Prospero Regained (32 page)

“Thank God this all happened right after New Year,” Theo said more seriously. “No ordinary man could have survived what we went through. Even with the Water we just drank, I would not have made it without Caliban’s quick thinking.” He shook his head sheepishly.

Moving over beside me, Theo whispered softly. “To think my life was saved by the same man who, for centuries, I dreamt of hunting down and killing.”

“You, too?” I asked, wiping sweat from my eyes.

“I wanted to bring you his head as a trophy.”

I swallowed and squeezed Theo’s arm. “Back then, I would have liked that. In retrospect, though, I’m glad you didn’t!” I recalled my uncharitable thoughts toward Caliban on the lava flow and felt chagrined. “What amazes me is that Caliban, of all people, had the mental wherewithal to remain calm while he was burning. That’s … just astonishing!”

Theo was silent, an odd expression on his face. “Strange. I realize I was probably delirious, but I could have sworn that, as the lava boiled around us, I heard a great voice cry out, telling Caliban that if he remained calm, all would be well.”

We moved along the streets as quickly as we could without actually running, passing between enormous towers that rose, pitch-black and windowless, from the red-hot street. Far above us, their boxlike tops were silhouetted against a fiery orange sky. In the same way one knows things in dreams, we knew this was New York City.

“So, this is the Big Apple’s evil twin?” Erasmus took off his jacket and his waistcoat and opened his shirt collar.

“This is the City of Dis.” Mephisto’s usually cheeriness was subdued. He looked about with a steady wariness. “Dis looks like whatever city most people on earth associate with iniquity.”

Ulysses spoke from Caliban’s shoulders. “When I first came here, it looked like Paris.”

Mephisto nodded. “It’s been London, too. I hear in the past, it’s looked like Rome and Babylon and all those decadent cities from the old days.” He added, “New York’s not as important nowadays as it was, not as decadent as it used to be either. Bet Dis is going to change again soon. Maybe Los Angeles or some Far East city like Mumble—or whatever they are calling Bombay these days. I bet L.A, if Hollywood keeps getting worse.”

Erasmus groaned. “Something will be seriously wrong with mankind when the largest city in Hell is the City of Angels.”

We went around a corner and found a street lit by blue streetlights, despite the brightness of the day.

“Ah, there it is.” Ulysses sighed. “Isn’t it a beaut?”

He pointed up at a street lamp. Beneath the shade, where the lightbulb should be, hung a star-sapphire the size of a large man’s fist.

“Is that it?” Logistilla’s voice rose sharply. “Is that the
thing
that kept you from fleeing, like any sane creature would do, the first time you came here?”

Glancing down the street, I saw that all the lights were like this. The gem that caused Ulysses’s undoing was just one of hundreds.

“Would have nicked it, too, if Abaddon’s goons had not caught me.” Ulysses looked warily this way and that, relaxing when he saw nothing alarming. He gazed at the gem longingly. “Hey, I don’t suppose we might … I mean, while we’re here, anyway—” He reached toward the lamp, leaning precariously to one side. When the rest of us glared at him, he shrank back, clutching Caliban more tightly. “Er … no. Forget I asked.”

“You must be crazy!” Logistilla cried.

Ulysses sighed again. “I suppose trying now, after all the trouble it’s caused, makes me as big of a git as that Bilbo fellow, when he asks to see the ring again, after that whole, horribly long book about getting rid of it.”

I had no notion what Ulysses was referring to, but Erasmus laughed. He added, “You read, Ulysses? I’m surprised.”

“You bet your head. I read the whole thing.” My youngest brother huffed, adding philosophically, “Well, except for the boring parts, of course.”

Erasmus, the book-lover, snorted in disgust. “Philistine.”

*   *   *

COMING
around the next corner, we encountered people. Men and women stood motionless, as if frozen in the act of crossing the street or stopping to buy coffee. Many crowded together around the street corners, wearing suits and dresses from the early twentieth century. Everyone seemed to be wearing their Sunday best. The ladies wore spring bonnets and the men top hats or skimmers. The inhabitants were not actually frozen—we saw a few shift their position—but they held so still otherwise that we felt as if we were walking through a diorama at a wax museum.

Nearing a street corner, we discovered that the people had gathered beneath a loudspeaker. Even those in the streets had their heads cocked, as if they were listening. Over the speakers, which were posted on every corner, came an authoritative, cultured, masculine voice. This voice was so calm and soothing, it was easy to be lulled into listening, even into believing it.

This constantly droning voice was eerily reassuring, but in all the wrong ways. It was as if one was being comforted for one’s worst faults by being told they were virtues. The voice promised:

We love you.

We adore you.

Think only on us.

Think only on yourself.

Everyone adores you, your mother, your brother, the woman on the street corner.

They love you so much they want you to kill them.

They want to give you the gift of their lives.

Surely, they are not so selfish as to object to you murdering them?

How dare they be so unsupportive! So uncaring!

Don’t they love you?

How could God punish you for doing what comes so naturally to you?

God is your enemy!

Abhor God!

We love you.

Love only us!

Many of those who were listening wore guilty, yet hopeful expressions, as if they knew they had done some terrible thing but would like to believe that they had been justified because they were the real victims. This strange message made no sense to me, until I remembered Malagigi’s explanation for the illusions we ran into in the higher circles. Perhaps, there were worse places one could go than Dis.

“I do not like this city,” Titus murmured, covering his ears.

“Nor I,” Gregor whispered in his gruff voice. “This may be the worst place we’ve come to yet. Let us find Cornelius and leave.”

“You can say that again.” Ulysses looked about furtively, then lowered his head, hiding his face behind his hand. “I’m afraid one of the guards will wander by and recognize me. Wish I had my mask!”

“Weren’t you wearing it last time you were here?” Logistilla asked tartly.

“Oh, good point.” Ulysses straightened up and gestured at the overly long crimson robe he had borrowed from Gregor. “They’ll never recognize me without it, especially dressed like this!”

I walked rapidly beside my brothers in the sweltering heat, feeling as if I was melting within my gown. Of course, I should have been grateful. This heat was nothing compared to the lava! I was still amazed that Caliban had made such an effort to save his club when his body was burning. I wondered if it was for sentimental reasons, or because he was certain he would be needing a weapon.

And what about the voice that Theo had thought he had heard instructing Caliban to remain calm? Could it have been the same voice that warned us of the corrosive nature of the armor of the demon Focalor during the battle by the Bridge across the Styx, just before we were separated?

But who had warned us? And why?

*   *   *

WE
followed the crystal ball, seeking Cornelius. Soon, the air became slightly cooler, and Mephisto sent the woeful yeti and melting p-son-en home. I was so grateful for the help the creatures had given us that I promptly forgave Mephisto for burying me under ten feet of snow the time he first befriended the giant shaggy creature.

As we passed men standing motionless on street corners and women holding parasols, we began to notice quieter voices, each one different, as if we were hearing the inner monologues of those trapped here.

A voice above a man standing by the curb:
Charles had it coming. Charles asked for it. Charles wanted it this way, or he would have shaped up!

A voice near a woman seated in a doorway:
You should have seen him. You should have been there. You would have done the same!

A hot-dog vender standing motionless beneath an unreadable street sign:
It’s not my fault. I didn’t want to do it! He made me! If only he had been more reasonable!

“Murderers!” Logistilla’s voice rose shrilly. “Why is Cornelius here? Whom did he murder?”

“Maybe Cornelius
is
our traitor,” Theo whispered.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I replied. “The angel said his sin was ambition.”

“Maybe he has killed too many in his scramble for the top?” Logistilla covered her eyes like an actress in a melodrama.

“Cut the theatrics,” Erasmus snapped back. “This has nothing to do with Cornelius.”

Theo frowned at him. “How could it not?”

“I read in some ancient tome of Father’s that the City of Dis was once the kingdom of King Paimon, the demon who powers the
Staff of Persuasion.
” Erasmus’s voice was uncharacteristically emotionless. “Our brother was pulled off course by the sins of his staff.”

“Can that happen?” I asked.

Erasmus replied, “I once asked Father why he used to carry the
Staff of Persuasion
, since he seldom tried to persuade anyone. He said it was because Paimon was the worst of the demons, far wickeder than all the rest put together. He wanted to keep an eye on it.”

*   *   *

WE
continued down the narrow, boxed-in streets as quickly as we could, breaking into a run at times, with Caliban’s heavy steps thundering beside mine, as he kept up with ease, despite bearing the burden of Ulysses. Twice, Mephisto directed the ball away from Cornelius’s location to check the time, so we could keep track of how long we had until midnight on Twelfth Night. Only a quarter of an hour had passed so far, but it seemed like we had been here for days.

We broke into a run, darting across streets and down alleys. Soon, we were too winded to carry on much conversation. My thoughts returned instead to the issue of Father and secrecy. There were so many things Father had not mentioned—demons in the staffs, Logistilla’s secret project, the issue of Aerie Ones and souls—that I no longer knew how to guess what he did and did not know.

Did Father know about Logistilla’s and Ulysses’s involvement with Abaddon? If so, that might shed light upon his insistence for secrecy. Or did this desire have a more sinister root? According to Seir of the Shadows, Father and his brother Antonio had been best of friends before their encounter with demons. Then, a demon named King Vinae had tempted young Father. Vinae, and the same King Paimon of whom Erasmus had just spoken, tempted Uncle Antonio. The demons convinced Father and Antonio to betray the
Orbis Suleimani
and release the nine great demons King Solomon had labored so hard to trap.

Only at the last moment, Father changed his mind. He stole all the demons and fled, leaving his brother Antonio behind.

Had this falling out with Antonio scarred Father so much that, to this day, he found himself unable to trust anyone? Even us? Even me? The idea was disturbing. Though, of course, if Abaddon was right, and there was a traitor in the family, then Father was right to distrust us.

But was there a traitor? Or was that just another lie intended to set us at odds with one another?

What was I thinking?! Someone had set up those dolls of Erasmus and me. Funny, while Erasmus still irritated me, I no longer felt the hatred that used to rush through me like a flood every time I saw or even thought of him. For centuries, this had occurred. I thought back but could not remember when it had started. Usually, I had fought it off by turning to my Lady. How much worse must it have been for Erasmus, who never had a Lady to help him?

But who had cast this spell? Logistilla? Caliban? Erasmus himself? Theoretically, it had to be someone who could have reached Infernal Milan. Ulysses? He could have gotten there with his staff. But, that idea was ludicrous; Ulysses was no magician. Besides, he was not old enough. If that spell caused the rush of hate, it had been going on for centuries, well before Ulysses’s birth!

Mephisto? He had both the means to reach Infernal Milan and the magical know-how to set up that chamber. Yet, if his recent protestations were to be believed—and the evidence Mab had found in Mephisto’s mansion supported him—then he spent much of his time looking out for the family. Why would he waste time attacking us?

Theo? Titus? Cornelius? Gregor? None of those options made any sense. Could it have been Father? That made no sense at all. Father would never …

But did I even know Father?

I reviewed the other matters of which Father stood accused. Sending Ferdinand to Hell? He had never done that. Lying to me about my mother? That was harder to explain. He had led me to believe she had been the love that transformed his life. Instead, she was a vile witch whose very name he cursed, or perhaps worse. Binding my will? If he offered the explanation that I would have otherwise grown to be a monster, could I forgive him?

The idea of Father ensorcelling me still struck me as ridiculous. But, how else could I explain the strange attacks of empathy that had been assailing me ever since I discovered Father’s disappearance? If they were not caused by the weakening of some spell, what could they be?