Contractor (64 page)

person. He barely topped five-foot-three. He

was skin and bones, and not from lack of

trying. Even his hair was buzzed short, if

only because he hated the way it looked

when it grew out.

But Jack was more than human. He was

a contractor.

Every contract had a unique ability. His

was the power to transform himself into a

massive, silver-haired ape. On his command,

his arms, legs, or even his entire body would

surge with muscle. While the stamina of his

collected soul held out, he could run for

miles. He was strong enough to flip cars like

toys. His shaggy fur was imbued with a

magic of its own, and formed a defensive

barrier that protected him from all but the

most potent attacks

His power—his status as a contractor—

made him different. It made him better. He

didn’t have to be small. He could be big, in

every sense of the word.

But at the moment, Jack was in hell. He

was in
the
Hell, an artificial plane of

existence that drifted in the gap between the

human and demon universes. It was a prison

for the worst criminals of both worlds, the

foul, the terrible, and the unspeakable.

The men and women locked there didn’t

simply trample on humanity. That was

commonplace depravity; that got you a trial,

an extended stay on death row. The people

sent here, well—it was more as if they never

acknowledged a greater sense of humanity in

the first place.

Hell was, first and foremost, the

sarcophagus of Satan. The real Satan. Jack

was still getting his head around that. It was

real, and locked in a massive meld of

machine and magic far below where he stood

that very instant.

The room he occupied was packed

shoulder-to-shoulder with observers—and

the vast majority were not human. There

were thick-chested minotaur; freakish crow-

people, the harpies; six-legged, spidery

grazule; green, leathery-skinned goblins;

bright-red devils; and even dragons, reduced

to their humanoid forms, distinguished by the

chromatic scales emerging from their necks

and temples. A single nightmare, a small,

ink-black weasel of a demon, floated above

the heads of the crowd.

The floor and walls were solid black

steel. It was the same uniform, riveted iron

that everything in Hell was made of, when it

wasn’t made of exhaust or soot-stained

concrete.

All of them faced a thick-plated window

that stretched from floor to ceiling. The room

sloped up toward the back, giving everyone

a clear view of the arena below. Along the

curved wall of the coliseum, Jack could see

other window-rooms, just as packed as his.

The New Detainee Games were

mandatory viewing—not that they needed to

be. It was one of the few forms of

entertainment they had.

Even it if wasn’t, Jack would not have

considered skipping. He found out what

happened if you broke the rules. He decided

not to break the rules.

When Jack accepted Xik’s offer and

became a contractor, he thought he’d finally

be big. He thought he would be somebody.

He thought he’d finally become the biggest

fish in the pond. He thought the rules were

finally going to bend and break under the

weight of what he’d become.

He had no idea.

It probably didn’t help that he was

squashed between two infamous giants of

human history.

"You look like you’re out of your depth,

boy."

Jack looked to the giant at his right.

Rasputin had a heavy nose. It sat on his

face like a beetle. His scraggly beard was

long, and his wide ears were long, and his

hair was long—and his head, while small,

was distended by all the longness. To Jack, it

felt more like a wrongness.

His voice was different. His voice

coated the air with so much butter and

warmth that you hardly seemed to notice all

that stuff about his face until you took a good

look. It put you in a good mood just to hear

it. The man could insult you, and you’d be all

smiles, patiently waiting for more.

Something about the voice made his

spine shiver. Jack made it a habit to take a

good look at Rasputin’s face as often as

possible.

"Why is this one here?" Rasputin asked.

"Because being a man of the modern

era," the giant on Jack’s left said, "he may be a better judge of modern men than you."

Jack glanced at the other man. His name

was Vlad Dragwlya III, Prince of Wallachia.

His more commonly known name was

the one that Jack recognized. Dracula.

Lord Dracula was a sharp man. His chin

was narrow; his nose was small and pointed.

A mustache flared neatly to either side of his

face. His eyes were always squinting. At the

moment, he was looking out the window,

inspecting the arena below the ring of

windowed rooms.

"I think myself a better judge of

character than some fresh fool of a boy, no

matter the era."

"Perspective, Rasputin," Dracula said.

Even his voice was sharp. It cut like

obsidian. "Perspective."

"I have eyes, you know. They give me a

shocking amount of perspective."

"Jack," Dracula said.

Jack responded immediately. "Lord

Dracula?"

Dracula gestured to the arena. "Observe

carefully. The other games can be similar in

nature. You’ve been through this, but now

you’ll have a chance to see it from this side.

Take this chance and learn what you can."

Jack turned back to stare at the arena.

The one he’d participated in was a little

more tame. It didn’t have the suspended steel

catwalks, or the whizzing metal discs that

looked like they would slice right through

you if you looked at them funny. And it

definitely didn’t have a floor made out of

seething hot magma. Geysers of the stuff

erupted at random, spraying the walkways

with flecks of superheated rock. Jack felt

sweat beading on his forehead just looking at

it.

The game started suddenly—there was

no warning for mere prisoners.

"Ladies and gentlemeeeen!" The

announcer carried on the last syllable, as if

welcoming them to a three-ring circus rather

than a vicious deathtrap. It was the same

voice the other rooms would be hearing, the

same voice broadcast over PrisonWatch—

Beelzebub’s revenue-generating television

station that cashed in on cold hard brutality.

Best of all, it was guilt-free—everyone in

Hell deserved what happened to them.

"Grab your drinks and plop a seat,

because the New Detainee Games are about

to begin! Today’s arena is inspired by the

Mining facilities found on Omicron-8! A

quick thanks to today’s sponsor, Omicron

Mining Corporation! OMC: Constructing a

better future!"

Jack winced away from the room’s

loudspeaker. The announcer could’ve given

Billy Mays a run for his money.

"And now, today’s unlucky new

inmates!"

A blue spotlight—contrast to the orange-

red tint of iron-backed lava—alighted on a

long, flat platform at the far end of the arena.

For a moment, there was nothing—and then a

sprinkle of white light heralded the

teleportation spell.

A body warped into existence; a devil.

Its blood-red skin was stained purple by the

lighting. Two white horns stuck out from its

skull. It had claws like razor blades.

"Today’s first inmate is Zelunix!

Zelunix’s main crime was serial

decapitation, followed by removing and

consuming the brains of his victims! You

may remember him from our earlier

courtside specials—Zelunix was infamously

unrepentant, telling the judge ‘don’t knock it

till you’ve tried it!’ His innate lack of smell

gave him away, as his neighbors couldn’t

stand the scent of the rotting corpses still

decorating his home!"

Zelunix enthusiastically raised his long

arms and waved, as if to greet the viewers at

home. If Jack hadn’t been down there,

before, he might have thought it was almost

cartoonish.

One by one, new inmates were warped

in, followed by a brief summary of their

deeds. Most were more of the same—

vicious, and usually shameless, criminals.

Some had used forbidden magic Jack wasn’t

familiar with. They were all demons, of

various species.

Their reactions came in two flavors.

About half of them looked almost happy to

be in attendance. Others were more subdued,

standing in place with distant, confused

looks.

Jackson risked speaking. "Lord

Dracula?"

"Yes?"

"That last one didn’t seem so bad," he

said, pointing at the platform. The latest

criminal had been announced as a thief.

"Why is he here?"

"He stole from the wrong person,"

Dracula said.

"So he got sent to Hell? Seems kinda

harsh."

"Use your head, boy," Rasputin said.

"This is an exile. A vengeful, excruciating

exile. Humanity uses a sentence here as a

message. Demons use it as a tool."

"…to do what?"

"To control," Dracula said.

"And now!" the announcer shouted,

"Today’s last inmate! We’ve got a human

today, folks, and we all know how feisty

those can be! Give the young man a helping

hand, won’t you?"

Light flickered and sparked at the end of

the platform. A new person warped into

view—it was a young man, as advertised.

The blue light washed him out, but Jack

knew him instantly. His hair was somewhere

between brown and blonde, slightly curly. A

thick lock of it always drooped down right

between his eyes. His gaze faced forward,

quiet, cold.

Jack was surprised—less to see him,

and more at the look on his face. When he’d

first met the man that would become his best

friend, he had that same coldness. It was a

look that said he’d seen the world, and he

was disappointed.

But it had gone away. It fell off his face

as he’d gotten to know Jack, and then, with

time, vanished altogether.

Now, that old expression was back.

Something must have happened. Something

bad.

Jack felt the sad smile on his face. He’d

been sentenced to Hell. It didn’t get much

worse than that.

Jack tried to warn him, but he knew it

would go unheeded. He wasn’t good at

taking advice. And now he was here.

"Back on Earth," the announcer

continued, "he was found guilty of using the

vampiric enchantment, and we all know what

that means! A life sentence in Hell! Who

knows—maybe this one will be the key to

moving another human faction up to the next

level! A big welcome to: Daniel

Fitzgeraaald!"

"Another one like you," Rasputin said.

"…no. Not like me."

Estimated Date of Release: Fall 2015