CHAPTER 17
CITY OF THE DAMNED
The most foolish mistake man often makes is believing that evil lurks only in the darkness. There is no safety in the sun. Only shadows fear the sun. And shadows are just the dark reflections of daylight. True evil is as at home in the bright light as it is in the darkness. And it has no qualms about snatching you right out in the open.
Colby’s headache hadn’t subsided. Though it hadn’t gotten worse, it sure felt as if it had. His head continued on like an out-of-sync kettledrum, his mouth like he’d been eating a litter box. But it wasn’t the worst hangover he’d ever had. Thus far, on the walk home, he’d only sworn off drinking four times. Some days he’d already managed that before breakfast.
He wandered in through the west side of town, up through the forests, past the suburban sprawl, and on into the oldest parts of the city. The trees were ancient here in comparison to outlying Austin; they were older than many of the buildings sprouting up as the city yawned and stretched its arms. The buildings were clustered together, tightly packed along the streets. It was greener here, homier here. And yet he was mere blocks from the newest buildings, towering slabs of condos swallowing up whole city blocks.
This was a place where he was used to seeing old spirits. Most of them were echoes, remnants of people long gone. Sometimes they were angels, demons, nightmarish things of all kind and sort, perched on ledges, stalking prey, sitting along the lake. For the most part, he’d stopped paying attention to them. They were like the faces of people on the bus. You see them, but you don’t really see them. They’re just background, so much static to be filtered out. But sometimes, just sometimes, he saw things that were just downright out of place.
And that’s what he saw as he closed in on downtown.
An old man, untamed beard yellowed with age, clothes ragged and worn, riding a crocodile.
Now, this being Austin, Colby’s first thought was how had someone managed to get a license for a crocodile? That had to be illegal. Then, as the haze of his pounding head cleared a bit, and his memory kicked into gear, it dawned on him that this was no man at all. And he realized just who, and more important, what this man was.
He was Agares, another of the Seventy-two, ruler of the eastern portion of Hell. Or so the story went.
He was decrepit, hair having fallen out in patches, drowning in wrinkles, hands speckled with liver spots, jowls drooping below his chin, beard holding on for dear life. His expression was cruel, hateful, like he was pissed at just being alive. And the crocodile beneath him seemed every bit as old, scales thick, scarred; teeth ocher with plaque, chipped, a number of them missing—no doubt left long ago in prey. When Agares laid eyes on Colby, his scowl became harder, sinister, as if he was ready to charge and kill Colby for no other reason than he didn’t like the look of him.
Then the demon raised its hand, giving a slight little wave, and sat still, watching Colby walk past.
Colby’s heart raced. He didn’t know what to do. This was uncharted territory for him. Before last night he’d never seen a single one of the Seventy-two. Now one was strolling through Austin as if he was going to the corner store, and waving to Colby. A duke of Hell was a powerful thing; there was no fighting it were it to come to that. So Colby continued walking, trying to pretend he didn’t see it.
Agares never took his eyes off Colby, not for a second, not until Colby had walked out of sight around a building.
Colby felt relieved, terror subsiding. He didn’t know why the demon just let him pass, or why he was even here at all. Frankly, he didn’t care to know; he just kept walking, pretending it hadn’t happened.
Until it happened again, a few blocks deeper into the city.
This one Colby could not mistake for anything other than what it was. A large, strong, black wolf, its muscles bulging, fur sleek and full, bearing a rider, an angel, sprawling feathery white wings, china white skin, and the large, bulbous, brown feathered head of an owl. Andras, great marquis of Hell, sower of discord and confusion. In its hand it wielded a massive sword that gleamed in the shadows; with its other hand it pointed at Colby, a single, extended finger tracking him as he walked in its direction.
The owl-headed beast stared at Colby with its beady black eyes, its beak unmoving, its feathers ruffling as if it was ready to pounce. But he didn’t move. He just stood there, staring, his wolf growling softly, just loud enough for Colby to hear.
And Colby kept walking, eyes down, the icy-cold glares of demons piercing any semblance of bravery. His insides quivered, turning to jelly, knees weak, breath short, chest caving in. If they wanted to kill him, they could and they would. But they didn’t. And that’s what scared him most. Whatever this was, whatever they had in mind, they wanted him to know that he was in their grasp whenever they wanted.
Pressing forward, deeper into the city, his pace quickened, trying to shorten the time between himself and the Cursed and the Damned. He thought about slipping into a tree, but there were too many people watching. That was the kind of attention he didn’t need. So he hoofed it, uneasy with the knowledge that an owl-headed wolf-riding demon might be right behind him, steps away from cleaving him in two and dragging his soul straight down to Hell.
Eyes down, stride long, steps furious.
He stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light, looking around nervously.
The light changed and he sped across the street as fast as he could without running. Then, as his foot touched the curb, a voice called out, grating and malicious, its bass and tenor reverberating through his bones as if they’d been struck by a tuning fork. “Collllllllbyyyyy.”
He turned and saw the king of terrors, Asmodeus, a three-headed titan of a man, one head like a bull’s, another like a ram’s, the centermost that of a man, hideous, distorted. All six of its eyes cut bitterly into Colby from across the street. In front of Asmodeus stood an ordinary man, dressed for work, waiting, having just missed the light. Asmodeus approached from behind, walked right into him, melding until they were one, the demon no longer visible.
The man convulsed, shaking from a seizure, limbs twisting in odd directions, head nearly snapping atop his neck. Then the shakes calmed and he settled, the demon inside shifting uncomfortably as if trying to get a new suit to fall right. He put a single foot forward and stepped into traffic.
The light changed, a speeding truck slamming into him. The man was thrown like a rag doll, his bones powdered all at once, but the demon still stood in the place he had stepped out of. The truck screeched to a cockeyed stop, never having had the chance to brake before hitting the man, driving right through Asmodeus, all three of the demon’s heads smiling. He stood there as the chaos of the accident unfolded around him—people screaming, the driver rushing out yelling obscenities, traffic coming to a standstill before the body even stopped rolling—but Asmodeus never took his eyes off Colby. He just wrung his hands, cracking his knuckles, savoring the look of horror on Colby’s face.
Colby ran. He didn’t have time to play it cool anymore, didn’t have an ounce of bravado left. Though his head still pounded and his throat was still raw and his stomach toppled like a carnival ride, he didn’t notice, not a bit. All he knew was fear. Hell was coming for him, they were sending him a message, and it was reading loud and clear.
They were not going to let him go; they were not going to let him say no. He was theirs, and if they didn’t want him to get out of this alive, he wouldn’t.
He rounded a corner to the final stretch to the bar—a straight shot of only a couple of blocks—legs pumping like a track star.
And then he slowed, his muscles pulling him to a painful, sudden stop. He stood there on the sidewalk, eyes agape, mind reeling, entirely unsure how even to process what he was seeing.
Madness. He saw pure madness.
The buildings, the streets, this whole section of sun-drenched city, was lined from top to bottom with dozens of the Seventy-two. Demons and angels with forms as mind bending as an
y you could imagine. Angels with animal heads, dragons, serpents, jungle cats with wings and serpent tails, three-headed dogs, hounds with the faces of men, men with the faces of hounds. And everything in between. They stood along the sidewalks, on the ledges of buildings, lined the rooftops above him. Dozens, perhaps all. Colby couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he recognized them, each and every dangerous one. He knew their names; he knew their deeds; he knew that every last one of them was staring right at him, never for a moment taking their eyes off him.
Not a one said a word. They stood silent, vigilant, faces cruel and emotionless, watching, waiting to see what he would do.
Whatever this was, whatever they wanted him to do, it was big.
He knew it was important when they sent two greater demons. Now he was staring down what might be all of them.
There was no talking his way out of this now.
He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and started walking. Just a few more blocks, he thought. Just a few more blocks.
The demons, silent and unmoving, just watched.
CHAPTER 18
HAIR OF THE DOG
One of the only things more depressing than the current state of the Cursed and the Damned was seeing it cower in the alley from daylight. Though it had no windows, there was something about the harsh, stinging light of midday waiting just outside the door that made it all the more sad. Bars were places meant to be refuges from the dark, not suppliers of it. While it was easy to forget the time of day, and buy into the shadows of the piss-poor lighting and dim booths, all that goodwill went away the moment you stepped into the bustling afternoon of downtown.
It was enough to kill a buzz if you did it wrong.
And the only thing worse than all this was seeing that bar, in daylight, through the angry throbbing buzz of a hangover, knowing what hell waited on the streets and rooftops outside.
Colby nursed his headache with a shot of whiskey and a tall sweating glass of ice water, his fingers trembling, struggling to find the words. Few things ever shook him up. He’d just met, for the first time, most of them.
The bar was empty, morbidly silent. Gossamer was curled up in the corner behind the bar, lying atop a rubber floor mat ringed with holes, keeping quiet, trying to keep up.
Yashar leaned forward on the counter, peering across the bar, eyes narrow, concerned. “Which two actually spoke with you?” he asked, his tone as nervous as it was curious.
Colby sipped his whiskey, staring dead-eyed back over the bar, his red hair still slicked to the side of his face with last night’s sweat. “The Holocaust Man and the Horse.”
“Holy . . .” Yashar picked up a glass and began to clean it with a fresh rag. He needed something to do with his hands. It made no difference that the glasses were already clean.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me the Horse did all the talking.”
“Some of it.”
“Because you know he can’t lie.”
“I know.”
“What did they say?”
Colby took another sip, steadying himself. “Something’s happened to five of the Seventy-two.”
“Happened?”
“They’ve gone missing.”
“And they’ve mistaken you for a private detective? What’s that even mean?”
“I guess they imagine I’m somehow involved.”
Yashar shook his head. “Bullshit. You’re either involved or you aren’t. These aren’t the kind of folks who get that sort of thing wrong. So which is it?”
“Which is what?”
“Are you involved or are they trying to involve you?”
“A little bit of both I suppose.”
“Colby, what aren’t you telling me?”
“Australia. They said it had something to do with Australia.”
Yashar backed away from the bar, dispirited, beginning to understand. “That’s not good. That means—”
“That could mean a lot of things.”
“No. That can mean only one thing.”
“I’m not going back to Australia,” said Colby.
“Of course you’re not going to Australia. No one goes to Australia.”
“Now what is that even supposed to mean?”
“It means no one goes to Australia anymore. The whole continent’s gone dark.”
“Gone dark? That’s not possible. How does that even happen?”
Yashar hesitated, pursing his lips. Colby’s chilly glare wore him down without much effort. “Anyone magical who goes in doesn’t come back out. No one’s heard anything for months.”
“Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“Because no one wanted to tell you. I certainly didn’t.”
“And I didn’t know,” said Gossamer, peering up from behind the bar.
Colby snapped his fingers. “Is that what happened to the five? Were they . . . ?”
Yashar shook his head. “I don’t know. No one said anything about the Seventy-two. But then, no one ever says anything about the Seventy-two unless they have to. If Orobas and Amy came to visit you—”
“Don’t say their fucking names!”
“I know them, Colby. I’ve known them for a thousand years. I can call them by their names. You’ve got their attention. No use hiding from them now.”
“That’s not how it’s supposed to work. I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what?” asked Yashar. “Summon them?”
“Yeah.”
“No. You just brought the Wild Hunt across and offered it souls.”
“That . . . that’s not . . .”
“That’s not how it’s supposed to work? Colby, that’s exactly how it works. That’s how it’s always worked. Damnation is a hook with bait. It looks like a meal, but there are no free lunches. Not in Hell.”
“The Wild Hunt came to me. Threatened me. Demanded a favor of me.”
“And now you’re going to be pissed at the demon for knocking on the door so you don’t have to deal with the fact that you’re the one who let him in?”
“Look outside. They’re knocking again.”
“You can’t help them. And you can’t look into this. You have to let them clean up their own little mess. Let them stand outside all day and night if they have to.”
“That’s the plan. But then—”
“Then what?”
“There’s something Coyote said.”
Yashar’s face went cold. He reached under the bar for a tall glass, unstoppered the best bottle of whiskey within reach, and filled it to the top. “Coyote? You didn’t mention Coyote.”
“He was waiting for me when I woke up.”
Yashar took a big swig. “What did he say?”
“You’re not really going to guzzle the good stuff like that, are you?”
“Colby—”
“Because that’s really good stuff, and if you’re just going to drink it like soda—”
“Colby—”
“You might as well be drinking the cheap stuff—”
“Damnit, Colby! Forget about the goddamned whiskey. What did he say?”
Colby paused for a moment, sipping his own whiskey. “He talked in riddles, mostly. Said he was looking out for me. Not to trust anyone. Then, by the end he told me that he hadn’t really told me anything at all, and saying that would fuck with me later.”
“That’s fucking with you now, isn’t it?”
“It really is.”
“Because whatever Coyote tells you to do—”
“You should do the opposite. Unless he knows you know that. Then you can’t so much as get out of bed without doing what he wants.”
Yashar finished the rest of his glass and began to pour another. “What the hell are we going to do?”
Colby looked up at Yashar, a hair confused. “We?”
Yashar nodded. “This is no small affair, Colby. This is the Seventy-two. But what scares me most isn’t their involvement.”
“It isn’t?”
<
br /> “No. What scares me is that this isn’t a problem they can deal with themselves. Something like this should be self-correcting.”
“Self-correcting?”
“It means . . . take you, for example.”
“ME?”
“Yeah, you. Limestone Kingdom. You did a pretty good job of peeing in their Wheaties. Really shook things up out there. Those guys totally hate you.”
“Thanks for the refresher course.”
“What do they do now that they want you gone?”
Colby shrugged, unsure where this was all going. “Get together, maybe. Come for me in the middle of the night.”
“Too risky. Good way to lose a lot of friends. No, someone like you, you just wait it out. One of three things is going to happen. One, maybe you get too big for your britches and run afoul of something you can’t handle. Splat. Two, you mellow out, grow up a little, and work things out with the initially wronged parties. Peace reigns throughout the land. Or three, since the problem is mortal in nature—”
“They’ll just wait for me to die,” said Colby.
“They’ll just wait for you to die,” said Yashar, nodding. “So riddle me this: what could possibly be so powerful that the scariest hombres in all the land want no part of it, have no hope for peace with it, and don’t think they can outlive it?”
“They said it was something that I killed. That some deaths take longer than others.”
Yashar nodded again. “You know who and what they’re talking about, don’t you?”
“I think so.”
“So who said what?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said the Horse didn’t do all the talking. Which one of them said what?”
Colby hesitated, the fog of the last night’s drinking rolling in over the memories, enveloping them, the crisp horror of etched-in shock becoming blurry shadows in a drifting haze. He remembered a man on fire, the way the flames flickered and shifted in the night. The way the embers fluttered on the breeze, delightful dancing little fragments of the damned. And he remembered a horse so black that it stood apart from the darkness. But the words, the words eluded him. “I don’t . . . I can’t quite remember. I remember the gist of what they said, but not who said it.”
Queen of the Dark Things Page 10