The Crossing (Immortals) (25 page)

His back was slightly turned. He'd pulled up his jeans
and was zipping them closed. He left his leather jacket lying on the floor.

He wasn't looking at her, but she could feel him at the
edge of her mind. No. Inside her mind. She stared at his
back, nonplussed. She hadn't considered the possibility
that the psychic touch of their lovemaking would remain
once their bodies parted.

She couldn't hear his thoughts, and she didn't think
he could hear hers, but the sensation was incredibly intimate just the same. And incredibly uncomfortable. She was
reminded of a dream she once had in which she'd inexplicably found herself naked during a military briefing before
ten fully clothed male colleagues. The hot embarrassment,
the sinking feeling in her stomach, the knowledge that
every part of her was on display-the absolute certainty
there was nowhere she could hide-that horrible vulnerability was just what she felt now. Except worse, because she
knew this was no dream.

Cheeks flaming, she snatched up her jeans and struggled
into them. By the time she'd finished lacing her boots, she'd
gathered enough courage to meet Mac's gaze. His green
eyes reflected red hellfire. The effect was unnerving.

Gods. What was he thinking? She'd seen into the bottom of his soul when their minds joined. What had he
seen when he'd looked into hers? Did he regret his vow to
help her? Did he hate her now, for accepting his offer?

She was too much of a coward to ask.

They stood staring at each other until the moment
stretched into awkwardness. Finally, Mac angled his head
toward the elevator door. "Ready, love?"

She nodded.

He pointed a finger. Spoke a word.

Nothing happened. His death magic was still new. Erratic.

He frowned.

"Here," Artemis said. "Let me try."

She spoke a word. The door disappeared in a heated
blast of hellfire.

"This is Hell?"

Somehow, Mac hadn't imagined the Great Inferno
looking like the lobby of a two-star hotel.

Dingy wallpaper, uncomfortable-looking vinyl-upholstered chairs. Dim lighting. Threadbare carpeting. Cigarette smoke hung like a nasty promise in the air. On a
whole, the scene was decidedly unposh. But eternal damnation? Mac rather thought not.

"It's just the antechamber, I think," Artemis said.

«~ ;,

He looked to the left and right. The ruined elevator from
which he and Artemis had emerged wasn't the only one of
its type. Similar tarnished silver portals marched along one
long wall of a room filled with walking dead. Some corpses
were old and frail, trailing hospital intravenous towers behind them. Others were younger, with visible fatal wounds
and stumbling gaits. Misery etched pasty faces. Dead souls
burned in hopeless eyes. All the moaning, wailing, and
gnashing of teeth was decidedly annoying.

v The damned hadn't come to Hell empty-handed. Each
corpse was laden with baggage: suitcases, backpacks, purses,
steamer trunks. Some yanked their luggage along, cursing.
Others shuffled as if in a trance, tugging their burdens behind them. Still others fought for the few vacant chairs, or, giving up on the struggle, slumped on the floor atop their
bags.

"Poor slobs," Mac murmured.

"I don't understand," Artemis whispered, though no
one seemed to be paying them much attention. "I thought
only the souls of the dead went to Hell. Not their bodies,
too. Why aren't they still in their graves?"

"Most likely they are," Mac said. "But they seem to be
here, as well." He shrugged. "Magic."

"Of course," Artemis murmured.

Whether dazed or determined, quick or slow, the corpses
seemed generally headed toward the same goal: the hotel
checkout desk and the single, harried demon toiling there.
Thousands of corpses, if not more, had already arranged
themselves into a snaking line, which folded back and forth
upon itself, like some kind of hellish Disneyland queue.

Artemis started forward. Mac placed a cautioning hand on
her arm and drew her back against the grimy flowered wallpaper. Despite the surroundings, which were beyond depressing, the brief physical contact made him go hard.
Bloody hell. They'd made love not ten minutes earlierbut he wanted her again. She was quickly becoming his favorite addiction. Their first time, at his estate, had been
good, but what they'd just shared in that dark, suffocating
elevator? That had left him stunned.

It was due to the death magic. It had to be. The dark
shield Artemis had conjured had amplified their combined
life magic-the effect had been something like cranking
up a thousand-watt concert speaker inside a squash court.
For one fleeting instant, he'd held the essence of Artemis's
unique soul inside his mind. The result? His mind was
now officially blown.

He sidled a glance at Artemis. She'd been with him all
the way. But despite the psychic connection they'd made, he
couldn't be sure if the experience had been unique for her,
too. Death magic was familiar territory to Artemis, after all. Had it affected her as it had him? Was she thinking of it,
even now, as he was? He couldn't be sure. Her mind seemed
light-years away, her expression troubled. Most likely, she
was thinking of her son. Mac was just a means to an end, after all.

What would she say if he told her his child was growing
inside her?

No doubt she wouldn't be pleased, to put it mildly. A
modern woman liked to be in control of such decisions.
She'd even been taking birth control pills. It was going to
be damned difficult to tell her he'd overridden her precautions on a whim.

Another problem: He didn't want Artemis or his child
to be here in Hell. Every instinct he had screamed to get
them both out. Immediately. But he knew there wasn't a
chance she would go. She loved her son that fiercely.

Would she love Mac's child with equal fervor?

A bell rang. They both turned toward the sound, which
had come from one of the elevators. The door slid open; a
dead man wearing a dark business suit walked out. A
bloody hole gaped in the center of his chest. He seemed
unconcerned with the wound; he was too busy trying to
maneuver three large suitcases into the lobby.

"Where's an effing porter when you need one?" The
corpse hefted a suitcase in each hand, kicking the third before him as he inched across the lobby.

"You'd think he'd just abandon them," Artemis said.

"If he'd've been able to do that, I suspect he wouldn't
have ended up here in the first place."

"I suppose you're right." Her gaze touched his, briefly.
He wondered what she was thinking.

"Let's go, love." He steered her into the center of the
lobby, avoiding the line of corpses waiting for checkout.
The clerk handed a scroll to a dead man at the front of the
line. The bloke picked up an enormous backpack and staggered away.

"Look," Artemis said. "He's heading toward those glass
doors on the other side of the room. Beneath the flashing
lights."

The corpse pushed through the exit and disappeared.
Others watched, but didn't follow. A few minutes later, a
female corpse left the front of the checkout line and made
her way out the glass doors.

"Should we get in line?" Artemis wondered.

"No. We're not dead."

"How else are we to get out?"

"We'll just walk out. Come on."

He threaded his fingers with Artemis's and drew her toward the exit. Their progress was slow. Corpses blocked
their path, forcing Mac to shove them aside. Finally, disgusted, he stopped and called a death glamour.

Invisibility made the trek a bit easier. Finally, they stood
before the double glass doors. The flashing lights Artemis
had noted earlier were illuminated letters, running across
a screen. The same three words, over and over and over.

Abandon all hope... Abandon all hope... Abandon all
hope...

Artemis made a choking sound.

She was far paler than Mac thought was healthy. "Chin
up, love. The message's not for us."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because we're not dead. And we're not damned, either." He strode forward and pushed the door. He'd expected some resistance, but to his surprise it gave way
easily.

The air inside Hell's antechamber had been foul, but at
least it'd been relatively cool. Outside, a solid wall of heat
greeted them. Mac and Artemis stepped onto a wide sidewalk, crowded with corpses and luggage. Beyond the curb,
blurred lanes of high-speed traffic whizzed past. Heated
exhaust blasted his face.

He inhaled and gagged on the fumes. His second breath, which he kept shallow, came easier. Beside him,
Artemis wasn't faring so well. Bent double, hands on her
thighs, she gasped for breath, but could only manage a
wheeze.

Alarmed, Mac rubbed her back. "Come on, love, don't
pass out on me. Take slow breaths. That's it."

Artemis's red-rimmed eyes streamed tears, but her next
breath was quieter. She raised her head, clutching his arm
for a moment before trusting her balance.

Straightening, she glanced up and down the sidewalk.
She even managed a short laugh when she looked behind
them and saw the sign over the door they'd just come
through.

"Hotel California?"

"Satan must have a sense of humor."

He surveyed the crowded sidewalk. Corpses milled
about, alternately dragging their bags and engaging in fistfights. There seemed to be nowhere to go; the hellish race
of cars and lorries prevented anyone from stepping off the
curb. A thick haze of smog obscured the far side of the
highway.

Mac nodded toward an overhead signpost. "Styx Boulevard."

"It's supposed to be a river. All the ancient texts say so."

"Apparently, times have changed."

Some corpses had managed to secure a position at the
curb. They waved at the passing traffic, but not one vehicle slowed, let alone stopped. Artemis gasped as one of the
dead, apparently fed up with waiting, stepped off the curb
and made a dash for it. Brakes squealed; the corpse hit the
front bumper of a canary yellow Hummer. The dead
man's body sailed through the air; corpses on the sidewalk
scurried out of the way. The cadaver landed on the concrete with a sickening thud.

After a moment, the dead man got up, shook himself
off, and started shoving his way back to the curb.

"Gods," Artemis said, shaken. "I guess crossing on foot
is out. Any ideas on how we're going to get across?"

Mac eyed the traffic. "There's supposed to be a boatman,
right? To ferry the damned souls to their punishments?"

"Yes. Charon."

"Well, then. He's got to show up sooner or later. When
he does, we'll hit him up for a ride."

Time was an uncertain concept in Hell, but Mac thought
about an hour passed before the sound of an unmuffled
motorcycle engine snared his attention. His jaw dropped
as a familiar vehicle careened out of the near lane and
screeched to a halt at the curb. "Bloody wanking hell!
That's my Norton."

His baby. His love. The classic cycle had gone up in
flames; he thought he'd never see it again. Now here it
was, in Hell, its chrome flashing with blinding, heartbreaking brilliance. Mac's custom leather saddle sagged
under the weight of a grotesquely muscular giant clad in
chains and black leather.

Bulging triceps ripped through the driver's sleeves; his
thighs bulged so thickly his leather pants had split their
seams. A metallic helmet, face shield down, only added to
the creature's aura of menace.

Excitement rippled through the crowd. "Charon," one
corpse whispered. Others repeated the name, until the syllables became a chant. "Charon... Charon... Charon."

Charon gunned the Norton's motor. The roar ripped
through the crowd like machine-gun fire. Straddling the
cycle, the giant surveyed his supplicants.

Mac grabbed Artemis's hand. "Come on. The next
ride's ours."

"We're not the only ones with that idea."

True enough. The corpses had mobilized, surging toward the boatman, dragging their bags behind them. A
male wrapped in a white sheet fought toward the curb,
only to trip over the trailing edge of his shroud and land facefirst in the gutter. A pair of shrieking women yanked
tufts of hair from each other's skulls in their frenzy to be
the first to reach Hell's guardian. A bald bloke with a huge
gut and tattooed arms launched himself at the Norton.
He even managed to wrap his sausagelike fingers around
the handlebars before Charon planted the sole of his boot
on the man's chest.

"Please," the corpse croaked. "Please, sir, I'm begging...
take me across." He jabbed his free hand into his pocket.
Gold glinted between his fingers. He waved the coin in
front of Charon's visor. "See? I got the fare!"

The boatman's mouth opened. His breath exuded sulfur,
his voice rumbled like an earthquake. "No. Not you."

He shoved the corpse back into the crowd. Charon's
thick leg swung over the saddle in a dismount. "Only one
may cross," the boatman intoned. "One of my choosing."