Hell Bent--A Novel, page 28
“Darlington!” Dawes shouted.
He didn’t stop moving, didn’t alter his gaze.
“Can he hear us?” Tripp asked.
“Daniel Arlington,” Turner boomed as if he was about to read Darlington his rights.
Darlington didn’t break his stride, but Alex could see his chest rising and falling as if he were fighting for air. “Please,” he gritted out. “Can’t … stop.”
Alex drew in a sharp breath. When Darlington spoke, she’d seen the whole scene waver—the ruin of Black Elm, the bruised sky, Darlington himself. She saw dark night and a well of yellow flame, heard people crying out and saw a great golden demon with curling horns towering over all of it. She heard it speak. Alagnoth grorroneth. Nothing but a growl but she could sense the words in it: None go free.
“How do we help him?” Dawes asked.
Alex stared at her. Dawes hadn’t seen it. None of them had. Tripp looked scared. Turner had one eye on the wolves. Neither of them had reacted to what Alex had seen when Darlington spoke. Had she imagined it?
“Keep an eye on the wolves,” she murmured to Turner and stepped into the rubble.
Darlington didn’t look up, but he spoke that word again: “Please.”
The world wavered, and she saw the demon, felt the heat from that well of flame. Darlington wanted to break free, just as he’d wanted to point them to the Gauntlet, but he didn’t have control.
She drew the Arlington Rubber Boots box from her pocket and opened the lid. Some part of her had hoped that would be enough, but still Darlington trudged back and forth, hefting rock after rock, placing them with infinite care. Was this object not precious enough? Had she gotten it wrong?
Alex gripped the lid and remembered all she’d seen in the old man’s memories. Darlington when he’d still just been Danny, alone in the cold shelter of Black Elm, trying to stay warm beneath coats he’d found in the attic, eating canned beans from the pantry. Danny, who had dreamed of other worlds, of magic made real and monsters to be bested. She remembered him with his cobbled-together recipe for the elixir, standing at the kitchen counter, ready to tempt death for a chance to see the world beyond.
“Danny,” she said, and it was not just her voice that emerged, but the old man’s as well, a gruff harmony. “Danny, come home.”
Darlington’s shoulders slumped. His head bowed. The rock slid from his hands. When he looked up, his eyes met hers, and in them she saw the anguish of ten thousand hours, of a year lost to suffering. She saw guilt in them too, and shame, and she understood: That golden demon was Darlington too. He was both prisoner and guard here in hell, tortured and torturer.
“I knew you’d come,” he said.
Darlington burst into blue flame. Alex gasped, heard Tripp shout and Dawes cry out. The flame licked over the rubble like a river flowing through the shattered ruin of Black Elm, and leapt into the box.
Alex slammed the lid down. The box rattled in her hands. She could feel him in there, feel the vibration in her palms. His soul. She was holding his soul in her hands, and the power of it coursed through her, too bright to contain. It had a sound, the ring of steel on steel.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered.
“Your armor!” Dawes cried. Alex looked down. She was back in her street clothes. So were the others.
“Why did it disappear?” Tripp asked. “What’s happening?”
Dawes shook her head as if she was trying to drive the fear out of it. “I don’t know.”
Alex tucked the box against her chest. “We have to get back to Sterling. To the orchard.”
But when she turned to the road, nothing was where it should be. The driveway was gone, the stumps of trees, the fence, the houses beyond. She was looking at a long stretch of blacktop highway, a motel in the distance, a horizon of low foothills studded with Joshua trees. None of it made sense.
The wolves were still there and they were drawing closer.
“There’s someone with Mercy,” said Tripp.
Alex whirled. Tripp was gazing into the puddle. She could see a man’s silhouette in the doorway of the library courtyard. He was arguing with Mercy.
“There’s something wrong with the ritual,” Dawes said, “with the Gauntlet. I don’t hear the metronome anymore.”
“Alex,” Turner said, his voice low.
“We have to—” She had meant to say something about Sterling, about completing the ritual. But she was staring into the yellow eyes of four wolves.
They were blocking the path between Black Elm and the highway.
“What do they want?” Dawes quavered.
Turner squared his shoulders. “What do wolves ever want?” He drew his gun, then yelped. He held a bloody rabbit in his hand.
The wolves lunged.
Alex screamed as jaws closed around her forearm, the wolf’s teeth sinking deep. She heard the bone snap, felt bile rise in her throat. She fell backward, the creature on top of her. She could see its filthy muzzle, the blood and drool matted around its teeth, the crust of yellow pus around its wild golden eyes. But she still had hold of the box. The wolf shook her as the flames on her body caught on its oily coat. She could smell its fur burning. It growled low in its throat. It wasn’t letting go. She could see black spots in her vision. She couldn’t pass out. She had to get free. She had to get to Sterling. She had to get to Mercy.
“I’m not letting go either,” she snarled.
She turned her head to the side and saw the others wrestling with the rest of the pack, and the rabbit, white fur spotted with blood, nibbling at a beige blade of grass, bloody handprints on its sides, ignored by the wolves.
She gripped the box harder, but she could feel herself starting to fade out of consciousness. Could she outlast this monster? The wolf was on fire now, its flesh roasting. It was whimpering, but its jaws remained clamped on her broken arm. The pain was overwhelming.
What did it mean if they died in hell? Would their bodies rest easy above, unbattered and whole? What would happen to Mercy?
She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know who to save or how. She couldn’t even save herself. She’d promised Darlington she would get him out. She’d believed she could keep them all alive, that this was one more thing she could bluff and bare-knuckle her way through.
“I’m not letting go.” But her voice sounded distant. And she thought she heard someone, maybe something, laughing. It wanted her here. It wanted her broken. What would hell look like for her? She knew damn well. She’d wake up back in their old apartment, back with Len, as if none of this had ever happened, as if it had all been some wild dream. There would be no Yale, no Lethe, no Darlington, no Dawes. There would be no secret stories, no libraries full of books, no poetry. Alex would be alone all over again, staring into the deep black crater of her future.
Suddenly the wolf’s jaws released and Alex screamed louder as the blood rushed back to her arm. It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing. Darlington was fighting the wolves, and he was neither demon nor man but both. His horns blazed golden as he wrenched one of the beasts off Turner and hurled it into the rubble. It yelped and fell in a heap, its back broken.
The box. It was still in her hands, but it was empty now, that bright, victorious vibration gone. He’d slipped free. To save them.
He tore another monster off Dawes and his eyes met Alex’s as he snapped the wolf’s neck. “Go,” he said, voice deep and commanding. “I’ll keep them at bay.”
“I won’t leave you.”
He tossed the wolf that had been tormenting Tripp into the desert sand, and it ran, whimpering, tail between its legs. But there were more coming, shadows slinking between the crooked silhouettes of the Joshua trees.
“Go,” Darlington insisted.
But Alex couldn’t. Not when they were this close, not when she’d held his soul in her hands. “Please,” she begged. “Come with us. We can—”
Darlington’s smile was small. “You found me once, Stern. You’ll find me again. Now go.” He turned to face the wolves.
Alex made herself follow the others, but all the fight had gone out of her. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. She wasn’t supposed to fail again.
“Come on!” Turner demanded, dragging Tripp and Dawes down the desert highway.
There were more wolves waiting, blocking the road.
“How do we get past them?” Tripp cried.
“This isn’t how this works,” Dawes said, her voice raw with fear. She had blood on her forearm and she was limping. “They shouldn’t be trying to stop us from leaving.”
Turner stepped forward, hands held up as if hoping the wolves would part like the Red Sea. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”
One of the wolves cocked its head, like a dog that didn’t understand a command. Another whimpered, but it wasn’t a sound of distress. It sounded almost like a laugh. The largest of the wolves padded toward them, head lowered.
“For thou art with me,” Turner proclaimed. “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies—”
The big wolf opened its mouth, its tongue lolled out. The word that emerged from its jaws was low and growling, but unmistakable: “Thief.”
Without thinking Alex took a step backward, terror rising like a scream in her head at the wrongness of it. Tripp’s mouth hung open, and Dawes groaned, panic overtaking them both. Only Turner stood fast, but she could see he was trembling as he shouted, “Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me—”
The wolf’s lips split, showing its jagged teeth, its black gums. It was smiling. “If a thief is found breaking in,” it said, the words rolling like growls, “and is struck so that he dies, there shall be no bloodguilt for him.”
Turner dropped his hands. He shook his head. “Exodus. That fucking wolf is quoting scripture at me.”
Now another wolf was creeping forward, head low. “All who came before me are thieves and robbers.” Alex caught movement from the left and right. They were being surrounded. “But the sheep did not listen to them.” The last word was little more than a snarl.
“It’s because we tried to take Darlington,” said Dawes. “We tried to take him home.”
“Back-to-back!” Alex cried. “Everyone with me!” She had no idea what she was doing, but she had to try something. Tripp was crying now and Dawes had squeezed her eyes shut. Turner was still shaking his head. She’d warned him this wasn’t some grand battle between good and evil.
Alex slapped her hands together, rubbing her palms against each other as if she were trying to keep warm, and sure enough the flames leapt. “Come on,” she muttered to them, to herself, still unsure of what she was asking for or who she was pleading with. The unwanted magic that had plagued her from her birth. Her grandmother’s spirit. Her mother’s crystals. Her absent father’s blood. “Come on.”
The big wolf lunged forward. Alex swept her hand out and the blue flame went with it, unfurling with a crack like a whip. The wolves leapt back.
Again she lashed out, letting the flame course through her, an extension of her arm, her fear and anger flooding through her and finding form in blue fire. Crack. Crack. Crack.
“What is this?” Turner demanded. “What are you doing?”
Alex wasn’t sure. The blazing arcs of flame weren’t dissipating. As Alex released them, they hung in the air, writhing, seeking direction, finally finding one another—and when they did they began to churn, forming a circle around her and the others, brilliant white and gleaming.
“What is it?” Tripp shouted.
Dawes met Alex’s eyes and now her fear was gone. Alex saw the determined face of the scholar shining back at her. “It’s the Wheel.”
The ground beneath their feet shook. The wolves were lunging at them, snapping at the blue and white sparks rising from Alex’s fire.
A crack opened beneath Alex’s feet and she stumbled.
“Stop,” shouted Tripp. “You have to stop.”
“Don’t!” cried Dawes. “Something’s happening!”
And Alex didn’t think she could stop. The fire was sparking through her now, and she knew if she didn’t release it, it would burn her up from the inside. There would be nothing left but ash.
Alex looked back at Black Elm. The wolves had abandoned their attack on Darlington to launch themselves at the burning wheel. His horns had vanished, and he had a stone in his hand. She watched him carefully set it atop the wall.
I’ll come back for you, she vowed. I’ll find a way.
The earth beneath them split with a deafening boom. They fell, surrounded by a cascade of blue flame. Alex saw the wolves falling too. They blazed white as the fire caught hold of them, brilliant as comets, and then Alex saw nothing at all.
It is not just our right to make this journey, but our duty. If Hiram Bingham had never scaled the peaks of Peru, would we have his Crucible and our ability to see behind the Veil? The knowledge we have gained cannot remain academic. I could well point to the money and time spent, the generosity of Sterling, the labor and ingenuity of JGR, Lawrie, Bonawit, the many hands that toiled to construct a ritual of this size and complexity. They had the will to commit themselves to the project and the means to attempt it. It is now our duty to show the courage of their convictions, to prove we are men of Yale, rightful heirs to the men of action who built these institutions, instead of pampered children who balk at the thought of getting our hands dirty.
—Lethe Days Diary of Rudolph Kittscher (Jonathan Edwards College ’33)
I am without energy or will to record what has happened. I know only despair. There is but one word I need write that may encompass our sins: hubris.
—Lethe Days Diary of Rudolph Kittscher (Jonathan Edwards College ’33)
28
Alex was on her back. At some point it had started to rain. She wiped the water from her eyes and spat the taste of sulfur from her mouth.
“Mercy!” she shouted, shoving to her feet and coughing. Her arm was whole and unbroken, but the world was spinning. Everything looked too rich, too saturated with color, the lights too yellow, the night lush as fresh ink.
“Are you okay?” Mercy was beside her, drenched from the rain, her salt armor somehow keeping its form.
“I’m fine,” Alex lied. “Is everyone here?”
“Here,” said Dawes, her face a white blur in the downpour.
“Yeah,” said Turner.
Tripp was sitting in the mud, arms cradled over his head, sobbing.
Alex looked around, trying to get her bearings. “I saw someone up here.”
“Did you stop the metronome?” Dawes asked.
“I’m sorry,” Mercy said. “He told me to stop it. I didn’t know what to do.”
“It’s certainly not your fault, Miss Zhao.”
“Shit,” Alex muttered.
She didn’t know what she’d expected—a vampire, a Gray, some other new and exciting ghoul. All of those seemed easier to manage than Michael Anselm. They’d taught Mercy how to deal with undead intruders, not a living bureaucrat.
He stood in the doorway beneath the stone carving of Dürer’s magic square, arms crossed, protected from the rain. Amber light from the hallway cast him in shadow.
“Everybody up,” he said, his voice thrumming with anger. “And out.”
They got to their feet, shivering, and shuffled out of the muddy courtyard.
Alex was struggling to make her mind work. The wolves. The blue fire. Had she saved them? Or had Anselm inadvertently come to their rescue by interrupting the ritual and pulling them out? And where had the wolves come from? Dawes had said there shouldn’t be obstacles like that. Could Alex blame Anselm for those too?
“I feel like someone dropped a house on me,” said Turner.
“Hell hangover,” said Tripp. He’d wiped his tears away and color was returning to his cheeks.
“Take off your shoes,” Anselm snapped. “You will not track mud over these floors.”
They wriggled out of their shoes and socks, then walked barefoot into the library behind Anselm, the stone floor like a slab of ice.
In the dim light from the generators, Anselm shepherded them to a back entrance that led to York Street, where he allowed them to sit on the low benches and pull their wet shoes back on.
“Detective Turner,” said Anselm, “I’ll ask you to remain.” He pointed at Mercy and Tripp. “You and you. I’ve called cabs.”
“I don’t have any cash,” Tripp said.
Anselm looked like he was going to throw a punch. He drew out his wallet and slapped a twenty into Tripp’s wet palm. “Go home.”
“I’m fine,” said Mercy. “JE is right next door.”
“The armor,” said Anselm, “does not belong to you.”
Mercy removed the breastplate, gauntlets, and greaves and stood there awkwardly.
“Miss Stern,” said Anselm, and Alex took the pile of armor.
“Go get warm,” she whispered. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” She hoped. Maybe she was about to be driven past the New Haven city limits and dumped in a ditch.
Alex shoved the armor into the soaked canvas tote they’d brought with them. She saw the luminaries were in there too. Anselm must have retrieved them.
Tripp waved as he headed out the door. Mercy backed slowly away, as if waiting for some sign from Alex to stay, but all Alex could do was shrug. This was it. This was what she and Dawes had feared so much. But the knowledge of what they might lose hadn’t been enough to stop them. And now they’d literally gone through hell and returned with nothing to show for it.
At least she hadn’t lost the Arlington Rubber Boots box. She touched her fingers to it in her damp pocket. She had held Darlington’s soul in her hands. She had felt the force of his life, new-leaf green, morning bright. And she had failed.
