Angelese took the pendant off and immediately the shower room filled with sparkling lime-green light that started at a blazing ring over her head.

"Wow!" Ca.s.sie exclaimed.

"Wow, what? Who are you talking to?" the stern voice cracked. It was Sadie, the chaperon. "Have you got a boy in here?" The woman's broad face peered right at Ca.s.sie.

"A boy?" She looked at Angelese. "Not quite. Look, I told you, I talk to myself sometimes, that's all."

Sadie didn't seem convinced. She glowered up and down the long room. "Well, hurry it up, will you?" A deeper frown. "And it helps to actually stand in the water when you're taking a shower," she sniped and then huffed off.

"She's delightful," Angelese joked, turning to look at the woman. But while she'd been looking, Ca.s.sie noticed something on the angel's back, on either side of her spine. Rough b.u.mps of some kind.

"Is-is something wrong with your back?" she asked.

"Oh, my attentor joints," the angel replied. "I'm a terrestrial angel, that means we have to have our wings amputated. It's part of the invest.i.ture of my order."

Just the word-amputated-made Ca.s.sie grit her teeth. "You had to cut your wings off?"

Angelese shrugged with complacency. "Yeah, it's a prerequisite for my cla.s.s of Seraphim-any terrestrial order. Some angels have three pairs of wings, some two, some one, other orders have prehensile wings that fold up in the middle of their back, and some orders have discorporate wings that can be rendered invisible by certain Obscurity Stones, Veiling Balms, and Imperceptiblity Spells. And some angels-Ornataphrim and Magitors-have no wings at all."

"Can any angel come to earth?"

"Some, not all. Most Fallen Angels can incarnate themselves into the Living World, but it requires a lot of cabalistic energy-as well as permission-and they can never go to Heaven, of course. Lucifer appears on earth regularly. The latest rumor is that he's been amusing himself by going back in time, to revisit periods of great tragedy and horror. That's what he does when he's bored."

"How can he go back in time?"

"Because of something he stole from G.o.d a long time ago. The process is called Astral Retrogation. It's kind of like a Merge, in that it only lasts for a short period of time. Beyond that, I can't discuss it."

"But if he can go back in time, can he go forward? Into the future?"

"I can't tell you."

More questions popped up, unbidden. "Are angels born or created?"

"I can't tell you."

"What about G.o.d? Is He an angel, too?"

Angelese smiled through the spray. "I can't say."

Hmm, interesting. But now came another concern. Ca.s.sie felt embarra.s.sed by Sadie's appearance. The woman would no doubt tell R.J., who'd only wind up thinking she was getting crazier. That wasn't the impression she wanted him to have. She continued to look, though, at the angel in the water. There was something enchanting about the softly hissing image.

Water ran down her bare arms; the long gown she wore stuck to her legs. Beneath the sheer fabric, Ca.s.sie thought she saw darker streaks of some sort, and then she remembered.

"Didn't you say you had tattoos?"

"You want to see them?" Angelese asked.

"Sure."

A strange tilt of the head. "Do you really want to see them?"

"Yeah."

"Okay..."

Angelese pulled down the shoulder straps, let the gown slide damply down to her ankles. Suddenly she was nude.

Ca.s.sie's breath froze in her chest.

"I guess I should have told you, they're not really tattoos ..."

No, they clearly weren't. Crosshatchlike lines in groups of four scored the angel's white skin from her ankles to her bosom. Some of the lines were faintly pink, others a much darker red. Most of her body was a webwork of them.

Ca.s.sie's voice roughened. "They're scars, aren't they?"

Angelese nodded. She turned around, displaying the even worse sets of scars going up and down her back. "They're claw marks."

Ca.s.sie was close to shivering at what she saw. Angelese's skin provided a tapestry for the wounds.

"See these?" Now the angel ran a finger up her abdomen to her small but erect b.r.e.a.s.t.s: four fresh claw marks filled with scabbed-up blood. "I got these last night, when I told you that there was another Deadpa.s.s. This was the punishment, for breaking the Rule."

"That thing did it," Ca.s.sie knew. "The-"

"Umbra-Specter." Angelese looked down at the compressed shadow which seemed huddled around her feet. "It's an evil son of a b.i.t.c.h but it's part of the way it works. All Caliginauts have them whenever they walk the earth. It's the toll you have to pay." She tensed, gently touching the cuts. "It hurts so much when he does it. You wouldn't understand. Angels have heightened senses. We feel everything in much more detail and intensity-especially pain."

Ca.s.sie couldn't imagine. Even the undersides of Angelese's b.r.e.a.s.t.s were wounded, almost as though she were wearing a bra of scars. "It only happens when you say something you're not allowed to say?"

"Yeah," Angelese replied. "Or do something I'm not allowed to do."

Ca.s.sie recalled that in the Mephistopolis, Fallen Angels were immortal. "Can you die?"

"Not in Heaven, and not in h.e.l.l. But here?" Angelese smiled coyly. "Yeah, I can die. When angels kick the bucket in the Living World, they go out with a bang. And that's what I need to tell you about."

When she said that, something happened. Ca.s.sie wasn't sure, but the pressure in the room seemed to change. Even though she was wet from the shower, tiny hairs seemed to stand up on her neck. Then she noticed the shadow at Angelese's feet.

It was elongating, unfolding on the floor like black ink being spilled.

"Here it comes," Angelese calmly said. "It already knows what I'm going to say."

Now the shadow was rising. It looked like a craggy black figure standing up.

The angel began: "Remember what we heard on the news?"

"The fires in downtown Dannelleton?" Ca.s.sie referenced.

"I'll tell you about that too but I mean the other thing-"

"The explosion they blamed on a gas line rupture," Ca.s.sie said. "Some library or something, in Maryland."

"It was no explosion, it was Lucifer's best friend, a Fallen Angel named Zeihl-"

The room darkened as the shadow-this Umbra-Specter-grew larger. It was a solid black ma.s.s with no details save for its shape, and now its hands were opening, revealing awl-sharp claws that were each inches long. The darkest, guttural sound could be heard, barely audible, but a sound nonetheless. Ca.s.sie knew what it was: it was the thing chuckling.

"Don't say anything else," Ca.s.sie warned.

"I have to."

"That thing'll torture you. Don't do it."

"I have to," Angelese repeated. "That's what I'm here for," and then she continued, speaking in panicked bursts of words: "Zeihl, the Fallen Angel, he incarnated himself and then committed suicide, that's what the explosion was, an angel killing himself, sacrificing himself because if an angel sacrifices himself, material things can be exchanged, the place wasn't really a library, Lucifer wanted something there so Zeihl sacrificed himself in order to get it, and they succeeded by performing a Spatial Merge, it's an occult technology that Satan had never perfected until now but it's a way of bringing a small part of h.e.l.l to earth for a short period of time, just a couple of blocks but a couple of blocks is enough, because during the Merge that little part of h.e.l.l will share the same s.p.a.ce with a little part of the Living World simultaneously, so that's what happened, they Merged with that library to steal something and whatever it was they stole, they took it back to h.e.l.l, I know this is what happened because that's the only reason Zeihl would've committed suicide, it's one of the Rules, the only way you can take something out of the Living World and bring it to h.e.l.l is through a Power Exchange, and an angelic sacrifice would've generated that kind of power-"

But by then it was too late. The Umbra-Specter had fully solidified, its black form real as flesh, and now it had pressed Angelese against the tiled shower wall, and it slowly was dragging its claws up her thighs. Angelese was shuddering, still speaking through the catastrophic pain, her big beige-and-violet eyes even bigger now as they widened in horror. "-so that's what they did, that's the only thing it could've been, a Power Exchange during a Spatial Merge, when an angel dies in the Living World it's almost like a nuke going off-"

"Stop!" Ca.s.sie shouted, watching helpless as the shadow freely indulged in its torture. "Don't say anything else! Don't tell me any more!"

Angelese told her more, shrieking now through her unearthly pain, desperate to get it all out as quickly as possible: "-and that other story we heard on the news, the stuff about fires and screaming in downtown Dannelleton, that was a Merge too. It was a practice run, and I know what they're practicing for-"

All at once, the angel's shriek amplified tenfold; Ca.s.sie had to cover her ears for a moment. The Umbra-Specter was shivving Angelese, slowly drawing its claws in and out of her ribs. Blood poured from the wounds, luminous, like liquid red neon light, swirling down the shower drain.

Ca.s.sie wasn't sure but she thought she heard the shadow-thing say: "Please keep talking, keep betraying your oath. I love torturing you," in the most corroded voice.

Angelese panted out more words through the agony. "They know I'm trying to get you to the other Deadpa.s.s, they don't want you in h.e.l.l on your own because they know you're too powerful, that's why they're doing these Merges-"

"I don't understand," Ca.s.sie sobbed.

"They want to Merge with this clinic, if they can successfully do that, they can capture you. Lucifer wants to abduct you and use your Ethereal Powers for something that's more diabolical than anything that's ever been done before, so that's why I have to get you out of here. That's what all of this is about, Ca.s.sie-it's you! They're coming for youl"

The Umbra-Specter reveled in its task, flaying Angelese with its claws. Ca.s.sie didn't know what to do, she could only think impulsively. Without light, could the shadow retain its form? She ran naked to the other end of the room, leaving glowing red footprints. Light switch! Where's the light switch? but she couldn't find it. Angelese was still screaming, unable to speak at all anymore as the claws gleefully molested her. Ca.s.sie grabbed a mop out of the closet, ran back, and then began to break all the fluorescent tubes with the handle. In blocks, the room fell into darkness. The shadow howled, glaring at her over its ebon shoulder. When Ca.s.sie shattered the last overhead tube, the thing began to dissipate.

So did the bleeding squirming image of Angelese.

Chapter Six.

(I).

Why would Walter dream such a thing, such an awful thing?

He was standing on a street corner in a city, but it was unlike any city he could have ever imagined. The midnight sky was ruby-red, the low sickle moon was black. He could only see these features, though, by looking straight up because the buildings lining the street must've been hundreds and hundreds of floors high, skysc.r.a.pers unlike any he'd seen. He got dizzy just looking up. Do they even make buildings that high? he questioned himself.

"They do here," a little girl said.

She was skipping down the street, smiling at him. Walter almost fell over. Her pigtails flipped as she skipped. She wore black-strapped shoes and little white socks, a bright red-and-white checkered dress. Deep lines ran down her gray, wizened face-the girl was mummified.

She was playing hop-scotch but the squares weren't formed by chalk, they were formed by long, odd bones. She couldn't have been more than seven or eight. "You're in the Mephistopolis, you're in h.e.l.l," she told him. "This is Pogrom Park, and you're having a dream."

Dream, he thought. Somehow, the information comforted him. It told him that this weird place didn't really exist. Overhead, something flew by. A city pigeon was his first guess but then he looked closer at it and saw that it was some kind of a winged rodent. Was that a severed human i p.e.n.i.s it clasped between its teeth as it flew away?

The little mummy girl skipped along, the hop-scotch squares extending all the way down the street. "Bye, Walter. Your destiny awaits."

The comment p.r.i.c.ked his distraction. "What?" he called after her. "What did you say?"

"Embrace your destiny..." She skipped away and disappeared around the corner.

He saw a sign, letters on smudgy gla.s.s: NEWCOMERS' INFORMATION POINT. WELCOME TO THE POGROM PARK DISTRICT GALLERY. Walter meandered in-what else did he have to do? The long empty room walled by glossy photo-murals reminded him of a tourist center, displaying pictures of local attractions. Frame by frame, then, he looked at photographs of h.e.l.l's greatest landmarks.

The Industrial Zone and its hundred-foot walls of iron girders. Inside this vast complex lay the city's Central Power Plant, the Foundry and Slag Furnace, the Flesh-Processors and Bone-Grinding Stations. One shot showed thousands of dest.i.tute workers cutting the flesh off of corpses. Endless conveyor belts then delivered the cuttings to the Pulping Plants, for further food processing; more conveyors delivered the bones to be ground up for bricks and concrete. In the Fuel Depot, wheeled hoppers delivered large chunks of raw sulphur by the tons, to be manually chopped into smaller chunks by stooped laborers-the city's endless fuel supply.

De Rais University extended over countless acres and appeared almost campus-like in its layout. Here, the finest Warlocks in the land taught their pupils in the blackest arts: divination, psychic torture, spatial transposition, and the latest in vexation.

The Rockefeller Mint provided the city with all its currency: bra.s.s and tin coinage featuring the embossed faces of all the Anti-Popes, and h.e.l.lnotes printed on processed demon skin.

Osiris Heights stood proud and posh, the residential district for upper-Hierarchals who lived an eternity of privilege in pristine highrises. A typical suite boasted the latest conveniences: harlot cages, skull-presses, iron-maidens, and neat personal-sized crematoriums. Television, too, powered not by electricity but by psychical theta-waves, offered up all the best torture channels.

Boniface Square encompa.s.sed whole city blocks in its leisure services. From the finest restaurants specializing in the best demonian cuisine to the most common street vendors pushing carts of flame-broiled meat skewers. Opulent night-clubs to rowdy hole-in-the-wall bars. From strip joints, bordellos, and peepshow parlors to the opulent Frederick the Great Opera House, all manner of abyssal entertainment could be found in the Square.

The J. Edgar Hoover Building existed in the Living World as well as in Lucifer's; here, though, the immense Gothic edifice housed the million-occupant Central Jail, the Drug Perpetuation Agency, the Commandant of the Mancer Divisions (headed by an articulate gentleman named U. S. Grant), the Tamerlane Emergency Response Battalion, and, of course, Satan's official police department-the Agency of the Constabulary.

Other landmarks included Tojo Memorial Hospital, the John Dee Library and Infernal Archives, St. Iscariot Abbey, and the infamous Office of Transfiguration and Teratologic Research.

And wealthier Hierarchals who enjoyed beach-combing could always open their cabanas along the beautiful blood-filled Sea of Cagliostro.

"Terrific place, huh?" said a man with horns all over his face. He had three eyes, each the size of an apple, and he stood inside a little info booth.

"Yes, uh," Walter stammered. "Terrific. So this really is h.e.l.l?"

"You bet'cha."

"I don't even know if I believe in this place."

"Believe it." All three eyes scrutinized Walter. "You're not a Resident, are you? You don't have the look."

"What's the look?"

"d.a.m.ned."

"I feel d.a.m.ned," Walter said. He walked back out to the street.

The air smelled like smoke, a bitter eggy smoke like burning sulphur, he could even see the smoke sifting up through cracks in the street. Suddenly bells clanged, and a siren sounded. A fire, Walter guessed, but it was the strangest fire truck that appeared moments later. It looked more like a flat-bed truck from the 1920s, spoked wheels, open cab, but there was a boiler where the engine should be and a smokestack gusted steam. A riveted water tank occupied the back deck.

"Out of the way, buddy!" the helmeted driver shouted at Walter. "We've got a fire!" The driver was a demon with pitted yellow skin and red eyes. Walter stepped back onto the sidewalk, thinking Fire? I don't see anything on fire. Did he mean the smoke coming out from the cracks in the street?

The fire truck clattered to a stop, and out jumped several more helmeted, raincoated demons, unreeling a long hose. They hurriedly approached the front of one of the buildings where a transom read TROLL MIDDLE SCHOOL. Through the window, Walter could see all the little misshapen demon children sitting at desks in a cla.s.sroom. The firemen barged in with their hose, the nozzle was opened, and then the screams poured forth amid the instant crackling. It wasn't water that sprayed from the nozzle, it was flame. The middle school was engulfed. Walter ran away, trying to out-distance the shrieks of the burning demon children.