House Infernal by Edward Lee (11 page)

She also commanded the lust of Voluptua, Boniface's
favorite concubine. It enlivened the Exalted Duke to
watch the two together on occasion.

At the last stone entry, Pasiphae turned with a black
smile, and then she led them at last into the Lower Chancel.

"Why is it I can never comprehend the math?" Boniface
complained, more to himself.

"It's the most complex black science, my lord," the
charred Priest replied. "I have trouble myself. It involves
manipulating the relationship between time and spacehere, where there is no time, and in the Living World,
which is calculable and finite. But take heart-thus far, no
theorems yet devised by the Cultes des Pythagorae have
ever been in error. We really must leave it to the Arithmetri."

The grinding of stone etched in their ears as the security wall rose.

"Ah. There they are."

The Angels. The booty of God's creation ... blessedly tainted.

Boniface's eyes widened behind the salt-mask as he
gazed into the Chancel's center. "Great Lord of Hell,
they're so ... gravid."

"Yes, they are, my lord. They were all very fertile."

Squirming naked on the stone floor were the precious
Angels, six of them, all female. Their wrists and ankles
strained against the air, which was constantly charged by
a Warding Spell that only a Class One Arch-Lock could
relieve. Their wings lay paralyzed and collapsed behind
their backs.

"It's still an unholy miracle that we were able to capture
them in the first place," Boniface reflected.

"All by the grace of Satan, my lord."

"How long have they been here?"

"Just a day. But of course you're aware that the conditioning took a century."

Torchlight flashed on the inverted cross that was
mounted atop Boniface's miter. "I'm more than aware of
that, Priest. But how do we know they're sufficiently
crazed?"

Willirmoz nodded to one of the helmed Conscripts,
who in turn reached down through the invisible Warding
Bonds, and loosened the gag.

The room shuddered. It was not a scream that leapt
from the Angels' tumescent faces. It was a sound like a
boulder grinding down a rocky hill. All the while, the Angels' sweat-glazed bodies heaved.

"Make it stop!" shouted the Duke.

The Conscript re-gagged the being and stepped back.

All of the Angels were from the arcane order known as
the Caliginauts. It was this select order that frequently
left Heaven to come here and wreak havoc. But Lucifer's
personal diviners had predicted their arrival, and a
brigade of Ushers and Bio-Wizards were ready for them.
A trap was set in the Industrial Zone, and the most refined Obfuscation Spells had led all six Angels right into
the clutches of the Constabulary, the Underworld's state
security.

There, in the Constabulary's deepest dungeons, the Angels were tortured and tormented for the last hundred
years.

Now, they were all insane.

And they were all something else, too.

Pregnant.

The final year of the torture regimen had included fastidious rape by all manner of Demons.

"Lucifer's dearest wish," Boniface whispered.

Willirmoz finished, "That they all be made pregnant
with mongrels before we cough them onto the Earth."

All of the Angels were inexpressibly beautiful, breasts sodden, limbs limber and toned beneath celestial skin.
The Torturians had exacted psychic torment, not physical,
so that the beings might retain every aspect of their physical beauty when they set foot in the Living World. Boniface watched in a dizzy glee as all six of their bloated
bellies squirmed. What wonders are waiting to be released
from their soiled wombs ... What monsters ...

"We've not long to wait now," Willirmoz said when he
sensed his master's impatience.

"We must succeed."

"We will."

"The equivalent of two decades on Earth will transpire
in one second?"

"Roughly, my lord."

Boniface's voice faltered. Was he having doubts, just as
he had in 974 A.D. when he murdered Pope Benedict? "It's
never been attempted before. How do we know it will
work?"

"The most complex Necromancy has foreseen it, my
wretched lord, just as I have foreseen it. The Involutionary Rites are now honed to flawlessness. When our
hideous moon is in the proper hue, we will release the
corrupted blood in your unholy courtyard, charge the Involution, and discorporate the Pith."

It was the Pith-the great stone slab on which the Angels shuddered-that Boniface's eyes held fast to now.
The executions and sacrifices so far were already softening its tangibility. When he looked hard enough, he could
see patches where the great black slab from the Valley of
Death was growing translucent.

Willirmoz's crusted lips seemed to move around his
words: "The most glorious day in Hell awaits ... all by
your hand, my lord."

I pray to Satan, Boniface silently implored.

Steadfast footsteps approached from behind. The Conscripts raised their hewers and dirks reflexively, but then
lowered them when they saw the Sergeant at Arms enter
the Chancel.

He did not dare look at Boniface but instead addressed
the High Priest. "An urgent cipher from the Guild of An-
thropomancers, sir."

Diviners of innards, Boniface thought with a pleasant
twinge.

"Are you certain it's genuine?" the Priest demanded.

"It was delivered by Aldehzor himself, the Grand
Messenger."

Willirmoz opened the corroded parchment, read the
words, then stood silent.

"What, Priest!" Boniface roared.

"A potential problem has been predicted, my most revolting lord."

"Something threatens our endeavor?"

"No, my lord. I'd say not. A mere triviality."

Boniface had to rein himself; he wanted to strangle the
High Priest then and there. "Explain, or die."

"Compose yourself," " came Willirmoz's assured voice.
"Just as our god has, the Morning Star for all these thousands of years-"

"What does the cipher say!"

"A brigade of Diviners has foreseen a minor matter, unholy one."

"That blasted Contumacy?"

"No, lord. Just a few petty insurgents. We'll simply
heighten security just in case. And we'll notify the Grand
Duchess Vulgaressa."

"That's already been done, great Priest," the Sergeant
informed.

"See?" Willirmoz tried to assuage the Exalted Duke.

"The Vulgaressa is detestable and cunning," Boniface
said.

"Yes, but she's loyal. She will heighten her own security,
and I'm sure that will stem the paltry threat. The Diviners
detected a few antithetic vibrations indicating the RotPort District. That's all it is, my lord."

Boniface looked back down to the imprisoned Angels.
They continued to squirm in their mental horrors, perfect
muscles straining under a sheen of Heavenly sweat.

"Rot-Port," the Duke intoned. "What of significance
could possibly be brewing in that despicable pest-hole?
The entire district is an open wound."

"We'll engage every Diviner, Clairvoyant, and Visionary in Hell to find out, my lord."

Willirmoz has never failed me, the Exalted Duke reminded himself. But still... "I'm feeling sick down here.
Take me back to my fortress for some fetid air."

"Of course, my most unspeakable lord." Willirmoz
took his master by the arm and followed Pasiphae back
up to the catacombs.

With each step up Boniface fretted. What in the name of
Hell could threaten us from Rot-Port?

"Rot-Port, huh?" Ruth griped, looking around with a
wince. "Fuck. At least they picked the right name."

Docks spongy with colorful rot squished beneath her
Day-Glo pink Teva flip-flops.

"It's just the first stop on our itinerary," Father Alexander said. "But every district in Hell is well-named: Tepesville, Osiris Heights, White Chapel-the Grand Duke
there is a guy named Edward, Duke of Clarence. He's
also known as Jack the Ripper. See, those who are born
here-Demons, Trolls, Imps, et cetera-the Hellborn,
have no creativity at all. The Fallen Angels themselves are
pretty stupid in that department, too. I guess that's the
deal when you don't have a soul. Everything here, since
Lucifer's fall, every twisted science, every warped equation, all the architecture-every single thing that can be
thought of as the product of innovation and creativity
comes from the minds of the Human Damned. The Green
River District, the De Rais Institutes of Occult Science, the
Richard Speck Immemorial Medical Center. Hexegenic
research, the Teratology Labs, where they use Human
anatomical science to manufacture monsters, the Voudun
Zombie Clinic-everything. It's all here because Humans
are here. Even the restaurants have an interesting creative flair that we can thank our Damned brothers and sisters
for. You'll see that one very soon."

Ruth huffed past a barrel full of clumps of mold and
slime. A sign read PLEASE RECYCLE YOUR ROT HERE. "What
do you mean I'll see that one very soon? Restaurants?"

"I'll tell you when we get there."

Ruth couldn't believe the visual spectacle as she
walked on. Rot as thick as sheets of ivy seemed to grow
over every wall of every building in the District, all bursting with the most macabre colors. The road beneath her
feet, too, seemed to be tiled with different varieties of decomposed matter. What the fuck is this? she thought, stopping at a shop. PICKMAN'S ART STUDIO, the rotten transom
read. Inside, a live female model-obviously a Ghoulposed for a man at an easel wearing disheveled 1920s
dress. The Ghoul was curvaceous and well-bosomed, but
emaciated nonetheless, meager strands of muscles taut
beneath gray, dust-dry skin. The artist was enthralled,
painting maniacally. When Ruth looked harder, she noticed the artist's palette contained not oil paint but daubs
of liquified rot.

"This place is really fucked-up," Ruth observed.

Of course, she couldn't see the priest frown behind
her. "Ruth, do you have any conceptions at all about
Grace?"

"Huh?"

"We should all pursue some aspect of Grace, shouldn't
we? Because it brings us closer to God. Just because your
sins have landed you in Hell doesn't mean you shouldn't
still seek Grace."

Ruth guessed her period was coming on; she was in a
bad mood. "I don't know what the fuck you're fucking
talking about."

"Your language! You have the foulest mouth of any
woman I've ever encountered."

Ruth had to keep reminding herself that Grace wasn't a
woman. She stopped and yelled over her shoulder at the
human knapsack. "Oh, yeah, listen to you! You throw stones at me, and look at you! Priests aren't supposed to
go to Hell, or Purgatory. But here you are, telling me I have
no grace. Fuck that and fuck you."

"I'm just trying to give you some spiritual advice, Ruth.
I am a priest, you know."

"Yeah, a fucked-up priest on some secret mission in
Hell that you aren't telling me shit about." She stalked
down the road that would lead them away from the piers.
"You got no arms or legs, buddy. You need me."

"Yes, I do."

"So stop giving me shit! I feel bad enough as it is." She
scanned down the road and could've thrown up at the
sight of the place. "I wasn't that bad of a person. Sure, I
partied a little, I did some bad things-"

Father Alexander laughed on her back.

"Oh, kiss my ass! Little Mr. Perfect back there." On the
side of the rot-covered road, she spotted a canal and
turned toward it. "Do I need this headache? Do I need you
on my back for my first day in fucking Hell? I don't think
so. I ought to throw you in this canal."

"Ruth." The priest's voice turned grim. "Don't get too
close."

"Oh, scared I might do it, huh? Like on that boat?" But
then she looked into the canal and saw that it was full of
running waste, innards, body parts, and scum.

"The canals here exist to carry sewage into the Districts,
not away from them. And they're full of Gore-Gators, E.
Coli Snakes, and-"

Ruth screamed as something from the canal jumped
out at her. The thing seemed half-invisible, only allowing
a glimpse, but in that glimpse Ruth detected a chubby
tubelike body ten feet long, two soft antennae, and a pulsating sucker mouth full of things like six-inch needles.
She lurched back just in time.

"And Bapho-Siugs," Alexander finished. "Come on,
Ruth. Don't ever go near those canals. Thank God that
slug was a baby."

"A fuckin' baby!" She jogged away in haste, her high breasts bobbing beneath the Yucx T•oo T-shirt. "The fucker
was ten feet long! How big's an adult?"

"Hundreds of feet," the priest apprised her. "When
they get that big they either go out to sea or slip into the
bigger rivers like the Styx."

"Fuck. I can't hack this shit, man."

"Be strong, Ruth. We've only just arrived. Let's both try
to think more spiritually from now on."

"Easy for you to say," she said as her flip-flops were
snapping onward over more multicolored scum.

"Your foul language, for instance. Work on that now.
I'll help you."

"I don't need help controlling my language from a
fuckin' torso who's stuck in the same shitty monsterfilled slime-hole as me! All you religious guys are the
same. You're all just a bunch of fuckin' hypocrites, condemning others for the same shit you all do. Maybe you
really don't cuss out loud but I'll bet you still say cuss
words in your mind, and if you say you don't, you're a
fuckin' liar because even with that dumbass plastic collar
you're still just as Human as me."

The priest's voice lost some of its punch. "I can't argue
with you there, Ruth."

She passed a fungus-fat entrance sign:

WELCOME TO THE PORT OF THE VULGARESSA. BOATS
MOORED WITHOUT PROPER LICENSE WILL BE IMPOUNDED
AND THEIR OWNERS WILL BE SUBJECT TO SUMMARY
TRANSRECTAL EVISCERATION.

Another sign quickly followed: