Diabolical (12 page)

Hatcher remembered the creatures from the tunnels beneath Manhattan.
Sedim
, the Carnates had called them. Some kind of demon spawn, hybrids, like their Carnate cousins, only without any of the sex appeal. He could still feel the rip of their claws in his back, the stab of their teeth on his shoulder. But these two seemed a little different. They were bigger. Their teeth were definitely larger, the lower ones protruding well beyond their lips, and they had a pair of thick intertwined horns looping down over the backs of their skulls and bending sharply forward. Their eyes seemed blank, like empty sockets stuffed with polished glass, and each of their faces was dominated by a single large nose leaf that groped the air, constantly twitching.

“Okay,” Hatcher said, trying to ignore them. “What now?”

“That is the question, isn't it?”

She stepped forward, placed a finger on his head as she circled him. He raised his hands, which were still secured at the wrist and feeling cold and swollen. The things on the walls let out a warning hiss. Deep, piercing. And effective. He remembered his encounter with the creatures in the tunnels beneath Manhattan, made a mental note to avoid sudden movements.

“Am I going to get a little help with these?” he asked, his hands suspended in the air.

“We'll see.”

He put out one of his feet, slid himself into a sitting position, careful to keep his motions deliberate and calm. A slight improvement in comfort, but not much. “So, what do you want, exactly?”

“You were the one who placed the call.”

“You were the ones who flew a banner telling me to.”

A sly grin tugged at her cheeks. “Are you going to pretend you weren't planning on finding us?”

“Now, where would you get information like that?”

Soliya took a long drag on her cigarette, exhaled a plume of smoke out the side of her mouth, then cut a question mark in it with her finger that, in Hatcher's estimation, held its shape for just a second longer than it should have.

“Wouldn't you like to know.”

Well, yes, he thought, he really would. But now wasn't the time to ask. Almost as much information could be conveyed with a question as with an answer, and he was already staring down the barrel of a huge disadvantage.

“If you knew I needed to find you, I'm going to guess you also know why.”

She looked down at her cigarette like she was measuring it for length. “That would be a fair assumption.”

“Then maybe you can fill me in, and we'll both know.”

“I take that to mean you cannot fathom a reason we would be willing to help you.”

He was inclined to tell her that was a pretty damn accurate interpretation but instead said nothing.

“Your problem, Hatcher, is that you don't understand the nature of the world you live in.”

“Tell me about it,” he said. “Our foreign policy. The war on drugs. Don't even get me started on health-care reform.”

She leveled her eyes at him, eyes that somehow seemed to flash, even in the low light. “Cracking wise won't change things. Nothing is quite what it seems.”

Big surprise, he thought. And this coming from someone who tricked him into almost fulfilling a prophecy that would have sent every soul in existence to Hell.

“How about you clear things up a bit.”

“I think I'd prefer you stay in the dark a bit longer.”

Hatcher tried to figure out what was going on behind those eyes, get a handle on the workings of her mind. Realized it was a futile exercise.

“Then why am I here?” he said.

Eyes trained on his, Soliya walked over to the scalloped wall of the cave, lifted her cigarette and blew on the tip. Then she opened her fingers and let it drop. A small flame erupted where it landed, illuminating a compact heap of pitchwood near her feet. The fire quickly grew, engulfing the wood, shooting flames up along the wall with a loud crackle. The smoke carried a pungent odor.

She slinked toward him, smiling, all curvy sex on two creamy legs, and leaned in close. He reminded himself how the Carnates operated, how they traded on a unique combination of physical beauty and powerful pheromones to manipulate others, told himself to keep in mind it was an unnatural allure that they possessed. That knowledge didn't stop his blood from flooding to his loins, her warmth from causing his skin to flush, her scent from setting his nerve endings on fire. She stroked his face with tender fingers and then cupped his jaw and guided his head to face the opposite cavern wall. The fire emblazoned it with an orange cast, projecting their shimmering shadows onto the surface.

Her voice was a whisper. Breathy, sensual. It puffed into his ears like the seal on a sacred promise.

He felt her move behind him, watched her figure on the wall in front of him rise slowly, one hand swirling tightly above her, the other cradling his jaw, keeping his face in place, ensuring he watched.

Her shadow swayed with an erotic pulse as she straightened her legs, her hand gradually leaving his face to join the other in the air, the black silhouettes of her arms weaving like courting snakes on the bumpy expanse of rock.

The play of her arms and body on the wall had him transfixed. The undulation of her torso, the swimming motion of her hands, the roll and tuck of her ass all gripped his gaze like visual hooks set deep into his eyes.

It struck him that the sights riveting him, even the form of his own shadow, were incredibly crisp in their relief, not vague shapes of darkness but precisely outlined figures. Like entities in their own right, creations existing independently of those who cast them.

The dark shape of his head began to rise, his shadow body rising with it. The form was so clear, so tangible, he had to lower his eyes, just for a moment. Check himself to make sure he was still sitting. When he looked up again his shadow was standing, an inkblot rendering, moving on its own, hyperaccurate in every detail. Except for the fact he hadn't budged from the cavern floor.

Soliya's dark figure slid around his on the wall, bending in a rhythm that seemed to produce its own music. Hatcher watched as she turned his shadow to face hers, and placed her ghostly arms over the form of his shoulders, hips swinging to and fro, knees bending slightly, slithering her body lower.

What looked like the shape of a dagger appeared in one of her hands, but before he could even react he saw her image cut the zip tie from his wrists. His shadow wrists.

He watched his arms spread apart on the rough, makeshift screen, saw her darkened form merge into his. He could almost taste the kisses, the slippery tanginess of her tongue, almost feel her body sliding against him. He watched his jeans get shoved down, the folds of her dress being pulled up. Felt it in his loins as his shadow plunged into her, the warm, gliding slickness of her, her arms gripping his back, her leg wrapping around his.

Then a finger caressed his cheek and the image was gone. The shadows in front of him shuddered with the flames, vague shapes, still recognizable but only just. A man seated, a woman leaning over his shoulder. Practically amorphous, if you didn't know what you were looking at.

She pressed her lips against his ear, almost kissing it.
“People perceive what they want to perceive.”

With a pat on the shoulder, she stood, backing away.

“They have my nephew,” he said.

“Do they?”

“Yes. I think you know what I'm talking about.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” she said. She'd resumed her original position, facing him, backlit by the largest of the three cave mouths behind her. From somewhere in the folds of her dress, she produced another cigarette, raised it to her mouth. Lit it with what looked like the same Zippo lighter she'd tossed into the woodpile some moments earlier. As she did, the fire she'd started near the wall died, its orange glow disappearing. His head snapped to look. Nothing. Not even a smoldering trace of ember in the darkness, even though he knew the darker it was, the easier it should have been to see such a thing.

“The question is,” she continued, “do you?”

“Look, I'm sure messing with my mind is great fun. But I'd appreciate it if you dropped the whole Sphinx routine for one damn second. They may hurt him. I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to do.”

“Is that what they told you? They'd hurt the child if you didn't succeed?”

“No. But I doubt it's the easiest thing to work into a conversation.”

“And these people, the ones you say have your nephew, they want you to stop the portal from opening.”

“That's what they said.”

She stepped back to a point where the cavern divided and leaned against the craggy curve of stone. She tipped her head back, sucked a breath through her cigarette, and blew smoke rings into the invading light.

“Tell me, why does it matter to you?”

“Why does what matter?”

“What happens to your nephew.”

He watched the profile of her face as she drew more smoke, then sent it steaming into a cloud overhead. For a second, it seemed like the cloud formed a face looking down at her, moving in for a kiss. But then it disappeared and he wasn't certain it had ever been there to begin with.

“What kind of a question is that?” he asked.

She pulled away from the wall and took a few steps toward him.

“What's his name?”

“Excuse me?”

“The boy. What's his name.”

Hatcher didn't respond. There was nothing for him to say, since he didn't know.

“You never even bothered to find out. So, I'll ask you once more. Why does it matter?”

“He's just a child. An
infant
.”

The creatures on the walls let out a pair of hisses. Hatcher took a breath. They didn't seem to like him raising his voice.

“We all were, at one point,” she said.

Hatcher pressed his teeth into his lip, stopped himself from saying what he was about to, that he had a hard time ever imagining someone like her as a child, except maybe one that seduced her teachers with dirty pictures and set the house on fire while her parents were asleep. Maybe one who'd convinced her kindergarten playmates to snort a little meth before stabbing the babysitter.

“He's innocent,” he said instead.

Soliya dropped the cigarette and pressed on it with the sole of her shoe. Hatcher forced himself to look away from her legs. He kept picturing himself doing the things he saw his shadow doing, reliving it as if it had actually happened. It was all he could do to maintain focus. She even managed to make the twisting of her foot back and forth seem like something out of a porn film.

“That's a temporary condition,” she said. “Everyone loses it eventually. And I do mean
everyone.
Wouldn't you say that makes it meaningless? I would.”

“What do you want to hear? That it's because I feel guilty? That he's my brother's child, so I feel a sense of obligation? It's a baby we're talking about, for Christ's sake.”

“Yes, a baby. What if I were to tell you that the blood of that baby is the only thing that might avert what is coming? That a hellish fate awaits many other
innocents
, many other children, if his blood is not spilled? What would you say then?”

Hatcher started to consider the implications of what she'd said, then stopped himself.

“I don't know. All I do know is, I'm expected to stop someone, someone who may be my dead brother, from opening some sort of a portal to Hell, or else the child might be in danger. And that I was told you might be willing to help me.”

“Ah, but you see, what if the child is the only way to prevent it? I'm not saying he is, I'm just asking the question. A truly good man is willing to sacrifice, Hatcher. Not just himself, but the ones he loves. That is the hardest sacrifice of all. To give the life of a loved one, to know they've been deprived of all they have, all they will ever experience, and to have to live with the knowledge it was by your doing.”

“I never claimed I was a good man.”

“No, I suppose you didn't.”

“Are you going to help me?”

She peered down at him with an inscrutable expression. Maybe somewhat amused, maybe somewhat annoyed. Maybe something else altogether that was impossible to pin down. He couldn't tell if she was smirking out of a sense of fondness, or grimacing out of a sense of impatience. Carnates were so damned hard to read.

“Don't underestimate the power of a name, Hatcher. It's more than just some identifying piece of information. It's the essence of a being, carried in a word. Without a name, you can wield no power. Without knowledge of your name, no power can be wielded over you.”

“You're saying I should find out my nephew's name?”

“I'm saying his name is Isaac.”

She dropped into a crouch, curling her finger under his chin, propping his face with her knuckle.

“And if you knew your Bible stories, you'd know that was the name of Abraham's son. The one he laid across an altar, knife in hand, to sacrifice to God.”

“Did my brother really escape from Hell? Some kind of Hellion?”