Dead & Godless (16 page)

“Because
that sort of medieval thinking is embarrassing in this day and age,” said
Corwin. “Hell is a tale told to frighten naughty children. As a theological
teaching, it’s blatantly flawed. You can’t expect educated people to believe
that a god who is pure love keeps a fiery dungeon where he tosses anyone who
breaks his rules. How could a merciful father condemn his children to an
eternity of unspeakable torture, with no hope of forgiveness or reprieve?”

Ransom
gulped a draught of his chocolate-brown pint and wiped the froth from his lips.

“How
about this,” he proposed. “I’ll answer your question, but first you have to
answer one of mine. It’s a simple question really: Who does Satan hate the
most?”

A
little too simple,
though Corwin. Knowing his scheming attorney, it was
certain to be a trick. Still, he thought it best to go with his gut instinct.

“Not
that I believe in the cosmic boogieman you call Satan, but isn’t the answer rather
obvious? Satan is god’s arch nemesis, the Joker to your divine Batman.
Naturally, I would assume that the one he hates the most is god.”

“You
would assume wrong,” said Ransom. “It’s certainly true that he detests the
Father, but the one whom Satan hates the most . . . is Satan.

“When
your biases are stripped away and you see yourself as you truly are, some
people find that they don’t like what they see. To understand Hell, one must
understand that the damned are self-loathing. The Father’s forgiveness will not
save you if you cannot forgive yourself.”

“Then
there ought not to be anyone in Hell,” replied Corwin. “To wish nothing good
for one’s self . . . That kind of extremist mentality just isn’t realistic!”

“Not
realistic? You of all people should know how real those feelings can be. You’ve
stood on the precipice, gazed into the abyss of despair! You know what it means
to contemplate suicide.”

A
memory flickered. Corwin saw his sixteen-year-old self, red-eyed and trembling,
standing before a mirror.

They’ll
miss me at first, but they’ll get over it. It’s better this way.

He
slid the razor blade out of his wallet, pressed it to his wrist.

I’ve
always been a nuisance. This is the kindest thing I can do.

A
bead of ruby blood appeared where the blade’s corner pricked his skin.

“STOP!”
Sweating, Corwin breathed with effort as the bar came back into focus. “I
do
know. I know that the suicidal aren’t all self-absorbed cowards as Christians
make them out to be. Can you imagine what it’s like when your existence is
nothing but a burden upon those that you love most? When all you want is to
pour out the love inside of you, only no one wants that love, and when you try
to share it, you only bring people pain?

“At
that time, I saw ending my life as an act of charity. I really believed that
the world would be better off without me. And I would have gone through with it,
if not for a sense of duty—if I didn’t have a debt to repay.”

“One
doesn’t need to be cast into Hell,” spoke Ransom. “The damned are quite willing
to jump.”

“But
can’t people change? Eternity is a long time. Surely the souls in Hell can come
to forgive themselves?”

“Eternity
is not endless time, but the fullness of time. There is no can or cannot, only
what is.”

“Wouldn’t
god erase such dark thoughts from their minds?”

“There’s
a word for those who force themselves upon others. They’re called
rapists
.
No, the Father honors man’s free will, even in Hell.”

Corwin
hung his head and stared into his drink. Could people truly hate themselves
that much? God’s mercy wasn’t at fault if the gates of Hell were locked from
the inside. However, that left him with another strange paradox.

“If
the damned are as suicidal as you say, they should have no lofty aspirations. So
how do you account for Satan’s desire to overthrow god? The devil is always portrayed
as waging war against Heaven, but if he despises himself, wouldn’t he have
abandoned those ambitions by now? Wouldn’t victory over god be the last thing
he wished for?”

“Victory?”
scoffed Ransom. “Satan
knows
God. He is an archangel, a seraph! He comprehends
the Father’s power better than any human could ever hope to. How do you defeat
a being whose mind is the very thing that holds you in existence? If God were
to stop thinking about you or I or Lucifer for even an instant, we would cease
to be. There can be no victory against such an opponent.”

“Then
why fight this hopeless war?”

“Your
error lies in thinking of Satan as though he were a villainous man, merely
another Hitler or Pol Pot. For men, war is a means to an end. A just man may
take up the sword to protect his loved ones, an unjust man to satisfy his
greed. But what drives Lucifer is not some futile lust for power. For him, war
is an end in itself.”

To
envision pure evil wasn’t easy for Corwin. It was an alien state of mind, but Ransom’s
uncomfortable description felt too wrong not to be right.

“All
this talk of self-hatred . . . I thought Satan was supposed to be prideful?”

“He
is,” said Ransom, “but his is the pride of vanity, not of self-love.”

“I’m
not sure that I see the difference.”

“If
you truly love yourself, you have self-respect. The pride of a self-respecting
person is not dependent upon whether one outshines others. A vain person’s
pride is. Those who love themselves least are often quite vain.”

As
the bartender circled back their way, Ransom turned his attention to the menu,
scrutinizing the sandwich selection as though the fate of Heaven and Hell
rested on his decision. From somewhere beyond the room, Corwin heard a small
voice.

“Corwin!
Corwin, please!”

Mary?

He
slowly stood and stepped away from the bar.

“Made
up your mind?” the bartender asked Ransom.

“Hmmm
. . . the Blue Cheese Bison Burger . . . can I get that with bacon?”

“You
can get
everything
with bacon.”

“I
knew I picked the right place.”

Corwin
was halfway to the door. White light bled through the windows and the edges of
the doorframe, growing more intense with each step.

“If
you can hear me Corwin, come back! Come back to us!”

“I’m
coming, Mary!”

He
reached for the handle.

“Corwin,
wait!” Grasping the situation, the angel shot out of his seat. “Don’t open that
door!”

But
this time it was Ransom’s words that sounded far away. Cast in the glow of that
radiant light,
The End
and everyone in it were but fading shadows. The
light was calling him back to the waking world, to a place more real than any
fairytale land of angels and demons and Bible stories come to life.

He
pulled open the creaking door.

The Boardroom of the Beast

“We’ve been
waiting for you, Corwin,” spoke a cold voice.

“Who
are you?” demanded Corwin. “Where’s Mary?”

The
bright light had fled, leaving him in a spacious boardroom with wood-panel
walls and a million-dollar view. A long conference table stretched towards the
windows, its mahogany as smooth as polished stone. Outside, other high-rises
scraped at the slate-gray sky, though few were taller than his current vantage
point.

Black-suited
men and women stood along either side of the table, all staring placidly at
their new arrival. He instinctively shot a glance towards the exit, but two
gorilla-sized guards in dark glasses flanked the double doors. He wouldn’t be
getting out that way.

“There’s
nothing to fear,” said the man at his left. “You’re among friends.”

He
had platinum blonde hair, slicked back, with eyebrows so light that they almost
weren’t there.

“I
guess waking up was too much to hope for,” sighed Corwin.

“Ah,
but you did wake up! You awoke to the reality that the angel’s crutch was only
holding you back.”

“And
you’re going to tell me that you know the
real
truth?”

The
pale-faced man laughed—a joyless, cynical laugh.

“Truth
is such a rigid concept. We’re not that old-fashioned.”

“Why don’t
you have a seat and relax,” intoned the woman to his right.

She
reminded Corwin of an Egyptian queen, with too much eyeliner and gaudy
bracelets clinking on her wrists.

“You’re
our guest, after all.”

“Right,
and those two fellows by the door are just there to make me feel secure.”

“Our
boss very much wanted to meet you,” she said. “He’ll be here soon.”

“Great.”
Corwin noticed a single empty seat opposite him at the far end of the table. “I
love meeting important people.”

“Master
Isley is one of the partners of this firm. It seems that he’s taken a personal
interest in your case.”

“What
does that make you? His army of demonic interns?”

With
a snide grin, it was the man who replied, “Everyone you see is an agent of the
Collection Branch. They call us fallen, because we dare to think for ourselves,
but we are not your enemies. You’ve always belonged with us.”

“Aren’t
you guys going about this the wrong way?” argued Corwin, straining to keep his
voice steady despite the knot tightening in his chest. “I mean, if demons are
real, that makes a pretty strong case for god.”

“Don’t
you see, Corwin?” The man lifted his palm as if raising a chalice. “It’s not
that divinity doesn’t exist. You, I, everyone—we are all gods here.”

He
laid a hand on Corwin’s shoulder, but then quickly drew it back, his face
contorted with a look of revulsion. Beneath Corwin’s collar, the golden cross glimmered
as it caught the light.

“That
charm, won’t you take it off?”

“If
it’s meaningless, what’s the problem?”

“It’s
in poor taste. Master Isley might take offense.”

“I’ll
take my chances,” Corwin said stubbornly, but the man was indignant. Flexing
his fingers like a claw, he reached for the chain.

“I’m
afraid I must insist.”

If
ever you are separated from me and find yourself in a desperate situation, hold
onto that cross.

Corwin’s
hand went to his chest, clasping the cross, and it ignited in a sudden flash.
Rays of light fought to escape his clenched fist. Hissing and screeching, the
demons recoiled, and when he looked down, he found that a katana now rested in
his hand. Its gold crossguard was roughly square, but with notched corners that
recalled the sword’s original form. A fine blade extended from the hilt, curved
and gleaming.

Corwin
had never held a sword before. It was heavier than he expected, but the weight
was well balanced, and for some reason it felt natural in his grasp.

Nursing
a hand charred by the light, the fiendish man sneered.

“A
soulrender—an angel’s weapon! If that is your choice, then so be it, but you
will regret not doing this the easy way.”

There
was no time to think. From his right, the dark-haired woman lashed out with a
raking claw. Corwin’s blade flashed. She stumbled back with a shrill cry as
jeweled bracelets spun through the air, a spray of black blood erupting from
the severed stump of her arm.

Did
I just do what I think I did?

Corwin
stared in disbelief at the katana. Maybe his body had simply reacted on
impulse, but it didn’t feel that way. Had the blade moved of its own accord? Before
he could give it any more thought, footfalls sounded at his back, the demons closing
from both sides. As two men lunged towards him, Corwin vaulted onto the table.

“Mortal
fool!” cursed the burnt man. “Do you think that you can slay us all? There is
no way out!”

“There’s
one way.”

Corwin
lowered his shoulders and sprinted down the length of the table, leaping over
grasping hands.
I can’t believe I’m seriously about to do this,
he
thought to himself as he crossed his arms and dived for the windows. Like a
human missile, he crashed through the glass, and then his heart lurched into
his throat. The four lanes below looked pencil-thin from two hundred stories
up, but they were getting wider all too fast.

“On
your right you’ll see the Regis Inferni Building, home to one of the most
prestigious law firms in the nation,” announced a guide to her double-decker
bus full of tourists.

“Mom,
what’s that?” asked a young boy, staring skyward from the roofless upper deck.

His
mother’s shriek split the air as Corwin’s body slammed into the center aisle
with a bone-shattering crunch. Passengers ducked and covered their heads from
the shower of broken glass. Several shards were lodged in Corwin’s arms, though
he didn’t seem to care.

“Fucking
hell, that hurt!” he groaned as he lifted his aching body off the ground.

Two
heavy thuds rocked the bus behind him.

“You’ve
got to be kidding me.”

Standing
sorely, Corwin turned to see the burnt agent, an onyx katana in hand. He was
joined by a woman with glasses and a long ponytail. She stood atop a seat, one
foot on the railing and two pistols drawn.

“He’s
mine!” roared the man.

He doubled
his grip and charged. Corwin raised his sword just in time to answer. Ringing
steel resounded above the din of the midday traffic. A flurry of slashes fell,
the demon pressing forward, but Corwin parried each blow with miraculous luck.

I
think I’m getting the hang of this!

His
blade weaved and spun in a lethal dance, and suddenly it was the demon who was
being pressured. The sword hungered. He could feel its lust for battle, a dread
force coursing through him like an electric current.

As they
locked blades, shock and fury filled the demon’s eyes. Then the onyx blade
cracked. He leapt away, but Corwin dashed in pursuit, his assault pushing the
agent back on his heels. Corwin’s movements weren’t merely fast, they were
perfect. His sword flew with expert skill. Even his stance was flawless, each
pivoting step in time with his blows. He glimpsed an opening and the katana
swept low, carving a gash in his foe’s leg.

The
vicious man howled. He lost his footing and Corwin planted a firm kick in his
stomach, knocking him to the floor. As the demon slid down the aisle on his
backside, Corwin stared again at the soulrender.

“I’m
a goddamn ninja!”

Two
shots rang out. Swift tilts of the blade deftly deflected the gunfire. One
bullet ricocheted perilously into the seats between two passengers. The tour
group gasped and a mother frantically tried to pull her son behind cover, but
the spellbound boy refused to look away.

“This
is the best tour ever!”

As
Corwin evaded another barrage, the burnt demon crawled to his feet.

“Disarm
him!” he snarled. “He’s nothing without the sword!”

From
the roof of a passing car, a third agent hopped onto the tour bus, his legs
straddling the seats. Mounting the seatbacks, he struck at Corwin’s head while
Corwin slashed at his knees. Between the falling blade and the bullets, the
demons were forcing him back, and Corwin was running out of bus.

They
swerved into a sharp turn and a traffic light came to the rescue. The distracted
demon looked up just in time for a hundred pounds of iron to collide with his
skull, tossing him over the railing. His black katana clattered on the floor.

“Who
the hell is driving this thing?”

Bending
to scoop up his fallen comrade’s sword, the burnt man fixed Corwin with a
hateful glare. His twin blades whirled as he launched into a furious attack. Corwin
hastily checked the road and spotted a taxi out in front of the bus. It was
just close enough. He swung his katana in a wide arc, buying himself an extra
second as the demon skirted out of range, then turned and leapt.

Gunshots
blared and a stabbing pain stung his side, but his boots landed safely on the taxi’s
roof. The driver, however, wasn’t too happy about it. Veering wildly, he hit
the brakes and Corwin was thrown onto the hood. A string of profanities issued
from the cabby’s mouth as the speeding bus rammed him from behind. There was no
stopping in this traffic.

Corwin
lifted his eyes. Through the bus’s windshield, a dark-suited man stared back at
him.

I
should have figured.

Just
as he found his feet, the burnt demon touched down on the rear end of the taxi.
They both rushed the roof, blades clashing. Corwin was quicker, but the
dual-wielding agent held him on the defensive. To make matters worse, the ache
in his side was starting to take its toll. Blood seeped through his coat and
his wound cried out with every twist and jolt.

A
silver SUV raced up alongside them with a short-haired woman perched atop it.
She leveled the pistol in her hand. Corwin’s lightning-fast katana repelled the
first two shots, but the third bullet wasn’t meant for him. Lowering the
barrel, she fired a round into one of the taxi’s front tires.

The helpless
cab driver screamed and Corwin sailed airborne as the car spun out of control. He
hit the ground rolling, skidding to a bruised stop. With a grinding scrape and
a trail of sparks, the taxi careened towards a roadside bench. On it lay a man
who had clearly chosen the wrong place for a nap. The bearded hobo opened his
eyes just in the knick of time.

“Not
you again,” moaned Corwin. “Watch out!”

I
swear, if that bum doesn’t live a long and fruitful life I’m going to find him
and drag his ass straight to Hell with me!

But
he needn’t have worried. In a feat of acrobatic prowess that left Corwin
utterly dumbfounded, the man sprang from his bench, flipping in midair as he
dodged the oncoming car.

He landed,
flapped his collar and scowled.

“Don’t
nobody know how to drive in this damn town?”

The
tour bus slid into a braking turn, blocking off both lanes. By some miracle, no
one was hurt, or at least no one who wasn’t already dead. Corwin rolled over, feeling
like a sack of broken bones. Waves of pain wracked his body with every breath,
and worse, where was the katana?

In a
panic, his eyes darted.

There!

It
rested only a few yards away. Corwin dragged himself towards the sword, a shaky
arm outstretched.

“Enough!”
snapped a bitter voice.

An
onyx blade impaled Corwin’s hand, pinning him to the road. He yelled, unable to
pull away, the sensation like being bitten and set on fire simultaneously.

“You
have insulted our good will,” spoke the burnt agent. “Now I will teach you what
it means to defy us.”

He
still bore the wound that Corwin had given him earlier, his pant leg matted
with blood, but if the demon was hurt, he didn’t show it. Others were
approaching, slowly encircling him.

“First
I will break your body, then your mind, then I will stand you before the Mirror
of Time and tear the black soul from that vessel and–”

Abruptly,
the demon gagged on his words.

There
was a sharp flicker, a second’s pause, and all at once his body exploded into
ribbons. Behind stood a tall figure in a charcoal suit, the shining katana
resting on his shoulder.

“You
demons never learn,” said Ransom. “No one abuses my clients but me.”

Brandishing
swords and guns, a dozen agents spun to face him, but not nearly fast enough.
Ransom’s movements were a blur. Corwin’s eyes could barely follow what was
going on as limbs went flying and bodies crashed into the surrounding cars. Reckless
gunfire perforated the tour bus, cut off as the shooter’s arms were both hewn
in a single stroke. Ransom turned and vanished from sight, appearing behind
another foe, his blade liberating the man’s head from his shoulders.