“Table salt?” asked Yashar.
“Sea. Dead Sea, actually.”
“You keep it in a salt shaker?”
“Yeah. Where do you keep yours?”
“As far away as possible.” Yashar casually reached under the bar, fished out a bottle of his best. Uncorking it, he smiled weakly. “I never wanted to see you go down this road.”
Colby softened. “Yashar—”
“It’s been my worst fear. Since the beginning. There are wizards and there are sorcerers. I never wanted you to be either, but if you had to be one of them—”
“I know. I never wanted this either. But there isn’t any other way.”
“People who traffic don’t come back. Not the same, at least. They’re never the same. Once they’ve seen these things, felt their touch, tasted the power . . .” He poured two glasses of whiskey. “Colby, this is the last drink I get to have with my friend. After this—” He waved around the room. “After all this, you won’t be the Colby I knew.”
“I can try.”
“They all try. Everyone tries. But it’s a dark road, and lonely. And when the fallen are their only comfort, it’s hard not to end up like them.”
“I’m not dead yet. Don’t eulogize me.”
“I always knew that one day I would have to. But not like this. So.” He picked up both glasses and offered one to Colby. “One for the road.”
“I need to stay clear.”
“It’s not to get drunk on. It’s for courage. For the road.”
Colby took the glass, swirled it, took a whiff. It smelled rich, deep, like the fresh-baked apple pie of whiskeys, memories swelling to the surface filled with laughter and rain and angels. It was Old Scraps’s private reserve. “Wait, this is—”
“I finally found out where he was getting it.” Yashar raised his glass to Colby. “To getting better of the road than it gets of you.”
Colby raised his glass in return, hesitating. “It seems wrong to slam it down.”
“There really is a lot more where that came from.” Yashar tossed back the whiskey and so too did Colby. It tasted like old times. “Now,” he said, his voice horse, recovering from the drink. “About that angel.”
Colby put down his glass, took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, waved his arms, and all the candles lit at once. Yashar turned down the lights and the room flickered, alive with the zeal of a hundred wax candles. Then Colby stood up, holding his palms out, and said the words. It was a garbled tongue, filled with furious vowels and consonants that ran together like a bad cough. The very world quivered at their utterance, walls bending away to get as far as possible from them. Then, at their climax, Colby yelled, “Seere, I summon thee! Appear and speak!”
Then from outside came a tremendous clatter, the din of the world breaking in half and spitting something out.
Colby looked warily around. “Shouldn’t he be—”
“He’s going to arrive outside,” said Yashar.
“Not inside?”
“He always brings that fucking horse.”
“You would think—”
“You would, but he brings it anyway. Come on.”
Yashar and Colby ran out into the midnight alley, the air gamy with rotting fish, standing paces away from both the Dumpster in which they were laid to rest and the door to the Cursed and the Damned. The city blazed halogen orange, spilling faintly into the narrow access.
THE OTHER END of the alley swelled with smoke, a swirling haze hanging in place that obscured the city lights but glowed with its own unearthly golden hue. A shadow appeared in the mist, a figure on horseback, large feathered wings splayed out from both steed and rider. The horse trotted forward with an elegant prance, a dancing pony angling for a blue ribbon.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” whispered Colby to Yashar.
“I told you. Get ready for the show.”
Seere was beautiful, his skin a pristine milky white ivory, fragile like a china doll’s; his hair black, flowing, waving as if caught in a slow river current. He still wore his armor, head to toe polished silvery plate, gold inlay gleaming even in the dim light, depicting the great battle for Heaven. And his wings were massive, each feather no smaller than the size of a man’s forearm, each perfect, unmolested by time.
His horse was equally majestic. A fine-bred stallion, his coat unblemished, muscles rippling with each step. Its wings were so large that it had to flex them back to keep its feathers from dragging along the walls on both sides of the alley. But its eyes were solid black orbs, cold, dead, like a possum’s. Steam erupted from its nostrils as it breathed, but it made no sounds other than the clack clack clack of its hooves on the concrete.
The pair trotted up before Colby, stopping just a few feet away.
“I appear,” said the angel, his voice like a virgin’s, sweet and unassuming. “And I speak.” He slid off the side of the horse, folding his wings behind his back as he did, striding forward from his dismount without breaking stride. He walked past Colby, toward the door of the bar without so much as eye contact. “Look after my horse, will you, Yashar?” he said, not expecting any argument. “He’s the last of his kind.”
The door opened without him touching it and he entered quickly.
“Wait,” said Colby quietly to Yashar, pointing at the horse. “This isn’t—”
“One and the same.”
“The—”
“There were skies full of them once. But they’re just a story now. One no one believes anymore. Get in there. I’d rather not have to deal with Seere anyway.”
INSIDE, THE ANGEL strolled through the bar, hands clasped tightly behind his back, admiring every nook and cranny as if he were in a gallery, committing every detail to memory, trying to understand the meaning of the placement of each individual thing. He seemed at once both keenly interested and completely detached. Pretentious. Everything about him read pretentious.
Seere stopped at the painting Dogs Playing Poker—still the only art hanging in the whole of the bar—pointing at it with an appreciative finger, eyes brightening for a moment. “I always liked this one,” he said. “The whimsy of it. The idea that if dogs were more like people, they too would cheat at something as meaningless as a game.”
He turned and looked at Colby, then took a seat at the nearest table.
“Can I get you something to drink?” asked Colby.
“No. I don’t need a reason to stay longer than I have to. It would be impolite to not finish a drink, and I’d rather not be here that long. So go ahead, ask me. Everyone does.”
“Ask you what?”
“About God. All of us were angels, every last one. But for some reason, because I still look the part, everyone only asks me. Did God dream man or did man dream God?”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“There’s no shame in it, Colby. We all wonder that. Truth is, we don’t know. None of us remembers a time before there was man. The earliest we can recall is a time when there was God, there was man, and there was us. And God loved you more. So here we are. A great war and several thousand years later and I am pressed into your service for the sins of my accursed brothers. I’d sooner have them rot in servitude to that girl, but I swore an oath, and I am bound to it.” He looked around at the candles, burning brighter in his presence. “They’re angry, you know.”
“The others?”
“Yes. Quite. All of them. You have them very, very concerned.”
“You don’t seem to care.”
“You and I have a lot more in common with each other than I have with them. Damned though we are, we make the best of it and try to remain pure. While I certainly think your arrogance is capable of convincing you that you can outthink us, I doubt you’ll do anything worth terrifying us over.”
“You don’t like them very much, do you?”
“I hate them. As much as I can. It’s probably what binds me here, but I can’t let it go.”
“What did they do?”
Seere ran his fingers through his black hair, holding a tress of his ever flowing locks—still waving, even inside—up before his eyes, lost in a memory of the time it was still blond. “They changed. They didn’t have to. But they were so bitter, so angry. They made their home in the hollows of Hell and began to make it in the image of their own suffering. Soon they began to believe that this suffering was all they were. That’s the curse of the fallen. We so felt loss at his loving of you more, that our punishment was to become like you. The others embraced the very worst of you. Colby, do you know why the world hasn’t been overrun with evil?”
“It hasn’t?”
“No. Not like one would imagine it. Angels, they fall all the time, and they turn. Get seduced by all this down here. So why haven’t they risen up and bent men under their will?”
“I have no idea.”
“Because we hate one another. All of us. We can’t stop fighting. Each wishes to be a lord on his own. So we spend all of our time squabbling, arguing, sometimes even brawling. We can’t agree on anything, not the way the world should be, or who should run it. We undermine one another’s schemes, cheat one another out of spoils. There is no legion of Hell setting out to corrupt the world. Just a disorganized mess of creatures who have only ever come together on one point, at one time, and are together bound by that one moment. I hate them. I really hate them. But I am bound to them.”
“Why?”
“A moment of weakness. Down in that box, beneath the sea, we thought we might never again see the light of day. And when we did, we had to make sure that nothing like that ever happened again. The ring, it can’t be destroyed, Colby. It’s God’s cruel joke. We were given free will only to know that there was something out there that could rob us of it. It’s desperation that damns us, Colby. But you know that better than most.” He paused, looking around the room, taking it all in. “So which of my brothers are we visiting first?”
“The Leopard,” said Colby, trying his damnedest to sound stoic as he said it.
Seere smiled weakly. “If he’s your first visit, I’m terrified to know who you’re saving for your last.”
CHAPTER 45
THE LEOPARD
Bune, a strong duke, is seen in the form of a terrible, strong leopard; in human shape, he shows a terrible countenance, and fiery eyes; he answers truly and fully of things present, past, and to come; unless he be in a triangle, he lies in all things and deceives in other things, and beguiles in other business, he gladly talks of the divinity, and of the creation of the world, and of the fall; he is constrained by divine virtue, and so are all devils or spirits, to burn and destroy all the conjurer’s adversaries. And if he be commanded, he suffers the conjurer not to be tempted, and he hath twenty legions under him.
—Pseudomonarchia Daemonum
Colby arrived atop the back of the winged horse, his arms held tightly around Seere. The mountainside they’d landed on was misty, thick, milky fog wisping past in a stern wind. Jungle enveloped them, ancient trees with dark gnarled roots growing up toward a canopy that blackened even the brightest of burning stars. It was a cold but muggy night in a waxing spring.
“Where are we?” asked Colby, peering out into the dark.
“South America. I think it’s safe to tell you that. You’d deduce that yourself, eventually. But I won’t say any more.”
“Is this the place?”
Seere pointed farther up the slope. “No. But it’s as far as I’m allowed. Past that tree and up the trail you’ll find a city hidden amidst the trees where no man has trod for a thousand years. Even the dead have left. It is now just a relic waiting to be rediscovered. Until then, Bune calls it home.”
“You don’t enter each other’s lairs?”
“It’s better that way. Even demons deserve some privacy. But I’ll be here when you return.”
Colby slid off the back of the horse to trek up the mountain, swallowed immediately by the jungle. Fifty paces in he turned but couldn’t see Seere back through the mist and foliage. The air seemed to further cool with each step and it was only after a few paces more that he realized this was no fog around him but clouds. Dreamstuff ran rich here, a virginal flood of energy surging past, pooling in pockets, swirling in eddies. Seere wasn’t exaggerating. This place was truly unspoiled, save for the corruption that no doubt rotted at its center.
It wasn’t but a few steps more before he saw the first stones of the forgotten city. They were well worn and battered by time, smooth, pockmarked with the sanded-down nicks of tools that had rusted into nothing centuries ago. Soon scattered stones began to hint at patterns, then walls, and finally structures swollen and broken apart by jungle growth. And as the mist of the clouds parted, he found himself standing in the middle of a crumbling fortress that once housed a people only time was able to conquer.
Somewhere, deep in the murk, the glowing eyes of an animal peered out at him, and a chill took to his bones.
He swallowed hard, steadied himself, and pulled the chalk from his pocket.
Colby began to draw arcane symbols on the cold, dark, antediluvian stone of a sundered domicile—each by memory, esoteric though they were. Then he outlined the entire thing with a large, perfect equilateral triangle, five feet on each side. Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his salt shaker. He unscrewed the cap, sprinkling it liberally over the chalk. The chalk and the salt sizzled, the triangle lighting up for a second like magnesium set ablaze.
At once the ancient city came alive, bright as day, severe shadows cast out into the glowing jungle. And there they were, a hundred devilish animals staring at him from the boughs of trees and beneath the cover of bushes. None moved; they only stared.
He was watching.
As the image burned into his eyes, Colby saw blackened mounds sprinkled across the city. Twisted, curled, charred, it was at once apparent that these were no mere mounds, but bodies, burned beyond recognition, carbonized by Hell’s flames. All victims of Bune’s wrath, trophies left out with no wall to hang on, their message crystal clear.
Colby stepped forward, his arms spread wide, palms to the heavens, and once again he belted out a flurry of unrepeatable demonic jargon. The triangle grew bright, a thousand megawatt spotlight pointed straight down into it, not a single ray spilling past the chalk. Then he yelled, “Bune, I summon thee. Appear and speak.”
And then the form appeared—a shadow at first, melting into place. A man, hunched over, long Herculean arms, sharpened claws dancing at the end of wispy fingers. Fur, black and sleek, gray leopard spots flaring out from its chest along its back. A cat’s face, pointed ears, whiskers, a snout laced with razor fangs. Bune, the Leopard, scowled, his eyes lighting on fire, the lambent flames burning cold, trickling toward the sky.
“You chose me,” he said, his voice heavy, proud, the notes lingering on the air.
“I did,” said Colby.
Bune looked down at the triangle, then cast a sneering grin back at Colby. “I don’t suppose that we could do away with the formalities?”
“The triangle?”
“Yes.”
“Not on your life.”
The demon nodded, the flames of his eyes dimming to a febrile smolder. He leered at the jungle around him and with a nod sent the beasts scampering silently back into the dark.
Bune cracked his neck, adjusted his posture. He no longer hunched, but stood, dignified, like a visiting professor at a symposium, a poised hand tickling the fur of his chest. “I’ve waited a long time for this conversation,” he said. “You were due.”
Colby shook his head. “Let’s get on with this. I have a long night ahead of me.”
“The longest. But that’s not how this works. You summoned me. You have entered a bargain for my boon. My boons, my rules. You should know this.”
“I was hoping we could skip all that.”
Bune turned, wagging a disapproving academic finger. Though his visage was terrible and alien, his expression was statesmanlike, majes
tic, profoundly arrogant. “We could skip all that, I guess, if you were to erase a corner of this triangle and let me walk out, so we could talk as men. I mean, if we’re skipping things.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“No, I know you won’t do that. So we’re going to talk until I’m satisfied.”
“Then talk.”
The demon’s leopard snout curled back into a wicked smile, daggerlike fangs piercing through the snarl. “Once, not so long ago, you sat atop a tower with Bertrand, the angel.”
“You know Bertrand?”
“I know all of the fallen. It is my task to keep track of them. To bring those worthy into the fold of Hell.”
“That’s not Bertrand.”
“No. He has too much pride, even for Hell.”
“What about him?” asked Colby.
“What, indeed. He spoke to you, at length, about sacrifice. Selflessness.”
“Yeah.”
“And I’m here now to undo the damage of that night.”
“And just how do you plan on doing that?”
Bune looked down at the chalk triangle keeping him in check. “By telling you the truth about him. He told you he jumped, didn’t he?”
“He implied it.”
“He only thinks he jumped. It’s why he can’t go back. Bertrand questioned his plan. He questioned the way things worked. And he thought, if he jumped, he could do more good down here, on the ground, in the thick of it, than he could elsewhere. But it was pride. From the beginning, it was pride. He stepped to the edge to jump only instead to fall. All because he thought he knew better. And once he was here, he couldn’t find his way back, because he never realized it was his pride chaining him here. At any moment he could free himself, fall onto his knees, and cry out to the heavens, begging for forgiveness, forgiving himself. But his pride looms so large, that its shadow keeps him from ever seeing it.
“Now he’s spent too much time down here. Clouded his mind with too much drink. This world, the physical world, it takes its toll on you if you let it. You begin to become part of its chaos, its mundanities. You forget the things of the spirit and worry only about those you can see, touch. And that’s what he did. He began to see the world from this point of view and lost sight of what real morality is.”
Queen of the Dark Things Page 25