Satan's Mirror (23 page)

A solid blow to his midsection dropped him to his knees. He was aware of torchlight, aware he’d survived yet another passage. Hands wrenched him upward, dragging him past blurred faces and muffled screams. He didn’t try to speak. He knew from experience he would puke if he opened his mouth. He also knew the pair of demons who carried him were mere minions—they didn’t wear a language synthesizer like the big guy Satan.

They tossed him into the room Joey always thought of as the boss’ office. It had a desk filled with twinkling lights and a large, open window with a view of the lake of fire. Although it was daylight outside, shadow shrouded the room.

Joey remained on hands and knees, coughing. He wiped spit from his mouth with the back of his hand then looked around. The minions were gone, and the room was silent.

“I need a few more days,” he said. “A week tops.”

“No more time,” a shadow replied. “We had a deal.”

“We’ll make a new deal.” Joey stood, legs quaking.

The shadow darted forward so quickly he would have missed it if he’d blinked. A clawed hand grasped his throat and slammed him against the wall, pinning him eight feet up.

Wheezing, Joey clutched the hand that held him, trying to lessen the pressure.

Satan leaned to within inches, his fetid breath hot in Joey’s face. He hissed and spat, but the words that reached Joey’s ears were recognizable. “I wish to show you something.” He pressed his finger against Joey’s forehead.

Joey screamed. It was like an ice-cold dagger had penetrated his brain. Blinding light filled his vision. His eyes rolled back to escape it. Just when he thought he would pass out, a figure in a black leather coat appeared.

The sight snapped him awake. His senses piqued, surpassing the pain, and he leaned forward as if to see better. It was a woman. He saw her from a height as if he glided overhead. She looked up at him. Then she pulled an arrow from behind her back and shot—

The connection broke. Joey hit the floor with a gut-jarring thud. Turning his back, Satan strode to the window and gazed outside.

Joey massaged his throat, still gasping. “What was that, some sort of surveillance recording?”

“It was from a companion.”

Joey mouthed the word, “Oh.” He’d heard of companions. While the majority of hellhounds were born in the wild, the elite were trained as protectors. They held a telepathic link to their masters.

“I know her,” Joey said. “She’s that bitch doing a story about the Mirror. Last time I seen her was in the swamp.” He looked up, wincing with trepidation. “What’s she doing in the wastelands? How come she has a weapon?”

“She seems well prepared.”

Joey’s stomach dropped another notch. “You can’t think I had anything to do with it.”

“No?”

“Well, no. Of course not. I’m your man. You know that. You know everything.” He paused. “Are you saying you didn’t bring her?”

“I glimpsed her in the conduit. It amused me at the time. No one has broken into my realm before. I actually looked forward to reuniting her with her daughter. The games we would play.”

“You took her kid?”

The devil growled.

Joey gave an involuntary jerk. “Serves the bitch right.”

“It has grown beyond games, beyond amusement. That she should do this now, spit in my eye when there are so many here to witness it. When there are so many awaiting the deity.”

“Deity? You mean the dark angel?”

“What?” Satan turned around, a shadow framed in light.

“The dark angel,” Joey stammered. “A legend among your subjects. The embodiment of hope, if you believe in such a thing.”

“This has little to do with deities or angels. There has been a fatality. Our first.”

“I thought you guys were invincible.”

“She killed a child. An important child. The chancellor expects my resignation.”

“You mean quit?” Joey leapt up. “You can do that?”

No response. Frowning, Joey thought of other names for the lord of the underworld—Hades, Lucifer, Diablo. He always believed they referred to the same entity. He wondered now if they were previous overseers.

“What would happen then?” he asked.

“A new purveyor would be assigned, perhaps one without my good humor. Or my penchant for deals.”

Joey stammered. “Deals?”

The yellow eyes glinted. “You spoke of making a new deal. I assume you again barter for your freedom.”

“Yes.”

The silhouette blurred, leaving the window and reappearing behind Joey. A sharp claw stabbed the back of his neck, but he didn’t flinch.

“What do you want me to do?” Joey asked.

“Find her,” Satan said. “Bring her to me.”

“That’s quite a challenge.”

“And if you fail—”

“I know the consequences.”

“You don’t. You really have no idea.”

Joey stifled a shudder. “What if I refuse the assignment?”

“Is that what you’re doing?” A pause. “I thought not. Two companions will accompany you.”

A pair of hellhounds appeared. Joey leapt in surprise. The devil’s claw dug deeper, and he jumped again.

Satan laughed. Stepping to the desk, he touched a series of twinkling lights and then inserted the pendant he wore. “I will place you where we found the newling.”

A shimmering window opened in mid-air. It showed a vista of red stone. One dog stepped through and appeared on the other side. It seemed oddly diminished, as if viewed through the wrong end of a telescope.

The other dog moved next to Joey.

He looked at the devil. His gut told him to back out of the agreement. But this was the only deal on the table—find Goodman or die.

Without a word, he stepped through the portal. The second hellhound stayed on his heels. Hot, abrasive wind chafed his face. The window popped out of existence.

Joey gazed over smoking plains, shoulders slumping. He ran a hand through his nonexistent hair. Looking up at the curdling sky, he yelled, “Where in hell am I supposed to look?”

THIRTY-THREE

As the ash storm moved on, the surrounding haze brightened. The blinding glare masked the red blush Emily sought. She plodded forward, trying not to think of what it would mean to her little girl if she veered off course, telling herself that if the lake of fire were as large as described, she would find it.

In the back of her mind, however, she worried about how long it was taking to locate her daughter. What horrors did April face in the castle while she wandered the wasteland searching for her?

Remnants of the storm turned the air caustic. Even shallow breaths set her throat ablaze. Her boots kicked up the leftover ash, tracing her path with a fine cloud.

Emily passed a group of boulders, remembering to keep her distance so not to trigger a response. They were covered in bird droppings, but on a larger scale than she thought possible. She recalled the befouled statues near her home. The birds here must be gargantuan.

A cold sensation crept over her at the thought. She tensed, searching the sky. Chastity spoke of harpies. She said they attacked the weak or those who traveled alone, sometimes carrying them off to their nests.

Emily felt vulnerable and exposed. She took out an arrow and walked with her bow ready. What would happen, she wondered, after a harpy’s youngling stripped your bones of flesh? Would you still be alive, praying for a caretaker to turn your bones to salt?

Shadow marred the distant haze. At first, she thought it was another group of boulders—but as she neared, she realized it was a copse of trees. Dark shapes fluttered among the limbs. Emily dropped to the ground, nose twitching against a rank odor.

Harpies. Their raucous screeching made her think of hysterical old shrews arguing.

They appeared stunted, as if they were half a person—the torso of a woman with gray, pendulous breasts attached to the stubby legs of a vulture. Their wings had claws at the tips. Their faces were vaguely human, but with sagging skin and bulging eyes. Crests of feathers stood from their heads like wispy hair. They had long, thin beaks, which they used to peck the people trapped in the trees. Layers of excrement covered not only the tree limbs but also the exposed heads of victims.

Emily’s stomach turned. There was no way to save the poor people. Even if she killed every harpy in the grove, what would she do then? Stand guard to kill the next flock that happened by?

She backed away, hoping the birds’ eyesight was as poor as the hounds’. Hunched over, she ran, keeping her distance while still keeping them in sight. They squawked and shrieked as if hurling curses at one another, too busy with the tree-people to notice her.

“I can’t help them,” Emily repeated. “I’m here to save April, not to change the world. Stay focused. Don’t take chances.”

A shrill scream came from somewhere ahead.

Emily hurried forward to where a man lay on the ground. He struggled to get up while a hovering harpy raked his back with its claws. To the side, a woman pounded the bird with her fists. The creature ignored her.

Without thinking, Emily rushed it. Her coat flew out behind her, flapping noisily. “Caw, caw,” she yelled. “Ieee.”

The harpy looked at her with something akin to alarm. It flew upward so quickly its massive wings stirred a whirlwind of dust and gravel.

The woman dove beside the man as if unsure whether she should protect him from the bird or from Emily.

“Look out! Move!” Emily shouted as the harpy swooped down.

She shot her arrow, but it was a dead shaft, flying sluggishly and bouncing off its wing. Standing over the two people, she shot again. This time the arrow flew true. It passed through the harpy’s scrawny neck and implanted itself there. Thick drops of blood rained down.

A horrible screech rose from the harpy-infested trees. They noticed her at last.

“Come on. Get up,” Emily cried. “We’ve got to go.”

But the man didn’t get up—not because his injuries were debilitating, but because he wore one of those damned chains about his neck. Its length ensnared his arms and legs.

The racket grew. At least twenty dark birds unfurled their wings and rose. She had only eight arrows left—she would not be able to fight off so many. She glanced about, but there was no place to hide. Even the boulders were too far.

At her feet, the man untangled himself and struggled to his knees. Seized by inspiration, Emily grabbed the medallion and pulled it over his head.

“Stop,” he cried. “I can’t take that off.”

“It will explode,” the woman shouted, confirming Emily’s suspicions.

“That’s what I’m hoping.” She swung the chain overhead.

The act brought back memories—she’d made friends with another Olympic-hopeful who competed in the hammer throw. During their short-lived romance, he taught her a little about his art. She never came near the seventy-seven meter record, but he said she showed aptitude.

Emily no longer thought of herself as an athlete, but she still had upper body strength. She swung the chain, hearing it thrum as it circled her head, gaining momentum. Then she put her whole body into the action—arms outstretched, turning in a tight circle. Distance equaled the angle of release. She needed to hit at least one-hundred feet.

The medallion glowed blue. The chain whirred. Emily made three more rotations. As the medallion reached its apex, she let go.

The chain flew into the air to meet the approaching harpies.

Emily leaned over the man and the woman, ducking her head. There came a brilliant flash of light. For a moment, it seemed time had stopped. Then a resounding boom filled her senses.

The concussion struck.

It was more than wind—it was like being hit by a solid wave of air. Emily’s knees scraped the ground as her body blew sideways. She clung to the people she sheltered, more out of a need to be anchored than a desire to save them. She yelled but couldn’t hear her own voice.

Something heavy thumped nearby. Then another. An object glanced off Emily’s back. She grimaced, eyes squeezed shut, afraid to wonder what was falling around them. The air stilled, but loud thuds continued as if the sky itself were raining in great plops.

Then something large skidded into them, draping them. It smelled like rancid dung. Emily gagged. She crawled out, gasping, staggering to her feet.

It was the wing and partial breast of a harpy. She backed away and nearly tripped over another carcass. She turned slowly, one hand over her mouth and nose. Body parts lay smoldering upon the ground. Her eyes burned, and her nose ran.

The woman helped the man up. They stared at the carnage in obvious amazement.

With the toe of her boot, Emily rolled a harpy onto its side. It was just as ugly in death. The gray, wrinkled skin lay in folds about its face, and the protuberant eyes gazed unseeingly in opposite directions. The saw-toothed beak looked lethal.

The man stepped before her. “Who
are
you?”

Emily’s head ached. Her ears rang with the blast. She found herself wishing for the wave of wind to return, or even an ash storm—anything to blow away the putrid stench.

Beyond the man was a radius of harpy pieces. Judging from the blast point, the medallion had made her hundred-foot mark. The trees were flattened—some uprooted, some snapped off. She wondered if the people inside felt less pain, now that their hosts were dead.

“You have clothes,” the man said. “And weapons.”

Emily blinked at him. “The bird that attacked you. Why wasn’t it in the trees with the others?”

“She didn’t belong to the flock.” He shrugged. “Her assignment was to torment me. She shows up from time to time.”

“Did you kill her?” asked the woman.

“I hope so,” Emily said, looking around. “Help me find my arrows.” Head bent, she walked among the carcasses, scanning the ground.

The woman found the first one. She held it out to Emily with both hands, eyes downcast, as if offering something precious to a god.

Emily examined the arrow, deciding it was the one that flew awry. She couldn’t find the other. Puzzling. She was certain she’d hit the damned bird in the neck. Perhaps the creature caught the outer edge of the blast and was blown farther away. She might come across its body later. In any case, the arrow she held was faulty. Not wanting to mix it in with her quiver, Emily slid it into her boot.