by Zoë Archer
“Worship of what?” asked Leo.
“Bacchus, I hope,” said Bram. He gazed critically around the ruin, the torchlight turning the sharp planes of his face even sharper, his black hair blending with the night. The light gleamed on the scar that ran along his jaw and down his neck, a souvenir from his military service. “It’s dull as church up here.”
“What were you expecting?” said Whit. “It’s a ruin, not a bordello.” He thought of Zora, her refusal to take his money in exchange for a night in his bed, and wondered if he would ever see her again. He decided he would, and planned to return to the Gypsy encampment on the morrow, though he did not know how pleased she might be to see him.
Bram made a noise of displeasure and paced away, kicking aside a few loose rocks in his impatience. Whit, John, Edmund, and Leo all exchanged rueful smiles. Of all of them, Bram pushed the hardest for yet greater depths of debauchery, as if continually trying to outpace something that chased him.
The friends broke apart to drift separately through the ruin. Whit ambled toward a collection of five columns that had all toppled against each other, barely standing but for the tenuous support they gave each other. Fitting, he thought. He found himself possessed by the oddest humor, a moody melancholy that sought some means of release. Too late he realized he should have placed a wager with Leo as to what the ruin might have once been. The opportunity was gone now. Perhaps there was something else here upon which he might gamble. Leo had not gotten to a sixth cup of wine back at the Gypsy camp, so that bet could not be won or lost.
A gleam at the base of the leaning columns caught his attention. He slowly neared and peered closer. Yes, something dully metallic appeared on the ground. As he edged closer, he saw that the metal was, in fact, a large, thick rusted ring, the size of a dinner plate. Whit thought at first the ring simply lay in the weeds. A second ring, exactly the same, lay some three feet away. Closer inspection showed the rings were attached to something in the ground. Whit crouched to get a better view.
“Come and have a look,” he called to his friends.
The men assembled around him, and the light from their collective torches revealed that the iron ring was affixed at one end to a large, square stone block. Whit handed his torch to Edmund and cleared away the rocks, weeds, and debris that nearly obscured the block, with Bram and Leo assisting. Soon, the block was completely uncovered. It was roughly three feet across and three feet long, with a metal ring set at each end.
“Looks like a door,” said John.
“If it’s a door,” Bram answered, “then we should open it.” His voice sounded slightly different from normal, a deeper, harsher rasp.
At once it seemed to Whit to be not only the most sensible thing to do, but the most essential. A burning need to see what was behind the door seized him, as strong as any need to gamble. He gripped one iron ring, and Leo gripped the other after giving his torch to Bram.
“On my count,” said Whit. “One, two, now!”
Both he and Leo pulled with all their strength. Whit’s muscles strained and pulled against the fabric of his shirt and coat, against the doeskin of his breeches as he dug his heels into the ground and fought to wrench open the heavy stone door. He grunted with exertion through his gritted teeth. Pull, pull! He had to get the door open.
Bram, Edmund, and John shouted their encouragement, their eyes aglow with the same fevered need to breach the door.
A deep, heavy wrenching sound rumbled up from the ground, as if the very foundations of the world were being rent asunder. Whit and Leo pulled harder, encouraged by the sound. Inches of stone emerged up as the stone slab rose in clouds of dust. Suddenly, with a final growl, the stone broke free from its earthen prison.
Whit and Leo heaved the block to one side, and it thudded on the ground, barely missing John’s toes. But John didn’t complain. He, like the other Hellraisers, was all too captivated by the sight of the opened door.
A black square, the doorway, and through it the scent of long-buried secrets came wafting up. It wasn’t a damp smell, rather hot and dry, the scent of singed fabric and burnt paper. Whit grabbed his torch from Bram and thrust it through the doorway in the ground. The firelight illuminated precipitous stone stairs that disappeared into the gloom.
“A hollow hill,” murmured Whit.
“I’ve read about them.” John gazed avidly down. “From ancient legends about fairy kingdoms.”
They paused for a moment, each taking in the wonderment of an actual hollow hill. In silent agreement, they descended the stairs. Their boots scraped over the stone, and the sound echoed as they delved farther. They found themselves in an underground chamber. Whit could not imagine what kind of ancient tools had the strength to carve a large chamber out of solid rock, yet somehow, some ancient laborer had done just that. The room itself was almost entirely bare, just a floor and sloping walls that arched overhead. Whit was surprised at the height of the ceiling. He was a tall man, yet he did not have to stoop or bend in the chamber. Instead, he stood at his full height as he and his friends slowly turned in circles as they gazed at the incredible room hewn from a stone hill.
Yet the chamber was not empty.
“We have a companion, lads,” said Whit.
At one end of the chamber, on a crude seat carved from solid rock, sat a man—or at least his skeletal remains, remarkably preserved given that they had been buried in this chamber for what had to be over a thousand years if the age of the ruins above was any indication. Whit and the others pressed closer to stare at this new discovery.
“He’s wearing the uniform of a Roman centurion,” John whispered. “His helmet has the horsehair crest, he has medals upon his chest, and—this is astounding—his wooden Bacillum Viteum stick has not decayed.” Sure enough, a knotty stick rested in the crook of the centurion’s arm.
“I’m more interested in that,” said Whit. He pointed to what the long-dead soldier held in his bony hands. A bronze box, the size of a writing chest, with images of twining snakes worked all over its surface. The centurion gripped the box tightly, holding it snug against his breastplate. Whatever was inside the box must have been extremely valuable, valuable enough to consign a Roman officer to death.
Bram stared at the box, then at the faces of his friends clustered around. He grinned fiendishly as he placed his hand upon the box. “Let’s have ourselves a look.”
Whit stared as Bram forcibly pried the box from the skeleton’s grip. The bones cracked as the box was wrenched free, yet Whit did not wince at the sound. All he wanted was the box, to learn what it contained, and he gazed avidly as Bram began to open it.
Be careful, Zora had warned him. Yet he shoved her warning aside. The answers to everything were inside the box.
As the lid opened, the flames from the torches were suddenly sucked inside the box. The chamber plunged into darkness.
Chapter 2
Without warning, Zora’s horse surged up, recoiling. She fought to keep the gelding under control, but panic gripped it. The horse reared and whinnied in fear. The animal tossed its head, tearing the reins from Zora’s hands, then reared again. She lost her hold and flew from the horse.
She landed hard upon her back, breath forced from her lungs. The night sky stared down, black and empty, as she heard her horse gallop away. For a moment, she lay on the ground, struggling to breathe, cursing the animal. She could not waste any time, so she staggered to her feet.
To go back to the encampment to get another horse would take too long. No help for it but to proceed on foot. After ensuring that her spinning head had settled down to a reasonable degree, Zora began to run. She hoped she would not be too late to save the handsome gorgio from himself.
“What the devil?” growled Whit.
“Well, yes,” said a voice in the darkness, a voice Whit did not recognize. It sounded cultured, elegant, but held notes of the deepest shadows, impossibly deep, and with a sharp edge like a duelist’s rapier. “In a manner of speaking.”
He stumbled back, as did his friends. Bram dropped the box with a clatter. A paper scroll tumbled out, and from the scroll emerged a tiny flicker of light, smaller than a firefly, that darted about the chamber. But Whit didn’t pay any heed to the flitting light.
A man stood before them. Dressed in debonair black satin, from his waistcoat to his frock coat to his breeches. Rich silver and green embroidery covered his cuffs, the edges of his coat, and the surface of his waistcoat, and the lace frothing at his wrists and neck was gleaming white. His stockings, too, were pristine, and dazzling jeweled buckles adorned his shoes. He wore a nobleman’s sword, equally jeweled. Though the man’s clothing and sword invited admiration, it was his face that truly arrested the eye. He seemed the same age as Whit, yet the stranger’s hair was purely white—and not from powder, nor was it a wig. He wore it tied back and bagged in black silk.
And his eyes were the color of diamonds, the irises colorless, yet burning.
“Holy God,” breathed Leo.
The stranger smiled. It was a cold smile, the same one Whit had observed at the gaming table many times, one he had given just as frequently. Full of calculation, a gesture designed to unsettle rather than put at ease.
“Oh, not Him,” the stranger said. He looked at each of the men in the chamber, Whit included. “I must thank you, gentlemen. Over a millennium in that wretched box can grow exceedingly tedious.”
“Who ... who are you?” Bram demanded.
The stranger looked droll as he flicked at the lace at his cuffs. “Must I explain?”
Whit’s heart beat thickly in the confines of his chest. He thought certainly that what appeared before him must be some variety of illusion, brought forth from either an intemperate night or perhaps some Gypsy’s engineered trick, for well-dressed men did not simply emerge from ancient Roman boxes.
“No trick,” murmured the stranger, as if reading Whit’s thoughts. “No result of too many cups of wine. I am as real as you, Whit.”
Whit started upon hearing the stranger speak his name. He’d never met the man before. Not in any ballroom or brothel.
“Of course I know your name, Whit.” The stranger never lost his smile. “I know you very well, just as I know Bram, Leo, Edmund, and John.” He stared at them each in turn, the five of them rooted to where they stood. “Though that”—he gestured disdainfully at the scroll lying on the ground—“kept me prisoner these long years, I still watched, still learned. I might not have had the use of my power, but I could yet gather intelligence as the world changed around me. And you dear Hellraisers have been most entertaining and educational.”
A snort of disbelief came from Bram.
John gulped, “Are you really ...”
“The Devil?” finished Whit, hardly believing he spoke such words.
The stranger made a dismissive wave with his pale hand. A black stone ring glinted on his littlest finger. “Such an unappealing name. Without a shred of poetry. If you like, you may call me ...” He thought for a moment. “Mr. Holliday.”
Bram laughed, though the sound was more of a harsh grate than a laugh. “I’ve heard more truth from a mountebank.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Mr. Holliday’s face, but it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “You desire proof? As you wish.”
The stone chamber vanished. A glittering salon took its place. The walls were covered with gilded woodwork and rich tapestries. Closer inspection revealed that the tapestries depicted vices of the most depraved order, things that shocked even Whit. Crystal chandeliers gleamed with the light of thousands of candles. Music filled the air, though Whit could see no musicians. Elaborately carved furniture filled the room, and upon marble-topped tables rested silver pitchers, goblets, and platters heaped with delicacies. Whit smelled the sweet grapes and savory capons, reminding him that he had not dined. Another table had dice and decks of cards—a temptation.
Women lounged upon settees, their soft limbs and bodies barely hidden by loose, transparent gowns. They stared at Whit and the other men with blatant enticement, offering their own temptation. Bram growled as he stared at them, and the women laughed, their laughter like chiming glass.
“Whatever you want, gentlemen,” Mr. Holliday said, “I can provide.”
“This could be an illusion,” John noted, ever the skeptic. “Something performed with mirrors.”
“Of course, a learned scholar would demand further evidence.” Mr. Holliday snapped his fingers, and one of the women drifted up from the settee and glided toward John. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing the length of her supple, hardly clothed body against his. “Does that feel like an illusion? Or that?” He snapped his fingers again, and another woman swayed toward Whit.
She held out a fig, ripe and purple, and his hand came up to take it. She smiled invitingly at him. He returned the smile, though he wished her hair was black, not blond, her eyes dark rather than blue. The fig felt very real in his hand, and he took a bite. Its sweet flavor flooded his mouth, the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.
Women came to drape themselves against Leo, Bram, and Edmund, pressing offerings of cakes and fruit into the men’s hands. As each of them took and ate the offerings, it hit them all.
This was real.
The Devil—Mr. Holliday, as he preferred to be called—truly stood before them, released from a prison that had held him for likely over a thousand years. And Whit and his friends had freed him from that prison.
“That is correct,” said Mr. Holliday. “Through the munificence of that act, you men have at last liberated me from that most hateful place.” He snapped his fingers, and one of the women darted forward to grab the parchment scroll from the ground. She handed it to Mr. Holliday before scurrying away. He held the scroll tightly.
“For that deed alone,” he continued, “I must show my thanks. I must bestow a gift upon each of you.”
That sounded promising.
“What did you have in mind?” asked Whit.
Mr. Holliday gazed at him, and his gaze held knowledge far beyond anything a mortal man could ever attain. “Your deepest desire.” Barely a whisper, these words, yet Whit heard them as clear as if spoken directly to his brain.
For a moment, an image of the fiery Zora flashed into Whit’s mind, but he would not allow himself to think of her now.
“It is but a small matter,” continued Mr. Holliday, “and I shall make it yours.” He strode toward him and shooed away the simpering woman. His diamond-white eyes stared hard into Whit’s own eyes, piercing and intent. As he fixed Whit with his gaze, the little will-o’-the-wisp flitted around Mr. Holliday’s head. Annoyed, the white-haired stranger swatted at it. The light retreated to a corner of the chamber and Whit thought it flickered angrily.
After a moment, Mr. Holliday’s mouth curled into a smile. “For you, my dear Lord Whitney, I shall grant you the ability to control the odds. You can make them good or bad, as you require.”
“If that were such a gift,” answered Whit, “I should have control of chance all the time.”
“Ah, but no,” was Mr. Holliday’s amused correction. “For a true gamester understands that sometimes it is better to lose than win.”
Whit could not deny this. If he won every round, took every hand of cards or cast of the dice, no one would permit him to gamble with them anymore. Yet with a judicious losing streak, he could build false confidence in his opponents, lure them into complacency as they wagered higher and higher amounts, and then Whit could win it all. A greater risk. A greater reward. A greater thrill.
&nbs
p; Mr. Holliday knew this, knew Whit, and all from a glance.
As Whit absorbed the implications of having control over probability, Mr. Holliday strolled toward Bram.
“Women,” Bram said immediately. He caressed the lush form of the female nestled against him.
Chuckling, Mr. Holliday shook his head. “You already have women, Bram. There is no gift in that. No, for you ...” He stared again with that incisive gaze, this time holding Bram captive with that look. Mr. Holliday boldly stared at the scar that marred Bram’s face. “I shall bestow upon you the ability to persuade anyone to do anything. Including the demons who shout in your head. As well as any woman you wish to persuade into your bed.”
Bram grinned, clearly liking that potential gift very much.
Then Mr. Holliday ambled toward Leo, who stared back with as much arrogance as he could muster. Another chuckle from Mr. Holliday. “I cannot change the circumstances of your birth to make you a gentleman,” he said, and Leo scowled. “However,” Mr. Holliday continued, “what I can offer you is the gift of the future. You deal in futures, do you not?”
“How would this gift work?” Leo was ever a shrewd businessman, demanding to know the details.
“It takes but a single touch.” A coin appeared in Mr. Holliday’s hand, and light gleamed on its surface as he slowly flipped it back and forth across the backs of his fingers. “You’ve only to touch a piece of money—a bill, a coin—and you will have a vision of the owner’s financial future.” The coin vanished in a tiny cascade of sparks. “Specifically, their disasters.”
“And I invest, or counterinvest, accordingly.”
Mr. Holliday smiled. “As you desire. With my gift, you will be able to see into the future, and thus increase your fortune. Then no doors will be closed to you, regardless of your less than genteel origins.”