The Lucifer Messiah

by Frank Cavallo

  “But why?”

  “Because the Morrigan believed that a rival trickster had come to claim her throne, and that we had been complicit in the attempt,” Scylla answered.

  “Lucifer was too quick, however. He escaped both the Morrigan and the palace itself. No one saw him again for several years, until I found him, wandering lost in Prague,” Argus said.

  “Ultimately, the Morrigan realized what had happened. We were absolved of any suspicion, but her anger did not abate. She still blamed us for not protecting her,” Scylla noted.

  “As our punishment, we were stripped of our status, banished from her side and sent away. Each of us was forbidden to have any contact with the other, until Lucifer was slain,” Charybdis said.

  “Until our failure was rectified,” Scylla concluded, finishing her lover’s thought.

  “That is how Charybdis came into my service, in fact,” Argus said. “For I have long sought to cultivate relations with those who are disgruntled with the Morrigan’s reign. It was as my aide that Charybdis came to know Lucifer, and to befriend him.”

  “All in an effort to kill him, at first,” the pale woman considered, nodding. “But I waited, bided my time. Tricksters are resilient creatures, you see, very difficult to kill. In truth, they’re almost invincible if they know you’re coming. I needed to find just the right combination of circumstances.”

  “But she went soft on him instead,” Scylla joked.

  “Under Argus’s tutelage I grew to know him, and I grew to like him,” Charybdis smiled. “He was a wounded soul, very much like I was then. He too loved another that he could not be with. But he did not stay long, and even as I came to understand him, and his desire to be free from all of this, he left our Haven. And vanished for over twenty years.”

  “When he came to our attention again, with the killings in Venice, and the trail he left that led back here, I knew that our chance had come. Together I had hoped that we might end the rule of the Morrigan, and free all of our kind,” Argus said.

  “But we have now failed in that endeavor as well. And soon we will pay the final price,” Scylla said.

  FORTY-THREE

  THE WAREHOUSE WAS COMPLETELY SEALED OFF FROM the outside world. They had been chained up for hours, long enough for their weariness to overwhelm their fear.

  A bath of crimson light washed over them like the hand of death, but only for an instant. Each of the five prisoners looked up to see the lovely, horrible sight of the Morrigan.

  “The time for feasting has arrived,” the Keeper said.

  A small horde had gathered before the face of the throne platform. They were clambering, alternating between shouting and humming in some peculiar pattern. Bodies pressed tightly against one another, strange flesh meeting scales, and fur, and naked skin.

  They cheered when the Maenads led Vince and Maggie to the side of the throne, and they howled when Argus was led there from the pit. But the crush of revelers cried the loudest when Scylla and Charybdis emerged from the shelter, and marched up to the top of the platform inches ahead of pointed Maenad blades.

  Their cries then became something other than fervor or cheer. In sight of the two who had once been the Morrigan’s aides, their voices fell into a rumble that was utterly different in its tone.

  It almost sounded like hunger.

  “And the last, the one who has made this night’s wonderful harvest possible,” the Morrigan shouted. “Bring her forth, that the blood of the traitors may slake the thirst of the loyal.”

  From someplace below the throne, though it wasn’t exactly clear where, two more white-hooded, faceless Maenads ascended. Between them, braced limply in their arms, there rested the strangest creature of all. Long, spindly limbs branched off from a hairy, rounded torso, four or five of them, at least.

  It didn’t look like much of anything in fact, until the Maenads set it down before the Keeper, and its proper shape became clear. It was a giant spider, with a body that lay parallel to the floor, though clearly missing several of its eight legs. A human head looked up from the front of it.

  It was Arachne. Though her blond hair was gone, and her skull was half-merged with her stunted neck, the features of her face had hardly changed. But she was now bloodied and cut, her eyes swollen and her mouth dripping red.

  “Argus, I believe you are acquainted with tonight’s first guest,” the Morrigan said, waving her followers forward again.

  The two who had brought Arachne up pulled down on a series of rusted chains suspended from the rafters, holdovers from the previous life of the warehouse. There were clamps attached to the ends of three out of the four links, and they duly fettered them to three of Arachne’s remaining legs.

  “This one has been very helpful. She did require some coercion, of course,” the Morrigan began. “But once I had severed a few limbs and, I think, had an eye plucked out, she really became quite talkative.”

  Argus sneered, though his androgynous features were rendered somewhat comical when expressing anger.

  “You are to be credited, old friend, now that I remember to mention it. She is very strong, an excellent choice for a bodyguard. If only she had come under my supervision earlier, she might have served me. Instead, she chose to follow you. Now she suffers the price of disobedience.”

  The Maenads stepped back, and took up a place at the edge of the platform. The other ends of the chains were secured there, slung like pulleys over the pipes and rafters. Slowly, they unfastened them from their locks, and they increased the slack.

  The Morrigan, now behind Arachne, pushed her like a child on a swing. Dangling, she swung helplessly over the waiting crowd. Claws and hands and other things reached up to touch her, to grab her, but her momentum carried her back over the throne dais unscathed.

  As a Maenad handed the Morrigan a great book, the text of ancient lore that she alone was master of, she cued her musical players. Quickly, the tunes of the orchestra drove the revelers into frenzy. Many shed what little clothing they still wore, revealing their forms, both hideous and magnificent. Churned like a storm tide, roused by the ancient song of Dionysus, they formed a mob of fury.

  Again the Morrigan pushed her captive charge, harder this time. When Arachne flew out over the howling masses, the Maenads increased the slack once more. She dropped ever farther, twisted by the uneven length of the chains, dangling within reach of some of the largest of the weird revelers.

  She screamed. The chains dug into her flesh and tore her limbs from their sockets.

  The crowd loved it.

  Her return swing only brought her to the edge of the platform, sobbing and squealing for mercy. The Morrigan, the very old leather-bound volume in her hands, merely kicked her off the dais, and for a third time, the chains carried her careening out over the assembled.

  This time, the Maenads ended their torture, and released the chains fully. The clatter of the clanking metal was quickly drowned out by the rush of screams when Arachne’s body fell into the sea of adherents.

  She vanished beneath the living waves.

  Their ardor reached a fever pitch. A geyser spray of blood and flesh-shards sprang forth.

  The Morrigan smiled.

  “She revealed it all, Argus. Your plotting. Your scheming. She betrayed you,” the Keeper declared.

  The great tome in her grasp was now opened, exposing dusty, crinkled parchment. Upon the pages, complex script was scrawled in the classical Greek alphabet.

  The Morrigan read. Her melodious voice rang out over every other noise; the screams, the music and the sounds of tearing flesh. The words were incomprehensible to most, only Argus of all those gathered on the dais understood. He recognized them as the writings of Nestor, preserved in their original tongue. The Morrigan was reading the full text of the prophecy.

  “He does not wish to replace you, Morrigan,” Argus shouted. “He doesn’t even believe in the prophecy.”

  The dark goddess seemed to hear the ancient changeling. She turned from
the sight of the blood-feast to address Argus.

  “Then we have at least that much in common, don’t we?” he answered. “I’d like to say the same for myself. But as you advised me wise one, the best way to ensure that the prophecy is false is to prove that Nestor was mistaken. And to do that, I must prove that Sean Mulcahy is not Lucifer.”

  “But Sean wants no part of us, of this. I assure you, he poses no threat to your reign,” Argus continued.

  The screaming faded, and the gathered slowly stilled. Many turned their faces upward, blood-soaked and crazed. They sought the next words from the Keeper.

  “Mulcahy! I know you can hear me. I know you’re among us still. I know you’re listening,” the Morrigan proclaimed.

  “What if he’s already gone, Morrigan? All that Sean has ever wanted was to be free from our world. Now that he has that chance, I see no reason why he wouldn’t take it.”

  “No reason? I can think of at least one,” the Morrigan replied, her gaze shifted from the ancient one to Vince and Maggie. “I can think of two, in fact.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  THE GROTESQUE ORCHESTRA CONTINUED TO PLAY. Slowly, the Maenads drew the chains back up from the crowd. Blood lubricated the rust, dripping from the iron. Jagged fragments of skin and bone clung to the wet links.

  All other traces of Arachne were gone.

  The Morrigan had her servants bring the fetter-ended chains over to where she stood. Then she called forth the next victims for her cannibalistic feast.

  “My two disgraced servants, together before me once more,” the Morrigan said, turning to Scylla and Charybdis. “I had hoped you both bent upon repentance here. But I know that your actions were little more than a ruse.”

  “Somehow, I suspect you wanted to believe it,” Scylla replied.

  The suggestion elicited a slight smile from the Keeper. She nodded with grim satisfaction as she considered the thought.

  “Wanted to believe? Yes, perhaps so. Perhaps that is why I feel so very disappointed in you both now,” the Morrigan answered.

  “All that I will say is that I love Charybdis. Everything that I have done was to that end,” Scylla said, her teeth clenched and her lips held fast.

  “And I love Scylla. What was done here was for no less of a cause. However our betrayal has made you feel, you can rest assured that we have suffered more in these past decades than you can ever understand.”

  The Morrigan sighed, again seeming to ponder the sentiments for a long moment. But when she raised her gleaming red eyes to bear a moment later, there was not a hint of congeniality in her gaze. Only malice resided in her stare.

  “Suffer? My children, I have not yet even begun to make you suffer.”

  She winced as the Keeper lifted her hand so that her cloak fell away. Instead of fingers, a single, translucent hook pointed toward her.

  The Maenads swept in from behind her, leaving Scylla chained to the stone blocks at her feet. Charybdis twisted her head as she was hauled forward. One last time she mouthed the three simple words she had been kept from saying for thirty years.

  Scylla nodded, a tear on her golden cheek.

  “I love you too,” she said.

  Charybdis kept her expression harsh. She stared into the glittering, burning eyes of the Morrigan. The Keeper frowned. She looked genuinely regretful, right up to the moment when she impaled the changeling who had once been her most loyal.

  The Morrigan dug into her flesh with her self-made hooks. Once in each shoulder she drove her poniard-hand deep through skin and muscle, ripping joints and slicing flesh like carrion.

  Charybdis did not even whimper.

  The Maenads carried forth the orange-brown links again. Instead of the clamps that had held Arachne’s limbs, ice tongs were now fastened to their ends.

  Scylla gasped, held at her distance by the blades of the white-cloaks and the chains on her six wrists. She strained against the metal, tearing red swatches into her skin. And though Charybdis remained stoic, the agony of her ordeal played out across her lover’s face as though it were her own.

  With uncommon gentleness, the Morrigan herself set the pincers in place, buried deep in the torn muscle and sinew of Charybdis’s torso. Still, she kept her gaze fixed directly on her. She would not permit the Morrigan the pleasure of a single cry.

  The Morrigan stepped back, and she waved for the Maenads to take hold. They pulled on the chains at their base. Soon Charybdis was hauled into the air above the dais, a living effigy for the maddened, blood-starving crowd.

  The Morrigan turned her attention to the carnivorous masses, moaning in anticipation of the salty-rich flavor of not-quite-human meat. They could smell her as she dangled just beyond reach. Her pheromones and her dripping innards drove them into ecstasy.

  “The price of defiance,” the war queen said.

  The crowd roared.

  With a shove, she thrust the hanging body of Charybdis away from the throne platform. This time, however, the throng did not have to wait for their feast. When her gibbeted form swung out fully across the gathered, the Morrigan waved to her Maenads.

  They released the chains.

  Charybdis tumbled into the crowd. She was promptly swallowed up by their rush of savage longing.

  Strange music echoed through the chamber, screams of pain and cries of hunger mixed with sounds of pure, inhuman delight. The center of the masses, where Charybdis had fallen, surged upward like a wolf pack in the madness of a feeding. Blood sprayed in every direction, pieces of arms, legs, and other, less-identifiable chunks of flesh went flying.

  But again, the horror did not last long. Soon the horde quieted once more. The deed was done. Their prey was torn limb from limb. Their peculiar taste was quenched.

  The Morrigan nodded. She turned for the next offering to the bacchanalian death-rite.

  But there were gasps. Screams followed by shouts from within the throng. The horde sprang to life again. Carnage erupted once more as though set in motion from the start. A second time the supplicants to the throne of shadows swelled in a rage of cannibal lust. Another round of shrieking followed, another flurry of raw meat and savagery set to delicate orchestral tunes.

  And a second time, the deed was done. The horde settled again.

  The Morrigan gave it no more thought. She looked away from her flock one more time. But her attention was drawn back only a moment later. Once again, a disturbance rippled through the mob. Its source remained unseen, though clearly situated within the crowd. Something was still brimming beneath.

  The adherents pounced for a third brutal course, continuing their Dionysian savagery. But this time, some of the wild masses backed away, shaking their heads in disbelief; horrified, if anyone so soiled with blood could still know such a feeling.

  Intrigued, the Morrigan stepped to the edge of the dais. She was about to inquire after her subjects. It quickly became unnecessary.

  All the revelers stepped away. A barren circle opened in their midst. Pieces of a human, barely recognizable for the thrashing pile of remnants, sat in a heap on the floor.

  But the fouled corpse was alive yet.

  The remains continued to move, despite their ruined state. A chill slipped over the otherwise crazed changelings. The blood on the floor congealed. Shredded flesh slithered in a wet mess, a pile of red worms swimming in a puddle of crimson filth.

  Everything fell silent. Even the Morrigan was brought to a pause.

  Animated by some will, by some power whose source was unseen, shattered bones mended. Torn muscles healed. Tattered skin re-formed. The pieces joined, and built themselves into a figure. A blood-dripping silhouette at first, but then with features that emerged from the repaired anatomy.

  Some of the throng chanted his name, even before his face had fully reshaped itself.

  “Lucifer.”

  The Morrigan had no time to quiet them. The curdle of a death scream, followed by the gurgle of a severed throat, turned her to the left.

  Beside Scyll
a there stood a Maenad guard, its face lost beneath the shadow of a great hood. The pristine of its white robes became quickly savaged as the Phantom Queen watched, stained a deep scarlet from within. Its sword dropped harmlessly from its grasp. It collapsed.

  There was a woman standing behind.

  “Charybdis,” the Keeper muttered.

  Alive, though wounded by her own hand, the pale changeling stood defiant atop the dais. Warm red splatter stained her breasts, spilled out both from her own gashes and from the Maenad she had just killed.

  The Morrigan did not even need to look to know that she had already loosed the chains binding Scylla. Below, the chanting surged. The clatter and the rumble of Lucifer shook the rafters.

  But the trickster was already gone.

  On the dais, Scylla picked up the fallen Maenad’s blade. Charybdis was already armed. Then the two who had once sworn to guard the Morrigan circled her.

  There was nothing but hatred left in their eyes.

  FORTY-FIVE

  ARGUS TURNED WITH A START WHEN A HAND GRIPPED his shoulder. His head twisted to his left. He found Sean staring down at him. The trickster’s face was still emerging from a bloody chaos of veins and muscles. Under other circumstances, the ancient one might have been repulsed by such a hideous sight, or at least have shuddered.

  Instead he extended a greeting.

  “I thought we might not see you again, but I am pleased to be proven wrong,” Argus began. “A penchant for memorable entrances, undiminished by the years. But I must confess that your appearance this time perplexes even me.”

  Though the exigency of their circumstances did not lend themselves much to conversation, Sean obliged the old being with a reply.

  “No mystery. I saw what happened to Arachne. I made my way into the crowd. When Charybdis was lowered, I set her loose and took her place. Not so hard among that mob. In their frenzy most can barely see straight,” Sean answered.

  “I understand. Then you must have realized by now that you are indeed Lucifer, as I have always said. Will you bring an end to this foolishness? Take your place among us, once and for all?”