Prospero Regained (38 page)

“As well you should be.” Mephistopheles chuckled. He leaned over until he was practically breathing down the smaller demon’s neck. “I do not like the way you are looking at my sister.”

“I cannot help it.” The incubus’s eyes remained fixed upon me. “My other self thought of nothing but her for almost four hundred years, and now I, too, can think of nothing else.”

They paused a moment and regarded me in silence.

Leaning forward, the incubus extended his hand toward the emerald light of my left wing. “You must not let Lilith have her! The Queen of Air and Darkness wishes to bring Miranda to the Tower of Thorns, and, once there, to do unspeakable things to her—by which I mean, literally, ‘things for which we have no words.’ My beautiful dove will not survive.” His fingers brushed my wings and he yanked them back, as if they stung, putting them in his mouth. “Though perhaps she is not a dove, after all.”

This last was spoken by a third voice, familiar and airy, that belonged to neither demon, though the mouth of the sable one moved. Hearing it made my heart sing, as if, amidst the winding labyrinths of dreaming, I had come upon a lost portion of my soul that I had not realized was missing.

“My sister is stronger than she appears,” replied Mephistopheles.

“Not strong enough. Last time, she could hardly bear the Tower, even for a few moments,” countered the third voice.

“Miranda has been in the Tower of Thorns?”

“I brought her there in a dream.”

“For that, I should rend you.”

“It was not my intention to bring her. Besides”—the voice sounded like the incubus’s again—“you have already rent me once. Perhaps, that will do?”

“Perhaps.”

The incubus’s blood-red eyes drank in my face. “If Lilith captures her, call upon me. I will save her!”

“You?” laughed my brother. “Resist Lilith?”

The sable incubus rose catlike to his feet. “Thanks to your sister, I have a power far greater than Lilith on my side.”

“And what power could that be?”

As he faded away, his voice lingered behind him: “Ask King Vinae!”

Before slipping into deeper dreaming, I wondered what secret Seir of the Shadows could know, that he could boast of resisting the Queen of Air and Darkness herself.

*   *   *

I WOKE
to find that everyone else was asleep except for Titus, who stood watch. Apparently, my brothers had set a watch among themselves without including me in the roster. Not that I minded the extra rest, but it galled me to know that they had done this because they did not trust me.

Rising, I glanced down, and my heart stopped in my chest. In the small rocks and dust beside my sleeping bag were the tracks of demon feet, a large set and a smaller set.

It had not been a dream.

I moved to the ledge and sat gazing out at the mountains below. What was out there, I do not know, for my mind never beheld what my eyes saw. I was too busy contemplating other things.

Could Astreus still live? Could he have held out against the darkness, even without hope? Surely, that was his voice I had heard.

Such joy rose in me. I felt as if the peaks had fallen away, and I was flying; as if my wings could pick me up and carry me; or, perhaps, as if the sheer force of my exaltation was so great as to repel all misery, throwing me thus into the heavens.

The realization I had rejected in the City of Dis could no longer be denied.

I loved him.

When had it happened? I had thought myself wiser than to fall in love with an elf. And yet, in the midst of this ecstasy born of hope, I could not find fault with my choice. I loved the elf who wished to free all others from the clutches of Hell. Who could be more fitting?

My joyous flight of fancy faltered. I had seen Mephistopheles and Seir. I remembered where they had been standing. This means my eyes must have been open, at least briefly—which meant that Seir could have seen that I was awake.

My heart dropped like a stone. I had not soared. I was still anchored firmly upon the ledge of misery. I had gone nowhere.

Was it so astonishing that the demon who had once been Astreus could reproduce the dead elf’s voice? Seir had played yet another trick upon me. Most likely, he hoped I might be led to believe that some part of Astreus still lived within him so he could lead me to some harm—which meant Astreus Stormwind really was dead.

He must be dead, or Seir would not have allowed me to hear his voice. Seir would not have given me hope, if hope was real. He was a demon.

Once before, I had allowed Seir to pluck my heartstrings, when he resurrected the image of my dead first love. My error, in trusting the false Ferdinand, had stripped my family of their immortality.

I would not fall for his blandishments again.

But I still loved him.

Eventually, others began to stir. I rose to join them, folding up my blankets and putting them into a backpack which Mephisto had requisitioned from his seven hoods. The milk had spoiled during the night, despite the cold weather, but the wine and honey were welcome.

As I licked honey from my fingers, the latter part of the dreamlike conversation returned to me. A power stronger than Lilith? Ask King Vinae? What did it all mean? Vinae was one of the nine demons King Solomon originally captured—the one that had supposedly powered my staff—only instead, Ophion, the Serpent of the Wind, the ancient consort of my Lady, dwelled within my flute.

So, where was King Vinae?

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

Prospero’s Purposes

We pushed on, climbing and descending these heartless peaks. The mountains were an unrelenting gray-brown, the monotony broken only by changes in the type of terrain: sheer cliff sides of which to be wary, jagged boulders to scramble over, or loose rocks to avoid. As we struggled to navigate each new landscape, we reassured each other that the next stretch of path would be easier. Only, it never was. After a time, our muscles burned, our feet ached, and our supply of wine had run low.

A strange rumbling sounded, and rain began to fall. At first, this raised my spirits. I loved rain and anticipated that the coolness would be refreshing.

Icy cold slush fell from the sky. I loved weather, all weather … except for freezing rain. One never seems to be able to keep it away from one’s skin, no matter how one dresses. It dripped under my collar, sending freezing slivers down the back of my neck.

I cringed all the more when I recalled that whatever was falling was, most likely, the product of some human sin and not water at all.

“Oh, this is just too much!” Logistilla cried. She beat her hands about her head as if she could drive off the rain. “How can we have weather in Hell?”

“Dante mentioned ‘foul icy rain.’” Caliban had hunched his shoulders against the inclement weather but it did not seem to be doing much good. Water dripped from his nose. “But he puts it in the Third Circle with the Gluttons.”

“Maybe it moves, like real weather,” offered Ulysses.

“He said it was ceaseless,” Caliban said.

“If so, we missed that, for which I am grateful,” Erasmus sighed. “Let’s find a place to get out of this and see if it passes.”

*   *   *

WE
found an overhanging ledge and huddled against the rough stone. The sleet barely missed us. Occasional gusts of wind blew the cold spray into our faces.

Gregor growled. “To quote Erasmus quoting Mephisto: what I need right now is a good whack from a cheer weasel.”

“Of course!” Mephisto tapped his staff. “The cheer weasel! Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You mean there really is such a thing?” Erasmus looked up in surprise.

I began to imagine that a rainbow-colored length of something leapt about upon the dreary gray rocks. Moments later, it was with us. The cheer weasel was as long as an ordinary weasel, but it was much fluffier, like the Persian cat of ferrets. Instead of brown or white fur, it had horizontal stripes of bright rainbow colors. It had eyes like shiny black beads, and its ears were unusually large. Instead of a little black nose, it had a huge red ball. All in all, it looked like a weasel designed by a clown.

“How … ghastly!” Logistilla drew back. Yet, after a cursory examination of the creature, she could not help chuckling.

“Here goes!” Mephisto called out, and he whacked Gregor across the face with the cheer weasel.

The cheer weasel elongated as it swung. Imagine swinging a creature made out of pompoms strung together by elastic. Its nose swelled, becoming even larger, and it let out a delightful noise like a child’s squeaky toy. Gregor’s face disappeared behind rainbow-colored fur.

Gregor squawked. Then, a smile began lurking at the corner of his mouth. A moment later, his face relaxed into an actual grin. “Interesting!”

“Does it really work?” asked Erasmus.

“Here, try it yourself.” Mephisto whacked Erasmus across the face with the cheer weasel.

*   *   *

WHAT
followed was a cheer weasel free-for-all, with occasional gusts of icy rain blowing this way and that. Each of us grabbed the weasel and whacked someone else with it. Being whacked with the thing produced a giddy sensation. First, I received a face-full of soft fur. Next, a happy tingly feeling started at the top of my head and spread down my spine until even my blistered feet felt cheerier. Two hits, and we were singing with glee.

And, once I got my hands on the thing, it was great fun to swing it and feel it stretch out as it struck someone else’s face, emitting its funny, squeaking sound. I had the most fun whacking Mab and Theo and Titus … though the noise Ulysses made when I caught him full in the mouth with the rainbow fur was one I will remember for years to come. I would have liked to smack Erasmus with the thing, too, but the weasel must have sensed that there was not enough cheer in that particular desire, for it wiggled out of my grip. Then, Ulysses had it, and he was whacking Cornelius, who sat down, giggling like a schoolboy who had been caught doing something naughty.

After a time, our sides ached from laughing. Mephisto reclaimed the cheer weasel and draped it about his neck like a multicolored furry muffler. The rain had finally stopped. We set off again at a good clip, talking in overly loud voices, all speaking at once, as we discussed what had happened to each of us since the bridge. Whenever one of us began to lag, Mephisto would whip the weasel off his neck and smack the malingerer across the face with a mouthful of multicolored fur.

Conversation stopped for a time as the slope became steeper. We crested the saddle between twin peaks. It was cold and snowy, and there was no life anywhere: neither bird nor insect nor a single soul of the damned. Just rock and snow and horizon. Far below, we could see the curving highways of the Cloverleaf from Hell and some of the greenery of the nightmarish forest. Beyond that rose towns such as Infernal Milan, all of which looked like tiny models in a museum diorama.

Starting down again, we headed at a brisk pace for a pass Mephisto had seen in the ball. We surfed down a section of loose scree and then found ourselves on a downhill path that zigzagged back and forth across the slope. The long, shallow switchbacks made our downward progress extremely slow, but they also made this stretch of the path far easier than what had come before. We found we had some breath available for conversation.

Mab pulled out his notebook and flipped open to a blank page. “It occurs to me that this might be a good time to ask some questions.”

“What did you have in mind, Detective?” Erasmus asked. He walked behind Cornelius, prodding him gently with his staff whenever the latter veered off the path. Our group still traveled in two sections, with Theo and Erasmus exchanging dark looks whenever they came near each other. “Anything is better than being left alone to contemplate our personal miseries in silence.”

“I want to compile a list of the tasks Mr. Prospero gave each of you,” Mab explained, scribbling as he walked. “Miss Miranda’s duties, I know. She’s in charge of Prospero, Inc. The company is responsible for making and maintaining contracts with spirits so as to subdue them and make the earth more amenable to human beings. Am I right? Or is there something else, too?”

“No,” I laughed, though the cold wind cutting across my face did much to reduce my good mood. “That is quite enough.”

“And you, Miss Logistilla?”

Cornelius cleared his throat. “I hate to curb your enthusiasm, Spirit Creature, but is this conversation wise? Would it not be better that we each keep our own counsel? Especially here in Hell, where our words could be overheard?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Cornelius. Just take a look around.” Mab gestured toward the empty barren rocks. “Even the demons don’t seem to like it here. Not an imp or an incubus in sight! Might be the only privacy we get down here.”

“Still,” Cornelius continued, “I must counsel against spilling family secrets. There may be reasons why Father did not want us to share them.”

Mab scratched his eternal five o’clock shadow. He now looked less unkempt than many of my brothers, since they had not shaved in several days. “I understand your reluctance, Mr. Cornelius, and I hate to be a harbinger of doom, but if we fail to rescue Mr. Prospero, and something happens to one of you … well, knowing what the dead guy’s duties had been might become important to the survivors—and the human race.”

Cornelius walked along tapping the stony path before him with his long cane. His head was tilted, as if in concentration. Finally, he spoke. “You have convinced me, Spiritling. The needs of the future outweigh any consideration of secrecy. Carry on.”

“Good!” Mab grinned. “Miss Logistilla?”

“I make bodies for Father’s ‘great project.’ Ouch!” Logistilla cried as Titus stepped on her foot. A buffeting with the weasel combined with the winds had loosened her hairpins. Her long black hair now flowed freely down her back. Titus braided it for her as they walked, except this meant that he kept treading on the back of her shoe. “I have to design each so that it matches pictures Cornelius brings me. I’ve gathered quite a collection of them now, waiting against the day when Father asks for them.”