The Paradise Prophecy

by Robert Browne

  45

  LaLaurie stumbled slightly and fell back. Callahan and Grant quickly stepped forward, grabbing his arms, holding him upright.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He looked at her. “You didn’t see it?”

  She hadn’t seen much of anything. “A bright light, that’s about it. I covered my eyes for a couple seconds, then it went away. Next thing I know you’re about to collapse.”

  He turned to Grant, but Grant just shook his head.

  Callahan gestured to the pages. “They’re still blank. What happened?”

  “Blank?” LaLaurie said. “You don’t see the drawings? The incantation?”

  “All I see is a stack of really old paper.”

  LaLaurie pulled away from them now and turned again to Grant. “I need to speak to Michael. I can’t do what he wants me to. Do you have a way to contact…”

  He stopped suddenly, glancing around the crypt, then turned to the casket and quickly gathered up the manuscript and the pages. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Why?” Callahan said. “What’s going-”

  A rat skittered across the casket. Callahan jumped back, and something squished underfoot, squealing in pain. She whipped the flashlight beam downward, shining it on the floor.

  More rats, maybe four or five. And as she swept the light around the crypt, she saw that the walls were moving-still more rats crawling out of the darkness, their tiny feral eyes squinting back at her.

  Callahan had never had a problem with rodents. One or two on their own was fine. But this many of the hideous little creatures was just too much to take.

  They started swarming toward her. One tried to sneak up her pant leg and she yelped and kicked out, flinging it aside. LaLaurie and Grant were kicking, too, shaking them off their feet.

  Callahan watched in horror as more rats skittered toward them. Then the walls of the crypt began to shake, and one of the wooden coffins cracked open. A bony arm fell out, and Callahan may have been imagining this, but the fucking thing looked alive.

  Then more rats began to crawl up her legs, two, then three, now four…

  Grant grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the stairs, pointing the way with his flashlight, LaLaurie trailing behind them.

  The steps were teeming with rodents now. Moving together, the three started kicking and stepping, working their way upward, the rats squealing and peeping and hissing, clinging to their pants as they moved. Several more were crawling up the walls beside them.

  Suddenly one leapt onto Callahan’s head, trying to burrow into her hair. She smacked it with her flashlight, but it didn’t shake loose. She hit it again, then again, the thing squalling louder with each blow, until it finally gave up and fell to the stairs.

  Reaching the top, Grant and Callahan dove through the doorway into the main vault, LaLaurie stumbling in after them, slapping a rat from his book bag. They were about to start back toward the ossuary when a sea of the little bastards skittered toward them like a hideous black wave.

  Grant spun, shining his flashlight toward the back of the vault. There was a door back there.

  “Come on,” he shouted. “Come on!”

  They all moved together, kicking their way toward the door, then Grant flung it open to reveal another set of steps that led toward yet another door above. Grant gestured Callahan ahead of him, and they took them two at a time.

  She was almost to the top when, behind her, LaLaurie yelped and fell. Within seconds, the rats were swarming up and over him.

  As he flailed, trying to fling them off, Grant turned and got him by the collar, yanking him toward the top of the stairs. As they drew closer, Callahan grabbed a sleeve and pulled, swinging her flashlight mercilessly, feeling tiny bones crunch beneath its weight.

  When they got LaLaurie to the top, she threw the door open, feeling the sweet night air rush in, then they pulled him out onto the church lawn.

  Swatting the last of the rats away, Grant slammed the door shut, then helped Callahan pull LaLaurie to the center of the yard.

  They collapsed next to him. There was blood on Callahan’s flashlight and she tossed it aside in disgust.

  “Thanks,” LaLaurie huffed, trying to catch his breath.

  Grant nodded. “Happy to oblige.”

  And as they all struggled to breathe, Callahan saw something dark and malevolent seep out from under the door they had just come from-a black vapor that hung in the air, as if taunting them. Then it shot across the yard and disappeared into the night sky.

  “Was that who I think it was?” Callahan asked.

  LaLaurie sucked in a breath and nodded.

  “I get the feeling she doesn’t like us much.”

  “That’s not the worst of our problems,” he said. “I think she was inside my head. Saw what I saw. And if that’s true, she knows the incantation.”

  “Incantation?” Grant asked.

  “The key to freeing the sacred traveler.”

  46

  They didn’t have to call Michael.

  When they stumbled into Grant’s lodgings, located at the edge of the church property, Grant flipped on a light and found a bearded man in his early sixties huddled in the center of the room, looking broken and abused, his face bloodied.

  Callahan thought he was a homeless guy, but after a moment of hesitation, Grant seemed to know who he was and immediately grabbed him by the arms, helping him over to a twin bed tucked into the corner of the room.

  He left a weapon on the floor behind him. A curved, antique knife of some kind, its blade covered with blood.

  Callahan picked it up. “This guy means business. Who is he?”

  “It’s Michael,” LaLaurie said. He was hanging back by the door, a somber expression on his face.

  “As in Saint Michael?”

  “That’s the one,” Grant told her.

  She studied the guy. “No disrespect, but I was expecting somebody-I don’t know-a little more … shiny.”

  “Shiny?”

  “You know, all white, with wings and all that stuff?”

  Grant gestured impatiently to another doorway. “Get me a wet cloth, will you? The loo is through there.”

  Callahan went into the bathroom, found a washcloth hanging from a rack, then quickly wet it and wrung it out. When she went back into the main room, the guy on the bed-Michael-was stirring.

  She tossed Grant the washcloth and he pressed it to Michael’s forehead, wiped some of the blood from his nose.

  LaLaurie was still hanging by the front door, looking as if his cat had just died.

  What was going on with him?

  Before she could ask, Michael’s eyes blinked open. He looked momentarily disoriented, but shook it off and turned to Grant.

  “I found her,” he said.

  Grant’s eyes widened. “The traveler?”

  Michael nodded. “There’s no mistake this time. It’s her. I know it’s her.”

  “Where is she?”

  His eyes clouded. “I had her with me, but I lost her. Beelzebub and his drudges.” He looked up at Callahan and LaLaurie. “It’s good that you’re both here. I hoped you would be.”

  “You know who we are?” Callahan asked. Thoughts of the D.C. connection popped into her mind and she had to wonder how many people were involved in this thing.

  Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Michael pulled out two leather straps and tossed one to Callahan, the other to LaLaurie.

  Surprised, Callahan caught it, then stared at the Saint Christopher medal attached. “What’s this for?”

  “We’ve got a few vacancies,” he said. “Consider yourselves deputized.”

  Callahan couldn’t believe what he was suggesting, but before she could say anything, LaLaurie piped up.

  “We’ve already collected enough of these,” he said. “And I can’t do this.”

  He tossed the medallion to the floor, then turned and walked out.

  Batty was halfway across the yard when
Michael materialized in front of him. He staggered slightly as if the task hadn’t been easy.

  Batty faltered, but didn’t slow down. As he tried to move around the angel, Michael grabbed him by the arm. “The decision is yours, but hear me out.”

  Batty stopped. Waited.

  “You know I can’t ask you to do something you’re not willing to do.”

  “That’s right,” Batty said.

  “But I think you also know the importance of this. Especially now that Belial and the others have the sacred incantation.”

  “You know about that?”

  Michael nodded. “Grant told me. But I expected it. I knew she had a hold on you. And the father said this wouldn’t be easy.”

  “Tell me I’m misinterpreting that drawing. The man with the sword isn’t me.”

  “I wish I could, Sebastian, but if we could simply snap our fingers and release the sacred traveler without any effort, what would be the point? This is about choices. And the intent behind those choices, and proving to the father that humans are still capable of making the right ones. And this is a choice not made through malice, but out of love. A love for humankind.”

  “You sound like a fucking serial killer.”

  “Don’t cheapen this. You know what this means. Rebecca knows. She wouldn’t have agreed to carry that message if she didn’t.”

  Batty thought about her shimmering image.

  The warmth of her embrace.

  If you feel your resolve faltering, just call to me and I’ll listen.

  “The choice is yours, Sebastian, but we still have time. You don’t have to make a decision right now.”

  “But isn’t this all academic anyway? They already have the traveler and the incantation. How can we stop them?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never been known to give in too easily.”

  Michael brought out his knife and sliced it through the air as if he were slicing through a thin membrane. A hole in the atmosphere opened up and beyond it was a darkness that Batty recognized.

  The otherworld.

  A place he barely remembered yet hoped he’d never have to see again.

  Then Michael took him by the wrist, turned his palm upward, and placed the Saint Christopher medal there. “You and your friend have come this far. What do you say we finish the journey together?”

  Batty looked down at the medallion. “What do you have in mind?”

  “We go after her,” Michael said.

  BOOK XI

  The Road to Paradise

  Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.

  -John Milton

  47

  THE OTHERWORLD

  They traveled by foot down a long, winding trail through the Forest of Never-the angel, the scholar and the spy.

  They were, from all appearances, a ragtag crew, the angel brandishing a gun and knife, the spy carrying a shotgun she’d borrowed in the overworld. The scholar had nothing but his fists to rely on, and his wits, but the angel vowed to protect him should anything go wrong.

  And many things could go wrong here.

  The otherworld was a vast and frightening place, and no one who had visited could claim to know it all. Even the angel himself-who had a home here-had only seen a part of it.

  They traveled in silence, each harboring their own thoughts, their own fears. The forest around them was quiet. Too quiet. And the angel knew that its inhabitants were well aware that their home had been invaded by strangers. They would wait and watch, and evaluate … and should they feel threatened, they would not hesitate to defend.

  The trail seemed to wind on endlessly, and had the scholar not been lost in thought, weighing the decision that lay before him, he might not have been able to continue. Though his memories of the place were vague, the forest stirred up intense feelings of dread and heartbreak, blunted only by his determination to see this thing through and make the right choice.

  As they moved through the trees, a mist began to descend, and the spy thought that it might be a living entity, with thoughts and feelings of its own. It clung to them as they walked, seeping into their skin and clothes, seeming to speak to them in low, ominous whispers, and the spy remembered what the scholar had told her about bringing a piece of this world back with him.

  It was a thought that did not comfort her.

  After traveling through the mist for several hours, they found themselves at the edge of the forest overlooking a yawning canyon, its jagged hills blackened by fire. They stood in a row, looking down at the deep crevices in the canyon floor, waiting for the angel to speak.

  After a moment, he pointed toward the largest and deepest crevice of them all.

  “There,” he said. “The path to Pandemonium.”

  The spy looked doubtful. “All I see is a giant hole.”

  “It’s the only way in.”

  “How do we get down there?” the scholar asked.

  The angel turned. “What I’m about to ask you to do will go against your better nature. You’ll have to shed your earthly prejudices and follow my lead.”

  “I think I shed my earthly prejudices when the mist started talking to me back there,” the spy said, “so what do you have in mind?”

  The angel tucked his weapons in his waistband, then moved to the very edge of the cliff and turned his back to the canyon.

  “You must let yourself go,” he said. Then he did, allowing his weight to carry him backwards over the edge of the mountain, his jacket billowing as he fell. The other two watched in disbelief as he plummeted toward the canyon floor-

  – then the mist billowed out from his clothes and his skin, slowing his descent until he was merely floating.

  A moment later he touched the ground unharmed.

  He signaled for the others to follow, but they both hesitated, unable to grasp what they had just seen.

  Then the spy shook her head, said, “Ahh, hell …” and moved quickly to the edge before she could change her mind, clutching the shotgun to her chest as she spun around and let herself go.

  The scholar watched for a moment, then moved to the edge and followed her down.

  They landed without incident, the last of the mist rising from their skin, whispering softly as it evaporated. They were surrounded now by jagged mountains and razor-sharp rocks. A misstep, a fall, and a piece of the earth here would slice through your flesh and bone as if it were nothing more than soft butter.

  The large chasm was still a mile away, and they traveled a well-worn path toward it, stepping carefully around the rocks, ever mindful of the unseen creatures who watched them from the shadows.

  The spy heard a low growl and turned her attention to her right, where a pair of green luminescent eyes carefully followed her.

  “Keep facing front,” the angel said. “Make no move to provoke it.”

  The spy snapped her head back around, trying very hard to keep her legs from trembling.

  This was, the two humans thought, the longest mile they had ever traveled. As they finally neared the edge of the chasm, however, they felt no relief. They saw a long dark pathway leading toward the glowing light, a pathway that held no promise. No hope.

  Several black scorpions skittered up the path toward them, and the angel held up a hand and said, “They will only sting you if you show them fear. But if one becomes aggressive, merely rub a finger along its back and it’ll immediately calm down.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” the spy said, her voice laced with disgust.

  “All creatures, dark and light, want to be loved.”

  A moment later, the angel again took the lead and they made their way down the path. The scorpions skittered up close, but did not attack, instead turning and following like excited children, as the three continued forward.

  They soon passed through the mouth of the chasm, entering a narrow cave with a low ceiling. They all ducked to keep from bumping their heads, and saw roaches and spiders clinging to the rocks, the roaches rubbing their wing
s together as if ready for flight, their feathery whispers faintly reverberating against the walls.

  The spy and the scholar exchanged brief, uneasy glances as they followed the angel into a shadowy tunnel. The angel withdrew his knife, spoke a brief incantation, and the knife began to glow, illuminating their path. Several multi-legged insects that the humans didn’t recognize scattered away in fright, disappearing down a dark hole in the tunnel floor.

  The three stepped around the hole and continued on, moving along a curve until the tunnel opened out onto another cave. The angel came to a stop and pointed his glowing knife toward a stone archway on the opposite side.

  “The entrance to Pandemonium.”

  “At the risk of sounding like a complete idiot,” the spy said, “what exactly is Pandemonium?”

  “A city built by the great Mulciber in honor of Satan. We call it the City of Lost Souls.”

  They heard a sound and something moved in the shadows of the archway. Then a thing that looked like it should be a wolf or a dog stepped forward and began growling at them.

  All three heads.

  “A trinine,” the angel said. “It won’t harm you unless you upset its master.”

  “Its master?”

  As if in answer, a figure slithered out from the shadows behind the three-headed dog. It had the body of a serpent below, and that of an old woman above, her breasts sagging, her hair stringy and gray, her face etched with lines, her teeth crooked and yellow.

  “Well?” she said. “Are you going stand there staring, or come inside?”

  The two humans exchanged glances again, then followed the angel as he crossed to the old woman.

  “What’s the fee today?”

  “Same as always,” she said. “Nothing more than a kiss.”

  The thought of this turned the humans’ stomachs, but they were soon distracted by movement in the shadows on the opposite side of the archway. The shadows shifted and something dark and menacing moved forward, a shape with no real definition.

  Whatever it was, it was watching them carefully.