“Oh, it’s not a token she’ll be needing,” Charon said as a smile crept up his sunken-in cheeks. Two black beady eyes stared at Paimon, as if the man was looking into him instead of at him. “Mortals require a different kind of payment. One that can neither be seen nor held.”
Anger swelled in Paimon’s chest.
“Don’t talk to me in riddles, ferryman.”
Charon laughed and kicked at the water, sending showers of clear crystals in the air. They rained down like bullets, piercing the river as if it were flesh. Paimon turned his head away from the mockery.
Stories said that the old man was a Fate, a keeper of all that was and all that would be. No one knew how he got here, or what his debt to the Devil had been, but all scripture agreed that his servitude had been blessed by The Seven. They gave him the gift of knowledge, of reading the past, present, and future, and with his debt paid in full, Charon was free to take payment from any, and all, who tried to get through the gates.
“I’ll do what I choose, collector, because when it comes down to it, I’m not the one who wants something.”
Worry bred in Paimon’s mind. What do you want old man? What are you going to take from me this time? The memory of their last trade—still fresh is in mind—made him shake. Charon knew him all too well. Better, even so, than the Devil.
Charon walked over to Rhea and turned her face toward his own. “Looks familiar. Where do I know her from? Oh, yes! That’s right.” He threw a smirk over to Paimon and laughed. “She looks just like your wife!”
His excitement worried Paimon.
“I don’t have time to play games, Charon. Just tell me what you want.”
Charon walked away from Rhea and took his place back at the edge of the stairs. He stood there, a stern solider, grinning as he rubbed his chin, his fingers lingering in the air as they danced in the ridicule of what he was about to say.
“You took her virginity, her goodness. That’s what I want,” Charon said, pausing for the punchline. “I want her purity.”
Paimon balled his hands into fists and gritted his teeth.
“And how is she to give you what I have already taken from her?”
Charon let out a cold, insidious laugh. One that differed greatly from the lighthearted, mischievous one before.
“Memories, boy. Memories.”
Paimon sighed as emptiness filled him. His breath caught in his throat and nausea pulled on his gag reflex. Her memories? Everything he’d sacrificed for her, she wouldn’t remember. He’d be nothing but a stranger to her. And she’d fear him, not to mention the child inside of her.
“Yes, yes. Quite the decision considering your predicament, but consider yourself lucky that I’m in a good mood today, or else I’d be demanding payment from the one inside her as well.”
“And if I say no?”
“But you’re not going to, are you? No, I don’t think you are. So why don’t you just move aside and let me do my job.”
Doubt coursed through him, but Paimon knew he was out of options. It was selfish, true, but now that he had her, he couldn’t afford to lose her. Not again. If she needed to forget in order for him to keep her, then so be it.
Paimon moved to one side and turned his head.
A vacuum-like hum filled the room as Charon sucked at her memories. His tongue slapped against her forehead as he slurped and inhaled her thoughts like thin, wet noodles. Silver strands of ether slid from her head—could she feel him leaving her?—and down Charon’s throat. The sound alone sent Paimon into a rage. He wanted to pull the ferryman off her and rip out the tongue that dared touch his lover’s face, but he knew better than to disrupt the demon’s process. After all, it wasn’t just memories that Charon was able to take.
Paimon traced a finger over the scar on his left hand, remembering his place. He may have earned the Devil’s respect, but there were others that he had yet to impress.
Charon stood and wiped a lingering strand of spittle from his chapped, blue lips. “She’s delicious.”
Don’t. Don’t do it.
Jealousy bloodied his eyes. Crimson tears slid down his face, and before he could stop himself, his fangs were bared and rubbing against the soft, skin of his lower lip, his tongue tasting copper.
Charon slashed Paimon’s face. His nails dug into Paimon’s cheek, taking some of collector’s skin with him.
“Why must each of our meetings end with you acquiring a new scar?”
Paimon bit his lip.
“Oh please. This sadomasochistic behavior isn’t fooling anyone. Now grab your, excuse me, his female, and let’s move on,” Charon said.
Chapter 13
It was a small vessel, but it amazed Paimon each time he readied himself to board it. There wasn’t any wind here, but the sail always moved and it fluttered above him, catching his eye. Made of flesh, the sail was stitched together with strands of human hair, and while parts of it appeared worn and weathered, it was obvious others were skin. The boat stood as a constant reminder that everything, even in death, had its price, and if you couldn’t pay it, then something was taken. And more often than not, it was taken with force. Paimon wondered how many died for the sake of Charon’s craft, but the more he thought about it, the more he preferred not to know.
“More beautiful each time you see her, eh?” Charon said.
Paimon nodded his head.
Draped in white, the hull was made of bone. Femurs, ribs, and tibias of all shapes and sizes were woven together to form a strong base, one that moved along the water with an unnatural ease. The bow, sharpened to a point, cut through the water and the souls that were trapped beneath it. They beat against the tide with skeletal arms and tore through waves. Their howls echoed within the cavern, ghostly wails of the lost and abandoned. Paimon recognized a few souls, some from this life, and some from his past. He shifted in his skin, uneasy at the way they looked at him, their eyes vacant, staring off into the unknown. Do they recognize me? Do they remember? He preferred working with assigned souls—ones that had been specifically picked by the Devil—because he knew he’d never have to see them again. But these souls, the ones who floated beneath him, they were the Lost Ones, unclaimed souls that wanted nothing more than to be taken, to be declared in the Devil’s name. And they were always there. Paimon encountered them whenever he traveled by ferry, and more than once, one had grabbed hold of him when his guard was down. Their hands were like ice, thin and frigid, and they stabbed at his legs, dug their nails into his skin. Their touch allowed him to see without using his eyes, but the pictures he saw were not always welcome for these were unbaptized souls. Souls that knew only sin. And the flashbacks they showed him were unspeakable, even in Hell.
Charon next to Paimon, and the two of them stared into the river. “I wouldn’t admit this to most, but they unsettle me, too.”
There was talk that The Seven wanted to keep record of souls who posed a threat, who contained more evil and malice than was the norm for humankind. So before The Seven left Hell, they’d employed the Lost Ones to keep watch over who and what came through the gates, and in return, The Seven gave the Lost Ones protection. All they had to do was keep track of the numbers—and faces if they could. Desperate for ownership, the stories said the Lost Ones obliged. Cast out by the Devil, they joined forces with something much worse. And because of that, they were a threat.
Yes, the Lost Ones might not have been able to escape the holy waters that bound them, but their allegiance to The Seven made them dangerous nonetheless. It was why the Devil encased them in the river. There couldn’t be an uprising. The Lost Ones could not be permitted to go to them, to serve them. The Seven were to remain in The Void, their own sector of the underworld. Hell, and all those who served in it, were outside of The Seven’s jurisdiction. There could only be one ruler in Hell, and that was their lord and savior, the Devil.
Better safe than sorry, rumors or not.
Paimon watched their bodies float on top of the waves like loose tea
. He thought of his own sorting, of the night he’d been claimed. Much like them, he’d felt lost, abandoned, cast out by all he loved. He’d woken up on the feeding ground, his body cold and stripped of clothes. The place resembled a church—stone walls, a crucifix above the altar, a bible on the podium—but he sensed that there was nothing holy about where he stood. The pews were packed, and the congregation sat still, their eyes never leaving him. Paimon stood naked before the cross as a pair of black, emotionless eyes sought him out. He did his best to cover himself, but when the man—was it a man?—reached out to touch him, Paimon fought back, his fists connecting with a body that absorbed them without obvious wear or pain.
“Interesting,” the Devil said. “You’re either very brave or very foolish.”
With no way of knowing where he was, or how he’d gotten there, Paimon shook his head and tried to will himself to disappear.
“Let’s try that again.”
The Devil grabbed Paimon’s head, this time without resistance. He dug his thumbs into the soft dip of Paimon’s temples and closed his eyes. Memories. Always memories. The Devil sifted through the pain and regret as he learned about Marissa, laughed as he watched the other girls that existed now only as notches on a murderer’s belt. He explored Paimon’s body with his hands and tongue, reading and tasting the stories of each cut and scar until he’d had his fill.
“You taste remorseful,” the Devil said, like it was so matter-of-fact.
“I am.”
The Devil reached into Paimon’s chest and squeezed his heart. The organ pumped blood down his wrists and the Devil smiled, his grin full of maggots and flies. “You’re in Hell now, boy. Learn to embrace your sins.” And then the Devil ripped out Paimon’s still-beating heart and dropped it in a side-pocket of his robe. He clapped his hands twice and a group of groundlings appeared.
“This one’s to be logged as a collector,” the Devil said. “Take him to his cell.”
“And his name, my lord?”
“Paimon.”
“But master…are you sure?”
“Quite, and never question my judgment again. Forty lashes for you when you return.”
Memories of that night still sent a chill down the nape of Paimon’s neck. It was his awakening, a beginning to a new life—a second chance—but when he looked down at Rhea, part of him wished he still had his heart.
“Hurry now,” Charon said. “I’m due back at the portal in an hour.”
Charon’s voice drew Paimon back to the boat, Rhea in his arms.
Her leg twitched, and the sudden movement almost caused him to drop her.
“Easy now. Not to worry. Even when the body’s dead, it still moves,” Charon said. “Not that she’s dead of course, but she’s not waking up anytime soon either.”
Paimon fought to regain his sea legs and staggered to the back of the boat. No matter how many times he’d sailed with Charon, he always got sick. He laid Rhea on the deck—he didn’t want her anywhere near the railing in case one of those things made its way up—but he didn’t want her near Charon either. Not after the way he touched her. Paimon stood next to Rhea, guarding her with what little strength he could as his stomach rolled and heaved.
“Probably better if you hit the deck, too. You’re the only one using this passage who can’t seem to gather his balance, not to mention his gut. And we don’t need you falling in and joining our friends down there, do we?”
Paimon gave a halfhearted smile and sat down next to Rhea.
“Come now. No reason to be angry with me. Not yet, at least.”
“Why do you torture me, Charon?”
“I suppose it’s what I do. But I’m not the one you need to be worrying about here.” He looked at the girl. “What are you going to do with her?”
Paimon said nothing, and not because he was short on words, but because he didn’t know.
“I see. Playing it as you go, eh? Not what I would do, but that’s why you’re in this predicament instead of me.”
Charon stared into the water. Paimon often wondered what the man’s life was like down here, but he never asked. They were all possessed by their own demons. But just because Paimon still fought with his didn’t mean Charon did. Maybe he liked it. Maybe taking payment is what he felt the world owed him. Charting collectors back and forth to Hell seemed like a sad life, but his wasn’t much different. He damned souls in life, and claimed them in death. He took retribution, too.
Up ahead, the rocks cleared and the passage began to open up. The air thinned and Paimon gasped, inhaling gulps as if they were fresh cups of water. Torches adorned the walls, scattered with wide gaps between them, making some areas better lit than others. The stop-go routine of light and dark made the trip all the more frightful because it was impossible to know if you were alone.
One time, Paimon made it all the way back to his cell with a paralyzed cherub stuck to the small of his back. It was a tiny thing, half-crazed and starved, and it clung to his jacket with hooked claws. It wasn’t until he took the jacket off in his quarters that he noticed it there, wheezing and trying to die on his bedroom floor. Its wings had been clipped, and when it crawled on its back, the jagged bone that jutted out of its scapula scratched lines along the slate floor. It tried to speak, but nothing short of a whisper came out: “Jus-a-bell.” Just a bell? What did that mean? He bent down and picked it up, but by the time the guards came to take it away, the cherub was nothing but a pile of ash in his hands.
The words still haunted him.
“You all right back there?” Charon said, who was now nothing more than a tall silhouette.
“Yes. We’re fine thank you.”
“Shouldn’t be much longer now, but I have to say something to you before we get there. I’ve held my tongue long enough and I feel I owe it to you to speak my piece. I don’t much care for what you’re doing with this female, and the Devil won’t like it either.”
“It’s none of your concern, Charon.”
“Actually, it is. I know about your heart, Paimon. You have the same scared look on your face that I did when he took.”
The old man shoved the oar hard into the water, jamming it in between a pair of rocks that swallowed the tip without hesitation. The boat jerked to a stop and Charon walked toward Paimon, unbuttoning his shirt.
“You see? I know you have it, too.”
Charon pointed to where the Devil had ripped out his heart, a jagged scar now the only reminder.
Paimon traced the points with his eyes and felt a sickness spread through his stomach. It pained him to think that Lucifer had Charon’s heart, too. All these years, he thought the Devil had hand-picked his because he saw something in it that others were never able to see.
“I used to think I was special, too, but he has more,” Charon said. “It’s nothing but an insurance policy. Something to hold over you.”
“Why did he take yours?”
“I fell in love with payment. Didn’t want to collect for others anymore. I started staying out too late on missions, missed my quota a number of times. I stopped caring. Stopped fearing. I figured what’s the worst he could do to me? Send me to Hell?”
“And so he took your heart.”
Charon nodded.
“Disobedience comes with a price, and I was and am no exception to the rule.” Charon shook as he buttoned his shirt. “And collecting payment means nothing to me now that I can’t feel anything when I take it.”
Paimon went cold. “But he took mine immediately, the first time he laid eyes on me.”
“Now there’s an interesting turn of events,” said Charon. “I wonder what you did to immediately piss him off.”
“I don’t know,” Paimon said. “But I’ve always been loyal to him. My allegiance has never wavered. Not once.”
“Until now.” Charon got in Paimon’s face, the perfume of Rhea’s virginity still fresh on his breath. “I’m curious, how do you think the Devil will punish your heart? How’s he going to make you suffer
?”
Paimon looked at Rhea, who was still sleeping.
“Take my advice and get rid of her,” Charon said. “A beautiful woman like that will only bring you pain.”
Chapter 14
Charon pointed to the gates up ahead, and they too were made of bone. Some were blindingly white as if they had been scrubbed down and left to soak in bleach; others were a sickly, decayed yellow that filled the air with jaundice and disease. Bodies—both dead and alive— of the men and women who tried to access Hell on their own were intertwined throughout the bones, their torsos wrung out and wrinkled like damp laundry. The gate was Hell’s first line of combat, an ivory monster that ate away the flesh of intruders and picked out their eyes. Paimon watched as a man reached for the lock, and within seconds, the sinner’s limbs were torn off and he was skinned alive, eaten from the feet up. The gate consumed body and soul, recycled their bones to become stronger, thicker, more alive. And then when it finished, the gate grew. Paimon stood there, unable to avert his stare as the gate stretched tall into the earth and pierced the clay ceiling that dripped globs of mud like golf-ball sized hail. One plopped on his shoulder in a wet slap.
Welcome home.
Charon steered the boat closer to shore and motioned for Paimon to get off. “After you, collector.” The two of them walked through the shallow end of the lake—the once clear water now sprinkled with thin strips of red—and stepped onto the steaming ground that lead to the entranceway to Hell.
Charon reached in his pocket and pulled out a ring covered in keys of all shapes and sizes. He searched through them for a minute until he came upon a long, plain-looking silver key with two prongs at the end. He fingered the tip of it, wiping off a mixture of sweat and soul-stained water, and jimmied it into the lock. The gate growled when Charon touched it, and Paimon wondered how he didn’t get bit.
“What are the other ones for?”
“The other what?” Charon said.
“The other keys.”
Charon laughed. “You let me worry about that.”
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