Damnable

by Hank Schwaeble

  “A scorpion was trapped on a riverbank,” Valentine said. “He called to the frog, asking to be given a ride on the frog’s back, across the river. Oh no, says the frog, if I let you on my back, you’ll sting me and I’ll die. Now, why would I do that, says the scorpion. If I sting you, then I’ll die, too. The frog thinks about it and decides the scorpion’s logic makes sense, so he paddles over and allows the scorpion to climb on his back. Not even halfway across the water, the scorpion stings him.”

  Behind the glass, one of the Sedim twitched, rising off the floor, then collapsing.

  Valentine glanced in the direction of the movement. “Why did you do that? the frog asks. Now we’re both going to die. I can’t help it, says the scorpion. It’s my nature.”

  A half-amused smirk appeared to tease the side of Deborah’s mouth. “So you’re saying Hatcher is like the scorpion, huh? That’s how you know?”

  “No. I’m saying Hatcher is the frog. Always wanting to believe there’s someone worth saving. Even when it means sacrificing himself.”

  Valentine stepped closer to the glass, spied the Sedim that had shot up, concluded it had been a death throe. It hadn’t moved since. “Himself and, as it turns out, everyone else.”

  HATCHER STARED AT THE BODY WITH THE TINY PENIS AND little-girl breasts. Had the boy known he was going to die? Had he not cared?

  “His kind are natural conduits,” Soliya said. “But they cannot survive the ordeal.

  “You killed him.”

  “The situation is desperate. You wouldn’t believe us without proof.”

  “I still don’t believe you.”

  “Why? Because I’m saying that Deborah is not who you think she is? Believe it. If there’s one thing I can assure you to be true, it’s that.”

  Hatcher’s eyes were still on the boy’s body. His kind. There had been something off about him, about the way he seemed unconnected to his surroundings. Mildly autistic, maybe. But who knew what kind of mindfuck they’d put him through.

  “If this is some kind of hoax, you really are one twisted bitch.”

  “It’s no hoax. That was really him. That was really Garrett.”

  “Even if I were to accept that, I’m still not convinced he is—was—my brother.”

  “Yes, you are. The blood bond between brothers is powerful. It often transcends time and distance. It can be sensed.”

  Hatcher said nothing. The woman from the water bowl seemed to have recovered. She was joined by another, a tawny, exotic type, Mediterranean of some sort, who led her away, dabbing at her nose with a cloth, soaking up the blood. Hatcher watched them walk off. They passed behind other gaggles of women and disappeared from view.

  “Time, as I said before, is crucial, Mr. Hatcher. We need to proceed.”

  “Proceed with what?”

  “The reason you’re here.”

  “Why don’t you start by telling me, then we’ll both know.”

  Soliya walked over to a nearby bench. It was large, with white leather cushions. She lowered herself elegantly onto it. “You’re here because of Demetrius Valentine.”

  “You said that.” Hatcher mulled the name, remembered Susan had mentioned it. But that was all. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “It should. But I’m not surprised it doesn’t. Something tells me you don’t pay attention to such things. Mr. Valentine is a very wealthy, very powerful man. One of the richest men in the country, if not the world.”

  “Okay. So, he’s got more money than God. What does he have to do with me?”

  “Funny you should mention God. Valentine lost his parents at an early age. He was raised by an aunt who was devoutly religious. His parents, especially his father, had been atheists. Notorious, outspoken atheists. After they were killed in an automobile accident, his aunt told him his parents had gone to Hell, would never let him forget it. She tried to give him a religious education. The religious part didn’t take, but the teachings did. He became obsessed with the notion of his parents being tormented in Hell, devoting every moment of free time he had to finding a way to bring them back. The wealthier he became, the more determined he got.”

  “You sound like you know him pretty well.”

  Soliya shrugged. “Well enough. Valentine sought us out years ago. He was intriguing. A man of means with an intensity, a tenacity, like few I’ve ever seen. Resourceful enough to find out things about us, about who we were. He wanted to learn about summoning the souls of the damned.”

  “I’m guessing things didn’t turn out too well between you.”

  “After the initial suspicion wore off, the relationship was mutually beneficial. He had resources we needed. We provided him insight no book ever could. It was a marriage of convenience.”

  “But?”

  “But what he wanted was out of the question. He was very secretive about his goals at first. When he finally revealed them, we attempted to reason with him, to tell him it simply couldn’t be done. But he refused to accept that as an answer. He would not rest, so long as they were in Hell.”

  Hatcher turned to look back at the boy. His body was gone. There was no sign it had ever even been there.

  “So you’re saying this guy Valentine got it in his head that he could bring his parents back?” He waved a hand toward the water bowl. “Why didn’t you just do it for him? You keep insisting this little dog-and-pony show you put on was real.”

  “Summoning a newly damned soul is one thing. Permanently retrieving a soul long banished to Hell is another. After a few weeks, damnation’s hold is too great. Even now, a soul such as your brother’s can only be retrieved for a matter of hours. He knew most of this long before he found us. He wanted more than to talk to his departed parents. Much more. He wanted revenge.”

  “Against whom?”

  Soliya held his gaze for a long moment, unblinking. She swept her arm out with a flourish. “Everyone.”

  VALENTINE UNLOCKED THE CELL DOOR AND LET IT SWING shut behind him. The cell was a ten-by-ten square, walls and floors of reinforced concrete, painted a medium gray. There was a metal toilet in one corner, a steel shelf large enough for a twin mattress bolted to one wall.

  The young woman was sitting on the floor against the back of the cell, her wrists manacled, hanging by a chain secured to the wall just above her head, forming an upside-down V. Her legs were angled to the side, one beneath the other. She wore a habit, but without a veil. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders.

  Valentine knelt next to her and smoothed several stray strands of blonde from her face. A number of them peeled off her cheek, stuck in the moisture from her dried tears.

  “If I were to tell you I really don’t wish to hurt you, would you believe me?”

  The woman was not looking at him, but turned her head away even further.

  “You think I’m evil. That’s understandable. But what is evil, really? Killing? Causing death? When acts of God kill thousands, do we call Him evil? No, we say He works in mysterious ways. But what we’re really saying is, when you have enough power, you can do what you want.”

  A few sniffles, then a sob. She closed her eyes tightly, buried her face against her sleeve.

  “Someone like you is filled with love for God, but has He really ever earned it? We call someone who is devout God-fearing. If God is so wonderful, why should anyone fear Him? He makes people love Him, through threats and intimidation. If you don’t, He sentences you to eternal hellfire. That’s not love. That’s terrorism. That’s egomania.”

  She swallowed. Her voice cracked a bit when she spoke. “You’re wrong.”

  “Ah, found your tongue, have we? I’m afraid I’m not, my dear.” Valentine pulled back, allowing her some space. “But give me your best pitch.”

  “God loves everyone,” she said, giving him a sideways glance, almost peeking from behind her arm. “People don’t go to Hell because He wants them to; they go to Hell because they refuse to accept His Grace.”

  “Oh, is
that so? And what of people who live and die without ever being shown the Gospels? What about aboriginal tribesmen and native islanders who never heard the name Jesus Christ? What about people raised in other religions. Does he love them, too? Or to Hell with them, so to speak?”

  “That is why we must spread the Word. So their blood will not be on our hands.”

  “But the ones you don’t reach, just tough luck for them, huh?”

  The woman said nothing.

  Valentine stroked her cheek, hooking a finger beneath her jaw and coaxing her chin out from behind her arm. “Don’t worry, my child. I’m going to change all that. I’m going to level the playing field.”

  He propped the point of her chin between his thumb and the first knuckle of his forefinger, like he was holding a teacup, prodding her until she looked at him. Tears welled over as she blinked, dropping to the cloth of her habit.

  “You have an illness,” she said softly. “You’re a lost soul. I pray for you. I pray for your salvation.”

  “That’s quite touching. Unfortunately, I can’t return the favor.”

  “Your hatred has consumed you.”

  “What does that even mean? Consumed me? I find such banalities insulting. That would be like me telling you religion is a myth. Please, Sister, come up with some original material.”

  “It means, it has destroyed everything else about you, like a fire.”

  Valentine’s features hardened. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong. The other parts of me were destroyed already. The hatred merely moved in to take their place.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “That, my dear, is exactly the kind of question you should be asking.” He reached into his pocket, removed a linen handkerchief. He dabbed at her cheeks with it. “You are pure, virginal. Holy. You are the perfect sacrifice.”

  “Killing me will not bring you peace. Or power. Satan does not reward his followers in the hereafter. That is the Great Lie.”

  “But I don’t want peace. And I fully expect to go to Hell, as things stand now.”

  “What do you want, then? Why are you doing this?”

  “What do I want? I want God to reboot, that’s what.”

  Valentine stood, folded the handkerchief, and placed it back into his pocket. “And you, my dear, are going to help me crash His system.”

  EVERY WOMAN HATCHER GLIMPSED SEEMED TO MAKE EYE contact with him as he passed. Many were engaged in sexual acts with one another, and those who weren’t gave off a vibe like they recently had, or were about to.

  “Are you gals always this . . . congenial with one another?”

  Soliya glanced over her shoulder. “Certain times of the year are observed by tradition. Right now, we are in the midst of the Liberalia, the Great Bacchanalian Festival.”

  His gaze wandered. A redhead lifted her eyes to meet his as she tongued the clit of a tanned and firm woman with raven black hair. He wasn’t certain which one was more attractive.

  “And you celebrate with orgies?”

  “We’re sexual creatures, Mr. Hatcher. We celebrate our sexuality. Don’t you?”

  The chamber was enormous. Soliya made her way through a maze of debauchery, gatherings of beautiful women pleasuring each other on pillowed furniture, laughing over glasses of wine, showering, naked and joyful, beneath a rocky waterfall. On a far wall, between two majestic columns, a black space like a tunnel entrance came into view. Hatcher trailed a few steps behind. Just as before, she stepped into a darkness that seemed to swallow her. He hesitated only briefly before following, figuring there was no sense in worrying about her intentions now. If she’d wanted to kill him, she could have just left him for those things.

  The darkness gave way to a bluish glow. He couldn’t see clearly at first, but gradually a much smaller chamber came into view, roughly the size of a high school gymnasium. In the center was a large wheel-shaped stone, laid on its side. Three women lounged around it on small mounds of cushions and pillows, studying Hatcher intently. Gorgeous women, he noted.

  “Is this him?” one of them asked, slowly rising to her feet. A honey blonde. She wore the same kind of white togalike dress most of the others did. She held a cylinder in her hand, low and at an angle, brandishing it in a way that told Hatcher it was likely a weapon.

  Soliya approached the stone platform. “Yes.”

  Hatcher’s vision continued to adjust. As he drew closer, what lay atop the stone gradually came into view. He stopped a few feet away. This one was most definitely a weapon, a small sword of some kind.

  Soliya swept a hand. “This is the Dagger of Cain.”

  “Cain?” Hatcher took another step, keeping an eye on the other women, who were obviously keeping an eye on him. “As in, am-I-my-brother’s-keeper Cain?”

  “Yes.”

  Hatcher leaned forward and studied the object, examined its lines, its roughly forged metal. Weapons, he knew. He straightened his back and shook his head. “Sorry to break this to you, but this was made long after biblical times.”

  “You’re sharp, Mr. Hatcher. But I didn’t say it was the dagger used by Cain. Cain didn’t even use a dagger, truth be told. This was, as you noted, crafted long after his time. It is called the Dagger of Cain for another reason.”

  “What reason is that?”

  Ignoring the question, Soliya stepped toward a stone outcropping, walking a tight line with the hip sway of a swimsuit model. One of the other women moved swiftly to place a cushion beneath her as she lowered herself onto it. Only after she sat did Hatcher realize it was chair—a throne, almost—carved from the rock.

  She crossed her legs and eyed Hatcher for a several seconds before speaking. “There are some things you need to understand.”

  “Oh, you think?”

  “You are being manipulated, Mr. Hatcher. You have been since you stepped foot in New York.”

  His gaze drifted back to the women, brushing over them one at a time. Two blondes and a brunette, each with skin he could almost taste. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “This is no time to be flip. A number conspire against you.”

  “Well, if there’s a point to get to, I’m ready for it whenever you are.”

  “Deborah was—is—one of us.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “She left us—an intolerable act in itself, I must say—and has been assisting Valentine.”

  “If you’re trying to break it to me that you tried to kill her at the hospital, I already figured that out.”

  “Then I’m sure it occurred to you that the hospital wasn’t the first time.”

  Hatcher let her words sink in. “That’s how Garrett died. You killed him. Trying to kill her.”

  “He couldn’t help himself,” she said, interlacing her fingers and forming a steeple. “He was like you. He had to try to save the day.”

  “The guy he was trying to stop, he was already dead.”

  Soliya nodded.

  “How the heck does that work?”

  Her lips pushed out in a pout and her cheeks sunk slightly inward. Hatcher realized these women had two kinds of looks. Sexy and sexier.

  “Our connection to the other side affords us certain abilities. Making contact with what you know as Hell is one of them. Animating the recently deceased is another.”

  Protect her. A subtle shift in understanding rearranged his thoughts. Deborah had done that, from the bathroom. Used him. Probably had used Garrett somehow, too.

  “She’d been following him,” Soliya added.

  “Why?”

  “At some level, you must know.”

  Hatcher said nothing. His attention shifted back to the dagger on the platform.

  “You’re here because we need your help.” Soliya said. “We need you to stop Valentine.”

  “Stop him from doing what?”

  “From upsetting the balance between salvation and damnation, from summoning Belial, the Lord of the Underworld.”

  “And just how wo
uld he manage that?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Book of Thoth?”

  “The book of what?”

  “Thoth. A god of ancient Egyptian myth. Actually, he’s the most powerful demon in Hell, a demon we know as Belial.”

  “I was waiting for the movie.”

  “Followers of the occult know the name well. Pop devil worshippers and Satanists have invoked him promiscuously through the years. The original book, however, was lost to history, many millennia ago.”

  “Are we ever going to get around to that point I was asking about?”

  “Few have ever known its contents. It is a work of enchantment so powerful, it was believed the gods punished anyone who laid eyes on it, and cursed their issue for generations to come.”

  “Enchantment? You mean, like, magic?”

  “Yes, but not the kind you’re thinking. It contains the secret to controlling the earth and the skies. The keys to Heaven and Hell.”

  “And you think Valentine found a first edition somewhere.”

  “Don’t be so dismissive, Mr. Hatcher. You don’t understand what this means. The Book of Thoth is not merely something dangerous. It is hard to comprehend what one who possesses it may be capable of.”

  “And where do I fit in to all of this?”

  Soliya gestured to one of the other women. The woman stepped over to the dagger and folded the leather over it. She then carried it to Soliya and handed it to her.

  “Valentine is attempting the unthinkable, to use the Book of Thoth to rip Heaven from its moorings and fulfill the prophecy of Belial.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  “It means, Valentine has promised Deborah something, something big. Perhaps to be made a demon. One may presume Belial will be grateful to be unleashed.”

  “Why would she want that?”

  “She’s a seventh g. This is the last leg of her life. After this, there is nothing. It is something we must all come to grips with. Deborah never did.”

  She raised the bundle in her hands. “You wish to know why this is called the Dagger of Cain? Because it is destined that the one who wields it shall slay his brother. We have guarded it for centuries, protected it from harm. Kept anyone from breaking the purity of its purpose. The Prophecy of the Carnates says that our time will end once Belial has ascended. This life, long by your standards though it may be, is all we have. That is why the dagger was made. That is why we protect it.”