Supernatural: Carved in Flesh (31 page)

He was trying to think up a good sales pitch when Hel turned to Conrad and placed a hand on his head.

“You may gaze upon me, my most good and loyal servant.”

She removed her hand and Conrad, trembling, raised his head to look at her. He made no move to stand.

“My lady. You are more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.” Tears of joy streamed down his cheeks. “To see you incarnated in flesh that will not wither before your dark power is the fulfillment of a dream I have carried for three centuries, ever since the day I first heard your voice as a child in Castle Frankenstein.”

She smiled lovingly down at him. “I reached out to many others before you, Conrad, but yours were the only ears that heard, the only mind brilliant enough to understand what I needed, and the only heart steadfast enough to find the courage to keep on striving through all the long years. And now, here we are.”

“Yes, my lady. I will never know a moment finer than this.”

Hel’s smile turned cold. “This is true.”

She pointed the stone at him, and a bolt of ebon energy shot forth and struck him in the chest. He stiffened, and his body began to age at a rapid rate, the centuries catching up with him in a second. His flesh wrinkled, became parchment-dry, and drew tight against his bones. His hair became white wisps that drifted away from his liver-spotted scalp and fell, decaying to nothing before they could hit the wooden deck. His eyes sank into his skull and vanished, and his lips pulled back from his teeth, creating a ghastly grin. He fell onto his side, and what remained of his body collapsed into dust. A moment later, that was gone too, and all that remained of Conrad Dippel, the insane alchemist who had inspired one of the most famous horror novels in the English language, along with scores of films, was an empty suit.

“What did you do that for?” Dean demanded. “Not that I’m sorry to see him go, but it’s a lousy way to repay three hundred years of devotion. The least you could’ve done is given him a gold watch or something.”

Hel shrugged. “He was a tool I was finished with, so I discarded him. I needed someone to serve as my agent in the physical world, but now that I have a suitable body, I need no one but myself.”

Hel continued to face him as she spoke, so she didn’t see the look on Catherine Luss’s face, but Dean did. The adoration was gone, replaced by confusion.
Mamma can’t wrap her head around what her little girl just did,
he thought. If Hel kept going like this, it wouldn’t take long for the spell she’d cast over the doctor to break. Once that happened, she was liable to get zapped by that weird blue stone of Hel’s and end up like Dippel.

Dean wasn’t close to his full strength again, but he thought he might be strong enough.

“You know, I was going to try to make a deal with you to save my brother’s life, but I get the feeling you aren’t really the dealing type.”

“You are correct. If I want something, I take it.” She grinned. “It was one of the reasons the Vikings were so fond of me. They thought like I do.”

“That’s what I figured. In that case...” Dean drew his Colt, aimed for the stone, and fired.

* * *

Sam stood on the shore of a vast dark ocean. The water looked like ink, the ground beneath his feet black ash. Fragments of ivory bone poked through in places, most unrecognizable, but Sam saw several skulls, hands, and feet. The sky was a canopy of roiling shadow that stretched from horizon to horizon, but despite the complete lack of illumination, he had no difficulty seeing. Waves rolled into shore, moving thick and slow, more like tar than water, and when they broke they made a sound like sandpaper scraping bare flesh.

The last thing he remembered was taking a shot at Marshall Luss. After that, nothing.

“Am I dead?” he wondered aloud.

“Nearly.”

Sam turned to see a man standing next to him. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with short blond hair and a kind, gentle face. He wore a light blue button shirt and dark blue pants, and even though Sam had never seen him clearly before, he knew who he was.

“You’re the shadow figure I’ve been seeing.”

The man nodded. “The infection you acquired from the bite from Dippel’s hound made that possible. But you know that already.”

“What are you? A Reaper?”

“Yes.”

“So I
am
dead.” Sam took in the surreal landscape around them. “I have to say, I’ve been dead before, and I don’t remember it being anything like this.”

“The infection combined with the amount of stimulants you took proved too great a strain for your body. However, as I said, you’re only
nearly
dead. This...” He spread his arms. “...is a construct of your subconscious. And a most theatrical one at that.”

“So you’re here to shepherd me to the afterlife. I don’t suppose there’s any way I can talk you out of it?”

“I have come to take you away from here, but our destination isn’t eternity. We both have unfinished business back in the realm of the living.”

“Dippel,” Sam said.

“Not anymore. He’s been... dealt with. Unfortunately, the creature that he’s brought into corporeal existence is a far more dangerous threat than he could ever be. She is Hel, the Norse goddess of death, and she is using the body of Bekah Luss as her vessel. I was trapped in the Lapis Occultus, but your brother freed me, allowing me to come to this mindscape you created in order to retrieve you. I can return your spirit to your own body and even counteract the necro-mystical infection that has almost destroyed you, but other than that, I can offer no help. Hel is too powerful for me to confront directly, especially since Dippel used a measure of my own power to resurrect both Marshall and Bekah.” The man lowered his gaze to the ashen ground. “My capacity for acting in the physical world is limited, and I’d hoped to... use you and your brother to help me stop Dippel. If I could have thought of any other way...”

Sam didn’t quite follow everything the Reaper said, but he got the gist.

“Don’t worry about it. You were doing your job, just like we were doing ours. So, any advice for when I get back?”

“I’m only permitted to return you to life this one time because of the particular unnatural power that brought you to the edge of death. So my advice is, don’t die again.”

Sam smiled grimly. “I’ll do my best.”

* * *

Sam opened his eyes. He felt better than he had in days, wide awake and full of energy, as if he’d just woken from the best night’s sleep he’d ever had. He still had hold of his Beretta, and he gripped it tight as he lifted his head slightly to survey the scene. Dippel was gone, nothing but an empty set of clothes to indicate he ever existed. A teenager he assumed was Bekah Luss—or at least her body—stood on the deck, cradling her right hand to her chest, an expression of venomous hatred on her face. Lying near her feet were scattered fragments of dark blue stone. The remnants of the Lapis Occultus, he assumed, whatever that was. Catherine Luss stood close to the creature that now wore her daughter’s form, looking lost and confused. Dean was getting to his feet, less than twenty feet away from Sam, facing Marshall Luss. He had his Colt drawn and aimed at the man, but Marshall seemed not to care. He snarled like an animal, but although his eyes blazed with fury, he made no move to attack Dean. The man’s hands and arms were no longer swathed in ebon energy—or rather, Sam could no longer see it. The Reaper had been true to his word. The infection was gone, but so was his death vision. He had to assume that Marshall was still capable of draining life force, which meant they had to keep him at bay, out of arm’s reach.

Sam took in all the details in an instant, along with one thing more: no one had noticed his restoration to the land of the living.

I’m sorry about this, Bekah,
he thought. He sat up and in one swift movement raised his Beretta and fired.

The girl’s head snapped back as the round penetrated her skull. Catherine Luss shouted, “No!” and rushed to her daughter’s side. But Bekah didn’t fall down. She straightened her head, and trained her gaze on Sam, a trickle of black blood running from the new hole in her forehead.

“You seem to have made a remarkable recovery, boy. I wonder if you had help.”

She held out her hand, and the bullet popped out of the hole and landed in her palm. She regarded it for a moment before turning her palm downward and allowing it to clatter to the deck.

“This body was created to be strong, and now that it is imbued with my power, it cannot be harmed by such simple means. You cannot stop me, hunter. My new servant will drain the life essence from both of you, then I shall animate your husks and make you the first recruits in my army of the dead.”

Dean didn’t take his eyes off Marshall as he said, “Nice shot. Good to have you back.”

“Good to be back. So we’ve got another rogue god on our hands, huh?”

“Can you believe it? The damned things are crawling out of the woodwork like cockroaches.”

“And it sounds like she plans to take over the world,” Sam added.

“Yeah. Big surprise. You ever wonder if these jokers actually give any thought to what they’d do with the world once they’ve conquered it? It’s a pretty big place.”

“Be a real bitch to keep clean,” Sam said.

Bekah’s features tightened with Hel’s anger. “I shall not permit such mockery. Marshall—kill them both.”

“Bad men!” Marshall growled, and then started toward Dean, hands raised. Although Sam could no longer see it, he knew black death energy radiated from them.

Dean was through fooling around. He fired his Colt twice, putting a round in each of Marshall’s legs. The man didn’t seem phased by the wounds, but his legs collapsed out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. Dean tucked the Colt into his pants and took hold of the flamethrower’s nozzle.

“This stuff might be diluted, but I’m betting it’s still got a spark or two left in it.” He thumbed the release button and pumped several streams of liquid onto Marshall. The man squeezed his eyes shut and sputtered as the watered-down kerosene splashed his face. He struggled to rise to his feet, blood pouring from the fresh wounds to his legs. Dean released the flamethrower’s nozzle and removed a flare from his jacket pocket. He pulled off the striking cap, lit it, and tossed the blazing flare onto Marshall.

Flames erupted across the man’s body, and although he’d seemed unaffected by gunshot wounds, this was a pain he was unable to withstand. He let out an ear-piercing howl of pure agony.

“Oh my god!” Catherine shrieked. “Marshall!”

Hearing his wife’s voice, Marshall staggered to his feet and lurched in the direction of the deck. Whatever difference the Lapis Occultus had made in the man’s resurrection, it hadn’t caused him to be any less flammable than Dippel’s other creations. Within seconds, Marshall had become a mobile bonfire, flames roaring and crackling, greasy smoke rising into the sky, filling the air with the gut-churning smell of burning flesh. He cried out in agony one more time before his voice cut out, destroyed by fire.

Catherine tried to go to him, but Hel grabbed her arm and stopped her.

She struggled to pull herself free from the creature inhabiting her daughter’s body. “Let me go! I’m a doctor!”

“I fear your husband is beyond all help, medical or mystical.” Hel flicked her hand toward Marshall and tendrils of ebon energy extended from her fingers. They struck Marshall like five black whips, and then retracted back into Hel’s flesh. Marshall stood still for a moment, flames burning furiously, then he fell to his knees and collapsed onto his side. He lay still as the fire continued to devour what was left of his flesh.

Hel released Catherine, and she whirled to face the dark goddess. “What did you do?”

“He had no need of what life force remained to him, so I took it. We gods no longer enjoy the high stations we once did, nor do we receive the offerings and sacrifices that are ours by divine right. Because of this, we’ve learned over the long, lean years not to waste resources. Or as your people would say, ‘waste not, want not.’” She smiled. “Of course, all of this will change once my darkness has cloaked your world in everlasting night. There are so many more of you now than there were during my time, and every one of you shall fall down and worship me. And if you refuse...” Her smile turned ice-cold. “...you’ll just fall down.”

While Hel spoke to Catherine, Dean walked over to Sam. “I don’t suppose you brought back any knowledge about how to defeat this bitch with you from the Other Side?”

“Afraid not.”

“You think if we put enough rounds in her, she’ll go down long enough for us to burn her?”

“I don’t know. It might work. If I remember right, the Norse viewed Hel’s domain as a realm of eternal ice and cold where those who died of sickness or old age were condemned.” When Dean gave him a questioning look, he added, “The Vikings preferred to die a glorious death in battle so they could get into Valhalla, the hall of heroes.”

“That’s the one where you fight all day and feast all night, right? Doesn’t sound half bad. So you’re thinking that fire is the opposite of ice, and if we give her a hotfoot, it might take her out. All right, let’s reload and put that theory to the test.”

“Don’t bother.”

They looked up to see Hel walking toward them. Catherine remained standing on the deck, watching, eyes filled with despair, sorrow etched on her face.

“I’m not deaf, you know,” she said with a smug smile. “While Niflheim is indeed a harsh frozen landscape, I am Death, and what is fire but the ultimate devourer, the ultimate killer? Flames cannot harm me.”

“I told you, I’ve met Death—” Dean began.

“Fine,” Hel snapped. “So I’m
a
death, not
the
Death. You may think of me as his little sister, if it helps. Whatever I am, I’m more than a match for a pair of mortals like you.”

She stopped when she reached them. “Any last words before I turn you into my undead slaves?”

“I can think of a couple,” Dean said, “but I don’t think they’re appropriate to say to someone underage.”

Sam wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard a voice whisper next to his ear. It said,
Catherine.