Hellbound Hearts (19 page)

“I'll get you out of here. Can you help me? Is there a key?” He looked at her restraints. Then he turned and vomited.

“How . . . ?“ she asked. And then she knew. He had worked the puzzle box.

“It took me a long time to believe,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I'm so sorry it took me so long. But I'm here now. We'll go—” Then he broke down sobbing. “Oh, God, this is
Hell
.”

“Yes,” she said.

Then the Ravisher stepped from the shadows, along with his three original companions: the leader, with the hooked eyelids; the tattooed Cenobite with the jeweled pins; and the woman in the ball gown. They gazed at Jake.

“You summoned us,” said the Ravisher.

“No.” Jake shook his head as he backed away from the Ravisher, then bravely moved between the quarter and the fiery pit to wrap himself around Lindsay, as tightly as he dared. “I snuck in,” he whispered to her.

“What is your pleasure?” asked the tattooed Cenobite with his glittering jeweled pins.

“Let her go,” Jake said.

“That will not happen,” the Ravisher informed him. He extended his hand; it became a talon, and he walked toward Lindsay and Jake. Jake released Lindsay and stepped away. The Ravisher ripped Lindsay's left nipple into two equal halves. She threw back her head and screamed.

She
screamed. It was she who screamed.

“You summoned us and you must stay with us,” said the woman in the ball gown. “And we will tear your soul—”

Her
soul. It was hers.

The Ravisher sliced open her right nipple, then impaled himself upon her, as Jake cursed and shouted.

“Let her go!”

The Ravisher maimed her, tortured her,
her
, and when she knew
herself as she did her own pain, hers, he stopped. He lifted up her bleeding head so that she could see her husband, who was kneeling on the floor between two more Cenobites dressed in black leather and intricate arabesques of scars and bleeding wounds. Each of them held a long piece of chain that ended in a hook. Each was bending down and grabbing one of Jake's wrists. Jake was naked; his body gave off steam, or mist.

“You came here of your own free will,” the Ravisher told Jake. “It's your turn.”

“Wait,” Jake begged. Then, “Wait.” His speech was halting. “If it's my turn . . . then hers is over.”

“No,” Lindsay whispered, and the Ravisher laid a possessive hand over hers. Then the Ravisher unfastened her restraints and picked her up in his arms. Bits and pieces of Lindsay's flesh remained stuck to the cogs and blades of their bed. And to his cheek and his teeth.

He carried her toward Jake, and stopped. Droplets of her blood sprinkled Jake's bowed head, like a blessing.

“What exactly are you saying?” the Ravisher urged in a low, coaxing voice.

There was a long moment of silence. Lindsay heard Jake weeping. And praying. She looked down at him, remembering how afraid she had been of everything. She slid her gaze to the Ravisher, who smiled, reading her expression.

Then she wobbled. What
had
the Ravisher done to her?

For a moment she felt the old panic. Then it was gone, and bloody tears washed down her face. He had awakened her and given her the gift of life.
Her
life. Her real life.

“I'll take her place,” Jake said. “Only, let her go. I'll stay with you. I swear it.”

“He wishes to be tortured in Hell for all eternity, for your sake,” the woman in the gown announced.

“I-I love you,” Jake whimpered, as the Cenobite with the hooked eyelids laid a cat-o'-nine-tails across his shredded back. He grunted, and slumped.

“He means it,” said the tattooed, jewel-pinned Cenobite.

Hooks flew out of nowhere. Lindsay knew those hooks, remembered her screams, and her pleas for mercy. Jake would utter them, would suffer, and suffer more, and then . . .

“He will never make it to the other side, where you are,” the Ravisher murmured in her ear. “He will remain in torment, endlessly. That would cause you . . . agony, would it not?” His finger became a razor, and sliced down the side of her face. The cut was deep, unkind.

“Yes,” she breathed.

One hook sliced through Jake's forearm. He screamed. The sound bounced off the cold walls of Hell; off the skulls, piled up, of other victims. Playmates. Off the layers of viscera, shimmering and exquisite.

“Oh, no, no,” Jake gasped. “Oh, God, stop.”

“He will never understand,” the Ravisher said. His voice spoke of eagerness, cruelty, impatience. A sonnet, a paean to Lindsay's achievement.

A second hook caught Jake in the groin, piercing his sex. This time his head fell back and he groaned low in his gut.

“For some, we are angels,” said the Cenobite with the jewels. “For others . . .”

Another hook. Lindsay held up her hand.

“No,” she ordered.
Ordered
.

The Ravisher stared at her in disbelief. The others did as well.

Jake gasped, perhaps at the reprieve.

The Ravisher dropped her to the floor, glided up to Jake, and grabbed his hair. “You came to make a bargain?” he asked. “You would change places with her?” He gazed hard at Jake. “You would become my property?”

Before Jake could answer, the Ravisher turned to Lindsay. “You would agree to this?”

“Let him go,” she said. “I'll stay.”

“Lindsay,” Jake whispered.

“
I will stay
.” She took a breath. “I
want
to stay.”

“You don't,” Jake gasped, as the Ravisher held her attention with his dark, hellish eyes. “You don't know what you're saying.”

The room fell silent again. Lindsay heard the tolling bell. Heard, far away, the screams of someone else.

Then the Ravisher threw back his head and laughed. The other Cenobites joined him, and their howls crackled and reverberated against the bones of Lindsay's skull, each of which had been crushed and reshaped a dozen times, a hundred.

The Ravisher rushed like a whirlwind and caught Jake under the chin as if he were hooking a fish. Jake gurgled blood.

“Is this what you want
forever
?”

“I'll stay!” Lindsay begged.

The other Cenobites laughed harder. The Ravisher pressed his nose against Jake's. “That's what she
wants
,” he hissed. “She wants to stay. Think of what little you have felt of the gifts we give. I have been infinitely generous with her. Infinitely.” He swiveled his head toward her. “And you want it.”

“Yes.” She wouldn't look at Jake. He would never understand.

“He's relieved,” the Ravisher told her, grabbing Jake's head and craning it backward so hard Lindsay braced herself to hear the bones break. “He wants to play the white knight, but he doesn't really have the balls.”

“I want to stay,” she said. “It's what I want.”

The Ravisher turned away from Jake and returned to Lindsay. He yanked her up to a standing position. “Who are you, either of you, to dictate to
us
? We don't make bargains.”

“Let me stay, please,” Lindsay babbled. “
Please
.”

He kissed her, like a human lover, and then he dropped her to the floor. “No,” he said. “You'll go back with him. You'll live with him. You'll fuck him. And if you leave him, or try to end your life . . .” He smiled down on her with demonic glee. “Then we'll come for him. But only for him.”

“
No
,” she wailed. It was too cruel. “I'll lose myself again.”

“Lindsay, what the hell are you saying?” Jake screamed, but the Cenobite in the gown slammed her fist against his chin.

“You'll leave now. You will never see us again,” the Ravisher commanded.

Down the corridors, naked, both of them. Jake led the way, holding Lindsay's hand, as she brokenly, openly wept. She could feel the Ravisher watching her. The other Cenobites were with him, their bon voyage party.

“You're in shock,” Jake said. “We'll be home soon. We'll be safe.”

She tried to take comfort in the knowledge that the Ravisher was still torturing her, that, thanks to him, she would be miserable for the rest of her life. But already she could feel her unsureness, her lack of certainty, of
self
, creeping back over her like a shroud. Death by a thousand denials. Depression was a veil that he had lifted. But now, knowing what she did, losing paradise . . .

“Lindsay, it's going to be okay,” Jake said.

“Don't look at me,” she begged him.

“I'll take you home,” he promised. “It's going to be all right.”

She could feel the caving-in. The death. The burial. He would never know. He would assume he had saved her, never realizing that he had smothered her to death.

Was that true? Was that correct? Or had all that pain driven her insane?

She considered, searched, sobbed at a sharp stab of pain deep in her soul. There. That was she. She was misery. She would have to hide herself carefully. Guard herself jealously, or she would lose herself, and the Ravisher, forever. Her life would not be Hell, just a pale imitation. And if Jake knew, she would lose even that.

“Don't look at me,” she whispered to her husband, as he led her out of the land of the dead. “Ever.”

Simon Clark

Constantinople, Ad 1401

The monk greeted the Emperor's entourage at the steps of the palace, just as the siege engines recommenced their bombardment of the city. His eyes flashed with fear; his right hand clenched around the Cross of the Orthodox Church. Approaching the Emperor's Chamberlain, he bowed, trembling.

“S-sire,” the monk stammered. “I beg to convey the Emperor to the Church of Holy Wisdom.” Terror gripped him. “It's the Demon, sire . . . the Demon has been prepared.”

The Chamberlain motioned the monk to lead on. Ahead, the vast dome of the church cut a smooth, dark mound from a star-filled night. The terrified monk moved quickly, head bowed, as he muttered prayers of self-protection.

Following at the tail of the procession, the Slave. This teenage boy from rural Mistra tingled with excitement. Often he'd been beaten for staring. Yet tonight he could not escape being beguiled by this exotic sight. The Imperial bodyguard flanked His Imperial Majesty, Manuel II. A tall, gray-bearded figure, clad in the gorgeous purple of kings, he glided with serene grace across the square to
St. Sophia. This, the greatest cathedral in the world, lay embedded in the pulsating heart of the fabulous city of Constantinople.

Metropolitan life enchanted the Slave. From the life of a tanner's boy in a Greek backwater to this splendor! His mother fluttered with pride that her son had been dispatched to the capital. Before he'd left, she urged him to do well. If he impressed his masters, he might become a freedman. Once he attained wealth, he could restore the social standing of his once noble lineage. “But a greater purpose may fall upon you,” his mother had told him. “If your Emperor's life is in danger, then you must sacrifice your own to preserve his. He protects Mistra from barbarians. Save him, and you save your brothers and sisters, too.”

At that moment, his senses overflowed. Beautiful palaces, the elegant homes, the great square that spawned alleyways lined with taverns, warehouses, shops, brothels, workshops. Tonight the streets were deserted of people, yet aromas still thronged the place: mouth-watering scents from the bakeries, spiced lamb roasting in ovens, sandalwood incense from shrines, the rich perfumes of the courtiers. It swamped the Slave's mind.

To prevent the city's charisma from making him giddy, he focused on the Emperor's fool.
Infuriating little beggar!
The Clown made the Slave angry. Not because of his vulgar jokes but because he was disrespectful to royalty and commoner alike. He cavorted in a comical cut-down version of the Emperor's own robes. As he pranced, he brandished a stick. Attached to the end, an inflated pig's bladder and a fistful of keys that tinkled like bells. “What a beautiful night!” trilled the Clown. “What a gorgeous night for love.” He cupped a hand to his ear. “Hark! A delicious night for a siege.” In the distance, the thump of rocks being hurled into the city by Ottoman catapults the size of beached ships. “Ah! And what a ravishing night to meet the Demon!” With his jester's bladder-wand, he struck the monk on the buttocks. The weight of the keys hurt the man, which only compounded his misery. Nervous laughter sprang from the lips of the courtiers. The Clown sang out, “Our friend with the tonsure fears the Demon. What! Aren't Christ's prayers powerful enough for
you! Don't you believe our saints can protect you from the Devil locked up in that poor little hut?” He pointed at the sacred edifice with its soaring buttresses and mighty dome.

The Slave gritted his teeth.
The Clown is making mischief again by implying that the monk isn't pious. He wants the man to be whipped.

“You don't fear the Demon, do you ladies?” The fool singled out a Duchess in extravagant gold silks. “Oooh, I can just see you ogling the Demon. Yes—ogling! You'll caress the naked Devil with your glances. Heart pounding in your breast, you will gasp, ‘Oh! Handsome Demon, sir. Will you make me your bride? Hop on board this stately galleon of female flesh. Sail me in umpity-bumpity waters to your heart's delight!'“

The courtiers sniggered. This only angered the Slave.
Why don't they cut out the imbecile's tongue? He's not amusing; he's a sadist.

A rock hurled from a siege engine crashed into a house nearby. Dust, pale as a ghost, rose above the rooftops.

“What a lovely night for bombardment!” The Clown shrieked with laughter. “What a beautiful night for death!”

One of the catapults dumped its missile into the square. With a slap hard enough to make the pavement tremble, a headless corpse found the earth again. Unperturbed, the Emperor regarded the cadaver: evidently, from the uniform, a captured Byzantine soldier. The courtiers were less stoic. They fluttered their hands, whimpered, backed away from the bleeding ruin.