Diabolical (43 page)

They walked for what seemed like miles. She occasionally threw a glance back over her shoulder, rolling her eyes, until finally coming to a stop and waiting.

She set the torch into a holder embedded in the wall of the tunnel. “We're almost there. Stop being ridiculous.”

Reluctantly, Hatcher closed the distance, still keeping several feet between them.

“There's something you need to know,” she said, on the move again.

The light from the flames receded behind them as they ventured forth. The way ahead was pitch black.

“What's that?”

She reached back and held out her hand. “Remember back at Bronson Caves? Our little interlude?”

The hand was barely visible now, the light fading more with each step. She gestured impatiently and he reached forward and took it. The touch of her skin sent a tingle through his body.

“You mean, your little game of mindfuck?”

“Interesting choice of words,” she said, dropping her voice to an almost intimate volume. “You betrayed her so easily. It hardly took any seduction at all.”

He pushed her hand away, realizing he was in complete darkness now. He swiveled his head to look behind him. No sign of light. Anywhere.

“You're lying,” he said.

“Am I?” Her voice was close, but he could no longer see her. She may have been twelve inches away, or twelve feet. “Don't you remember? Your lips and teeth on my skin? Our tongues and limbs intertwined so deliciously? You don't remember sliding deep inside me with such longing, such hunger?”

“No,” he said, without any of the conviction he'd tried for.

“Over and over and over, I kept asking you if it felt good, and you kept saying oh, yes, yes, yes.”

“It wasn't real.”

“And I asked you—asked you as you thrust yourself into me, as your pulse raced in ecstasy . . . do you love her?”

Hatcher put his hand out, swept it from side to side, groping the darkness. Nothing.

Another whisper, loud enough to echo. “You said no, over and over again.”

“That's not true.”

“Which part? What you said? Or the fact you said it?”

Hatcher patted his pockets, trying to find his flashlight. It was gone.
Son of a bitch.

He put his arm out again, crept forward.

“Don't worry,” she said. “It will be our little secret.”

Her voice was so close. He kept moving, waving sightlessly, submerged in inky blackness.

Then light erupted all around him. Torches blooming in every direction, lining a circular chamber. Illuminating a crowd. Hundreds of women. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Pale, tanned, dark. Stunningly beautiful, provocative women. Some sitting on the floor or casually stretched out, others standing farther back, all of them forming an audience. A large ring of spectators.

An arena.

Hatcher stood just inside the circle, hadn't moved, taking it all in. In the middle of the chamber, the center of the arena, Morris Sankey sat on the throne, looking down from the raised platform. Orange jacket, orange hat. To the left of him stood a man Hatcher hadn't seen before. A bit older, graying. Well dressed in business attire.

To the right was Edgar. Smiling.

Suspended above them was a figure Hatcher had seen before, but only in sketches. The head, horns, and legs of a huge goat, the body of a woman, naked, a sewn-on penis and scrotum hanging limp between the goat legs. The left arm was pointing up. The right arm was male, stitched to the body, pointing downward. Each forearm had a word tattooed on it. As far as he could tell, it was identical to the drawings in every detail. The Baphomet. Not some living creature, at least, he didn't think so, but rather a grotesque collection of Frankenstein parts.

Below it, in front of the throne, a large ring shined on its pedestal, bathed in a cone of bright light.

Why do I think I've seen this act before?
Hatcher said to himself.

“So glad to see you again,” said the gray-haired man.

Hatcher ignored him. He set his eyes on Edgar.

“You were their prison bitch all along, weren't you? What did they promise you? Supernatural sex?”

“You'll find out soon enough.”

“Where is she?”

Edgar pursed his lips, not quite breaking his smile, and let his eyes roll to the side. He hitched his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Not my department.”

The sound of heels grabbed his attention. Deborah crossed toward him, cutting through the circular space. She was wearing a black dress that barely covered anything. Hatcher tightened his grip on the knife.

She clucked her tongue, wagging her chin in disapproval.

“Is violence your answer to everything?”

“No,” he said, his back stiffening. “Just to questions I don't like.”

“Well, keep it in your pants. Don't you want to hear why you're standing there?”

“I have a feeling you're going to tell me no matter what I say.”

Her face tightened into a smirk, and she crinkled her nose. “You are just so adorable. Did you know that?”

“Tell me where she is.”

“Silly man. What do you think I'm trying to do?”

Deborah swept an arm, indicating a direction behind him. He turned to see the section of Carnates part, clearing a wide path. The same path as last time, ending at the wall of black polished stone. Soliya stood in front of it. She stepped to the side, gave a Vanna White gesture toward the wall.

It took Hatcher a moment, but then the movement caught his eye. He squinted, leaning forward. Once he could focus past the reflections, it all seemed to burst into view.

Vivian. She was on the other side, being held by things he could only assume were demons, long-fingered creatures with bestial faces and swept-back skulls displaying enormous rows of jagged teeth. They had her tightly by the limbs, some biting at her, some clawing at her. He couldn't hear any of it, but her mouth was set in a scream, her eyes wide. Her expression twisted. She was obviously in severe pain.

She seemed able to see out, able to see him. Screaming for help. Screaming for him to help her.

“Let her go,” he said, gritting his teeth so hard he felt one chip.

“Oh, but you see, we don't have her.”

Hatcher tightened his fist around the knife handle as hard as his muscles would allow. “I said, let her go. I mean it.”

Deborah made a disapproving noise, tilted her head as if in pity. “That's not the way it works. We really don't have her. She's—how can I put this . . . crossed over.”

Hatcher's eyes darted back to the wall. The dreamy, liquid image of Vivian was still there, still screaming in silence.

“You're lying.”

“Is that so? In that case, prove it.”

Deborah walked over to the pedestal. She gestured toward the ring.

“This ring will allow you to pass the barrier. You can go get her. If you dare.”

Hatcher stared at Deborah, then back at the ghostly countenance of Vivian. “I don't understand.”

“Yes, you do. This is the Ring of Aandaleeb. Let's not pretend you haven't heard of it.”

“Oh, I've heard of it. You made sure I did. All that crap about King Solomon and demons. Then the visit from Raum. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that if you want me to believe something, it's not true. You want me to use it, so I think I'll pass.”

“Who said I do? I'm offering you a chance to prove it's all fake. I'm actually hoping you don't take me up on it, lest all these carefully laid plans come to naught.”

“That's not the way you work. I may not know much, but I know that.”

“So you're admitting that maybe it's not fake, that maybe she really is at the banks of Fire Lake, ready to be dragged to its depths.”

“Quit the games. What do you want from me?”

“A fair question. I want you to know that you now have a chance to claim the source of more power than anyone has wielded in millennia, power enough to go get your girlfriend and bring her back.”

“Let me guess, if I do that, use that ring to cross over, it will open this Path, some gateway to Hell, so all your demon cousins can come strolling out.”

“My, aren't we so convinced of our own cleverness.”

Hatcher locked eyes with Deborah, then shifted his gaze to the platform. Something wasn't right, and with so many things already wrong, that was saying a lot. That freak Morris Sankey was sitting there like the crowned prince of some role-playing game. The older guy next to him was watching the goings-on intently, trying, it seemed, to appear only casually interested. Edgar was grinning uncontrollably, practically urging Hatcher on with his body language.

“You should know,
she
came to
us
. Oh, yes. It's true. Months ago. A young woman, intensely in love with the man who saved her. A man she couldn't bear to think of as bound to perdition, a man she believed in. A man she'd do anything for.”

“You're lying. She wouldn't have the first clue how to find you.”

“Oh, we can be found when we want to be. She was proud at first, brave. Trying to appeal to our sense of decency, I suppose. But by the end she was practically begging. She would have done anything to keep you from going to Hell. Anything.”

Hatcher said nothing. The muscles in his jaw started to throb. He realized he'd been clenching them so hard they were cramping.

“Don't look at me like that. It's true. We made a deal. If she helped us, we told her we'd do everything in our power to get Hell to relinquish its hold. Problem was, Vivian started getting cold feet. Seeing you nursing contusions and abrasions didn't help. She began to question whether there was more to our plans than we let on. Mostly, though, she started to worry about how you'd react if you found out. She tried to back out, worried we were going to hurt you. Funny part was, we knew she would. Were banking on it, actually. Ironic, isn't it? Here she was trying to save you from Hell, and now she's on the other side of Hell's door, waiting for you to save
her
.”

“I'm not buying it.”

“Which part?”

“Any of it.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps you should act now, while supplies last. This sale won't last forever.”

“This isn't about opening up any portal to Hell. That was all a ruse. An illusion.”

“Oh, mercy me. Jacob Hatcher has just had an epiphany. I hope we didn't strain ourselves thinking too hard. Who was it who tried to tell you not to believe everything you've been told? You just wouldn't listen.”

“Right. Using a fake general and pretending to have my nephew.”

“Fake, huh?”

“Yes. I know all about it.”

“There was nothing fake about General Bartlett,” Deborah said. “And we most certainly did have your nephew. My word, where do you come up with such theories?”

“I don't want to hear it. Whatever it is you're up to, I'm not playing along.”

Deborah's eyebrows popped. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I'm telling you that you can use this ring to control demons and to rescue this woman. A woman who loves you.”

“And I'm telling you I'm not stupid enough to do anything you want me to.”

“Why don't you just take it and try?”

“No, thanks.”

“Are you saying you refuse to accept the Ring of Aandaleeb? Even though I just explained that you could use it to save this woman?”

“Yes.”

“You, Jake Hatcher, destroyed the Tablet of Hadad.”

Hatcher said nothing.

“And now you're rejecting your claim on the ring? Last chance. Just come up here and get it.”

“I don't want it.”

Deborah's eyes seemed to sparkle in the flickering light and she moved out of the way. The gray-haired man in the suit stepped forward, his mouth tense, as if he could hardly contain his smile. He approached the pedestal and slid his hand into the cone of light. He hesitated slightly, as if half expecting something to bite him. Then he plucked the ring from its perch and held it high, like a trophy.

“Thank you, Jacob. I can always count on you.”

The sound of the man's voice sent a sizzle through Hatcher's spine. Something about the tone.

“I must say, you're looking fit.”

Hatcher kept his focus firmly on the man's eyes. “Do I know you?”

“I'm hurt. Of course you do. I'm your brother.”

“Garrett?” Even as Hatcher said the name, he realized the mistake. He'd never met this man before, but the icy gaze peering down at him was disturbingly familiar. He tried to tell himself it couldn't be, but knew that wasn't true.
I am so stupid . . .

“Valentine,”
he said.

The man wrinkled his brow in a look of disapproval. “Last names? After all we've been through together?”

Hatcher said nothing. Valentine held the ring out, romancing it like a gem, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger.

“You have no idea the power you just handed me.”

The platform wasn't far. Maybe ten feet away, maybe three, three and a half feet high. Hatcher's mind automatically started doing the calculations.

“Look, whatever beef you have with me, fine. Just let Vivian go.”

“You know, during my travels, long before you killed me, I once got a valuable piece of advice from an Israeli exporter. He had served for a while in the defense ministry, had dealt with more than his share of geopolitical conflict. Over a plate of foie gras, he told me his country had only two rules for dealing with adversaries.” Valentine held up a finger. “Only negotiate from a position of strength.” He added another finger, making a peace sign. “And if you're in a position of strength,” he said, throwing in a shrug. “Why negotiate?”