Prospero in Hell (58 page)

Great. He had been planning to let us go, and, at Theo’s request, Mephisto had antagonized him. Now, we were all going to die.

We were going to die, and it was my fault. If I had not gathered us together, if I had left well-enough alone, we would not be here, facedown in the filth of Hell, being crushed to death by the demon who had wrecked our family. We would have been spread out in our separate haunts, safe and secure.

Except for Father, of course, who would still be trapped in Hell, but our dying here on the banks of the Styx was hardly going to help him.

On the other hand, I thought as lights began to dance before my eyes—whether from the pressure or the lack of oxygen, I did not know—if the Demon of Envy was going to destroy the Family Prospero anyway, it was a comfort to be with my siblings when the end came, rather than alone dying somewhere of old age. The Angel of the Bottomless Pit spoke again, his words reverberating like rolling boulders within my body:
“Gregor the Witchhunter is dead. Theophrastus the Demonslayer is old and decrepit and will soon follow. And the Dread Magician Prospero is the prisoner of Fair Queen Lilith, she who raised me to my high estate, so that I now rule as one of the Seven of Hell. It is only a matter of time before the rest of you Prosperos join the sad fate of your fellows and perish.
. . .”

“All very well, Destroyer,” Theo’s voice called out from somewhere ahead of us, “except that you have made three mistakes!”

The demon turned his head, and his gaze lifted. Air rushed back into my lungs. Nearby, my siblings flopped around on the ground, gasping for air.

Some distance ahead, Theo stepped from the billowing darkness that had drifted upstream from Gregor’s staff and stood squarely before Abaddon, a tiny figure looking up at the splendid, horrible, gigantic angel. He looked resplendent, despite the tarnished spots on his otherwise shiny titanium. His breastplate of Urim glowed like a candle in the gloom.

How handsome he looked—as brave and fierce as I recalled him from old—as he faced the monster responsible for robbing over fifty years of his life.

“How so?”
grated the dark twisted angel. His gaze fell on Theo now, but while my brother looked as if he were struggling against a fierce wind, he did not drop. Perhaps the darkness that issued from Gregor’s staff, which was still present where he stood, dampened the effect.

“One, Gregor is not dead!” Theo gestured grandly.

The darkness swirled again, and Gregor stepped forward. His long hair and the skirt and half cape of his crimson cardinal’s robes billowed about him. Gregor inclined his head gravely, bowing. The avalanchelike voice hissed.

“Two,” Theo reached up and pulled off his helmet, “I am not old!”

My heart leapt out of my chest and straight up into the heavens. The old man with the grizzled white beard, whom I had once mistaken for my father, was gone. In his place stood my brother Theophrastus. He was young and hale, as I remembered him, as Mephisto had immortalized him in the statue that Seir of the Shadows had destroyed in his first attack upon Prospero’s Mansion, back in early December. Glancing back at us, Theo winked, and Erasmus chuckled.

No wonder he had insisted that the brother with the
Staff of Deca
y act as his squire.

O glory be! I had done it! Theo was saved! (Now, if he could only survive the next five minutes.)

Abaddon, the Angel of the Bottomless Pit, the Demon of Envy, one of the Seven Rulers of Hell, yowled in outrage, shaking the landscape, causing trees to tumble and an enormous black wave to splash over the banks of the Styx.
“Ulysses! You have drawn your last breath. Prepare to pay for your failure!”
Turning to Theo again, his voice grated,
“And my supposed third mistake?”

“You are in my range.”

Theo fired the
Staff of Devastation.

A beam of sizzling white death blasted from his staff, burning the air through which it passed. Abaddon sneered disdainfully, his beautiful yet damaged face replete with disbelief—until the weapon caught him full in the chest. White-hot fire consumed his torso, igniting three pairs of his wings into huge, white, flaming brands.

Horror dawned upon his face. Then, with a terrible, deafening, earth-grinding howl, he exploded into a colossal pillar of incandescent fire. It illuminated the landscape, sending shadows scurrying in all directions and outshining the distant Wall of Flame.

Theo had not had time to brace himself. The force of the blast threw him backward and slammed him against the ground. Along his upper arm, his armor crumpled where it had been weakened by Focalor, twisting his arm at an unnatural angle.

Erasmus, our family doctor, winced. “Oh, that doesn’t look good.” Or at least, that was what I thought he said, for my ears were still ringing from the scream of Angel of the Pit.

The pillar burned out, leaving a small crater filled with smoldering ash and a glint of gold. Theo ran forward and, kneeling beside the smoking crater that, even as we watched, was filling with black water from the Styx, grabbed the glitter of gold and stuck it inside his breastplate. Then, he strode back to us, his face shining with courage and victory.

We all ran to Theo. His youthful features looked so strange and yet so utterly normal. His hair was dark again, except for the forelock above his goggles, where the blasts of his staff had bleached it to palest blond.

Gregor came up beside Theo and grabbed his forearm. “Brother, we are free! Free at last!”

“Indeed!” Theo laughed aloud. “Free and alive!” He threw his arms around Gregor, who returned the embrace joyfully.

We all began hugging one another. Gregor embraced Cornelius and then Ulysses, who trembled weak with relief and gratitude. Titus gave Logistilla a bear hug, which made her giggle. I hugged Theo, who picked me up and swung me around, laughing, and Mephisto embraced everyone.

“Is he dead?” Logistilla cried, clutching Theo’s good arm. “Is he finally gone? Are we finally free of Abaddon forever?”

Such hope shone upon her face that my heart went out to her. I had forgotten she, too, had been hoodwinked by Abaddon, sucked in by her envy of my Lady.

Theo shook his head. “He is immortal. However, my staff contains the spear of Longinus. It was designed to send its victim to the icy fields in the Ninth level of Hell. Even demons do not have an easy time escaping from there. Satan, in his misery, loves company.”

I gave out the smallest drop of the Water of Life to Erasmus and Caliban, in case the tridents that had stabbed them had been poisoned. I offered one to Theo for his broken arm, but he just smiled and shook his head.

“So close upon our drop at New Year’s, I’m sure this will heal quickly,” he said chivalrously. “Let’s save the Water, for we do not know what horrors are still to come. Now!” He raised his good arm triumphantly. “On to rescue Father and then home!”

“So, who exactly is this traitor in our midst?” Erasmus asked as we walked toward the bridge. He addressed us all, but his eyes rested upon me.

“Oh, no, Professor Prospero,” Mab warned, “don’t go there! Don’t let that devils lead you down their thorny path! You can’t trust ’em! You can’t believe them! They only say what they say to cause harm and spite.”

“What if it’s true?” Logistilla looked quite shaken. “Abaddon’s earlier prediction about our family being destroyed seems to be coming true.”

“Nonsense!” Theo laughed cheerfully, despite having his arm in a sling. “We’re as strong as we ever were!”

“But even if we rescue Father,” she insisted, “we will still all die as soon as Miranda’s Water of Life runs out.”

“Oh. Yes.” Theo frowned. “That.”

“Look,” Mab said. “Some of what the demon said might be true. It’s often the case, in fact. Demons love throwing in a sliver or two of truth in to muddy the waters. But, it’s not the kind of truth you can use. Trust me in
this. You start banking on infernal predictions, and the next thing you know you’ve brought it about through just the suspicion the prediction caused. Or, you find out the ‘family traitor’ is a cousin three times removed, someone you never would have trusted anyway. Now, I’m not saying it isn’t wise to keep your eyes open, and maybe keep a sharp eye on the Perp, er, I mean Mr. Ulysses, who’s already proven himself capable of mischief, but I beg you—all of you—don’t let the demon get to you.”

“Don’t blame me! I didn’t want to do all these things! Abaddon made me!” Ulysses cried. “Damn fine shooting there, Theo!”

“He wouldn’t have been able to make you if you hadn’t been acting foolishly to begin with,” Theo chided him. Then, unexpectedly, he threw his good arm around his younger brother and gave him a hug. “But, I forgive you.”

Ulysses grinned, delighted. “Bloody good of you! Thanks!”

The bridge across the River Styx was a long arch made of gray stone with a low railing. It reminded me of a thousand footbridges I had crossed in my day, only it was much longer, spanning what looked to be nearly a quarter mile over the wide black waters of the River Styx.

Mephisto took the lead, launching into another chorus of his personal version of “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Behind him came Logistilla and Ulysses, who linked arms with Cornelius and led him along the way. The rest of us followed, with Theo and Caliban making up the rear guard. Mephisto’s cheerful singing seemed an apt celebration of our recent victory. One by one, we joined in, until, by the second time through, the whole family was singing:

Crowns and thrones may perish,

kingdoms rise and wane,

but the Family Prospero

constant will remain.

Gates of Hell can never

Against Prosperos prevail;

we have Theophrastus,

and that cannot fail.

And we did have Theophrastus! Young Theophrastus; healthy, hearty, and strong Theophrastus.

We had done it. We were back together! Nothing could prevail against us now!

I laughed with joy, as if some great weight had been lifted from me. I wanted to celebrate, to do something more than just sing along. What we needed was music!

The wide river to either side stretched away from us, calm and serene. This seemed like a good place to find out what kind of infernal gust—if anything—my flute called here. Since its power depended on the bound Winds and their servants, most likely, it would do nothing at all. Nudging Mab to put in his earplugs, I lifted my instrument and began playing the melody to “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

We were halfway across the bridge, having just finished a third rendition, when we heard it. A terrible roaring that reminded me of the sound a hurricane makes when its hundred-foot waves are sweeping down upon one’s sailboat on the unprotected sea. Black and roiling, it came pouring down the river bed, along the course of the river, toward the bridge.

“The Hellwinds!” Mephisto screamed in terror.

“God in heaven, Miranda,” Erasmus cried. “You
called
them, didn’t you?”

I stared at my flute in horror. “Not on purpose!”

“Don’t argue!” Mephisto bellowed. “Run!”

We bolted, scattering. Half of my family ran forward, half ran back. Mab and I, close to the center, gripped each other, uncertain which way to flee.

“Prosperos, to me!” shouted Gregor, and he lifted his staff. Billowing blackness rolled from its rune-carven length, surrounding those of us who were with him. Near us the Hellwinds formed a small twister as it was sucked into Gregor’s staff. The smell was not as bad as the slimy bog, but was hot and dry and came with gritty particles that stung our eyes and made breathing difficult.

In the darkness I could make out at least one of my siblings heading back toward Gregor. Mab hunkered down behind Gregor and grabbed onto my skirts. Pulling the pins from my head, I wrapped my hair across my mouth like a veil, to filter out the grit. With my other hand I reached into the winds, urging my siblings to come to us.

The swirling ebony gusts picked up Mephisto and Logistilla as they ran, tossing them about like rag dolls. I could not see most of the others, but Ulysses was thrown backward as he raised his arm to use his staff. The winds slammed him headfirst into the stone banister along the bridge. His body went limp, and he was carried up, over the edge, and away into the darkness.

Theo’s armor gave him some ballast against the raging gale. He strode toward me, resisting the winds that threatened to push him backward. Cheering, I reached out for him, and our hands touched, his fingers warm against mine.

Relief rushed through me. To lose him again, now, when he was finally young and whole again… that would have been too much.

Then, he winced, his face crumpling in pain. In his urgency, he had reached out with his right arm, the sling being too flimsy to restrain him. His wounded arm was not strong enough to hold against the wind. His fingertips slid through mine and away.

Screaming, I watched his pale face until the winds carried him into the whirling darkness.

I still had my flute. I lifted to my lips and tried to control the Hellwinds, to deflect them or disperse them, but their terrible roar, like five squadrons of fighter jets, drowned out any attempt at music. Eventually, Mab pulled me down, and I huddled close to Gregor, my fingers gripping his crimson robes. Closing my eyes, I prayed into the empty chasm within me where once my Lady had been, begging for their safety and deliverance.