Damnable
CHAPTER 19
WRIGHT HEARD THE SONG RING OUT, LIKE A CLOCK RADIO trying to wake her up. She knew that song. “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” She smiled. Who knew Mickey Mouse liked AC/DC?
Did Hatcher? He had to. All men liked AC/DC. All real men, at least. And Hatcher was definitely a real man.
The music ended abruptly, and Mickey said something. Was he speaking to her? No, she decided, though she wasn’t sure why. He was the only one she could hear. Maybe he was talking to Hatcher.
Her panties were down around her knees. Mickey had been helping her get undressed. She reached down and pulled them up, unbunching them. Thong panties. Why had she worn them? Oh, that’s right. Because of him. She realized she was giggling. How naughty she had been. Was going to be.
But, where was he? Hadn’t Hatcher been there a moment ago? Weren’t they about to get it on, just like before? He must have had to leave. Maybe Mickey knew where he went. Maybe he could tell her when he’d be back. After he got done talking to himself.
Mickey said something, and she heard a beep. Phone call! Of course! The idea popped into her head, just like that. Mickey had been on the phone.
“Looks like the fun is going to have to wait,” he said.
Wait, she thought. Yes, wait. Another idea just popped in there. Wait, wait, wait. That’s not Mickey. It’s just Mickey’s voice.
“That psycho son of a bitch has got some kind of ESP or something, I swear. But don’t worry, we’ll still be having that fun later.”
Wright smiled and hummed, losing her train of thought for a moment. Fun. Fun was good. She and Hatcher were going to have so much fun. But Hatcher was gone, and she certainly wasn’t going to have fun with him. What was that thought that just flashed? This man, his name. Lucas?
No, couldn’t be. She closed her eyes and rolled onto her side. Lucas was the name of a bad guy. This was a giant mouse named Mickey. She repeated that to herself as she drifted off. Trying to think was too tiring. She needed to rest now. Mickey must know where Hatcher went. He told her they were going to have fun later, that must have been what he meant.
Then she’d be part of the club. She’d heard him say so.
“WELCOME TO PLEASURE INCARNATE.”
Hatcher rubbed his eyes, clenching them shut. He was standing on a ledge, high above an enormous open space. Above, he saw what looked like blue sky, with puffy white clouds punctuating the vista in bursts of floating cotton. The light was intense, tinged with that brilliance of late afternoon sunshine that artificial light can never seem to match. But he knew it couldn’t be real, any of it. It was the middle of the night, probably three or four a.m., and he was dozens, if not hundreds, of feet underground.
But it sure as hell looked real.
The area was gargantuan, a gaping expanse of circular space, with Doric columns rimming the perimeter, redolent of a Roman coliseum. Discrete points of activity were everywhere, tiny groupings of people, knots of women as far as he could see, standing in tight clusters or lounging in conversation, pairs and trios sampling trays of food and wine. A number were openly engaged in sexual activity of various sorts, seeming unabashed and casual about it.
“Are you just going to stand there?” Soliya asked.
To his left, a set of stairs descended from the ledge, carved from the wall of earth. Soliya was almost halfway down, turned partly back to face him, straddling two steps.
He descended the stairs, taking in everything he could. The flattening angle caused his view to contract with each step.
As he left the final step, he spied a pair of cream-skinned blondes a few yards away. Centerfold quality, nubile and lean, flicking their tongues over each other’s bodies, rubbing and penetrating each other’s vaginas, wearing the bunched remains of togas around their waists but nothing else as they kissed and writhed on a daybed surrounded by ferns and enormous flowers of blue and purple and yellow. They glanced over at him, one, then the other, and smiled. The one on top held out a finger toward him and curled it back.
Soliya reached over and stroked his chin, gently turning his head. “Normally, I would suggest you take up any invitations to mingle and enjoy yourself. But I’m afraid we haven’t much time.”
Hatcher started to respond, but then stopped himself. He raised his eyes and took in the sky. He knew it wasn’t real, that it couldn’t be. It didn’t even look real. Not because it looked fake, but because it looked more real than any sky he’d ever seen, or remembered ever seeing—more deeply hued, more halcyon, more perfectly clouded. The sky in a dream. A fairy-tale sky. An illusion of sky.
“It’s amazing what you can buy,” Soliya said. “If you have enough money. I saw one of these in a mall in Las Vegas a decade ago. An almost perfect simulation. I decided we needed one. Only ten times better. Come.”
Something about what she said didn’t seem right, but before he could form a thought around it, the blue glow of what he was starting to think of as his brother caught his eye. The effeminate boy, skin stretching and straining, was standing next to a woman who was hunched over a large bowl on a pedestal. The woman was an alabaster-skinned brunette. Like all the women he’d seen, she looked fit, somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties, and very, almost ridiculously, attractive. Soliya headed toward them.
The woman raised her eyes from the bowl and gave a barely perceptible shake of her head before dropping her gaze.
“You need to say your good-byes,” Soliya said, coming to a stop near the boy.
Garrett’s face pressed through, a look of panic contorting its shape. “Already? I feel like I have a much better hold now, being close like this.”
“I know how difficult this is, but you can’t stay any longer.”
“But it’s . . . I’ve only been here . . .”
“Why does he have to go back now?” Hatcher asked. As soon as he spoke the words, he felt as if he were being co-opted. Fooled into being an accomplice to his own deception.
“Because Willow can’t last much longer.” She gestured to the brunette. The woman was staring into the bowl. She did not look up again. She seemed to sway slightly, a sapling in a breeze. “The connection can only be maintained for so long. One has already made the ultimate sacrifice for you to have this chance. I won’t allow for another.”
No one said anything else for a long moment. The silence became awkward.
“Can you bring him back later?” Hatcher asked.
“No. I’m afraid it’s just not possible.”
Hatcher’s gaze darted to Garrett. He still wasn’t sure what to believe, but the panic in those eyes was real. That much he knew.
“I guess I should be grateful I had a chance to meet you,” Garrett said. His voice was strained, someone putting up a front.
Hatcher nodded grimly, unable to find words. What do you say to the damned? Take care? Good luck?
He finally settled on, “I’m sorry.”
Garrett managed a weak smile. Through the bulging and undulating skin, it looked like a clown’s grimace.
“Me, too.”
Hatcher felt like he needed to extend a hand, maybe give a hug, something—but Soliya stuck an arm out across his chest.
The woman at the bowl twitched, jerking her head back, gasping a breath.
And then the boy’s skin snapped back into place. The glow disappeared instantly. The air was filled with an abrupt sense of change, like a room having its power cut off, or a car stalling. Something Hatcher hadn’t realized was even present, a feeling of energy, a hum in his spine, was suddenly missing.
The boy flopped forward onto the ground without so much as an arm out to break his fall. That kind of collapse only meant one thing. Soliya’s words now struck him. The ultimate sacrifice.
Jesus.
He’d been wrong, and he knew it. A flood of questions raced through his mind, questions he wanted to ask his putative brother, starting with how and why he had grabbed him from his casket, if that even was him doing it. Questions that now would never be answered.
Garrett was gone, and though he wasn’t certain why, Hatcher suddenly felt very alone.
“Now, Mr. Hatcher,” Soliya said. “Before anyone else is sent to their final reward, let me tell you about Deborah.”
VALENTINE SET THE HANDSET OF HIS PHONE DOWN INTO its cradle, relishing his good fortune. Despite Sherman making an occasional mistake, and despite having to get harsh with his well-paid cop for going off script, things were falling into place perfectly. Truly, this was fate unfolding, coming to a head. The feeling was beyond exhilarating. It was pure adrenaline.
So much planning, time measured in years, money measured in small-nation GDPs. So much energy, so much focus. It seemed like every waking moment of his adult life, and a good number of sleeping ones, had been consumed by this goal. Fueled by it. And what a goal it was. He knew few could even conceive of the scale on which he was plotting. Even fewer would believe anything like it was remotely possible.
And no one—no one—could possibly hope to achieve such a thing. It was beyond rational thought.
But he was about to pull it off. He could sense it in his bones, taste it in the air. Momentum was with him. Events seemed driven by the inertia of inevitability, like he was riding a wave of destiny.
And, of course, there was the book—the book knew. The book didn’t lie.
His biggest enemy now, he realized, was complacency. Destiny was will manifested through effort. People could be controlled, manipulated, but someone had to be pulling the strings, making the right decisions, keeping the object in mind, relentlessly working toward a vision. If there was one thing the book had taught him, it was that destiny was a blueprint, not a preordainment. Mistakes could still be made. Outcomes could still change. Keeping his eye on the prize was critical, as was not letting up. Not even a little. He would not fall prey to traps laid by fate’s fickle fingers. He would redouble his efforts in light of his success. Nothing would be left to chance.
He left his study and took his private elevator to the subfloor of his penthouse. The Clinic. This was where the real work took place, where the tools of his obsession were put to use. His laboratory equipment, including some of the finest gene-splicing technology available, was set up in a clean room more sterile than any Silicon Valley production line. His computer array, rivaling the processing power of a NASA control station, took up almost half the floor. His surgical lab was suitable for performing everything from exploratory operations to heart transplants.
Almost nine figures invested in this floor. Two PhDs imported on temporary work visas from India at a cost of several more million. Finding them was almost as expensive. They had to be the kind that no one would miss. Staff without knowledge had been pink-slipped almost a year ago. People more intimately involved in the work had been silenced permanently by Lucas. He was never one to place stock in faith. Two men could keep a secret if one of them was dead.
And now it was all paying off.
The process was simple in concept, but incredibly complex in execution. Human DNA, extracted from bone marrow, was injected into the pineal gland of the subject fetus. A form of gene therapy was applied as the fetus developed, and specific DNA markers were incorporated into the chromosomes. Such genetic recombination was crucial, as this unprecedented achievement—a true interspe cies chimera—had to have specific traits. Foremost among them was the ability to reproduce.
And to be a male. That was key.
Daunting as the challenge was, the problem was further complicated by the fact human DNA did not recombine with the particular host species as it needed to. It was as if a defense mechanism was encoded in the genetic material, preventing the very thing he was trying to accomplish. He had come to think of it as Heaven’s firewall, and modeled himself a determined hacker. He attacked the problem assiduously, refusing to be deterred. The answer came gradually, through trial and error, facilitated by some intuitive guesswork, and refined through large-scale bio-testing in Asia. The key was in isolating the problem codes. Different coding produced different results, derailing at different points in the process. It was only when he utilized swine and simian strings at certain markers that he was able to smash the barrier. He realized afterward that he hadn’t actually believed he could accomplish it, not until he finally did. A true chimera. Part human, part animal, part Sedim.
Mostly Sedim. The spawn of a demon, unlike any other. A sexually functional male. A male capable of reproduction with a human female.
Valentine walked the hall with purposeful strides. Each floor of the building was large enough to house a good-size law firm, but Valentine had designed this one with the functionality of a research facility. He passed various special-purpose rooms on his left, the computer room on his right, traveling the wide hallway that bisected the floor in each direction. The corridor ended at a stainless-steel, double-wide door. It sported an external set of dual, offset actuating rods with corresponding bores. Few banks had vaults guarded by a locking mechanism as advanced.
A retina scanner protruded from the wall next to the door. Valentine leaned into it, staring as a beam passed over his right eye. A light above the console flashed green, coinciding with a soft beep. A deep hum rose, followed by the heavy groan of metal disengaging.
The area beyond the door was like a small prison day-room, with small cells on each end. The wall opposite the entrance was solid Plexiglas. Valentine liked this room. It was so corporate, so functional, like an executive lounge. A very comfortable place to observe test subjects. Or captives.
On the other side of the Plexiglas wall, in a bare room, bodies of Sedim lay on the floor.
“Are they all dead?” Valentine asked. He circled the large conference table in the middle of the room, peering through the partition, hunting for movement.
Deborah did not look up. She was sitting on the table, more or less in the middle of it, wearing only a lacy set of bra and panties, propped up on one arm behind her. One of her legs had a creamy lather on it, and she was pulling a razor up her shin, over her bent knee.
“All but three,” she said. “And they won’t last another few hours.”
Valentine nodded. He watched the bodies, studying their inanimate faces. Bony, ridged brows, exposed nostrils in the manner of bats, primate musculature. It was hard to believe they were genetically almost the same creature as the one sitting on his table a few feet away, tending to her buttery skin.
“It’s happening tonight,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Deborah dipped the razor in a small bowl of water next to her, shook it until it stopped dripping. She eyed Valentine for a long moment. “Are you ready?”
“Oh, yes. Just make sure you are. We will need a substantial show of force. He’s no idiot. Speaking of idiots, how’s our friendly detective?”
“Smitten, of course.” She lowered her eyes back to her leg. “You’d think he’d never had sex in his life.”
“Just make sure he sticks with the game plan.”
“I wouldn’t worry.”
“That’s why you’re not me.”
Deborah ignored the remark, stroking the razor along the inside of her calf.
“He’s down there now,” Valentine said, leaning against the glass. “Learning all about you. Just as I said he’d be.”
“Such a waste. He’s a man I might actually have enjoyed bedding.”
“Pity for you.” Valentine gestured toward one of the cells with his chin. “How’s our young lady of the cloth?”
“Quiet as a church mouse.”
“Let’s hope she stays that way.” He turned his attention to the Sedim, watching for signs of life. “Only hours to go.”
Deborah crossed her wrists over her knee, rested her chin on the back of her hand. “You’re awfully confident about Hatcher. How do you know he’ll show?”
Valentine drummed his fingertips against the glass, staring at the bodies. Two of them were moving now, one twitching occasionally, the other clawing pointlessly, as if trying to drag itself somewhere.
“Do you recall the parable about the scorpion and the frog?”
Deborah took in a breath, exhaled with a sigh. “Vaguely.”
Seven generations, Valentine thought, smiling. Carnates were highly intelligent, and learned quickly, but invariably lacked intellectual curiosity. Few in his experience ever read anything more substantial than a billboard. They mimicked refinement, erudition, but internalized little. For centuries, people have wondered what immortality would be like, but Valentine figured he had a good idea, acquainted now with a race that lived seven times longer than normal humans. Seven generations was close enough for him to know what that kind of longevity breeds. Laziness. When every one of you has seven lifetimes to accomplish everything, no one accomplishes anything.
“A scorpion was trapped on a riverbank,” Valentine said. “He called to the frog, asking to be given a ride on the frog’s back, across the river. Oh no, says the frog, if I let you on my back, you’ll sting me and I’ll die. Now, why would I do that, says the scorpion. If I sting you, then I’ll die, too. The frog thinks about it and decides the scorpion’s logic makes sense, so he paddles over and allows the scorpion to climb on his back. Not even halfway across the water, the scorpion stings him.”
Behind the glass, one of the Sedim twitched, rising off the floor, then collapsing.
Valentine glanced in the direction of the movement. “Why did you do that? the frog asks. Now we’re both going to die. I can’t help it, says the scorpion. It’s my nature.”
A half-amused smirk appeared to tease the side of Deborah’s mouth. “So you’re saying Hatcher is like the scorpion, huh? That’s how you know?”
“No. I’m saying Hatcher is the frog. Always wanting to believe there’s someone worth saving. Even when it means sacrificing himself.”
Valentine stepped closer to the glass, spied the Sedim that had shot up, concluded it had been a death throe. It hadn’t moved since. “Himself and, as it turns out, everyone else.”
HATCHER STARED AT THE BODY WITH THE TINY PENIS AND little-girl breasts. Had the boy known he was going to die? Had he not cared?
“His kind are natural conduits,” Soliya said. “But they cannot survive the ordeal.
“You killed him.”
“The situation is desperate. You wouldn’t believe us without proof.”
“I still don’t believe you.”
“Why? Because I’m saying that Deborah is not who you think she is? Believe it. If there’s one thing I can assure you to be true, it’s that.”
Hatcher’s eyes were still on the boy’s body. His kind. There had been something off about him, about the way he seemed unconnected to his surroundings. Mildly autistic, maybe. But who knew what kind of mindfuck they’d put him through.
“If this is some kind of hoax, you really are one twisted bitch.”
“It’s no hoax. That was really him. That was really Garrett.”
“Even if I were to accept that, I’m still not convinced he is—was—my brother.”
“Yes, you are. The blood bond between brothers is powerful. It often transcends time and distance. It can be sensed.”
Hatcher said nothing. The woman from the water bowl seemed to have recovered. She was joined by another, a tawny, exotic type, Mediterranean of some sort, who led her away, dabbing at her nose with a cloth, soaking up the blood. Hatcher watched them walk off. They passed behind other gaggles of women and disappeared from view.
“Time, as I said before, is crucial, Mr. Hatcher. We need to proceed.”
“Proceed with what?”
“The reason you’re here.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me, then we’ll both know.”
Soliya walked over to a nearby bench. It was large, with white leather cushions. She lowered herself elegantly onto it. “You’re here because of Demetrius Valentine.”
“You said that.” Hatcher mulled the name, remembered Susan had mentioned it. But that was all. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“It should. But I’m not surprised it doesn’t. Something tells me you don’t pay attention to such things. Mr. Valentine is a very wealthy, very powerful man. One of the richest men in the country, if not the world.”
“Okay. So, he’s got more money than God. What does he have to do with me?”
“Funny you should mention God. Valentine lost his parents at an early age. He was raised by an aunt who was devoutly religious. His parents, especially his father, had been atheists. Notorious, outspoken atheists. After they were killed in an automobile accident, his aunt told him his parents had gone to Hell, would never let him forget it. She tried to give him a religious education. The religious part didn’t take, but the teachings did. He became obsessed with the notion of his parents being tormented in Hell, devoting every moment of free time he had to finding a way to bring them back. The wealthier he became, the more determined he got.”
“You sound like you know him pretty well.”
Soliya shrugged. “Well enough. Valentine sought us out years ago. He was intriguing. A man of means with an intensity, a tenacity, like few I’ve ever seen. Resourceful enough to find out things about us, about who we were. He wanted to learn about summoning the souls of the damned.”
“I’m guessing things didn’t turn out too well between you.”
“After the initial suspicion wore off, the relationship was mutually beneficial. He had resources we needed. We provided him insight no book ever could. It was a marriage of convenience.”
“But?”
“But what he wanted was out of the question. He was very secretive about his goals at first. When he finally revealed them, we attempted to reason with him, to tell him it simply couldn’t be done. But he refused to accept that as an answer. He would not rest, so long as they were in Hell.”
Hatcher turned to look back at the boy. His body was gone. There was no sign it had ever even been there.
“So you’re saying this guy Valentine got it in his head that he could bring his parents back?” He waved a hand toward the water bowl. “Why didn’t you just do it for him? You keep insisting this little dog-and-pony show you put on was real.”
“Summoning a newly damned soul is one thing. Permanently retrieving a soul long banished to Hell is another. After a few weeks, damnation’s hold is too great. Even now, a soul such as your brother’s can only be retrieved for a matter of hours. He knew most of this long before he found us. He wanted more than to talk to his departed parents. Much more. He wanted revenge.”
“Against whom?”
Soliya held his gaze for a long moment, unblinking. She swept her arm out with a flourish. “Everyone.”
VALENTINE UNLOCKED THE CELL DOOR AND LET IT SWING shut behind him. The cell was a ten-by-ten square, walls and floors of reinforced concrete, painted a medium gray. There was a metal toilet in one corner, a steel shelf large enough for a twin mattress bolted to one wall.
The young woman was sitting on the floor against the back of the cell, her wrists manacled, hanging by a chain secured to the wall just above her head, forming an upside-down V. Her legs were angled to the side, one beneath the other. She wore a habit, but without a veil. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders.
Valentine knelt next to her and smoothed several stray strands of blonde from her face. A number of them peeled off her cheek, stuck in the moisture from her dried tears.
“If I were to tell you I really don’t wish to hurt you, would you believe me?”
The woman was not looking at him, but turned her head away even further.
“You think I’m evil. That’s understandable. But what is evil, really? Killing? Causing death? When acts of God kill thousands, do we call Him evil? No, we say He works in mysterious ways. But what we’re really saying is, when you have enough power, you can do what you want.”
A few sniffles, then a sob. She closed her eyes tightly, buried her face against her sleeve.
“Someone like you is filled with love for God, but has He really ever earned it? We call someone who is devout God-fearing. If God is so wonderful, why should anyone fear Him? He makes people love Him, through threats and intimidation. If you don’t, He sentences you to eternal hellfire. That’s not love. That’s terrorism. That’s egomania.”
She swallowed. Her voice cracked a bit when she spoke. “You’re wrong.”
“Ah, found your tongue, have we? I’m afraid I’m not, my dear.” Valentine pulled back, allowing her some space. “But give me your best pitch.”
“God loves everyone,” she said, giving him a sideways glance, almost peeking from behind her arm. “People don’t go to Hell because He wants them to; they go to Hell because they refuse to accept His Grace.”
“Oh, is that so? And what of people who live and die without ever being shown the Gospels? What about aboriginal tribesmen and native islanders who never heard the name Jesus Christ? What about people raised in other religions. Does he love them, too? Or to Hell with them, so to speak?”
“That is why we must spread the Word. So their blood will not be on our hands.”
“But the ones you don’t reach, just tough luck for them, huh?”
The woman said nothing.
Valentine stroked her cheek, hooking a finger beneath her jaw and coaxing her chin out from behind her arm. “Don’t worry, my child. I’m going to change all that. I’m going to level the playing field.”
He propped the point of her chin between his thumb and the first knuckle of his forefinger, like he was holding a teacup, prodding her until she looked at him. Tears welled over as she blinked, dropping to the cloth of her habit.
“You have an illness,” she said softly. “You’re a lost soul. I pray for you. I pray for your salvation.”
“That’s quite touching. Unfortunately, I can’t return the favor.”
“Your hatred has consumed you.”
“What does that even mean? Consumed me? I find such banalities insulting. That would be like me telling you religion is a myth. Please, Sister, come up with some original material.”
“It means, it has destroyed everything else about you, like a fire.”
Valentine’s features hardened. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong. The other parts of me were destroyed already. The hatred merely moved in to take their place.”
“What do you want with me?”
“That, my dear, is exactly the kind of question you should be asking.” He reached into his pocket, removed a linen handkerchief. He dabbed at her cheeks with it. “You are pure, virginal. Holy. You are the perfect sacrifice.”
“Killing me will not bring you peace. Or power. Satan does not reward his followers in the hereafter. That is the Great Lie.”
“But I don’t want peace. And I fully expect to go to Hell, as things stand now.”
“What do you want, then? Why are you doing this?”
“What do I want? I want God to reboot, that’s what.”
Valentine stood, folded the handkerchief, and placed it back into his pocket. “And you, my dear, are going to help me crash His system.”
EVERY WOMAN HATCHER GLIMPSED SEEMED TO MAKE EYE contact with him as he passed. Many were engaged in sexual acts with one another, and those who weren’t gave off a vibe like they recently had, or were about to.
“Are you gals always this . . . congenial with one another?”
Soliya glanced over her shoulder. “Certain times of the year are observed by tradition. Right now, we are in the midst of the Liberalia, the Great Bacchanalian Festival.”
His gaze wandered. A redhead lifted her eyes to meet his as she tongued the clit of a tanned and firm woman with raven black hair. He wasn’t certain which one was more attractive.
“And you celebrate with orgies?”
“We’re sexual creatures, Mr. Hatcher. We celebrate our sexuality. Don’t you?”
The chamber was enormous. Soliya made her way through a maze of debauchery, gatherings of beautiful women pleasuring each other on pillowed furniture, laughing over glasses of wine, showering, naked and joyful, beneath a rocky waterfall. On a far wall, between two majestic columns, a black space like a tunnel entrance came into view. Hatcher trailed a few steps behind. Just as before, she stepped into a darkness that seemed to swallow her. He hesitated only briefly before following, figuring there was no sense in worrying about her intentions now. If she’d wanted to kill him, she could have just left him for those things.
The darkness gave way to a bluish glow. He couldn’t see clearly at first, but gradually a much smaller chamber came into view, roughly the size of a high school gymnasium. In the center was a large wheel-shaped stone, laid on its side. Three women lounged around it on small mounds of cushions and pillows, studying Hatcher intently. Gorgeous women, he noted.
“Is this him?” one of them asked, slowly rising to her feet. A honey blonde. She wore the same kind of white togalike dress most of the others did. She held a cylinder in her hand, low and at an angle, brandishing it in a way that told Hatcher it was likely a weapon.
Soliya approached the stone platform. “Yes.”
Hatcher’s vision continued to adjust. As he drew closer, what lay atop the stone gradually came into view. He stopped a few feet away. This one was most definitely a weapon, a small sword of some kind.
Soliya swept a hand. “This is the Dagger of Cain.”
“Cain?” Hatcher took another step, keeping an eye on the other women, who were obviously keeping an eye on him. “As in, am-I-my-brother’s-keeper Cain?”
“Yes.”
Hatcher leaned forward and studied the object, examined its lines, its roughly forged metal. Weapons, he knew. He straightened his back and shook his head. “Sorry to break this to you, but this was made long after biblical times.”
“You’re sharp, Mr. Hatcher. But I didn’t say it was the dagger used by Cain. Cain didn’t even use a dagger, truth be told. This was, as you noted, crafted long after his time. It is called the Dagger of Cain for another reason.”
“What reason is that?”
Ignoring the question, Soliya stepped toward a stone outcropping, walking a tight line with the hip sway of a swimsuit model. One of the other women moved swiftly to place a cushion beneath her as she lowered herself onto it. Only after she sat did Hatcher realize it was chair—a throne, almost—carved from the rock.
She crossed her legs and eyed Hatcher for a several seconds before speaking. “There are some things you need to understand.”
“Oh, you think?”
“You are being manipulated, Mr. Hatcher. You have been since you stepped foot in New York.”
His gaze drifted back to the women, brushing over them one at a time. Two blondes and a brunette, each with skin he could almost taste. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“This is no time to be flip. A number conspire against you.”
“Well, if there’s a point to get to, I’m ready for it whenever you are.”
“Deborah was—is—one of us.”
“I’m shocked.”
“She left us—an intolerable act in itself, I must say—and has been assisting Valentine.”
“If you’re trying to break it to me that you tried to kill her at the hospital, I already figured that out.”
“Then I’m sure it occurred to you that the hospital wasn’t the first time.”
Hatcher let her words sink in. “That’s how Garrett died. You killed him. Trying to kill her.”
“He couldn’t help himself,” she said, interlacing her fingers and forming a steeple. “He was like you. He had to try to save the day.”
“The guy he was trying to stop, he was already dead.”
Soliya nodded.
“How the heck does that work?”
Her lips pushed out in a pout and her cheeks sunk slightly inward. Hatcher realized these women had two kinds of looks. Sexy and sexier.
“Our connection to the other side affords us certain abilities. Making contact with what you know as Hell is one of them. Animating the recently deceased is another.”
Protect her. A subtle shift in understanding rearranged his thoughts. Deborah had done that, from the bathroom. Used him. Probably had used Garrett somehow, too.
“She’d been following him,” Soliya added.
“Why?”
“At some level, you must know.”
Hatcher said nothing. His attention shifted back to the dagger on the platform.
“You’re here because we need your help.” Soliya said. “We need you to stop Valentine.”
“Stop him from doing what?”
“From upsetting the balance between salvation and damnation, from summoning Belial, the Lord of the Underworld.”
“And just how would he manage that?”
“Have you ever heard of the Book of Thoth?”
“The book of what?”
“Thoth. A god of ancient Egyptian myth. Actually, he’s the most powerful demon in Hell, a demon we know as Belial.”
“I was waiting for the movie.”
“Followers of the occult know the name well. Pop devil worshippers and Satanists have invoked him promiscuously through the years. The original book, however, was lost to history, many millennia ago.”
“Are we ever going to get around to that point I was asking about?”
“Few have ever known its contents. It is a work of enchantment so powerful, it was believed the gods punished anyone who laid eyes on it, and cursed their issue for generations to come.”
“Enchantment? You mean, like, magic?”
“Yes, but not the kind you’re thinking. It contains the secret to controlling the earth and the skies. The keys to Heaven and Hell.”
“And you think Valentine found a first edition somewhere.”
“Don’t be so dismissive, Mr. Hatcher. You don’t understand what this means. The Book of Thoth is not merely something dangerous. It is hard to comprehend what one who possesses it may be capable of.”
“And where do I fit in to all of this?”
Soliya gestured to one of the other women. The woman stepped over to the dagger and folded the leather over it. She then carried it to Soliya and handed it to her.
“Valentine is attempting the unthinkable, to use the Book of Thoth to rip Heaven from its moorings and fulfill the prophecy of Belial.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It means, Valentine has promised Deborah something, something big. Perhaps to be made a demon. One may presume Belial will be grateful to be unleashed.”
“Why would she want that?”
“She’s a seventh g. This is the last leg of her life. After this, there is nothing. It is something we must all come to grips with. Deborah never did.”
She raised the bundle in her hands. “You wish to know why this is called the Dagger of Cain? Because it is destined that the one who wields it shall slay his brother. We have guarded it for centuries, protected it from harm. Kept anyone from breaking the purity of its purpose. The Prophecy of the Carnates says that our time will end once Belial has ascended. This life, long by your standards though it may be, is all we have. That is why the dagger was made. That is why we protect it.”
“And my role in all of this?”
“You are the one who is fated to wield it, Mr. Hatcher. You are the one spoken of in the prophecies. It all depends on you.”
“Lady, you are several slices short of a loaf. I may not understand everything, but I certainly know I’m not some chosen one. I ain’t Moses. Or some character from The Matrix.”
“And what makes you so sure of that, Mr. Hatcher?”
“The whole idea is ludicrous. I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. And even if I did, you obviously haven’t thought this through. I can’t be your guy.”
“Why not?”
“Because you said the person who wields this thing is destined to kill his brother. Last I checked, I don’t even have a brother. And if I did, well, you already took care of that, didn’t you?”
The puff of a tiny laugh seemed to escape her nostrils. “You disappoint me, Mr. Hatcher. I took you to be more astute. Just because Garrett is dead does not mean you are not destined to kill your brother.”
“You’re starting to sound like a sphinx. What are you saying?”
“I am saying, one brother is dead, yes. Another still lives.”
“Another what? Brother?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have another brother. I’m not even a hundred percent certain I had one to begin with.”
“Oh, you did. And you do.”
“Who is this other brother, then?”
“I can’t believe you haven’t guessed yet. The man I’ve been talking about, Mr. Hatcher . . .” Soliya tossed the dagger to him. He wasn’t expecting it but managed to get a hand firmly on it, feeling the blade through the leather.
She waited several seconds before finishing the thought. “Demetrius Valentine. He’s your brother.”
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