by Edward Lee
"Two of them-two women. And one of them was a nun. They were murdered right here in this building last March. Whitewood ran off a few days later."
"So he was the perpetrator?"
"No, no, but he was a suspect until they found him. He had an alibi, is what I heard. The cops say it was just a couple of creeps all crazy from drugs."
But Venetia's thoughts were blaring. This explained the new top-notch locks and Driscoll's emphasis on security. But why would he he to her, and to her parents? "That's outrageous for him to conceal that."
"Well, it sounds more sensational than it actually was. People get killed in random murders every day. It just happened to be here on that day."
" I know that, Dan, but still..." She looked around and immediately felt a chill. "It's just quite a shock, you know? I haven't even been here two hours and now I'm being told that there were murders here."
Dan's grin turned sour. "And, if you're the squeamish type...,.
"Yeah?"
"One of the victims was a devout churchgoer, a laywoman named Lottie Jessel. She was killed in the old accounting office, down here."
What was he working up to? "And the other victim? The nun?"
"Her name was Patricia Stevenson." Dan shrugged uncomfortably. "And she was murdered in your bedroom."
Chapter Five
(I)
The Angels, Boniface thought. How I long to see them ... squirming ... ready to burst:.. .
He and High Priest Willirmoz had already descended the narrow obsidian corridors deep below the Fortress, yet even beneath all of this netherworldly rock, they could hear the ceaseless screams resounding from his courtyard above. The precursory executions had commenced-to keep the air saturated-and they would transpire without abatement until it was time.
"We're so deep now," the Exalted Duke whispered. Was he afraid of his own catacombs? Of course not, he was merely nervous, even in the cloak of all that hellish power.
"Indeed, my lord. On the cusp of Lucifer's blessing ... Deep
It was the esteemed She-Demon, Pasiphae, who led the Duke and his High Priest through the twisting undercrofts. Only she knew the way, which provided an effective defense mechanism against intruders. In the torchlight, Boniface let his gaze suck up the sight of her nude, jet-black body-breasts jutting and perfect, legs, waist, and contours all bereft of error. Yet these features could've been composed of wet pitch, for it was not flesh that she was made of, but the ichor of Hell. The black body shined, gleaming.
Officially, Pashiphae was the Night-Mother and Queen of the Labyrinth. She commanded the Minotaurs and Minotauresses, who solely existed to guard these deep warrens.
She also commanded the lust of Voluptua, Boniface's favorite concubine. It enlivened the Exalted Duke to watch the two together on occasion.
At the last stone entry, Pasiphae turned with a black smile, and then she led them at last into the Lower Chancel.
"Why is it I can never comprehend the math?" Boniface complained, more to himself.
"It's the most complex black science, my lord," the charred Priest replied. "I have trouble myself. It involves manipulating the relationship between time and spacehere, where there is no time, and in the Living World, which is calculable and finite. But take heart-thus far, no theorems yet devised by the Cultes des Pythagorae have ever been in error. We really must leave it to the Arithmetri."
The grinding of stone etched in their ears as the security wall rose.
"Ah. There they are."
The Angels. The booty of God's creation ... blessedly tainted.
Boniface's eyes widened behind the salt-mask as he gazed into the Chancel's center. "Great Lord of Hell, they're so ... gravid."
"Yes, they are, my lord. They were all very fertile."
Squirming naked on the stone floor were the precious Angels, six of them, all female. Their wrists and ankles strained against the air, which was constantly charged by a Warding Spell that only a Class One Arch-Lock could relieve. Their wings lay paralyzed and collapsed behind their backs.
"It's still an unholy miracle that we were able to capture them in the first place," Boniface reflected.
"All by the grace of Satan, my lord."
"How long have they been here?"
"Just a day. But of course you're aware that the conditioning took a century."
Torchlight flashed on the inverted cross that was mounted atop Boniface's miter. "I'm more than aware of that, Priest. But how do we know they're sufficiently crazed?"
Willirmoz nodded to one of the helmed Conscripts, who in turn reached down through the invisible Warding Bonds, and loosened the gag.
The room shuddered. It was not a scream that leapt from the Angels' tumescent faces. It was a sound like a boulder grinding down a rocky hill. All the while, the Angels' sweat-glazed bodies heaved.
"Make it stop!" shouted the Duke.
The Conscript re-gagged the being and stepped back.
All of the Angels were from the arcane order known as the Caliginauts. It was this select order that frequently left Heaven to come here and wreak havoc. But Lucifer's personal diviners had predicted their arrival, and a brigade of Ushers and Bio-Wizards were ready for them. A trap was set in the Industrial Zone, and the most refined Obfuscation Spells had led all six Angels right into the clutches of the Constabulary, the Underworld's state security.
There, in the Constabulary's deepest dungeons, the Angels were tortured and tormented for the last hundred years.
Now, they were all insane.
And they were all something else, too.
Pregnant.
The final year of the torture regimen had included fastidious rape by all manner of Demons.
"Lucifer's dearest wish," Boniface whispered.
Willirmoz finished, "That they all be made pregnant with mongrels before we cough them onto the Earth."
All of the Angels were inexpressibly beautiful, breasts sodden, limbs limber and toned beneath celestial skin. The Torturians had exacted psychic torment, not physical, so that the beings might retain every aspect of their physical beauty when they set foot in the Living World. Boniface watched in a dizzy glee as all six of their bloated bellies squirmed. What wonders are waiting to be released from their soiled wombs ... What monsters ...
"We've not long to wait now," Willirmoz said when he sensed his master's impatience.
"We must succeed."
"We will."
"The equivalent of two decades on Earth will transpire in one second?"
"Roughly, my lord."
Boniface's voice faltered. Was he having doubts, just as he had in 974 A.D. when he murdered Pope Benedict? "It's never been attempted before. How do we know it will work?"
"The most complex Necromancy has foreseen it, my wretched lord, just as I have foreseen it. The Involutionary Rites are now honed to flawlessness. When our hideous moon is in the proper hue, we will release the corrupted blood in your unholy courtyard, charge the Involution, and discorporate the Pith."
It was the Pith-the great stone slab on which the Angels shuddered-that Boniface's eyes held fast to now. The executions and sacrifices so far were already softening its tangibility. When he looked hard enough, he could see patches where the great black slab from the Valley of Death was growing translucent.
Willirmoz's crusted lips seemed to move around his words: "The most glorious day in Hell awaits ... all by your hand, my lord."
I pray to Satan, Boniface silently implored.
Steadfast footsteps approached from behind. The Conscripts raised their hewers and dirks reflexively, but then lowered them when they saw the Sergeant at Arms enter the Chancel.
He did not dare look at Boniface but instead addressed the High Priest. "An urgent cipher from the Guild of An- thropomancers, sir."
Diviners of innards, Boniface thought with a pleasant twinge.
"Are you certain it's genuine?" the Priest demanded.
"It was delivered by Aldehzor himself, the Grand Messenge
r."
Willirmoz opened the corroded parchment, read the words, then stood silent.
"What, Priest!" Boniface roared.
"A potential problem has been predicted, my most revolting lord."
"Something threatens our endeavor?"
"No, my lord. I'd say not. A mere triviality."
Boniface had to rein himself; he wanted to strangle the High Priest then and there. "Explain, or die."
"Compose yourself," " came Willirmoz's assured voice. "Just as our god has, the Morning Star for all these thousands of years-"
"What does the cipher say!"
"A brigade of Diviners has foreseen a minor matter, unholy one."
"That blasted Contumacy?"
"No, lord. Just a few petty insurgents. We'll simply heighten security just in case. And we'll notify the Grand Duchess Vulgaressa."
"That's already been done, great Priest," the Sergeant informed.
"See?" Willirmoz tried to assuage the Exalted Duke.
"The Vulgaressa is detestable and cunning," Boniface said.
"Yes, but she's loyal. She will heighten her own security, and I'm sure that will stem the paltry threat. The Diviners detected a few antithetic vibrations indicating the RotPort District. That's all it is, my lord."
Boniface looked back down to the imprisoned Angels. They continued to squirm in their mental horrors, perfect muscles straining under a sheen of Heavenly sweat.
"Rot-Port," the Duke intoned. "What of significance could possibly be brewing in that despicable pest-hole? The entire district is an open wound."
"We'll engage every Diviner, Clairvoyant, and Visionary in Hell to find out, my lord."
Willirmoz has never failed me, the Exalted Duke reminded himself. But still... "I'm feeling sick down here. Take me back to my fortress for some fetid air."
"Of course, my most unspeakable lord." Willirmoz took his master by the arm and followed Pasiphae back up to the catacombs.
With each step up Boniface fretted. What in the name of Hell could threaten us from Rot-Port?
(II)
"Rot-Port, huh?" Ruth griped, looking around with a wince. "Fuck. At least they picked the right name."
Docks spongy with colorful rot squished beneath her Day-Glo pink Teva flip-flops.
"It's just the first stop on our itinerary," Father Alexander said. "But every district in Hell is well-named: Tepesville, Osiris Heights, White Chapel-the Grand Duke there is a guy named Edward, Duke of Clarence. He's also known as Jack the Ripper. See, those who are born here-Demons, Trolls, Imps, et cetera-the Hellborn, have no creativity at all. The Fallen Angels themselves are pretty stupid in that department, too. I guess that's the deal when you don't have a soul. Everything here, since Lucifer's fall, every twisted science, every warped equation, all the architecture-every single thing that can be thought of as the product of innovation and creativity comes from the minds of the Human Damned. The Green River District, the De Rais Institutes of Occult Science, the Richard Speck Immemorial Medical Center. Hexegenic research, the Teratology Labs, where they use Human anatomical science to manufacture monsters, the Voudun Zombie Clinic-everything. It's all here because Humans are here. Even the restaurants have an interesting creative flair that we can thank our Damned brothers and sisters for. You'll see that one very soon."
Ruth huffed past a barrel full of clumps of mold and slime. A sign read PLEASE RECYCLE YOUR ROT HERE. "What do you mean I'll see that one very soon? Restaurants?"
"I'll tell you when we get there."
Ruth couldn't believe the visual spectacle as she walked on. Rot as thick as sheets of ivy seemed to grow over every wall of every building in the District, all bursting with the most macabre colors. The road beneath her feet, too, seemed to be tiled with different varieties of decomposed matter. What the fuck is this? she thought, stopping at a shop. PICKMAN'S ART STUDIO, the rotten transom read. Inside, a live female model-obviously a Ghoulposed for a man at an easel wearing disheveled 1920s dress. The Ghoul was curvaceous and well-bosomed, but emaciated nonetheless, meager strands of muscles taut beneath gray, dust-dry skin. The artist was enthralled, painting maniacally. When Ruth looked harder, she noticed the artist's palette contained not oil paint but daubs of liquified rot.
"This place is really fucked-up," Ruth observed.
Of course, she couldn't see the priest frown behind her. "Ruth, do you have any conceptions at all about Grace?"
"Huh?"
"We should all pursue some aspect of Grace, shouldn't we? Because it brings us closer to God. Just because your sins have landed you in Hell doesn't mean you shouldn't still seek Grace."
Ruth guessed her period was coming on; she was in a bad mood. "I don't know what the fuck you're fucking talking about."
"Your language! You have the foulest mouth of any woman I've ever encountered."
Ruth had to keep reminding herself that Grace wasn't a woman. She stopped and yelled over her shoulder at the human knapsack. "Oh, yeah, listen to you! You throw stones at me, and look at you! Priests aren't supposed to go to Hell, or Purgatory. But here you are, telling me I have no grace. Fuck that and fuck you."
"I'm just trying to give you some spiritual advice, Ruth. I am a priest, you know."
"Yeah, a fucked-up priest on some secret mission in Hell that you aren't telling me shit about." She stalked down the road that would lead them away from the piers. "You got no arms or legs, buddy. You need me."
"Yes, I do."
"So stop giving me shit! I feel bad enough as it is." She scanned down the road and could've thrown up at the sight of the place. "I wasn't that bad of a person. Sure, I partied a little, I did some bad things-"
Father Alexander laughed on her back.
"Oh, kiss my ass! Little Mr. Perfect back there." On the side of the rot-covered road, she spotted a canal and turned toward it. "Do I need this headache? Do I need you on my back for my first day in fucking Hell? I don't think so. I ought to throw you in this canal."
"Ruth." The priest's voice turned grim. "Don't get too close."
"Oh, scared I might do it, huh? Like on that boat?" But then she looked into the canal and saw that it was full of running waste, innards, body parts, and scum.
"The canals here exist to carry sewage into the Districts, not away from them. And they're full of Gore-Gators, E. Coli Snakes, and-"
Ruth screamed as something from the canal jumped out at her. The thing seemed half-invisible, only allowing a glimpse, but in that glimpse Ruth detected a chubby tubelike body ten feet long, two soft antennae, and a pulsating sucker mouth full of things like six-inch needles. She lurched back just in time.
"And Bapho-Siugs," Alexander finished. "Come on, Ruth. Don't ever go near those canals. Thank God that slug was a baby."
"A fuckin' baby!" She jogged away in haste, her high breasts bobbing beneath the Yucx T•oo T-shirt. "The fucker was ten feet long! How big's an adult?"
"Hundreds of feet," the priest apprised her. "When they get that big they either go out to sea or slip into the bigger rivers like the Styx."
"Fuck. I can't hack this shit, man."
"Be strong, Ruth. We've only just arrived. Let's both try to think more spiritually from now on."
"Easy for you to say," she said as her flip-flops were snapping onward over more multicolored scum.
"Your foul language, for instance. Work on that now. I'll help you."
"I don't need help controlling my language from a fuckin' torso who's stuck in the same shitty monsterfilled slime-hole as me! All you religious guys are the same. You're all just a bunch of fuckin' hypocrites, condemning others for the same shit you all do. Maybe you really don't cuss out loud but I'll bet you still say cuss words in your mind, and if you say you don't, you're a fuckin' liar because even with that dumbass plastic collar you're still just as Human as me."
The priest's voice lost some of its punch. "I can't argue with you there, Ruth."
She passed a fungus-fat entrance sign:
WELCOME TO
THE PORT OF THE VULGARESSA. BOATS MOORED WITHOUT PROPER LICENSE WILL BE IMPOUNDED AND THEIR OWNERS WILL BE SUBJECT TO SUMMARY TRANSRECTAL EVISCERATION.
Another sign quickly followed:
ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.
"How's that for a welcome sign?" Alexander managed with a laugh.
"Fuckin' peachy." Finally out of the marina, Ruth marched on, the Port of the Vulgaressa behind them. "So who's this Vulgaressa person?"
"She's the official governor of Rot-Port, and to my knowledge the only Grand Duchess in Hell. If you thought women were discriminated against in the Living World, you haven't seen anything. She was one of Lucifer's first lovers after The Fall. He likes down-and-dirty women."
"Down-and-dirty, huh?" Some of Ruth's own past exploits sailed before her mind's eye. Shit ...
"She's a Demonic nymphomaniac-has sex sixty-six times a day, they say."
"Holy shit. That is down-and-dirty."
"But get this, Ruth. The Vulgaressa deliberately keeps herself infected with every sexually transmitted disease in existence. The stuff they got here makes HIV, herpes, and syphilis look like a stubbed toe. Her body's pretty much just a great big bag of pus that's kept in feminine contours by her occult surgeons. That's her hobby. She infects people with this stuff. Sixty-six times a day."
Ruth had had a touch of gonorrhea and syph herself a few times. She didn't want to know what kind of cooties they had here.
Then Alexander whispered, "Holy shiiiiiuii ..."
"You almost said holy shit!"
"I know, but this is serious, Ruth. See that Steam Buggy up there? And those soldiers in Rot-Armor?"
Ruth saw them at the moldering intersection whose curbs were troughs of rot. "Yeah? Is that trouble?"
"Could be. That buggy is the Vulgaressa's personal coach. Just walk normally."
Ruth shook her head. Walk normally he says. With a torso on my back in Hell ...
"Don't say anything and don't look at them. Just walk by like you don't see them," the priest warned. "There's something screwy here."
"I'll say. We're in a town made of rot."
"I mean there's more Conscripts than normal," Alexander said, observing more Demonic soldiers prowling roofs and balconies. "And some of them aren't wearing Rot-Armor-it means they've been called in from other Districts. And the Vulgaressa is never out at this time of night. It's almost like..."