The Brimstone Deception Page 24

  “It’s a pocket dimension,” Rake said. The goblin turned back to where the portal opened, and his eyes shone with intent of murder most violent. “And Isidor anchored it into the rock surrounding my cellar.”

  I looked around. “Jeez, how much room is on the other side of your wine cellar anyway?”

  “It couldn’t be this much,” Fred said.

  “It’s not,” Martin told us. “The size of the actual area outside of Bacchanalia’s basement has no bearing on the size of a pocket dimension. In theory, it could be as small—or as large—as its creator wanted it to be.”

  I stifled a whistle at the vault of the cavern ceiling far above our heads. “Then Silvanus must be compensating for something.”

  “If it’s a pocket dimension, then how does what’s in here get out into the city when the Hellpit is fully open?” Ian asked.

  “Isidor’s magic made it,” Rake told him. “Isidor’s magic can unmake it. Once that Hellpit is completely open, he’ll pop this pocket dimension like an overfilled water balloon.”

  “Sounds messy,” Fred noted.

  “If by messy you mean a cavern suddenly breaking through into our reality beneath the streets of this city, molten brimstone flowing through the sewers and subway tunnels, and demons hunting the streets—then yes, it will be extremely messy.”

  A swiftly flowing river of bubbling, molten brimstone ran beside a rock ledge barely wide enough for two of us to walk side by side. The altering landscape must have been a distortion of the pocket dimension—or the landscape was shifting and changing as the Hellpit somewhere farther in the cavern continued to grow. Color was apparently distorted as well. When we’d first stepped through the portal, the rocks had looked, well, rock colored. In reality they were sulfuric yellow.

  And I’d always thought the Yellow Brick Road led to Oz.

  That’d make Isidor the Wicked Witch of the West, Kitty would be Dorothy, and the contract Rake carried was the Ruby Slippers. Rake wouldn’t qualify as Glinda the Good on his best day, more like the Wizard of Oz. At the end of the movie, Oz had floated away in a balloon, leaving Dorothy and company to fend for themselves.

  My subconscious kept replaying that part for me as a portent of impending doom.

  Ours.

  I’d only heard about Rake’s power. Other than the fire door, I’d never witnessed anything big myself, and until now I’d never minded. One person I’d heard it from had been Vivienne Sagadraco. If the boss said Rake was powerful, I’d believe her without proof. However, she’d also said that he was dangerous. I’d always assumed she meant dangerous to anyone he went up against. Now was not a good time to have my assumption disproven.

  I pushed those thoughts out of my head, making myself focus on what was likely to get me killed now rather than later. When in enemy territory, a little noise to cover any sounds you might make was a good thing. Usually. The sounds we were hearing wouldn’t be called good in anyone’s estimation. A sharp snap and crack was repeating at irregular intervals, as if something that wasn’t supposed to be breakable was being broken. Like I said, not good.

  We walked and walked, but didn’t seem to be getting any closer to the turn in the path and the Hellpit presumably beyond.

  Isidor Silvanus was playing with us.

  “Does this qualify as the dark magic games you were referring to?” Ian asked.

  “It would,” Rake replied. “Isidor is attempting to control time here. He’s trying to delay our arrival.”

  Fred wiped sweat from his face. “Seems to be doing a damn fine job.”

  There was a grouping of sharp rocks not too far down the path. “Those rocks haven’t gotten any closer,” I pointed out. “It’s like we’re walking on a freakin’ treadmill.”

  Rake nodded once. “Exactly.”

  “Anything you can do about this?” Ian asked Rake.

  “There is. The question then becomes are you ready for a fight?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much of a fight?” Fred asked.

  A wise man, Fred.

  “I know what you’re capable of,” Fred told Ian. “No offense, Mac. You’re feisty, but we are approaching Hell.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Nothing personal.” The half-elf cop jerked his thumb at Martin. “Then we’ve got the Professor back there doing a National Geographic photo shoot.”

  The demonologist was squatting down on the very edge of the ledge, clicking off shots of a fat, pale worm-like demon that was using six caterpillar-like legs to pull itself up against the ledge like it was the edge of a swimming pool, and was curiously studying Martin with a pair of round, black eyes.

  Martin must have sensed us all watching him in complete disbelief. He stopped clicking.

  “Don’t let me keep you. I’m fine. Merely taking advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “Isidor is attempting to delay us by controlling time here,” Rake told him, “so I’m going to teleport the five of us closer to the Hellpit. I need you to move closer.”

  Martin glanced down with concern at the chubby foot-long worm. “Manipulating time can adversely affect these larvae’s development. Since it’s occurring, the parent must not be aware of it. Isidor Silvanus may be able to slow the passage of time, but he’s still a guest here, so he really shouldn’t. Would you like him to stop?”

  The goblin raised one perfect eyebrow. “That was my desired solution.”

  “I think I can help with that.”

  “If so, your assistance would be much appreciated.”

  I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t. There were way too many WTFs in that exchange for me to process. Fred and Ian were likewise afflicted. This was approaching a Twilight Zone level of strange.

  Martin reached out with his index finger and touched the larva right on top of its squishy little head. Neither moved for at least ten seconds, then Martin stood and came over to where we waited.

  “The larva will relay our predicament and request to its parent.” The demonologist looked back to where the worm/larva had disappeared back into the molten brimstone with a plop. “It shouldn’t take long. This particular demon at this early stage of development is still telepathically linked to the parents.”

  “How can you be sure he . . . it will relay the message?” Ian asked.

  Martin shrugged. “Demon larva like me. I guess you can say I’m good with children.”

  I had no response for that, either.

  “Thank you, Dr. DiMatteo,” Rake said. “Let’s continue and pick up the pace. When Isidor realizes his efforts have been thwarted, he’ll attack us in another way.”

  We walked faster, and after a few minutes, we began making progress.

  “Let’s hear it for Marty’s tattle-worm,” Fred muttered.

  Rake and Ian had slowed, their full attention on a patch of shadow ahead of us, that, judging from Ian’s hand hovering above Sandra’s six-shooter, wasn’t simply another harmless spot of dark.

  The shadow moved and—

  Wait. It moved?

  What looked to be just another shadow started moving all by its lonesome and spread to cover the hallway from side to side. If we wanted to get past it—and we had to—we needed to go through it.

  Nope.

  I didn’t even have to consult my lizard brain on that one. My entire brain was in agreement—no way was I stepping into that.

  Fred took one step back, sharing my misgivings.

  Naturally, Ian didn’t budge. My partner was the poster boy for determination.

  The corner of the cavern wall was visible through the apparently sentient shadow.

  Rake picked up a chunk of brimstone rock and threw it through the shadow.

  The rock vanished.

  It went in, but it didn’t come out the other side.

  Nope. Definitely nope.

  “Alternate route?” I asked.

  No sooner were the words out of my mouth than the shadow began flowing down a
narrow path, away from us, in the direction we needed to go.

  Toward the Hellpit.

  Fred let out the breath we’d all been holding. “And that, boys and girl, is our engraved invitation.”

  * * *

  We’d all seen the glow of the Hellpit the entire way here. But even the glow and the overwhelming stench couldn’t prepare us for what lay around that last turn.

  We were hit with a wall of heat and sulfuric fumes coming off a Hellpit the size of my granddaddy’s catfish pond that was bubbling with molten brimstone—and all of it irrationally located just outside of Bacchanalia’s wine cellar.

  “Isn’t a pit more like a hole in the ground?” Fred asked.

  “That’s what I’ve always thought,” I said.

  “Then that’s a big damn pit.”

  Even more disturbing was finding the source of the snapping and cracking we’d been hearing. It was the rock floor breaking and giving way under the pit’s relentless expansion.

  The floor trembled beneath our feet as another few inches of the cavern floor crumbled and fell into the lagoon.

  There were bones lying around the shoreline. Humanoid. Meaning human, elf, goblin, or vampire. With the exception of fangs on the vampires and goblins, the only way to know for sure would be to get them in a lab.

  Death was the great equalizer.

  “I think we found the missing drug dealers,” Ian murmured.

  I had an unwanted flashback to the chicken bones in my bathtub. This was what the aftermath of baby demon mealtime looked like when they got hold of something big. I focused on the closest skeleton. That could have been me, except my remains would’ve been in my apartment and not on the shore of a Hellpit, but that was small comfort.

  Contrary to how most humans envisioned it, the entrance to Hell wasn’t in the bowels of our Earth. It was on another plane of existence. It could just as easily have opened like a door behind us, but in my opinion, nothing was a more appropriate entrance to Hell than a stinking, molten, sulfuric pit.

  When we got out of here—if we got out of here—the clothes I was wearing were history. No amount of washing would get the rotten egg stink out.

  SPI offered hazard pay to its agents. I’d been told in HSR (Human and Supernatural Resources) on my first day that since all of our work was considered dangerous, rarely did a situation arise that qualified for hazard pay. Even hunting two adult grendels and their dozens of spawn in the pitch-dark tunnels underneath Times Square didn’t qualify.

  Still, I had to ask.

  “Does storming what’s basically the gates of Hell qualify for hazard pay?”

  Ian nodded. “Yeah, it does.”

  Oh goody.

  Now we just had to live long enough to collect.

  32

  I scanned the opposite shore of the brimstone pond.

  We’d been expecting demons throwing a beach party to celebrate their imminent invasion—at least that’s what I’d expected to see. All we’d actually seen was the demon lord’s mini-me, Marty’s demonic toddler, and the shadow that had a mind of its own. Not that I minded reaching the Hellpit with zero attempts on our lives, but I didn’t trust it. Not that I’d know what to do if one of the locals jumped out at me. Considering what the locals were, the first thing I’d do was probably wet my pants. While embarrassing, I didn’t think anyone would blame me.

  “Mac,” Ian said.

  That one word contained a world of communication.

  “I’m looking. Nothing and no one yet.”

  I continued to scan what dry land remained that wasn’t covered by brimstone. Ian didn’t have to say he didn’t like it. I didn’t like it, either. None of us did. This setup had trap written all over it.

  A stalagmite wavered.

  Huh?

  I blinked to clear my vision. It could be the heat. It was like a sauna in here, but nothing else around the stalagmite was wavering.

  “Wavy rock formation at high noon.”

  Ian and Rake stepped up next to me, one on each side. Fred was a solid presence at my back. Though considering what I most wanted to do was turn and run, a solid Fred right behind me wasn’t good for either one of us, unless he wanted to get trampled.

  If it was a veil or shield, it was the best one I’d ever seen or heard of. I wouldn’t expect anything less from an elf dark mage strong enough to have opened a catfish-pond-sized Hellpit.

  Rake’s hands were at his side, glowing with the bright red of a defensive spell held in check. If this had been a dirt street in the Wild West, Rake would have been the gunslinger with his hands hovering over his six-shooters.

  Ian had Sandra’s actual six-shooter in his hand.

  An elf stepped away from the front of the stalagmite, his face and form shifting from a perfect camouflage match for the rock back to his own features.

  Damn.

  He’d been standing in plain sight the entire time like a chameleon. His breathing was what had made what I was seeing waver.

  If Isidor Silvanus hadn’t been about to release literal Hell on Earth, I would have been impressed.

  And yes, I knew it was Silvanus standing on the other side of the Hellpit. I didn’t need an introduction. I’d seen him before. Twice. On the other side of the portals in Sar Gedeon’s apartment and in the parking garage.

  Tall, dark, pale, and evil.

  His hair was black, his skin alabaster, and his eyes bright blue.

  Rake was right. The elf was good-looking, pretty, even. Too pretty. And too perfect. If he’d been human, I’d say he’d had work done. Since he was an elf, I’d say their highborn family tree needed to add some new branches for variety.

  Silvanus had framed himself in front of an arrangement of thin stalagmites that bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain throne on Ord’s favorite show.

  Someone thought highly of himself.

  Rake had called him obscenely powerful. Alastor had called him arrogant. I’d suggest adding vain, narcissistic, self-appointed special snowflake to that growing list.

  Emerging from behind the throne to stand next to him was exactly what Bert had described to Martin.

  A demon lord.

  Seven-foot tall, red skin, tail as long as I was tall, smooth back, swimmer’s build, horns curved and slightly tilted toward the back. Then there was the one thing Bert had left out: glowing, yellow eyes. I don’t know how he missed that.

  Isidor Silvanus spoke, his voice like warm honey. “I provide you with the safest passage it is in my power to grant, and what thanks do I get?”

  Rake’s hands glowed even brighter; now they were the color of freshly spilled blood. “More restraint than you deserve.”

  The elf smiled. “You took your time getting here, Rake.”

  “No, we took yours.” The goblin met his smile and raised him two fully extended fangs. For the first time since I’d known him, Rake’s fangs weren’t for display only. He planned to use magic to defeat Isidor Silvanus, but if the fight got up close, I had no doubt that Rake would get personal with his incisors.

  “You brought the individuals that I requested,” Silvanus noted. “And I didn’t think you would grant even the simplest of my requests. I was wrong.” The elf turned his attention to me. “Miss Fraser.”

  “That would be Agent Fraser to you and yours.” My voice didn’t quaver in the least. Good for me.

  “Ah yes. Agent. A member of that misguided organization that passes for supernatural law enforcement on this world. And Detective Ash. You chose to ally yourself with the mortal police.” The elf mage smiled in a show of perfect teeth, a smile that actually reached his eyes. “I will enjoy watching your comrade-in-arms’ feeble attempts to defend this city’s citizens once brimstone—and their blood—is flowing through its streets.” His sharp, blue eyes regarded Ian. “Agent Byrne I have heard about from a mutual acquaintance. He sincerely regrets that your reunion was cut short on New Year’s Eve, and would very much like to—how do you humans say—‘reach out’ to you in
the very near future.”

  Isidor Silvanus didn’t say anything else, and he didn’t need to. Ian knew exactly who the elf was referring to, and so did I.

  That night, years ago, when Ian had first encountered the creature, it had taken the appearance of a ghoul. The creature had killed—and eaten—Ian’s partner in the NYPD in an interrupted robbery gone wrong. Ian had joined SPI soon afterward to hunt down the thing that’d eaten his partner. When I’d seen the creature in the subway tunnels beneath Times Square last New Year’s Eve, my seer vision told me that the ghoul face he’d worn then was but one of many faces and identities he’d taken over the centuries. I had seen each face, each identity, layered on top of one another, stretching back into infinity. And only last week, according to SPI surveillance, he’d been seen at the Metropolitan Museum gala.

  So I believed Isidor Silvanus when he said the ghoul was still in town, waiting for the chance to get his claw-tipped hands into Ian.

  Ian didn’t move or show any sign that the elf’s words had affected him in the least.

  I knew they had, but my partner was pushing down his emotions until he could deal with them in the way he wanted. The ghoul wasn’t here to be on the receiving end of those emotions, but Isidor Silvanus was. My partner was a practical man; he’d make do with what he had.

  “And Dr. DiMatteo,” Silvanus said. “Last, but far from least. The mortal who knows so much more about the darker realms than he should. You have been quite inconvenient.”

  Fred slapped the demonologist on the back. “Hear that, Doc? You’re inconvenient. Way to go.”

  “My partners and I have been forced to accelerate our plans. I requested your presence since each of you, in your own way, is to blame for that. You will be the first to experience what your world will soon become.”

  “That wasn’t what—” Martin began.

  “That was precisely what you agreed to, Dr. DiMatteo. In exchange for the contract, I will release Miss Poertner to you. However, I have no intention of closing the Hellpit.” He gazed around. “At this point, closing it would be more of a challenge than even I could overcome. Though it will be entertaining to watch the little mortal woman try.”