Knight in Charlotte

  “Midnight is the easiest transit time to hell,” Velos said. “There’s an express elevator down.”

  “Elevator?” Jeremy said.

  “That’s how you would perceive it.”

  “Where?”

  “Well any bank building with an elevator will do. Bankers have a special relationship with Hell. Wait till midnight; you’ll see the floor appear since you have a pass.”

  “That gives us about eight hours,” Jeremy said.

  “Good, we need to go to the mall,” Shadowheart replied.

  “What?”

  “Victoria’s Secret. I have nothing to wear.”

  “Got it.”

  Velos stepped back. “See you in Hell.” He disappeared.

  Shadowheart buttoned the duster. “Wardrobe first, then dinner. Get your gun and sword.”

  Jeremy grimaced. “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to Hell we go,”

  *****

  Midnight found Jeremy outside of the Stoneheart Bank Building, doubting his sanity. While Shadowheart could pop into the building, he had to phone the Templar on Watch in Roslyn for help hacking his way through security into the building itself. Shadowheart did make herself useful by glamouring a drowsy guard into a deeper sleep. Fifteen minutes later they stood in the too quiet and too brightly lit lobby before the elevators.

  “Time to change,” Shadowheart said. An instant later she reappeared as the red-haired, busty vixen, in an outfit to make a Vegas showgirl blush: corset, stockings, and leather panties. This time she’d gone the whole way and her tail drifted behind her, ending in a heart-shaped tip. Jeremy’s heart skipped a couple of beats – and he began to understand Velos’ fascination with tails. Fortunately the elevator dinged for his attention. He checked his watch, 11:59.

  They walked in and Jeremy stared at the panel as the seconds ticked off. At 12:00 a button appeared. It said, “Down baby, really down.” He pressed it. A momentary disorientation made him sway. When it cleared he was still in the elevator but it had changed. It stretched hundreds of feet in all directions and was filled with humanity – well, mostly humanity. Many stood in chains, some in cages, their faces and bodies marked with wounds. These were the recently damned, the scum of humanity whose acts of vileness merited hell. Moans and cries stirred whip-bearing guards, some human-appearing, others clearly demonic with wings and hooves, into brutal action.

  Some trustees and demons who could pass for humans, also stood there, casually chatting among themselves. A nattily dressed pair stood close by, male and female. “Well I can’t say I’ll miss New Jersey. Honestly, I have no idea what you see in that dump.”

  “You have to develop an appreciation for the outré, my dear. New Jersey is an acquired taste, I’ll admit. As a happy hunting ground for the damned, it’s hard to beat.”

  Jeremy realized the male demon might be from the Collection Agency; he didn’t need awkward questions from a “colleague.” He and Shadowheart slowly moved away. As they did, he noticed that she’d wrapped her tail around him and that one silk-clad breast rested on his arm. He gave her a curious glance.

  “I’m supposed to be a succubus,” she whispered.

  “This is too weird.”

  They passed a young boy, dressed in a gray cloak with a curious hat that looked like a European policeman’s. He stood with a blue wooden staff in hand. His eyes were golden and seemed focused on infinity. Jeremy saw a leather satchel under the cloak. He raised his eyebrows at Shadowheart.

  ”A Grey Messenger,” she said, “one of the souls that are not quite human. Sometimes they end up as messengers moving around the afterlife and in between the Realms. Think of them as freelance diplomatic couriers.”

  Jeremy muttered, “What Can Grey Do For You?”

  The falling sensation of the elevator continued and Jeremy grew conscious of another sound. “Of course, it would be a feature of Hell.”

  “What?” Shadowheart asked, rubbing herself against him. Her body was warm and soft in a way it had never been. Normally Shadowheart was merely a form of ectoplasm.

  “Elevator music,” he said, trying to distract himself from his partner’s new found sexuality by imagining an eternity of bland music. “God—”

  “Don’t say that name,” she hissed glancing around.

  “Sorry.”

  The elevator slowed. “You are now arriving in Hell,” came a pleasant female voice with an upper class English accent, “where you will begin suffering your punishment for the prescribed period, or until the appropriate level of remorse is reached. Those of you permanently sentenced here, please follow the green-clad demons with silver pitchforks to your left for orientation and torture.

  “Hell may be perceived differently according to your religious beliefs. Many of you will experience Hell as a series of rings. Please have your damnation papers ready or expect immediate evisceration. Have a nice day.”

  The front of the enormous elevator was suddenly gone. Other voices came on and droned additional information through the air, as the damned wept and shouted. Whips cracked and gleeful demons prodded with pitchforks. Jeremy looked at Shadowheart, her eyes on par with his own in this incarnation, expecting to see horror or anger, but there was nothing but a cool lustfulness; either she was an excellent actress, or Hell was having an effect on her as faerie had on Debbie Middleton. He wondered if it was having one on him as well.

  Jeremy walked forward, gripped by the feeling of unreality that had haunted him since Velos’ visit. They weaved through the damned, some of whom reached out toward them, as they headed for a large archway labeled, Staff and Visitors. They hung back as the Grey Messenger passed. The demon that greeted him and inspected his papers was handsome, almost a caricature of a perfectly developed bodybuilder but with red eyes and black horns. He inspected Shadowheart with interest until Jeremy sharply demanded they move on. Velos had been right about the succubus. The guard demon had scarcely looked at their papers. Likely there weren’t that many people trying to break into Hell.

  The staff hallway provided a blessed relief from the wretched sounds of the dead. Jeremy fought the feeling of sympathy welling up in him. He could not understand the very concept of Hell; there were some that surely deserved an eternity of torment: Hitler, Stalin, Mao, and Pol Pot. It was too easy to populate such a list, but Jeremy’s sense of fairness rebelled at the thought of an eternity of punishment for most sins. “One more bone to pick with God, when I meet him.”

  Shadowheart nipped his ear, warning or what, but it reminded him to watch his mouth about God. A passing demon leered at her and squeezed her bottom as they went by. Jeremy expected her to lash out but she merely wiggled her tail.

  They exited the massive structure onto a shockingly ordinary street, lined with what looked like East German Communist architecture under a leaden sky. A line of cabs with fat, greasy cabbies awaited them. Jeremy didn’t like the look of the cabbies, or cabs, some of which appeared ready to burst into flame.

  They were saved by a demon in a chauffer’s uniform, with a handwritten sign that said, “Jeremy.” They walked over to the homely demon. “Boss is in the limo waiting for you.” He gestured with his head toward a black stretch Cadillac, bearing a license plate with a halo on it. The chauffeur opened the door and Velos waved them in. He paused for a moment to goggle at Shadowheart, who slid over and sat on Jeremy’s lap.

  “Get us out of here, Scruff,” Velos said to the driver. The limo roared with a sound that was not an engine. They lunged into traffic that made Naples look rational. Scruff began spewing insults and gestures at the other vehicles as Velos hit a control that raised a divider between them and the peripatetic driver.

  “Somehow,” Jeremy said, “I expected something more medieval.”

  “Hell is wide and deep,” Velos said. “Dante had a useful device in seeing Hell as ringed and within each major ring are further rings. This is Pandemonium, the administrative ring of Hell. Usually it’s not much worse than LA and of course it also depends some on
why you are here. We get so many government bureaucrats and Wall Street types here that they’ve recreated where they were in life.”

  Shadowheart pressed her lips against his throat.

  “Cut that out,” he said.

  She giggled.

  “I’m afraid that this place or her new body are having an effect on Shadowheart,” Jeremy said.

  “Definitely,” she said, “for the first time in my existence, I’m turned on.” She looked at Jeremy. “Is this how you are all the time? It’s amazing you get anything done.” She slid off his lap, fetching up against the window.

  “I was afraid of that,” Velos said. “Since she came here illegally, she’s not protected as I am. She’ll have to manage on willpower.”

  “Great,” she muttered.

  “I’ll help you,” Jeremy said.

  “With your track record for resisting temptation? We’re doomed.”

  “Back on task,” Velos said. He handed, Jeremy a computer tablet. “GPS built in along with apps for transportation and lodging.”

  “Are the girls here?”

  “No both are down on the Seventh Ring but far from each other, Joan killed—”

  “In self defense,” Jeremy said.

  “She is not here for slaying the beast, who himself is in the lowest ring reserved for those who betray those they should protect. Joan is here because she felt her act of violence killed Camille. She feels she murdered her ‘sister.’”

  “And Camille?” Jeremy asked.

  “In the same ring, but in the section for those who take their life in despair when they are healthy. She might have escaped Hell entirely with a more sympathetic judge, but she feels Joan killed her father because she was too weak to stop the abuse. Because Camille did not act, Joan had to.”

  “This is f’d up beyond my powers of description,” Jeremy muttered, passing the tablet to Shadowheart.

  “Let’s hope that it is not beyond your powers of persuasion,” Velos said. “I need you to bring them up to this ring. If you can, then I will do what I can to get them out of here. Irony is that as the Representative for the Heaven down here; I’m usually denying requests for rendition or asylum.”

  “It will not be easy. Joan especially may fight you.”

  “That’s a problem,” Shadowheart said, “if I have to manifest in my true form it would bring all Hell down on us.”

  Velos shook his head. “Down here you’re a succubus. You’ll have to fight as a succubus. Your angelic vitality remains, but not your powers.”

  “So, what, I beat things to death with my breasts?”

  Velos smiled. “Looks like you could win with those.”

  “How’d you like this tablet shoved up—”

  “Shadowheart, please,” Jeremy said.

  She grumbled but put the tablet down.

  “More practically,” Velos continued as if he had not just been threatened with an electronic enema, “I have some weapons in the trunk, supplied by Scruff. Jeremy, your bloodsword, with its enchanted gem, will work here. Be careful of its use. Its power is based in goodness. Its effect will be felt far, once drawn. Your pistol will work on most things down here that are mere base matter, but demons are stronger than men and can take much more damage.”

  The divider rolled down. “Boss,” Scruff said. “I think we’re being followed.”

  Velos turned in his seat. “Who?”

  “I got a decent look at the last red light. I actually stopped for it and she didn’t expect it. I’m pretty sure it’s Isolde.”

  “I would curse,” Velos said, “but it will just get my time here extended.”

  “Who’s Isolde?” Jeremy asked, peering through the back window. A red car about four lengths back slowed and ducked behind a Hummer.

  “An actual succubus,” Velos said. “She works for my opposite number, Screwtape, Head of the Collectors. He likes to keep tabs on me and she’s quite good at it.”

  “Major Hot Babe,” Scruff agreed. “She could give Liberace an erection.”

  “Lose her,” Velos ordered.

  If the driving to this point had been Neapolitan, what followed next would have made a NY cabbie buy a horse. They were thrown from side to side as Scruff handled the Caddy like it was a fighter jet, taking off-ramps, underground garages and traffic circles at frightening speed. A coup of Squeegee-men tried to slow them as they exited one underpass. Scruff bounced them off the hood. There was a squeal of tires and a crunching sound behind them.

  “That’ll slow her down,” Scruff said with satisfaction. “Screwtape will probably take the repair bills out of her hide.”

  “Let’s hope not.” Velos said. “It’s such nice hide.”

  Jeremy noticed the buildings around them were getting shorter and traffic thinning.

  “We’re getting close to the bullet train station on the edge of Pandemonium. It will take you to Dis. From there you will have to search for Joan. I don’t see how you can get Camille unless you get Joan first.”

  Jeremy flicked on the Tablet and tooled through the apps. He whistled when he looked the maps of the Eight Ring. “How do we find them in all that?”

  “I also added a file on all their known movements,” Velos said

  They pulled up to a building that looked like it was the subject of a fight between Frank Lloyd Wright and Gaudi. Scruff opened the door.

  “Good luck,” Velos said.

  Scruff popped the trunk. He handed Jeremy a case labeled, Heckler and Koch. Jeremy admired the MPN submachine gun within. For Shadowheart, he drew out a black tined pitchfork straight out of legend. It had more in common with a gladiator’s trident than a farm implement. She stood there, tail swishing, holding it.

  “It’s you,” Jeremy nodded.

  They both received back packs with clothes, a variety of lesser weapons and money and gems for bribes. Scruff looked them over and grunted approval. “Hell is bad for the damned,” he growled. “For us who work here, not so bad. But there is little good or kindness here. Be prepared to kill at any time. It doesn’t end the damned but sends them back to the lowest place in Hell they’ve ever been.”

  He pulled an envelope from his jacket. “Tickets for the tre gran velocitas. The staff are mostly French, which makes it hellish. Kill ‘em if you feel like it. They kind of expect it.”

  As the limo sped off Jeremy and Shadowheart shouldered their packs and weapons and made for the train. A crowd was gathered about. From what Velos said it seemed transportation in hell was more for the operators of Hell than the damned. In the distance Jeremy saw a hooded man with a scythe leading a group of people in a danse macabre across the fields beyond. Their faces were twisted in despair and he quickly looked away.

  They boarded the train without incident, carrying their own bags which seemed to annoy the porters. Velos had booked them a private room, a good investment in their cover. They slipped into the compartment with its pull down bed, bathroom and small table.

  “Very cozy,” Shadowheart purred.

  “Uh, yes,” he said. “Perhaps we should go get dinner.”

  “Yes, having a body is very demanding.”

  They made their way to the dining car. Demons, humans and things he couldn’t identify passed them. They passed the same two porters they’d refused to let handle their bags. The man-shaped one had the face of a Doberman pinscher, the other resembled a pig. He assumed they were some form of lesser demon. Both watched them with unfriendly eyes.

  The dining car was straight out of the Orient Express, with small alcoves lit by ornate oriental lanterns. They headed for a quiet corner, cutting through the buzz of conversation and bodies.

  A waiter greeted them. “Monsieur and Madame?” He looked at them as if they’d come in stuck on his shoes. Remembering what Scruff had said about the staff, Jeremy addressed the waiter in French. The waiter, far from being charmed, seemed even more disdainful. Jeremy’s tone became sharp as he ordered for them. The waiter, a supercilious smile on his face, wande
red off.

  “Not pleased to meet one of your countrymen?” Shadowheart asked

  “I’m only half-French and that half is Norman. That swine is Parisian. Even the French hate them.”

  The waiter returned quickly, dropping the food on their table with a clatter of plates. The meal was stunningly good. Jeremy couldn’t figure why there was good food in hell but he was grateful for the break. A fine quiche and white wine soothed his nerves. Shadowheart had the same thing and if anything seemed to enjoy it even more. Physical sensations seemed to be overwhelming her usual nature.

  They ate in silence while Jeremy studied the tablet, trying to find out about the environment they were in. Hell seemed almost like an alien world rather than what he expected. A great civilization had grown up in Hell. Bizarre, since time did not seem completely linear. All times seemed to link in Hell, a Spartan Similar and a Nazi occupied the same contiguous patch of Hell. One could face attack with anything from a Schmeissier to a scimitar. Maglev trains and mule trains moved goods and people. Well, he thought, isn’t that true of my own world? You can take an Airbus to the Mideast and a camel caravan over the Silk Road. Still Hell was confounding.

  Two women sat down at a small table next to them. They looked so skeletal that Jeremy wasn’t sure if they were members of the damned, demons passing for people, or something else. The Parisian waiter approached them. “Ladies, what may I get you?”

  “Perrier, with a twist for both of us.”

  “Oh and I think we’ll split a salad.”

  “Perrier and salad?” the waiter repeated with a faint air of disbelief. “The TGV boasts the best food in Hell. Our chef trained at the Sorbonne.”

  “Oh, and have the chef put the dressing on the side,” said one. “I hate it when they drown a salad. Don’t you Gladys?”

  “On the side? On the side? Don’t you think our chef knows how to use dressing? You… you, Americans!” the waiter shrieked. He snatched up a cleaver from a nearby cart and raised it high. Both women shrieked and raised their too-thin arms to ward off the berserk waiter.