“We just grab one? And take it to the boat?”
“Yes. Don’t be squeamish.”
Ken shook his head. Squeamish wasn’t the word. Sickened and appalled didn’t quite come close either. He stared at the closest bodies and picked the easiest one to grab. The white arms were outstretched and reaching toward him as if they were asking him to save them from drowning. The head hung back at an impossible angle, the mouth was wide open in the rictus of screaming death. Ken started digging around in his pockets.
“Is it any coin? Euros? Are we talking some kind of currency here?”
Lilith glared as if he was mad. “Just put a coin on the tongue, close the mouth and walk with it.”
Ken grumped as much as he dared. “I was only asking because I know some people hate Scottish pound notes. Can’t get rid of ‘em anywhere.”
Felicia tapped his shoulder. “Can I borrow a quarter?” She tapped her pockets. “Don’t have any money.”
Ken half-smiled. “I bet you wish you cared more about materialistic things now, huh?”
Ken rattled out some change, then tentatively reached up and dropped a silver quarter into the cavernous mouth. Then, with the stench of bodies and the constant, disembodied wailing surrounding them, the little group pulled their chosen corpses from the countless piles and hefted them across their shoulders. They trudged toward the lake.
Weighed down, disgusted, Ken felt more wretched than at any time in his life. This wasn’t heroism. Glory. This was nothing but utter torment. Each step caused the dead body to thump him, the dangling hands striking the backs of his thighs. By the time he’d cleared the rotting heaps he was totally freaked out.
He reached the beach. The great ship sat silent and motionless before him. The gangplank was already full of creatures, all carrying different forms of the dead. The procession onto the boat was made in silence, in despair. Ken halted, and wavered.
“I . . . I don’t think I can do this.”
Milo smirked and hefted his own body but said nothing. Eliza stared at him with pity. “It is not for you to decide. You do this for your people and their children. You are a soldier now and only you can help them.”
Felicia patted his arm. “I’m going,” she said. “Me. The girl that would rather die than be trapped. I love my liberty, the freedom of the run, but I am going through with this.”
Ken bit his lip. “Why?”
“Because I know that my friends back there,” she gave a nod of her head, meaning Miami and beyond, “are fighting and dying and struggling to help us. And I will not fail them.”
Ken felt a glow develop somewhere inside, a feeling unknown to him. “How do you know they’re not dead already?”
“In here,” Felicia touched her heart, “I know they fight on.”
“They sacrifice everything for other people?”
“That’s part of what being a soldier is, my friend. Being prepared to sacrifice all you hold dear to save another human being. A stranger. It is one of the great traits of the human character.”
Ken took firmer hold of the corpse’s waist. This was the hardest thing he had ever done. With a nod to Felicia, he stomped on. Down the black sand beach they walked, treading not on a soft shore but on pulverized cinders and ashes, accumulated over thousands of years into a hard, grizzle-edged shingle. The constant crunch of their feet was loud, even louder than their apprehensive breathing.
They arrived at the gangplank. Ken saw a single length of wood about twelve feet wide, jagged, splintered and creaking under the weight of eons. It reached from the beach to the front deck of the ship. He had his first sight of Charon, the ferryman, and his heart gave such a lurch that he almost balked again.
Charon stood at the head of the gangplank, staring down at the trudging passengers. The figure was impossibly tall, clad all over in chainmail and light garments of leather. A peaked helmet sat on his head, making him appear even taller. A mighty broadsword lay across his shoulders, supported by both arms. Whips, chains, scythes and other implements of pain hung from the chainmail. Even a chainsaw. The face that peered down was craggy and set with determination; bearded, dark-skinned and as grim as a million-year-old rock face that has stared at nothing but utter darkness for its entire existence.
Ken looked at his toes, counting the steps, studying the gangplank, keeping his corpse’s feet from swaying, but never, ever staring up into that dreadful countenance.
No one spoke as they approached. The gangplank flexed and wobbled. The eager waters whispered quietly below as if beseeching chance to throw them an offering. As they neared the mythical gatekeeper, Ken realized that the vampires had somehow managed to slip to the back of the group, clearly using the others to test the waters. Rather than annoying him this realization increased his courage, giving him an insight into how low and callous they were.
He saw a beast in front of him—a wreck with tentacles for a face and tree-limbs for arms but, crazily, wearing a pair of black Doc Martens—heave the body it carried onto a growing pile before bowing its head. Charon glanced the beast over, stared at the offering, and nodded. The beast passed through.
Then it was Ken’s turn. Fear twisted his guts, but he stepped up, right before Charon, the legendary, horrendous ferryman of hell.
Hanging his head, he dumped his corpse on the pile. The body slithered a little, head down, mouth open, the silver quarter gleaming in the half light. The arms slumped until they again reached out for him; the corpse came to rest in the same position he had found it in. Ken tried hard not to react.
Charon’s eyes were on him, boring through his skin, his bone, and into the very depths of his soul.
Then the ferryman spoke, and it was a deep voice, brimming with the promise of eternal hellfire. “It is not often a living human wishes to pass into the first circle of hell.”
Ken bit his lips to keep from screaming. The terrible voice conjured nightmares in his brain. Horrible visions of massacre, of the worst parts of human history, of the Holocaust and relentless battlefield death, of the slaughter of countless innocents in third-world genocide, of the bombing and tortures and beheadings in the name of someone’s religion.
An answer was required. Ken was attentive enough to know he shouldn’t lie. He said, “I have business there.”
True enough.
“Is it the business of war? Of suffering? Of rich, bloody carnage?”
Ken thought about the war looming on earth. Of the battle at Miami Beach. “It is.”
“Then pass through.” Charon inclined his head.
Ken sensed rather than saw the movement, and moved past, his flesh crawling. Beyond the great figure he slowed, not wishing to lose the group and wanting to be on hand in case anything went wrong.
Lilith was next. “I know you,” Charon said. “You return of your own free will?”
Ken wondered if they would ever discover the identity of the young girl, and what might happen if they did.
“I do. For now.”
“Then pass through.”
Felicia was up next. The instant she stepped up to Charon, Ken saw the ferryman’s shoulders flex and the sword shift. Muscles tensed.
“A lycan?” Charon rumbled. “It is strange that a lycan would risk the captivity that exists beyond these waters.”
“My business is with two demons. Unfortunately, they have fled here.”
“A human and now a lycan,” Charon ruminated. “Still, it is unlikely that you would risk this. The rarest creature that sails on this boat is a lycan.”
“I am the rarest of the rare, then,” Felicia said.
“You have no idea,” Charon said, “what prisons, manacles and cages await you in the first circle. Of the torments and horrors that will be bestowed upon you. For that reason alone—” he inclined his head. “you may pass through.”
Ken breathed a sigh of relief, then froze when he saw Felicia’s face. The bubbly lycan looked terrified; lost, regretting every step and decision she’d made on this
perilous journey. When she came closer to Ken she whispered, “He let me in to experience enslavement. To find out just how bad it can be. That’s . . . that’s . . .”
Ken smiled grimly. “Demonic?”
“The ways of the Devil,” Lilith said, “are not always direct. They are wily, manipulative, unforeseen. He will strike out at you from unanticipated angles and when you least expect him to.”
Felicia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I really don’t like this.”
Ken put an arm around her shoulders. “Join the club, love. Join the club. Oh, hello, here come the real monsters. Through without a hitch.”
Eliza and Milo stared at them as if nothing had happened. “We made it. All of us,” Eliza said, unnecessarily.
Ken nodded. The great ship creaked and swayed slightly, the wails of tortured souls even louder out here, echoing across the great silvery vault of the sky. He saw the last of the creatures walking along the gangplank and knew they would soon set sail.
“I guess we huddle down,” he said. “And . . . survive the ride.”
Felicia, surprisingly, hugged him close. “Let’s stay together.”
Lilith moved to his other side. There was a time, not so long ago, when the prospect of a girl on each arm might have led to a macho joke or two, a puff of pride, but today he knew he had learned new values. He knew that something deeper already existed between Felicia and himself, and that Lilith was a victim and a friend. His heart and mind had grown and found a new plateau of emotions, one he didn’t want to let go. One he wished he’d ascended to many years ago.
But he was still alive. And his friends were still with him. The fight wasn’t lost yet.
Moments later, the outrageous ship shifted slightly and began to float. Its prow swung around, aiming for the first circle of hell.
Ken gripped his friends tighter.
TWENTY ONE
An awful lot had happened since we stole our artefact from the demon, Astaroth, and returned to the Aegis safe house. We’d been interrupted in our musings by the supermodel, Leah Aldridge, who’d been summoned to the place for no reason that she was clearly aware of.
“I had a feeling,” she’d said, “that I should come here. You shoulda seen my face when I tapped out the code on the entry keypad.” She’d frowned. “Weirdest thing I ever did.”
I doubted that.
Anyway, once the model was there, in front of us, Giles and Cheyne quickly reached a decision to give her full disclosure. They told her about Kinkade, about where he was and all that he’d done for the world. They told her about his request—that she was his reward.
And then they waited.
If it had been a Hollywood actor or actress, I thought, apart from Tom Cruise of course since that guy seemed to be up for absolutely anything, they would have thrown a tantrum, threatened to sue, stomped out of there and inadvertently gotten themselves killed. If it had been a Premiership soccer player—same result. If it had been a chairman of one of the energy companies, they’d have been wondering how poor old Kinkade managed to share their body with so many other demons.
But a Victoria’s Secret supermodel?
She shrugged, grinned and cricked her neck a couple of times. She said, “Really?” And she took it all in her stride.
“And now you want my help again? Or his help, I presume?”
I had a healthy respect for models, female and male. I had met Kate Moss. I’d watched documentaries that stripped away the glamour and showcased the real person beneath the glitz. I knew the persona they threw around the catwalk was nothing more than that. The real person beneath was often as everyday as you or me.
As Giles talked to Leah, Cheyne contacted the Library of Aegis to check on their progress. Since our little assignation had already been interrupted, Belinda and I decided not to tempt fate and waited around to hear the news.
Nathan, the human computer geek; Taryn, the first-turned and much-admired product of Ceriden; and Kage, the escaped demon we were harboring, were all on hand to talk. Through video conference we managed to match faces to names and get a conversation going.
Taryn, quick to think and even quicker to reach a clever conclusion, seemed to be the library’s chief investigator. It was she who’d realized that the hierarchy demons had originally been real people, and that the artefacts were objects that once belonged to them. Not only that, the objects had been dear to them, which explained why they were drawn to them now. The artefacts held a special power, happy memories of a happier time, and the demons couldn’t help but search for them now that their power had been activated. Taryn conjectured that once these artefacts were collected together and destroyed in a special ceremony then the power unleashed would enable Emily Crowe, the hierarchy demons, and whomever else joined their wicked crew to open the seven hellgates.
Cheyne agreed and sent a heads-up to the other teams. I received an update from Lucy’s team that they’d confronted and lost the demon Abaddon in Vienna, and that all was well. My mind settled, my heart did not.
The Text of Seven had been examined and explored without relent, until Taryn decided there wasn’t that much to glean from the damn thing. Yes, there were some questions unanswered. But it was just one prophecy among countless others. This one had come true, but had the original scribbler known it would? Taryn doubted it.
She thought the biggest clue—'the lowliest place on earth’—might offer us a pointer toward where the ceremony would take place.
“But it could be anywhere,” Cheyne said. “Any place the Devil visits is the lowliest place on earth for the span of time that he is there. That’s how an old prophet would see it.”
I wandered over to the window. The vista outside was as much a tease as it was a panorama, offering a view on the fronts of buildings, a snatch of the famous pink-colored hotel and quick glimpses of the Pacific through gaps between buildings. The beauty of Honolulu was there, but seemingly out of reach.
As the night wore on, we started to flag. It had been a long day. Without anything else to go on, the decision was made to return to Florida. The other team—Lucy’s team—would soon do the same.
I went to bed, a man hopeful that he would be reunited with his daughter soon, and utterly relieved that nothing bad had happened to either of us during our separation.
TWENTY TWO
On the flight back to Florida I mentioned the mysterious help I appeared to have received during the battle with Astaroth. I’d temporarily forgotten about it whilst worrying about Lucy and the supermodel, Leah Aldridge, but when things calmed, I couldn’t help but reflect on what might have happened.
“Could it . . . could it be Johnny?” I asked Giles and Cheyne. “Helping from . . .” I stopped short.
“From beyond?” Cheyne chortled a little, her crooked nose waving like one of those bendy rulers that measure around corners. “This isn’t a TV show, Logan. It’s is a real-life horror story. Once you die you don’t come back. And you don’t help from beyond the grave.”
I frowned, unsure. Giles studied me. “It is odd. If Lucy were here, or perhaps Lysette I would say that either of those two might be able to enhance and augment your power a little because it’s ‘of the mind’, and they have similar powers themselves. Jade will be able to explain it better, when she returns. But both Belinda and Tanya are warriors; their power is in their hands and bodies. I can’t see how anyone could have possibly helped you.”
“When one Chosen dies,” I wondered. “is another made?”
Cheyne stared. “I wish I knew. But I’ve seen no sign of another healer since Devon Summers died at Miami Beach. And Matt Black was the first of the Chosen to die in the Hollywood Hills remember? We don’t even know what his power would have been.”
“But it is possible?” I pressed.
Cheyne huffed. “Anything’s possible these days.” She turned away, glaring out the window, most likely upset because she didn’t have control of the situation. She and her brethren had overlooked the co
ming of the hierarchy, missing it and being misled by the summoning of Gorgoth, and could no longer claim to be infallible.
Natalie Trevochet was seated behind us. “I think Logan’s right.”
I felt a look of surprise stretch across my face. Ever since the Destroyer, Ashka, had tried to kill her our relationship had been a little icy. “You do? Which . . . which part?”
“All of it, I guess. But especially the part about when one Chosen dies another is made.”
Cheyne now looked around, interested. “Why?”
“It just makes sense. The Chosen have been prophesized for centuries, yes? Whenever Gorgoth chose to appear. Well, the Chosen are human, and humans die every day. Many through accidents. Crossing the road. Flying to see relatives. On their way to work. Driving home. How else could the original prophecy-makers be certain the Chosen would always be on hand?”
Giles nodded. Cheyne frowned, the expression twisting that nose into a twiglet. “I agree, it’s sound thinking. But you forget one thing. Once the Chosen are . . . activated, shall we say . . . we believed that no more would come.”
“Maybe you are wrong.”
“Then show me some proof.”
Natalie went quiet. I understood how alone, how out of her depth, she must feel. Johnny had been the chosen one, not her. Natalie had been along to help him, to guide him. Now, why was she still here? Sympathy? Guilt? Because she’d gone unnoticed in the constant skirmishes and relocations?
I didn’t want to feel sorry for Natalie Trevochet, for the simple fact that I knew she wouldn’t want me to, but my heart went out to her anyway.
I said, “Don’t worry about it. We’re right, they’re wrong.”
Natalie shrugged. “Show me a man in charge and I’ll show you a man that needs help. Problem is, most of them either don’t know it or won’t accept it.”
I smiled. “Amen.”
“The big question now,” Giles said, including us all with a sweep of his head, “is where is the seventh artefact? And why haven’t the demons sought it out yet? The seventh and last artefact seems to be the big one. We have two. They have four. But so far no one has sought the seventh.”
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