacket of bland gray. The jacket was wrapped tightly around a rotund, sweaty man, whose eyes danced with black fire, and whose mouth was curved into a predatory grin.
“Hiya, Sammy,” said Dumas. “It’s about time you showed up.”
23.
“You —you knew that I was coming?”
Dumas snorted, and took a sip of his drink. “You think an operation like this, one that pisses off the Big Guy and the Adversary both, and we wouldn’t have any goddamn countermeasures? Please —we’ve been monitoring your progress since before you even reached the canyon. Sweet ride, by the way.”
“If you knew I was coming, why didn’t you kill me hours ago? Why let me get this far?”
“I considered it, of course —but honestly, what would it have accomplished? You would’ve just wound up in another body and come back to pester us all over again, like the little gadfly you are. Besides, I’ve always had a soft spot for the souls I’ve corrupted —you little tykes are so adorable with your eternal suffering and why-me whining and your sad little puppy-dog eyes. So call me sentimental, but I decided this time I’d give you a pass.”
“A pass? You call my tangle with that thing in the basement a pass?”
“What, Abby? Abby’s harmless. Well, to you, at least —her tastes run more toward the living, the younger and fresher the better. Besides, if I hadn’t made things a little challenging, you wouldn’t feel like you’d accomplished anything getting up here, and just imagine what that’d do to your self-esteem! I’m about building up, Sammy, not tearing down.”
“Big of you,” I said.
“Isn’t it, though?” He made to take a pull of his drink, and then stopped short. “Oh, hell —where are my manners? Care for a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Probably for the best. Stuff’s made from the blood of the Chosen —it’d likely eat that monkey-suit’s insides right out of you. Still, it is delicious —and damn hard to come by these days. One of my clients had a case lying around since the last Great War. Traded it for a slice of nun who’d had a genuine religious experience before she died. Course, the way things have been going of late, this stuff won’t be rare much longer, so I figure I may as well drink up! Now, Sammy, you want to tell me what brought you all this way? Some unresolved daddy issues, perhaps?”
“Don’t play coy with me —you know damn well why I’m here. I came for Varela.”
“And Varela is…?”
“Play dumb all you like,” I said, “but I’m not biting. I underestimated you once before; it’s not a mistake I’m likely to repeat.”
“Really? Because I was of the impression you’re not a man who learns from his mistakes —you’re always far too certain you’re in the right. But let’s say for the sake of argument that I do know who this Varela is. What makes you think I’d hand him over to you? I mean, I allow you into my place of business out of the kindness of my heart, and this is how you repay me? By issuing orders and expecting me to snap to? It seems you’ve forgotten your station in this world, Collector —you’re in no position to make demands of me. You’ll be lucky if I don’t kill you for your impudence.”
“By all means, go ahead. As you said, I’ll simply be reseeded elsewhere —and when I am, I’ll be sure to tell my handler where she can find the missing Varela soul.”
At that Dumas sat upright and set his drink down on the table. “Wait,” he said, leaning forward in sudden interest, “you’re here about a missing soul?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Cut the bullshit,” I spat. “I know all about your arrangement with Danny Young. I know he’s been funneling you souls in return for skim. And I for damn sure know that Danny stole Varela’s soul. Now, I’ve seen enough of your operation tonight to know that business is booming. So what happened? The souls Danny was assigned to collect couldn’t keep up with demand? Or was Varela some kind of special order?”
Dumas scowled, his face flushed with anger. “Boy, if I were you, I’d watch your tongue. You don’t understand half as much as you think you do.”
“Then by all means, enlighten me.”
He downed his drink and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “First off,” he said, gesturing around the room with his empty glass before setting it on the table, “we ain’t in the business of taking special orders —the product we got is the product we got. Partly ’cause we gotta keep a low profile if we wanna keep this operation running, and snatching souls to fill requests would attract all kinds of unwanted attention. Also partly ’cause it’s not necessary. A skim-trip ain’t so much about the specific experience being relived; it’s about the feeling, the sense that the Maker’s in His heaven and all is right with the world. All you need for that’s a soul that ain’t been all the way corrupted, and believe me, we got scads of ’em just stacking up, Danny Young or no.”
I nodded toward the empty glass beside him, my face a mask of disbelief. “So you’re telling me the nun-soul you traded for that you came by honestly?”
Dumas chuckled. “I’m not sure honestly is the right word, but yeah, she arrived via the usual channels. Guess a pious life’s no guarantee you’ll get measured for your wings and harp once your final bell has tolled.” He saw the doubt in my eyes and continued. “Don’t look so surprised, Sammy! Hell’s fu
lla decent people who couldn’t hack it without a little assistance from the likes of me —you of all people should know that. And believe me, you’re better off not knowing what she bargained for; the whole affair would turn your stomach.”
I thought a moment about what he’d said, but the math still didn’t add up. “The fact remains that Danny works for you, and that he stole the soul I’m looking for. I’m supposed to believe those two things are unconnected?”
“Believe what you want, Sammy —and someday, you’ll have to fill me in on how you’ve come to know so much about who I do and don’t associate with —but the truth is, Danny doesn’t work here anymore.”
“He doesn’t.” Skeptical.
“No, he doesn’t. Fact is, the boy got sloppy —unreliable. Became a liability to the organization. So I had to let him go.”
“If that’s the case, then what the fuck would Danny want with the soul of some drug kingpin that wasn’t even his to take?”
“Wait —don’t tell me this Varela you’re looking for is Pablo Varela? As in head of the Varela drug cartel?”
For the life of me, I couldn’t tell if he was shining me on, or if his surprise was as genuine as it seemed. “So you do know of him,” I said.
“Of course I know of him,” he replied. “I’m a big fan of his work! That bastard is as nasty as they come; well, was, I suppose. A shame that someone of his talent would be struck down in his prime…”
“Yeah, I’m all broken up about it. Only now that I know you’re such a fan and all, I’m forced to wonder if maybe you had Danny take his soul as a little keepsake —you know, so you could stick it in a glass case beside the ball from McGwire’s go-ahead run or whatever.”
“Are you nuts? Leaving aside for a moment the fact that Danny no longer works for me, you know the kind of attention it’d attract to my operation, snagging the soul of a rising talent like Varela? And anyways, if any of the Fallen has McGwire’s go-ahead run, it’d be Mammon; he’s the one who cut McGwire’s deal.”
The Wrong Goodbye tc-2 Page 16