Satan's Mirror (19 page)

Her precious child. Suffering. Would Emily see her again? To break into hell seemed impossible, not to mention breaking out again. But she had to try. She had to find her little girl, even if it meant being trapped in hell forever.

Leaving a twenty under her plate, she picked up her backpack and the arrow case and walked in the direction of the Ladies Room. Before she reached it, however, she turned down a short hall and snuck out a side door.

Emily found herself on a wharf, buffeted by a northerly breeze from a fast-approaching rainstorm. Water lapped the boats. Conversation drifted from the dock. In the darkness, a cigarette glowed. She turned away, thinking of Joey.

Emily skirted the parking lot, avoiding her car in case anyone noticed her. She crossed Avenida Menendez and entered a maze of residential roads. Old-fashioned street lamps lent a hazy glow over manicured lawns and sculpted flowerbeds. Air conditioning units cycled on and off, and she heard an occasional television. A woman passed walking her dog, but she didn’t acknowledge Emily. Even the dog averted its eyes.

When Emily reached Weeden Street, she found it as silent and foreboding as she remembered. She stood across from the house stymied by memories—the devil asking if she was afraid, Joey’s silhouette darkening the porch. The terror she felt that night left her a quivering wreck, unable to function. What made her think she would be any stronger now?

A small voice reared up inside her. She
would
be strong. She had no choice. She promised April she would save her from monsters.

Before anyone could stop her, before she could stop herself, Emily rushed across the street and entered the shadows between the buildings. Overgrown bushes cascaded overhead; vines trailed over her face. She felt a tug and wheeled about, but it was only a branch caught on her bag.

Movement filled the gusty night. Wide eyed, she stumbled through the gloom, struggling to keep her balance on the uneven ground. She tried not to think of what she was about to do, tried not to dwell on demons and hounds and hell. All she wanted was to get to the house.

She jarred to a stop.

A pair of green-gold eyes stared at her. Emily gasped, heart pounding, drawing her blade from a pocket of her coat. For a moment, the night turned silent. Then a cat darted across her path and disappeared.

She clutched her chest, whispered, “Damn it,” and moved on.

Emily slipped through the hole in the fence, and into the backyard. She ran her gaze over the forgotten garden, listening. Dry leaves rustled in the breeze. There was no other sound.

Satisfied she was alone, she approached the house, trying to remember which window had the broken sash. She tugged at each, but none would open. Someone had repaired it.

Now what? With her shoulder braced against the window frame, Emily swung her elbow. The glass cracked but didn’t break. She swung again, and it shattered. The noise was louder than she intended. Emily bit her lip. After clearing away the larger shards, she reached through and twisted the latch. Then, pulling the hinged window, she ducked beneath the casement and climbed inside.

The room was pitch dark. Emily crouched against the wall while her eyes adjusted. Tugging her clothes out of her backpack, she dressed in the pants she bought and a tunic she made from the leather Mr. Snow gave her. She sheathed her knife at her waist, strapped the bow and the quiver of arrows to her back, and slung Chastity’s water-filled goat bladder over her shoulder.

She trembled so hard her legs felt weak and her jaw ached with the chattering of her teeth. Taking a deep breath, she headed for the staircase.

Lamplight spilled from the front windows. A car went down the street, causing shadows in the room to jump, and her heart to jump with them. Her hand on the banister, she gazed at the landing, straining to catch a hint of movement, to hear the slightest sound. She eased up the stairs.

Halfway up, she heard a low whistle. Emily froze. Was Joey there, perhaps watching from a doorway? Did she dare face him? Keeping her eyes trained above, she unsheathed her knife.

The whistle sounded again.

She pressed against the wall, hoping to blend with the darkness, creeping sideways up the steps. The whistle rose in pitch, almost a howl. Eerie. It didn’t sound human.

Why hadn’t she brought a flashlight?

Or a gun?

On the landing, she thrust with her knife, slicing the shadows. She spun about, kicking in all directions, imagining Joey’s face leaping out at her, imagining him reaching for her throat or shoving her backwards down the stairs.

When no one attacked, she crouched in a fighting stance. The noise came from the bedroom where she’d first seen Satan’s Mirror. Scarcely breathing, she peered around the doorjamb.

Rain beat the window. The sparkling glass threw streaks of light onto the walls. Knife outstretched, Emily crossed the room on tiptoe. The window was open half an inch, just enough to get a fingertip underneath. Wind whistled through the crack.

Outside, a large tree grew at the side of the house. Was this Joey’s secret entrance? She closed and latched the window.

Hands shaking, she faced the room. The floor held the ghost of a pentagram, but the candles and the offering plate were gone. The air was fresh, no trace of brimstone or cigarette smoke. There were no rabbits. The police must have taken them away.

With her shoulders back and her chin jutted out defiantly, Emily addressed the wall. “I’m here. Come and get me.”

Nothing happened. She waited, staring at the darkness, hands clenched. “Open up, damn you. Open Sesame.”

A glimmer touched the wall. Her heart leapt, but she realized just as suddenly that it was car lights from several blocks away shining through the tree branches. Despondency crushed her chest.

Muscles coiled, eyes smarting with tears, Emily sat cross-legged in the leftover pentagram. She’d thought it would be easy—just show up in the house and the Mirror would appear. She needed Vanessa. Damn that woman.

Chastity had said Vanessa was tethered to hell. Did that mean the devil knew she was gone? If Vanessa was dead, was the house dead, too? Emily buried her face in the crook of her arm, fighting a wail of grief. She had to be strong, had to be ready in case the devil came.

But he did not come.

It was dawn when she got to her feet. Emily ached from head to toe. She’d been ready to go, wanted to go. What was she going to do? She didn’t know anyone other than Vanessa and Joey who could open a portal to hell.

But that wasn’t true.

Emily froze, remembering. While researching the Mirror, she read about a place called Cowbell Corners and a coven of witches who opened the Devil’s Eye. They had a website and a newsletter—obviously dying for recognition.

If Emily played it right, if she used her status as a television personality, she might talk them into giving an interview. She would insist on a demonstration.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Satan dressed in his formal thong. The front pouched a bit to house his ample gonads, and the back trailed a pair of barbed tails. He felt regal and in high spirits as he entered the smoky, torch-lined corridor to greet the chancellor.

He’d ordered his attendants to spruce up the castle in anticipation of the chancellor’s visit. They rose to the task admirably. They replaced the dead spinner bugs, and now the ceilings billowed with fresh webs. They scattered aromatic harpy feathers and dung over the floors. The dung attracted more of the planet’s only indigenous life form, a flat brown insect that nested in corners and scaled the dark, rough walls. Overall, he was pleased with the castle’s ambiance.

As he strode down the corridor, Satan nodded to one of his transportation officers. He wore a necklace similar to his own. It allowed him to open and close the conduit that linked this world with home. The officer’s position was critical. Inbound patrons expected a smooth transition, and those returning carried their first impressions with them.

Per his station, the chancellor chose the longest staircase for his arrival. This meant Satan would not see him coming until he was halfway down the stairs. Fortunately, the conduit flashed upon materialization, giving Satan time to lower to one knee and bow his head.

“Satan, my old friend,” the chancellor said as he descended the stone steps. “It has been too long.”

“Chancellor Adramelech,” said Satan, eyes downcast, “I welcome you to Wormwood.”

“Tut, tut. No need for formalities,” said the chancellor, waggling his fingers. “Have my nephew and his newling arrived?”

“Not yet.” Satan stood.

The chancellor was shorter than when he’d seen him last. Shrinking with age, Satan thought. His horns were withered and dry; his once bright-red skin had a grayish cast. Nevertheless, he wore the heavy girdle of office with vigor and fortitude. Satan expected Adramelech would hold his chancellorship for another millennia, at least.

“Come to my drawing room. We can await your nephew.”

“Fine.” The chancellor stepped beside him, as spry as ever. “I want to thank you for going out of your way to accommodate the child.”

“Not at all. Many newlings come of age at Wormwood.”

“But he’s not the average newling. He is fragile, sometimes doesn’t eat for days. And the questions he asks.”

“Does he have emotions?” Satan asked.

“Who knows? Children these days… But true emotion is rare. You have been blessed, as was Lucifer before you, with the uncanny ability to hate. Without it, you would not have secured this position.”

Satan’s temper flared. “There’s more to me than hatred, more to running Wormwood than procuring subjects. If that was all it took, I would be no better than Nergal or Yama.”

“Fine successors they would make,” the chancellor said. “But don’t misunderstand. I am not criticizing your management of this place. On the contrary. I have seen the numbers. Patronage is at an all time high.”

Satan nodded, trying to bank his ire. He led down a short staircase marked with the customary broken statue.

“Of course, you can’t take full credit for the increase in thrill seekers,” the chancellor said as they walked. “It is the era we live in. The prophecy. Everyone wants to say they were there when the deity returned.”

“If you believe in that sort of thing.”

“Sacrilege,” the chancellor muttered. “Do not let anyone hear you speak such.”

They passed the entrance to the reception chamber. The sound of whimpering coming from the room bolstered Satan’s spirits. The orgy he had arranged was winding down. For a moment, he was tempted to partake of the desserts himself.

Then a patron recognized Chancellor Adramelech and bowed low. The chancellor ignored him. Satan recognized that the attention was unwanted. Turning away, he climbed the stairs leading to his drawing room, speaking as if there had been no interruption. “Forgive me, sir, but I cannot see why any deity would appear in this forsaken place.”

“Forsaken? How so?”

“There is nothing here. I could walk the circumference of the planet and find only what we brought with us.”

“That’s the lure.” The chancellor puffed a bit with the stairs. “No jostling for a place to stand. No continuous rain.”

Satan jumped at the opening. “I heard there is no rain in the high buildings. Above the clouds.”

“Is that how you see yourself—part of the upper echelon?”

“I see myself visiting my home world.”

“Uh, no,” said the chancellor, looking discomfited. “It would not be proper, not with your temper. You are Lord of Wormwood. This is your home now.”

“Then it is true. I am banished. All for one incident.”

“No, no. Not exactly. Besides, you would not like it there, so crowded and dingy. Not bright and open like this.”

They entered the antechamber where Satan’s attendants groveled and fawned.

“Bring vitriol wine,” Satan barked, his good humor strained.

Chancellor Adramelech stepped into the drawing room, striding to the open window. “Such a view.”

Satan joined him, not trusting himself to speak. He looked at clouds of flaming plasma, at harpies soaring through the haze. He saw Abaddon, king of the centaurs who guarded the grounds. And he saw the molten lake, which was Wormwood’s most famous feature.

“There.” The chancellor pointed out the window. “Prophecy tells us the deity will rise from the flames of that lake to change how we see ourselves forever.”

“But it doesn’t say when,” Satan murmured.

“Which is to your advantage. For in the end, it doesn’t matter what you believe or what I believe, but what the populace believes and those with the wherewithal to pay for a pilgrimage here.”

“My lord,” said a quavering voice. “A patron wishes to see you.”

“Of course.” Satan turned toward the door.

A tall figure strode into the room. His steps clip-clopped over the stone floor. Must have had a manicure, Satan thought enviously, suddenly aware of his own scuffed and encrusted hooves.

“Gorson, my dear nephew.” The chancellor stepped to greet him. “And here is little Drekavac.”

A child peered into the room. He appeared frail and malnourished, his head overlarge. Satan would not believe him old enough to come of age. As he watched him, he noticed a birthmark high on his head—like an hourglass between his budding horns.

He bowed to the child and his father. “Welcome to Wormwood. Your wish is my goal.”

“Lord Satan,” Gorson said, “your efforts to maintain this whimsical theme is admirable. This place is pure fantasy.”

“Will you share my wine?” Satan led them deeper into the room where one of his skulking attendants filled four goblets. “Send for Marbas and our gift.”

He drank half his wine and refilled before the others joined him. From a throne-like chair, he stared at the newling. The child circled the room, making annoying noises in the back of his throat. Satan did not like working with children. He did not understand them.

However, he did like the look of the hourglass birthmark. He wondered if he should get a tattoo.

The chancellor and his nephew sat together against the wall, both watching Drekavac.