Double-Barreled Devilry

by D Michael Bartsch

  I'd stuffed my jacket behind my lower back to try and help. All I wanted was to find some place to lie down. I didn't have a choice, though. It was over, and I wasn't about to go back.

  I-80 was a haze of blurred darkness. I didn't know if that was the headlights on the other side of the road playing tricks on my eyes or a concussion. Probably both with my luck.

  I had to keep going. There wasn't any time to look back, to think about what was going to happen back at home. Carl was getting picked up, probably at that very moment.

  They would interrogate him, get everything he knew, and then erase his memory. Who knows what else they'd end up deleting forever in the process to get rid of the Ogre and myself. Thinking about it wasn't going to help.

  I could have brought him with me. I don't know what I would have done with him. I couldn't offer him any life. All I could offer to do is drop him somewhere along the way. That wouldn't take away what he'd seen. People rarely recover from having their universe shattered like that.

  Carl had just learned that not only was the Hell he believed in completely real, but it was a lot closer than he'd thought. It had reached out and touched him, and the person he spent all that time praying too was nowhere to be found.

  What good was being God if no one follows your rules except for you? What good does that do your children?

  Carl would be better off without the memories of me. He probably would have been better off if I'd let the Ogre smash him to jelly.

  I pushed the gas pedal down and felt the Stang's engine roar. It may not be the coolest car on the block, but she still had some power left in her.

  I tried to get my mind off Carl. It drifted to Balthazar. Best-case scenario, he was dead. Sartre didn’t seem overly interested in keeping alive longer than necessary.

  If he wasn’t dead, he would put a hit on me when he found out I'd skipped town. You don't walk away from Balthazar Reznik, not when you owe him money. Of course, my apartment had been completely destroyed. There was an off chance that people would just assume the Ogre had killed me. I doubted I'd get that lucky, though.

  Prufrock was the biggest problem. If the Venatori didn't find out what they needed from Carl, Prufrock would supply the rest. Once they saw the picture, there wouldn't be a shadow of doubt as to who it was. They would hunt me to the ends of the Earth. I was more than just one of the Unforgiven. My betrayal was even more unforgivable than most. I'd been one of them once, and my existence was a mark against their holy honor. People take that shit personally.

  I thought back to the summoning circle in the warehouse. The bigger circle would have had enough juice to pull up the Ogre, but the Ghouls had come out of it. Also, where had the Ravagers come from? The smaller circle had been used to talk to something on the other side, not pull something through. The circle didn't look like it had been used more than once, twice at the very most.

  Sartre must have known about Balthazar's little prison for hellish creatures. The Ogre would have been enough to big-bad-wolf the walls down if they weren't ready for it.

  Ajax had said rifts had been showing up more and more over the past few years. He'd lived in the Bay his entire life, and before then he'd only read about them, never seen one.

  Now, it seemed like he was running into them all over the place. There had been a lot of news reports the last few years about animal attacks that I had suspected were the work of Hellions. Andrej and his team had been working overtime to try and capture them.

  Still, the more I thought of it, the more questions I had. Balthazar had been using the Eye to track down Hellions, but what did Sartre want with it? What good was the Eye to him? He was a thief, and it would certainly make stealing things a hell of a lot easier.

  He'd done more than just steal it though. He already had Balthazar when he sent the Ogre after me. That meant that the Eye wasn't the end goal. It was just a tool meant to help get the real prize. He was worried that I could still screw something up. What could a three-hundred-year-old soulless thief want more than the ability to see the future?

  I remembered something he'd said while talking to Balthazar.

  There are things money cannot buy. Some things must be paid for in blood.

  I stomped the brakes. The Stang screamed as they locked up, smoke and the smell of burnt rubber filled the air. Several cars behind me let loose on their horns, braking, trying to get around me. I didn't care, though. I'd come to a dead stop in the middle of the highway.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said.

  My heart was racing. It was him. Three hundred years old and he'd said the same thing I'd heard in the tunnels below Paris. Sartre was the one who'd cursed Elena. He was the reason I'd been forced to sell my soul to save her. It was all because of him.

  I dug into my pocket for my phone. I found Prufrock's number in my call history and dialed. The same woman from before answered.

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “I can take a message.”

  “Now!”

  Silence.

  “I'll transfer you right away.”

  “You're damn right you will!”

  I heard the click as the other line picked up.

  “Mr. Cain. What is it that you want now?”

  “Did you know?” I asked.

  “I'm afraid I'll need more than that.”

  I cut him off before he could keep going.

  “Cut the shit you smarmy bastard. Did you know that Sartre was the man who killed my wife?”

  Silence.

  “Did you know?” I growled.

  “I suspected. He was known to have been looking for the Eye of Morai around the time of your incident.”

  “Incident!”

  I shouted. I slammed my hands on the steering wheel and screamed.

  “Calm down, Mr. Cain.”

  “Shove it! He has it. Sartre has the Eye.”

  “How?”

  “He took it from Balthazar. That's why he was in town. That's why he killed Glyph. It's all been about the Eye.”

  “Only in part. From what I understand, he believes he can use the Eye to do the impossible.”

  “And what would that be?” I asked.

  “He wants the same thing anyone who can have anything with the exception of one thing would want.”

  “His soul,” I said.

  “Exactly. It's human nature to want what you cannot have.”

  “Does Mephisto still have Sartre's soul?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  “There have been rumors of something stolen from Mephisto's personal vault. I cannot say for certain what or if anything is actually missing. He has not publicly acknowledged the incident.”

  “Yea, but someone's got to know.”

  “There have been rumors that Moloch was behind the theft. He's mobilized his army. He and his personal guard have been locked away in his palace at Pandemonium, but it's expected that he is on the brink of war. It's suspected that he is preparing for Mephisto's retribution.”

  The name was enough to send a chill down my spine. Suddenly everything made perfect sense.

  “That son of a bitch. That's why he said that I broke our agreement by moving against his interests.” I said. “The Eye, the rifts, Moloch mobilizing his army. He isn't planning on attacking any of the Demon Lords. He's planning on attacking Earth. Sartre is going to use the Eye to find a rift and use it to summon Moloch out of Hell. He wants his soul back, and I bet you anything that Moloch has it now.”

  There was no answer.

  “Prufrock.”

  “The missing homeless,” He said.

  “What?”

  “There have been reports from several shelters around the area that dozens of homeless men have disappeared.”

  “He can use the Eye to find where a rift is going to be. With an existing break in the barrier he could open a portal that would allow Moloch to enter this world in physical form and bring his army with him.”

  “It could b
e enough. It would require an unprecedented amount of sacrifice and an exceptionally large circle. I'll need to make a call. Hold.”

  With that, there was a click, and I was left alone with the sound of the Stang's idling engine and whirring horns as cars roared by on the freeway at high speed. I had waited for five minutes before the line clicked back over. It wasn't a long time, but I decided something while I was sitting there in the near silence.

  Whatever happened, I was going to find Sartre, and I was going to murder the living shit out of him.

  “It would appear that Sartre's soul fragment is indeed missing.”

  “Mephisto told you?” I asked.

  “Someone told me,” He said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Someone I trust. That is all you need to know.”

  “Sartre wants his soul back. Moloch took it from Mephisto and promised Sartre to return it to him once he's free. Moloch and Mephisto hate each other. It wouldn't be out of character for either one of them.”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “Fifty miles from the city. I'm out of here.”

  “That would be an unwise course of action.”

  Of course, he'd say that.

  “Why's that?”

  “You are needed. If you do not turn back now, Moloch may enter this world.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “There was a time that you would have been the first to volunteer to fight the Lord of Hate.”

  “Yea, well I'm not that guy anymore. I'm done with the whole lot of you. Venatori, Demons, you're all on your own.”

  “And what of Mr. Rodriguez?”

  “Carl? What about him? The Venatori have him. They'll question him and let him go. He doesn't know anything. They're already in the city anyway. You can have them stop Moloch. They love that heroic shit.”

  “Mr. Rodriguez is not with the Venatori.”

  “What?”

  I had a sinking feeling of where this was going.

  “My people have him in their possession. I couldn't risk the Venatori learning of your existence. That would cause a flood of activity into the area. There are plans in place that would be hindered a great deal by an increased presence of Hunters.”

  “You son of a bitch! The increased presence would stop Moloch from coming here!”

  “You need to come back, Mr. Cain. If you refuse, Mr. Rodriguez will suffer the consequences of your broken contract.”

  Dammit. That could give Mephisto claim on his life. He would try and take his soul, but Carl was an honest Holy Man. Generally, they tend to end up in Heaven regardless of the circumstances of their death. His soul wasn't in any real danger, but his life was. He'd be tortured, dying slowly.

  “Mr. Cain?”

  “Shut up. I'm thinking.”

  I could still make a break for it. A rift large enough to pull a Demon Lord out of Hell would certainly show up on the Venatori's radar. No one was good enough to prevent them from feeling that big of a break between dimensions. They'd send an initial strike force within hours.

  By then, Moloch would have destroyed most of the city. He'd spread out from there, but the Venatori would summon the Angelic Council. Direct intervention by one of the Lords would be enough to allow the Council to act in force. They'd release the Cherubim and Seraphim. If the Archangels themselves joined, the whole thing would be over in a manner of days.

  Of course, that was assuming that Moloch was working alone. If more of the Lords of Hell were involved it could mean full scale war.

  I made up my mind.

  “I'm turning around.”

  “To do what Mr. Cain?”

  “To kill the son of a bitch that started all of this, and when I'm done, I'm coming for you.”

  I hung up and flipped the Stang around at a break in the k-rail.

  It was time to stop running.

  15

  I called Ajax next. I couldn't find Sartre on my own, but I could still have Ajax make a tracker. Luckily, Balthazar was almost as paranoid as I was. He would have hair and blood samples from himself and Talia hidden away. With part of Talia’s soul inside him, I’d be able find my way straight to Sartre.

  Ajax gave me an address of where to meet him and Andrej.

  I drove in silence, leaving the radio off. My thoughts were a mess of regret for turning around and fear of what I was about to do. I didn't want to end up in the Void again, never again. I didn’t want to get killed either.

  I’d spent a hundred and fifty years in the Void, floating around in the abyss of nothingness. You don't have a body in the Void. Your consciousness simply exists there. Purgatory isn't really even a place. It's the thing that holds it all together, cosmic glue for Heaven, Earth, and Hell. It's all of it and none of it, and it's worse than Hell, least from what I've seen of the place.

  If I didn't end up dead, the Venatori would lock me up, ship me back to the old country, and have the Angelic Council open up the rift to send me back to Purgatory in less than forty-eight hours. They hadn't killed me before, and unless Azrael changed his mind, they wouldn't kill me this time either.

  I wouldn't go back. If they showed up, I'd eat my gun before I'd let them take me back there. Eternity in Hell had to be better than the nothingness; at least people talk to you there. Besides, if I could kill Sartre and know that I murdered the bastard who killed Elena, I could die happy. Happy-ish anyway.

  The address Ajax gave was for a massive downtown building. Banks, investment firms, and law offices occupied the floors. The lawyers were the ones that I was interested in.

  The building was unlocked, and I walked in the massive entryway. The marbled floor looked freshly waxed. There was a cafe a wealth of leather. The elevators sat on the far side of the entrance.

  A three-foot tall brass plate was engraved on the wall and listed out the different offices in the building. The law offices of Bernstein and Dumanovsky were on the eighteenth floor.

  Heading to the elevators, I saw two men in security uniforms, not the rent-a-cop uniforms you'd expect. Both of them were in all black, combat boots and tac-vests standing out. They were strapped with spare magazines, knives, and even a few grenades.

  They both had MP5's slung across the front of them. The weapons were held securely, not pointed at me, but trigger fingers were poised and ready.

  They didn't make any move to stop me as I climbed a small set of stairs to the elevators. In fact, they hardly spared me a second look, not an obvious one anyway. I could only assume they were expecting me. Otherwise, I think they would have had questions for the guy covered in dried Hellion blood and a loaded weapon bulging on the inside of his jacket pocket.

  I rode the elevator up and exited on the eighteenth floor. The law firm had the whole thing to themselves. Two more cronies in black with sub guns were outside the elevator doors. This time, a man wearing a navy suit and a smile joined them.

  I walked out of the elevator. I could see him looking me up and down, the smile faltering for a brief moment. Can't say I blame him. I looked and smelled like Hell.

  “Deckland Cain?” He asked.

  “Nice try.” I said. “I'm not getting served tonight.”

  That got me a genuine smile, more of a smirk really.

  “Follow me, please.”

  We left the two guards behind and walked down a hallway. The floor was black and white marble. It was buffed and gleaming in the low lighting. The walls were covered in expensive looking artwork, large tapestries depicting different Bay Area landmarks.

  Opening a door halfway down the hall, he brought me into a small conference room. Ajax and Andrej were already sitting at the table with two more suits. These suits were older; salt starting to blend in with the pepper of finely cut quaffs. They regarded me as I entered the room. I'm sure they were wondering how I got invited to the party. They probably didn't want me to sit in their nice office chairs.

  I took a seat at the head of the table and propped my feet up. I should have waited to
be addressed, used Balthazar's method of room control, but I didn't feel like it.

  “Nice place. Too many shysters, though, if you ask me.”

  Ajax smiled. So did one of the lawyers. His silver suit looked good next to his dark tan. You usually paid for tans like that if you lived in San Francisco, and it looked like he'd earned his with a view of the sun. The Bay was far too foggy this time of year to get a tan like that locally.

  “Mr. Cain.”

  It was the third man who spoke. His suit was classic black. Slim cut, the jacket hugged slender shoulders. His frame was long even sitting down. If I didn't smell like a sulfurous filth pit, I knew I would have been able to smell his cologne on the air, the rich, expensive kind. He just had the look. He reminded me of a less impressive Prufrock.

  “We need you to give us some money.”

  That made me laugh. It was a single bark of unexpected laughter. It hurt my body, and I quickly regretted it.

  “A shakedown. Is this because of the shyster comment?” I asked.

  The man who’d walked me in spoke as he sat next to his lawyer buddies.

  “He means to pay for our services. If we are not your official legal council, we can be called to testify against you.”

  I looked at all of the lawyers and then back at Andrej. They weren't kidding.

  “Andrej, give me some money.”

  “Give them your own money.”

  “You want to find this bastard or not?” I asked.

  Muttering in Serbian, Andrej dug out a twenty and tossed it to me.

  I pulled out my wallet, swapped the twenty for a one, and handed Mr. Washington over to the suit closest to me. Andrej shot me a disgusted look. I gave him the finger and smiled.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cain. We can invoice you for the rest.”

  “You can sure try. Now,” I turned back to Andrej. “Are we going to do this or what?”

  Andrej nodded.

  “Good. Where's the hair?” I asked.

  “Not here.” He said.

  “Well let’s go get it then. If we can get Talia’s hair we can find the bastard that killed her.”