Hell's Pawn (11 page)

“Where would you send me? Heaven?”

Asmoday snorted. “No! C ouldn’t even if I wanted to. You don’t need to visit Heaven to see what the slimy bastards have been up to.”

“Where, then?”

“Asgard to start with, home of the Norse gods. They aren’t the brightest bunch, but they know war. W hile you’re there, ask them how they feel about a mutual arrangement. That’s all you have to do.”

“Why me?” John asked.

Asmoday rolled his eyes. “Does it matter? We’re offering you a job!”

“I think it does ma er. This sounds important. W hy trust a stranger with these duties? Why not a charming incubus or even yourself?”

The Archduke glowered at him.

“Honesty is highly valued, even in the pit,” John parroted.

“Oh, he’s got you there,” Delilah said with a titter.

Asmoday’s third eye found her, glared, and stayed locked on her as he answered J ohn. “We’ve sent demons before you, from ambassadors to smoking hot succubi, and when they came back, they did so in pieces. I told you the M inisters have been meddling everywhere. They have a knack of pinning their dirty deeds on other realms.

So many seeds of mistrust have been sown that we’re up to our assholes in weeds.

“Thanks to all their conniving and scheming, the realms are more segregated than a J im C row toilet. For me to step foot in the J apanese gardens of the S hinto or for a Hindu deva to fly too close Olympus would result in war. The M inisters have us all by our nuts and they won’t stop yanking.” Asmoday flipped the remainder of his cigar into his mouth, swallowed it whole, and sighed. “W ould you want to live in a world painted in one color? Hear only one song for the rest of your life? I miss fucking angels, ge ing wasted with V ikings, hunting elementals, and losing myself in the raw astral lights.”

“I love it when you wax poetic,” Delilah breathed, walking over to rub the Archduke’s shoulders.

P oor Dante looked positively dejected, but J ohn was too distracted to comfort him.

I nstead he was weighing the risks against his own desires. He didn’t fully understand either, but he knew he didn’t want to spend eternity loitering in Hell’s decadent establishments or trapped in Purgatory’s prison.

“I’m in,” he said.

Asmoday smiled, this time keeping his teeth hidden behind his fat lips. “I knew we had the right man. Men, I should say,” he added, looking to Dante.

“Me?” the Irishman protested. “Oh, no! Nice try. I already know where I belong!”

“S uit yourself,” Asmoday replied. “You are free to go, assuming of course you can pay your debts.”

“Debts?”

“The money you’ve been spending all night on drugs, drinks, clubs, and Delilah.

The money I kept magicking into your pockets for your greedy li le hands to find.” Asmoday leaned forward and treated Dante to a wide, meaningful grin. “O f course, there are other ways you can pay me back. Tasks so miserable that you’ll be begging to be let back into P urgatory. O r maybe I ’ll do them a favor and ship your scrawny ass back there.”

A number of expressions played across Dante’s face, the last of which was resignation. He shot an annoyed look at John as if this were all his fault.

“G ood, good,” Asmoday nodded, pleased with himself. “That just leaves one small matter to attend to.”

A ringing in J ohn’s ear grew louder and louder until it was all he could hear.

Asmoday’s lips were flapping, but every single word was lost to J ohn. Not that it ma ered since the Archduke was addressing Dante. J ohn placed a finger in each ear, ineffectively trying to relieve the pressure. S uddenly it was over. He looked up.

Asmoday had a calculating gleam in his eye, and Dante appeared surprised. E veryone in the room was looking at J ohn. The ringing had been no coincidence. S omething had been deliberately kept from him, but now wasn’t the time to ask what. He would grill Dante later.

“Your transportation awaits you outside.” Asmoday gestured meaningfully to the door before turning in his chair to give his full a ention to the succubus. “As for you,” he growled seductively.

Dante looked as though he wouldn’t mind staying, even if he wouldn’t be the center of a ention, but R immon was hustling them toward the door. They stumbled out into the narrow alley that was now almost completely filled by a vehicle. At first glance it appeared to be an old fashioned, horse-drawn coach, one with a number of curious alterations. B rass tubes sprouted from the back of the elongated coach, as if the vehicle had been rear-ended by a church organ. A hint of large iron gears gleamed from the undercarriage. J ust above the rear wheels, partially hidden by black-painted wooden panels, was a massive set of bellows.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Dante asked.

“A Gurney steam coach,” Rimmon said. “Your transportation.” The demon checked various points of the carriage with an air of efficiency before turning to the driver. The poor man had seen be er days. His long blonde hair was matted, his beard missing tufts of hair, and his clothing full of holes.

“L isten to me, Norseman,” R immon snarled, grabbing him by the beard with unexpected aggression. “We’ve decided you’ve suffered enough for your sins.”

“You… You have?” the ragged man trembled.

“We have, but Heaven doesn’t want you, and we can’t stand the sight of you.” R immon feigned thoughtfulness, his face beautiful even when scowling. “You remember those stories your grandfather used to tell you? About O din and his bunch of fools? Well, they’re all true. M aybe the old gods will take you in, if you think hard enough of them and your grandpappy. Otherwise it’s back in the pit with you.” The incubus released his victim and moved to the side of the coach, opening a door and waving John in. “Pull the lever as soon as Dante’s in and you’ll be on your way.”

“What’s with the castaway?” John asked, nodding to the Norseman.

“He’s your driver and your engine. R emember how you hitched a ride here by holding on to Dante? The same concept applies, except the seating arrangements are more comfortable. Goodbye, John.”

R immon turned away, walking around the back of the coach with Dante in tow.

That was it? A night more intimate than J ohn had ever known, and this was how they parted? B usiness was business, but a courtesy kiss would have been nice. O r at least one of those pitiful hugs where they patted you on the back.

J ohn waited in the coach, trying as casually as possible to glance out the far window for one last look at R immon, but it was only Dante who appeared around the other side, looking pale as he struggled to pull himself up on the bronze step. B y the time he was seated, he appeared positively nauseous.

“What’s the matter, stagecoach fright?” John asked.

“Ha, ha. Let’s get this over with.”

The coach was luxurious inside, with two blue velvet benches facing each other.

P olished mahogany paneled the interior, and a stylish brass lamp with emerald glass hung from the ceiling. O ne of the benches was segmented by an armrest, and protruding from this was a simple, brass-tipped wooden lever. B ecause it was the only lever in sight, J ohn felt safe in pulling it. The coach jerked, propelled forward with a hiss of steam. Their unwilling coach driver began a dreadful moan that soon graduated into a full blown scream as they increased in speed. Furious shouts came from the pedestrians who were rolled over or knocked aside by the runaway coach, which was accelerating at an alarming rate.

J ohn’s stomach lurched as the coach rounded sharp corners, maneuvering at right angles with frightening precision. The vehicle slid left, right, and back again, all in a ma er of seconds as it wound through the city streets. The world outside was nothing more than a blur when an explosion rocked them to the core. Then came calm.

O utside the coach window, nameless colors looped and spiraled, their hues overlapping and mixing when blown by the occasional astral wind. They had broken free of Hell.

Chapter Six

Any sight, no ma er how breathtakingly beautiful, becomes routine given enough time. This truth allowed J ohn to eventually pull his eyes away from the entrancing world outside the coach window. He had thought Dante’s silence was for the same reasons as his own, but the I rishman wasn’t looking out the window at all. I nstead he was leaning back against the bench with his eyes closed, his skin still pale.

“Are you all right?”

“I ’m fine,” Dante murmured, opening his eyes with some reluctance. “I just had a long night, is all.”

E xcept that he had been his usually chipper self in Asmoday’s office. O nly before boarding the coach had he gone green in the gills. Unless a soul could be travel sick, whatever had been covertly conveyed had Dante upset.

“W hat did they say to you back there? M y ears started ringing when Asmoday was speaking to you, which was hardly subtle.”

Dante paused a li le too long before answering. “They just wanted to make sure—” He hesitated but then picked up speed, obviously running with a new idea, “—that I do right by you. You say jump, I jump. That sort of thing. Asmoday wants to keep me in line, that’s all.”

“Right.”

I f that were the case, they wouldn’t have bothered keeping J ohn out of the loop. B ut he thought he could guess the truth. Asmoday wanted someone to report back to him, one of Hell’s own. M aybe there was more to it than that, but J ohn suspected that Dante was worse at keeping at secret than a nosey neighbor. He would bide his time and find out sooner or later.

“This is taking a long time,” John said. “It took about two seconds to get to Hell.”

“O ur driver’s connection to Asgard isn’t as strong as mine was to Hell,” Dante said, resting his eyes again. “We’ll be there shortly.”

J ohn turned back to the window and was surprised to see a familiar shape—a tree, with far-reaching branches that drooped under the weight of its own broad leaves. The trunk was gnarled and twisted, worn by the uncountable years it had taken to grow so astoundingly tall.

The coach veered toward the tree’s canopy and began to speed, the driver excited by the appearance of a place he scarcely believed existed. E ven Dante came out of his repose to gawk. The branches weren’t just burdened with leaves. They supported entire lands along their length: some frozen tundras, others mountainous planes, all do ed with trees of the same species as their gigantic mother. R ivers spilled over the edges of flat worlds, spiraling downward to quench the tree’s roots far below.

The coach dipped as if gravity had finally caught hold, the world outside becoming a blur before they jarred to a stop. J ohn didn’t hesitate to spring from the coach when he saw what awaited them.

G rass! And trees! And air as fresh and clean as any laundry day in J uly. J ohn squa ed to run his hands through the grass and dig in with his fingers, feeling dirt gather beneath his nails. He had always been a city boy, but the time he had spent trapped in P urgatory’s metropolis had heightened nature’s allure. The difference was like stepping out of winter and directly into summer, the air suddenly alive with sunshine and bird song. J ohn glanced up to catch sight of the singing avians and stared.

The sky was made of branches. This wasn’t poetry. W here they had landed were hardly any trees, just a few scrawny specimens sca ered across the surrounding slopes. B ut where the sky should have been, the endless branches of the world tree splayed out in every direction. He could see no blue beyond, no sky peeking though, and no sign of a sun, yet the day was as bright and warm as any other.

B irds of every species busied themselves in these branches, cheerfully cha ering when not swooping from location to location. S ome flew in densely populated flocks, drifting like feathered clouds through the air. I f there was a heaven for birds, this must be it, a place where tree and sky had become one.

“I’m free!” someone hooted joyously.

J ohn turned to see the Norseman had undergone a transformation. Not only had he freed himself from the coach, but his previous bedraggled appearance had changed.

G one was the singed hair and stained clothing. He was clean now, his body and his clothes, and his cheeks had taken on a healthy hue. The Norseman cast one suspicious glance in John’s direction before running away down the hill.

“G ood riddance,” Dante mu ered, his back against the coach. L ike the Norseman, his appearance had improved. He was still as scruffy as ever, but the color had returned to his face.

“You sure we don’t need him as a guide or something?”

“He doesn’t know Asgard any better than we do,” Dante said dismissively. “Besides, I ’m pre y sure we need to go up. W hat self-respecting god would reside at the bo om of a hill?”

J ohn regarded the gentle slope where they stood. They were at the bo om near a sparse forest, where the Norseman had already disappeared. Above them, the hill rose until its apex. The hike wouldn’t be easy, but Dante was right: G ods were more likely to be at the peak.

As it turned out, the hike was nothing to worry about. P hysical exertion was a thing of the past. They reached the top of the hill with li le effort and no pain. J ohn wasn’t even breathing hard, because he wasn’t breathing at all.

B efore them, a farm lay on an even plateau. E very field was in full bloom, the crops ripe and ready to be harvested. They stopped to watch a man in the field, picking various items and placing them in a basket as if he were shopping. The man noticed the two onlookers but didn’t seem concerned. W hen he was finished choosing the food he wanted, he returned to a path and walked away from them. They followed, finding a simple road outlined on each side by grooves created from the frequent passage of carts.

They travelled along this road until they reached a village. R ustic buildings crowded together, each crafted from the most basic materials. M ost were long with odd rounded roofs reminiscent of hulls, like the V ikings had simply turned their ships upside down when se ling on land. The curious roofs were supported from the ground by hewn tree trunks spaced every few feet.

O ther buildings were also squat and long, but their walls were made of packed dirt.