And the Devil Will Drag You Under

by Jack L. Chalker

  Suddenly a corner of her mind whispered, "The vampire syndrome." Her mind raced as she tried to remember what you did to kill a gargoyle. The briefing -like a vampire, sure!

  When she stopped hitting the thing, a black, clawed arm reached out and grabbed her leg. Its head had split open and an eyeball dangled from its socket, yet the creature was still very much alive. She could not break the grip that was trying to unbalance her with certain success, perhaps hold her for help or throw her against the stone, but she managed to reach the thing's sword and pulled it.

  The gargoyle saw what she was doing with its one good eye and snarled, pulling and twisting. She brought the sword down first on the arm and neatly severed it -but, if anything, that had strengthened its grip on her! She was down now, next to the thing, and the other arm shot out to get hold of her throat. She still had her sword arm free and brought it down again on the neck. Blood and ichor spurted everywhere and the head rolled, but still the other arm shot out.

  She forced herself to ignore its blind thrust and drove the sword deep into the thing's belly. The sev­ered head screamed with agony; the body shuddered and was suddenly still. The severed arm that had cut off circulation in her leg stiffened, loosened, and dropped lifelessly.

  Sever its head and then drive wood or metal through its chest, they'd said. Well, it had worked.

  She was hurt now, and the horrible pounding on the doors around her didn't help any. She imagined a gargoyle horde, mad with bloodlust, trying to beat their way through to her.

  Cloth, part of one boot, and some flesh had been torn away by the arm. It hurt like hell, but she couldn't stop. Not now. Rising painfully to her feet, limping badly, Jill put the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the gate wide. She somehow hauled herself through the mess to the other side, then shut the gate and locked it behind her. For a moment she had con­sidered removing the sword from the creature. It would be a handy thing to have, particularly considering how tremendously light and balanced the swords here were and her fencing background, but she decided to leave it. The thing had not changed until she'd removed the dagger from its back. Removing the sword probably wouldn't reanimate the parts, but she couldn't take the chance.

  Suddenly she realized that she'd left the torch in the holder on the other side of the gate where the gargoyle had put it. She had to go through the gate again, reach over and retrieve the torch, then lock the gate again. The whole thing was extremely unpleasant.

  The doors had little eyeholes in them, she saw, but decided not to pull any latches back on this side. She'd had enough of the denizens of the upper tower already, and she wanted no more.

  There was another gate on the floor of this level, blocking her way down. For a moment she was afraid that it would be impassable, that the watch-devils were confined to this floor. But the large key fit and she swung the gate up quietly, moved farther down the stone stairs, then pulled the grate shut and relocked it. If they took these kind of precautions, she wasn't go­ing to question them.

  There was yet a third gate at the bottom, but this, too, yielded to the key, for which she was thankful. The Equipment people had included some metal-cutting wire, but it would have been broad daylight before she could have sawed through just one of those bars of grillwork.

  The next level looked a lot more normal, but she was taking little for granted in a place where even ordinary-looking men were not what they seemed. There were no funny noises here; this had more the smell and feel of a place closed for the night. The Hall of the Sleeper was behind the large set of double doors to her right, if the information from the Guild was correct. The doors were locked, but with a different key than the one she had swiped. Again Equipment had come through with a skeleton key that was supposed to work on all standard locks. She hoped it did. She had no experience as a locksmith or as a regular burglar, so if the key failed, the only alternative was to chop the doors down. Rustlings, mewings, and mur­murings of possible human or inhuman origin echoed all around from the shaft leading down. Some of the noises sounded extremely close-which figured, since the plans had shown that the city's main treasury started only two floors below and continued for three floors after that. She might have some time before those below wondered where the ghoulish guard who'd been relieved was, but any loud noises now would bring enemies at the run. Nervously she put the skeleton key into the lock and turned it to the right. Nothing. For a moment panic rose within her, then she twisted it to the left.

  Something clicked.

  She opened the door cautiously, not knowing what to expect.

  She saw quickly that she did not need a torch; the Hall was small but well lit by oil lamps with long wicks and reservoirs hidden behind colored glass. They gave the room an eerie if beautiful illumination, reminding her of nothing so much as a church interior.

  There were no furnishings; the whole atmosphere was reverential, in fact. Against the far wall were mas­sive and thick golden drapes drawn across a room cavity. Cautiously she walked over to them, noting the pull ropes. She was about to draw the curtains when she noticed that the ropes only seemed to merge with the drapes; in actuality, they went just a hair farther, into a disguised cavity in the ceiling.

  Booby-trapped, she thought.

  She stood back and tried to figure out what to do. There could be anything on the other side of those drapes, but whatever was there was considered im­portant enough to have this room devoted to it and to have alarms to protect it. Now she looked around, checking for signs of other traps throughout the room.

  There were several. The floor was sort of a checker-board tile, each square about a meter square. Some of them seemed to ride a little above the rest, as if on springs or a plunger. She marveled that she hadn't stepped on any of them before noticing them.

  Suddenly she feared that the whole room was some sort of trap, that any touch of the drapes would cause some sort of alarm to go off, some kind of trap to be sprung. That was entirely possible, but she prayed that this was not so.

  Still, there were no alarms on the door or immedi­ately in the hall, which indicated that only the area behind the drapes was considered worth guarding at all. That made sense if the sleeping demon were there -but whether the traps were mechanical or supernatural in their effect, they were totally mechanical in operation. Somewhere there had to be an off switch-just had to be. It couldn't be too elaborate, either, since the demon would have to be fed the drug at regu­lar intervals. She searched for it.

  Suddenly a strange, eerie chuckling issued from behind the drapes, growing slowly in intensity until its menace bounced off the walls.

  Jill turned frantically, dagger drawn; but there was no sign of anyone. Slowly, cautiously, making sure she didn't touch any of the booby-trapped tiles, she ap­proached the curtained-off alcove.

  "All right! Show yourself, be you man or demon!" she challenged.

  Suddenly the curtains opened with great force, re­vealing the contents of the alcove beyond. As she'd suspected, the demon lay there in a great, sumptuous bed beneath satin sheets. The bed itself appeared to be of solid gold; at its foot was a cedar chest on top of which was a smaller box. Two crossed fencing swords hung on the wall beyond, perfectly framed by drapes.

  And something else. Something that stood there be­tween her and the sleeper, glowering menacingly as the lights shrank, coming more into view as the room lapsed into near darkness.

  It was the ghostly outline of a man dressed in an ancient and outlandish costume only the barest of outlines, though, sort of bluish white in the dim light. The face, only a dim mask that was like the photographic negative of an outline of a face, still retained some of the rough-hewn character it must have worn in life. The eyes seemed to have tiny gleaming dots of light for pupils.

  "Boo," said the ghost playfully.

  She tossed the dagger at its strange face, and it sailed right through and stuck in the far wall just below the crossed sabers.

  The ghost's head turned and noted the accuracy a
nd the aim, and its head seemed to nod approvingly. "Faith and be damned!" it swore in a thick Irish brogue. "That's mighty fine aim for a slip of a lass like ye!" It turned back and faced her. "Now, what brings ye here in the middle of the night? Old happydust, here, he don't have much worth stealin’, as I can attest."

  "Who and what are you?" she asked sharply. "And what is your intent?"

  The ghost chuckled. "Intent, is it? Why, as to who I am, I'm the remains of Patrick O'Toole, my dear. The important part, of course. Like ye, I came a' ques­tin' old droopy's little treasures, and here I have re­mained these fifty-seven years more or less, awaitin' ye Her face hardened. "You've guessed, then, what I seek, or know its true value?"

  Again the robust laugh. "Aye, my darlin', for who better than a spirit to see that ye carry not one but two within yer pretty and bountiful self?" O'Toole turned and pointed a ghostly finger at the small box: "There it be, all for the takin', though the takin' ain't so easy, y'see."

  "You're not-weren't-from this world, either, were you?" she surmised more than asked. "The Irish are more kin to my own world."

  He shrugged. "And to many others, I'd wager," he replied. "Nay, I'm not from this world. I was plucked from the gallows by this fellow's cousin and plopped here as ye were, and into this very room did I creep, and here did I meet another as ye have met me. Poor divil-he'd been here more'n a century and was quite mad, for, y'see, 'tis a most borin' haunt. They dope him in the daytime, when I'm not about, so all ye see on this job are burglars, and, faith, yer the first!"

  "But you didn't get the jewel," she pointed out. "What happened?"

  There was a trace of a smile on his ghostly visage. "Well, this fellow was mad indeed, but he was good-so very, very good. Ye hav'ta be good to get here at all, and he was better. They have a spell on the place, ye see, that traps yer spirit and keeps it from final rest until someone takes yer place. It's a bit hard to kill a ghost, ye see, so this fellow runs me through and here I've sat."

  She considered his story, but there was a hole in it. "But you had to be like me, in another body," she pointed out. "There should be two of you if you didn't reach the jewel-and the other fellow should be here, not you, if you did."

  Again that ghostly yet charming smile. "True enough," he admitted, "except ye forget that the one inside ye is not really a party to the theft. I never reached the jewel-got run clean through, I did. The host went to his reward, and here I sit, a' waitin' for ye." He paused for a moment. "It'll be easier on ye, though, since I know the one inside ye is a party to the theft by consent, unlike my poor dullard, who never knew what was what until he died."

  The ghost turned, walked in back of the sleeping, drugged demon, and took the sabers down from their mount. "So I'll be freed, and yell have company 'til the next try," he added.

  She smiled wryly, realizing that the ghost was going to offer her a sword. Clearly the rules required a fight; the ghost could not commit outright murder, although since it couldn't be killed what it planned amounted to the same thing. "Why not just run me through and be done with it?" she asked sharply. "Must we go through this farce?"

  He seemed almost apologetic. "But, darlin', don't y'see, yer invitin' suicide, and that's a worse fate than bein' cooped up here. Where do ye think those hideous beasties with the shells of men they use around here come from? Besides, anybody who can get this far deserves a fight, and I'd love to do it one last time." He hefted each of the blades, picked one, then tossed the other to her. She caught it, tested it out, and decided it was as fine a saber as she'd ever had in her hand, although the first with no foil. This was her element, at least. Fencing she knew well, and she didn't need to win, only to maneuver to the box and grab the jewel.

  He seemed: to follow her thoughts and her gaze to the box. "I know what yer thinkin'," he said, "and it's true enough if yer not a fair-minded lass. 'Tis true ye might, if yer good enough, get to the gem and flee, but that will still leave one for me and that's quite enough."

  A portion of her mind seemed to wiggle and squirm as the thought hit home. O'Toole was right-she had based all her calculations on getting in and letting the jewel get her out-but what of Yoni? Even had O'Toole not intervened, she had condemned the woman to getting out on her own, a task even the Guild thought nearly impossible.

  Here was something that obviously hadn't been ex­plained to Yoni properly, either. She felt the other woman's anger and fear as faint echoes in her mind.

  "I have to do it," she told not only the ghost but, in an apologetic way, Yoni as well. "My world is threat­ened with great doom if I do not get the jewel, and its survival is more important than anyone's life, includ­ing my own."

  O'Toole was still standing there, but now had as­sumed a fencer's position. She stepped up on the platform beyond the curtain and faced him, also at the ready.

  They began. A few feints, testing each other out, then becoming a bit more serious. Feint-thrust-parry! Feint! Thrust! Parry! Back and forth they dueled, gathering increasing admiration for each other's skills.

  "One thing!" she yelled at him even as they con­tinued to fence and dance, she trying to get near the box, he trying to prevent her, and both trying to avoid the bed with the demon upon it. "Tell me the name of the master who sent you here! Was it Mogart?"

  He never let down his guard and, in fact, started pressing his attack, yet he answered, "Nay, lass, I know not a Mogart. 'Twas old Theritus the tempter who sent me, ten thousand curses on his immortal hellish soul!"

  Somehow that made her feel better. She surged with added vigor and started pressing him back. While it was true that he had no physical substance, the sword did, and required force to wield it and mass to support it, which meant that she might as well be fighting a live man. The only problem was, even if she stabbed him through the heart she would do no damage to him, only open herself to a deadly counterthrust.

  "The hell with this!" she snapped, and jumped upon the bed. The demon in it stirred and mumbled a few meaningless noises but did not awaken.

  The maneuver had taken O'Toole by surprise and he'd lunged forward, then had to turn to face her. As soon as he did, she jumped back onto the floor-only then was she where she needed to be, allowing him to press as she retreated; parrying his attempts, backing up slowly, carefully, toward the foot of the bed and the little chest.

  The old ghost was impressed. "Bless me! Why didn't I think of that?" he seemed to scold himself. "Up on old druggie's bed and about! What a fool ye are, O'Toole!"

  She was back to where she had to be, and, if anything, the Irish ghost had eased off, laid back to allow her to use her free hand to flip open the box. The jewel was in there, lying on a bed of yellow satin. She'd almost expected it not to be.

  All at once she realized that the ghost was not pressing at all. He was letting her take the jewel! She turned, sword still en garde, and looked in wonder at the specter. "Why?" she asked him.

  Again the Irish chuckle. "Faith, lass, ye duel as well as any I've ever fought, and better than any man I can think of! I'm not heartless, either. Ye earned yer way past me with the blade, and ye need the bauble for good purpose. When ye leave, I'll still have my exchange, and we'll see how good the other lass is as well!"

  She thought about it. Here she was, the jewel in her hand, and a gallant and likable ghost was allowing her a getaway at the price of another's innocent life. No, more than that, for she would condemn Yoni to per­haps centuries here, alone with the drugged demon. There had to be an answer! There had to be!

  O'Toole seemed puzzled. "What's the matter, lass? Conscience? 'Tis a bad thing to have. It always gets in the way. Do it, lass! I grow increasingly impatient to break these bonds, and I'll not wait until close to daylight and be robbed of my freedom when she's good as dead, anyway. Do it-or stay and join her! Choose now!"

  She felt like a trapped rat whose only means of escape was to feed its mate to the cat, yet O'Toole was right. She could not delay.

  "I'm sorry," she began, speaking to Y
oni trapped inside, when all of a sudden an idea came to her-one gamble, one risk, one possibility. "I'm sorry-O'Toole," she said softly, then shouted quickly, "Jewel! Take me to my room at the inn!"

  The world blinked, and then, quite suddenly, she was immersed in darkness. She still held the sword and used it to feel her way around wherever she was.

  She'd taken the one gamble-that, being an alien on this world, the jewel that obeyed her order to take her to Mogart would obey other orders as well. It had been a dangerous thesis; if she had been wrong, it could have killed her or trapped her somewhere in between the worlds.

  The fact that she still held the sword told her that she was still Yoni, still in Yoni's body. There were solid things in the blackness, and a path between. She felt her way with the sword, then found a wall and walked to it, feeling along it with her hands. She pushed when something seemed loose, and a shutter opened.

  She looked out on the street below the room at the inn, dimly lit by oil lamps. "Oh, thank God!" she breathed, and sank down, crying softly for a while.

  Her other hand held the jewel. She looked at it glowing in the dark.

  It started to burn her.

  "Goodbye and thank you, Yoni the Thief," she said aloud. "May good fortune follow you."

  Inside her head, there seemed to be a feeling of thanks and relief.

  The jewel was terribly hot now; she had to go before it killed the woman it had been used to save.

  "Take me to Asmodeus Mogart!" Jill McCulloch demanded.

  The nothingness took on a new texture as she sped back to her world. She'd learned some valuable things, though, this time out, although some seemed of doubtful use. She'd learned that human beings, too, could command the jewels.

  She'd learned something about herself, too. She hoped it would not be tested again, for next time there might be no demon in man's skin or magical way out.

  She prayed that she be spared that most terrible of choices.