Demon Games [4] Page 3

  Lucien was surprised. This was no demon hand, and he instantly recognized it as one of his own kind – a vampire – and, judging from the look of it, an old, and therefore powerful, one. He sank further into the shadows, considering this. If the vampire was riding around in one of Orfus’s official vehicles it must mean one of two things: Orfus had either joined Caliban or been overthrown by the vampire.

  The market trader became a whirl of motion, its bloated frame moving at a speed that belied its size as it grabbed the head and approached the litter, bending and scraping to place the article into the outstretched hand, which withdrew behind the curtain into the darkness of the litter. There was a brief pause, followed by a hissing noise from the litter’s interior. The Maug’s head turned sharply at the sound. The huge demon stepped forward to face the stallholder, moved behind the Gogwad and, holding the handle of the whip at either end, brought the weapon back against the stallholder’s throat, forcing the creature’s head up and awaiting further instructions from inside the litter.

  The yellow globes of the Gogwad’s eyes bulged, black pupils shrinking to tiny dots, and a fat brown tongue hung from its mouth (which moments earlier had been shouting the efficacy of its wares). Now all that came out of that mouth was a strangled groan. Its hands grasped and clawed at the whip handle, but the Maug was simply too powerful.

  The black curtain twitched again and was held open a little, although not wide enough for Lucien to make out the creature behind it. The hand clutching the shrunken head appeared, carelessly tipping forward so that the thing dropped into the gutter, where it rolled to a stop beneath the Gogwad’s frantic feet.

  ‘Fakes,’ the litter’s occupant said in a voice like sandpaper being dragged across wood. The hand disappeared behind the black curtain for the final time. ‘Kill the charlatan,’ was the command from the litter.

  The Maug increased the pressure on the Gogwad’s throat, ignoring the oohs and aahs of the crowd that had gathered to watch. Not one of the onlookers stepped forward and challenged the vampire’s right to kill the creature, which confirmed Lucien’s suspicion that the demon lord Orfus and his forces were no longer in charge here. The Gogwad’s frenzied attempts to break free began to abate, gradually decreasing in intensity until its body finally went limp and all signs of life drained from its face. Only then did the Maug release its grip, allowing the body to crumple to the ground in a heap, and return to its position at the front of the litter.

  The Shadow Demons hoisted the sedan chair again, the poles creaking in protest as the weight of the litter bore down on them, and the mysterious shopper resumed its journey.

  The nether-creatures that had crowded round the stall went about their business, many stepping over the Gogwad’s corpse as they moved off.

  Lucien too left the scene, now even more wary of being spotted or recognized in this place. As he turned a bend in the alley, his destination came into sight. The building was at least twice the height of those around it, a tall black structure which rose up into the darkness overhead. It was derelict now, but Lucien knew that the creature he was due to meet there had chosen this particular meeting place for a reason: the building had a history, a history that was associated with Lucien and his kind. Making sure that his hood did not fall back and reveal his identity, Lucien looked up to scan the roof of the building. The vast metal sculpture still crowned the structure, although the glass panels that had once adorned the great metal orb looked to have long since gone, leaving a skeleton frame behind. At one time it had been lit from the inside and the light that shone out through the red-tinted glass would glow and fade, giving the whole globe a pulsating appearance, as if the building had its own living, beating heart atop it. It had been a place that dealt in nothing but misery and suffering, a place that traded in lives – human lives – selling them off at auction to the highest bidder, like cattle.

  That had been a very long time ago. The Netherworld had not always been as sparsely populated as it was now. At one time, before the Demon Wars had eradicated thousands of nether-creatures, the population had been much greater, and the demand for humans had been huge. Whether it was their blood, their flesh, their bones, or in some cases their souls that were coveted, the trade in human livestock had always gone on at some level within this realm, and at its height the building ahead had been at the hub of that industry.

  Lucien sighed and crossed the street, approaching the front of the building. The vast cast-iron gates that had once signalled the entrance to the auction rooms were now all but destroyed; one lay on its back just inside the doorway; the other, buckled and smashed, somehow still clung to its ancient hinges.

  Lucien stepped through the entrance and paused, taking in the large empty space. Some dog-sized thing in the shadows at the far side of the hall turned to regard him with silvery eyes, before disappearing into a hole in the floor. The place smelt of rot and decay and, from the evidence of the various piles of ashes and half-burned logs in the centre of the room, appeared to be the residence of at least one hapless nether-creature.

  This had been the auction room. None of the cages that had lined the walls remained, but it didn’t require a great leap of the imagination to realize how terrifying it must have been for the poor creatures brought here. Penned up behind bars, they had to endure the taunts and goading of the monsters that had come here to buy them. They could have had little doubt about their fate. Even the dead were sold off, albeit at a cheaper price – nothing went to waste here.

  Lucien walked across the room, his footsteps echoing off the walls, and stood at the bottom of the staircase. It had collapsed in the middle; a vast stretch of the metal skeleton lay in a jumbled mess on the floor, making it impossible to walk up to the landing just visible in the gloom overhead. The vampire ‘misted’, disappearing from where he stood and reappearing on the metal platform above, righting his balance a little when the whole structure groaned and shifted with the increase in weight. It was clear from the thick carpet of dust and grime on the gantry that nothing had been up here for some time, and Lucien was relieved to see that the next flight of stairs appeared to be intact. He began to climb, his footsteps noisy on the metal treads, despite his careful ascent.

  The door to the roof was locked. A rusty chain had been looped through two crude holes drilled into the door and the adjoining wall. Taking the thick chain and accompanying lock in his hand, Lucien hefted them to gauge their weight and strength before tightening his grip and yanking down sharply, turning his head to avoid the flying shrapnel as the metal gave way, the broken links clattering to the floor when he opened his hand. Pushing against the door, the vampire stepped out into the night, a sudden wind tugging at the hem of his cloak. He closed his eyes, taking in the stillness and dissipating some of the tension he’d allowed to build up inside him.

  When he opened his eyes again she was there, her vast black-feathered wings folded down against her back. Even his highly attuned vampiric senses had not heard her approach, and he smiled momentarily at the sight of her.

  Moriel did not return the smile. The battle-angel stood before him, her grey-blue eyes settling on his face for a moment before scanning the darkness through the open door at his back. Then with slow, calculated movements she turned her head to take in the rooftops below.

  ‘I came alone, as promised,’ Lucien said, but if the Arel heard him, she gave no sign.

  He took the opportunity to study her. She was big – even by Lucien’s standards, and the vampire was over six feet tall. She wore simple leather armour – a cuirass, greaves and vambraces – but these did little to cover the multitude of scars that criss-crossed her body, arms and legs. Her jet-black hair mirrored the colour of her wings, but it was her eyes that were her most fascinating feature, those and the ruinous scar that corkscrewed its way down the centre of her face. Even with the scar, or maybe because of it, she was beautiful in a way no human woman could ever be.

  Satisfied that they were not being watched, she turned to
face Lucien again, those piercing eyes taking him in, one eyebrow slowly rising in a quizzical gesture. She folded her arms across her chest and nodded in his direction.

  ‘You asked to see me?’ she said, revealing teeth that had been filed into deadly points.

  ‘Yes, Moriel. I need your help.’

  The battle-angel smiled, but there was no humour in the look she gave the vampire. ‘It’s a strange day when a vampire asks an Arel for assistance. We are more used to your kind killing us on sight.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence, each of them holding the other’s stare with stony, unblinking eyes.

  ‘Not all vampires are alike.’

  ‘Are you going to stand there, in this of all places, and tell me that you have never taken the life of an innocent? That you have not killed to fulfil your desire for blood? That you are not like the others of your kind in your needs?’

  The wind blew again, ruffling the feathers of Moriel’s wings.

  ‘I have done those things, yes. But I have changed. I have tried to make amends for the terrible acts of my past, and I am trying to ensure that others will not be able to do such things in the future. You know that.’

  Mori el looked away towards the burning hills far off on the horizon. When she turned back her eyes were softer and she shook her head apologetically. ‘I am sorry, Lucien. I have no right to talk to you like that. It’s just that things have been very … difficult lately.’ She paused, the muscles in her jaw clenching and unclenching. ‘Jenos was killed. Caliban killed him.’

  Lucien stared at the battle-angel, unable to respond. Jenos had been like a son to Moriel; she had trained him and they had fought side by side together against the same creatures that Lucien was trying to thwart from entering the human realm. The Arel were humanity’s first line of defence against the Netherworld, guarding the portals between the two realms. They were autonomous in this act. The demon lords might believe that they controlled traffic between the worlds, but the Arel truly policed the borders. Unseen, and deadly in their enforcement methods, they had single-handedly prevented many a nether-creature from making an illicit crossing. On the few occasions when they failed, they were always swift to let Lucien’s people know what was coming. But they were fighting a losing battle as the forces of darkness continued to gather strength under his brother’s leadership. Jenos had been groomed to take over from Moriel should anything happen to her, and Lucien knew how fond the two of them were of each other.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he managed.

  She nodded her thanks, turning again to regard the distant hills. ‘How is the boy?’ she asked.

  The change of subject was unexpected, but Lucien understood. ‘Trey has been through so very much already, and yet he remains strong – coming to terms with what he is and the powers that he possesses. I’m sad that so much has had to be placed on the shoulders of one so young.’ He looked at the battle-angel. ‘Thank you for saving him from my brother.’

  Moriel shrugged, her wings making a hushing sound. ‘I am not certain that he needed my help.’

  ‘That is not true. You saved his life.’

  ‘After he had saved mine.’

  Lucien paused. ‘Thank you anyway.’

  There was a loud crash from the street below, and the battle-angel tensed, her hand going to the long sword that hung from the belt at her hip. When it became clear there was no threat, she folded her arms again.

  ‘Now I need your help,’ Lucien said.

  Moriel waited.

  ‘Something is happening to me,’ he continued, letting his tongue explore the front of his mouth, finding the sharp tips of the fangs that were emerging there – fangs that he had had removed long ago, and which he had thought were gone forever.

  The Arel stared at him. ‘You are changing back into the thing you most despise, Lucien Charron. I can see it.’

  ‘I cannot find Hag,’ he said. ‘If anyone can help me, it is she.’

  ‘Hag has gone into hiding. She, like so many of us that oppose Caliban and his followers, has been forced underground. Your brother knows who his enemies are, and, as his power base grows, he is intent on removing all who stand in his way.’

  ‘Do you know where she is, Moriel?’

  The battle-angel stared at him, and the faintest glimmer of a smile crossed her features for a moment. ‘Yes, I know where Hag is.’

  The vampire looked up at her, studying her exquisite yet unreadable face for any sign that she might be willing to help him.

  ‘Come, vampire. Let us leave this place.’ She offered him a hand, which he took. She pulled him to her and, grasping his body close to her own, spread her wings and leaped from the roof into the night sky.

  6

  Alexa Charron looked around her at her surroundings; the nether-creature that stood by her side remained silent. It was a dark and austere space, the cavernous room broken up by dark stone columns which supported a ceiling too cloaked in shadows to be clearly seen. Into the columns had been carved representations of various nether-creatures, which seemed to shift and move in the light given off by the torches that hung from the walls. Alexa concentrated hard, screwing her eyes up and taking a deep breath, which she held as she tried to reverse a spell that she had ‘kept switched on’ for more than six years now. She wanted to see what Philippa had seen here, and when she opened her eyes again the reception of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel greeted her. She glanced around at the opulence that had replaced the murk, taking in the gold leaf on the mouldings, the sumptuous furnishing and carpets, and the marble pillars that supported the magnificent ceiling high overhead. The famous brass clock stood in the centre of the space, a miniature Statue of Liberty crowning the piece.

  The demon at her side nodded, somehow aware that she was viewing the room through new eyes now.

  Alexa turned her head to look in the direction of the beautifully polished brass-and-glass revolving door. She stepped towards it, closely followed by the nether-creature. When she stopped in front of it she found the illusion was maintained beyond the glass: a busy Park Avenue bustled with traffic and pedestrians, all battling against a torrential rain driven by a wind that tore and snatched at umbrellas and raincoats.

  ‘Why didn’t they try to stop her?’ Alexa said to the Ashnon.

  ‘It wasn’t as if they held the door open for her.’

  Alexa turned to look at the nether-creature again. The Ashnon was a perfect replica of Philippa Tipsbury, every detail of the teenager exactly reproduced. Except for the eyes: they were entirely silver, with no pupil or iris, as if the eyeball had been emptied and filled with dull molten metal. When Alexa had first arrived here in the Netherworld she had commented on this change between the human realm and this. The Ashnon had shrugged and explained that it was ‘just a quirk that happened’ when it returned to this realm in a replicant body.

  The demon indicated the gate. ‘That area is guarded at all times, but Philippa was so quick, so determined, that she took the guards by surprise.’ It turned to look at Alexa. ‘The guards have been dealt with,’ it said pointedly.

  ‘And nobody went out after her?’

  ‘They tried. But as I’ve explained, the creature that carried her off was waiting for her. Philippa was tricked into leaving the protection afforded to her by this place, and as soon as she did so, she was doomed.’

  That last word hung in the air for a moment. ‘This is all my fault,’ Alexa said.

  The Ashnon shook its head. ‘You were there when I explained everything to Philippa. You heard me tell her what could happen if she left the sanctuary provided for her here. She knew that she wasn’t, under any circumstances, to leave this place.’ The creature sighed. ‘You can’t blame yourself.’

  ‘She trusted me. I told her that nothing would happen to her. I told her she’d be safe.’

  ‘And she would have been. If she hadn’t gone outside.’

  ‘You make it sound as if all this is her fault.’

  ‘It is not Philippa�
�s fault. But neither is it yours. The creature that took her is to blame.’

  Alexa turned to look at the doppelgänger at her side, her stare intense. ‘But she is still alive? You’re certain?’

  ‘This body that you’re looking at is testament to that,’ the Ashnon said, looking down at itself.

  The Ashnon were unique in having the ability to reproduce a human being – a perfect physical duplicate. In their natural form they had no physical body and were little more than a coalescence of energies without access to the corporeal experiences and emotions that they craved. So they sought humans who were willing to trade a short stay in the Netherworld for a new body. And so the Ashnon – working through intermediaries – usually found people with terrible illnesses or diseases for whom the deal was a no-brainer. The humans didn’t even have to experience the horrors of the Netherworld; the Ashnon would create an illusory space which masked the sights, sounds and smells of the Netherworld, replacing them with scenes that were acceptable to the human mind, in this case a luxury hotel in New York. At the end of the agreed period the human got to return to the human realm in their new, disease-free body. Alexa knew that it was one of the only examples of a mutually beneficial relationship between nether-creatures and humans: a symbiotic win-win deal. And like so many covenants in the Netherworld, there was no wriggle room, no welshing on the agreement. If the Ashnon tried anything like that, its fate would be sealed.