Hellfighters Read online

  “Mammon was there,” said Pan. “On the train.”

  Ostheim frowned, swiping his hair back into place. “What?” he said when he had recovered.

  “He was there,” Pan said again. “I don’t know if it was him, or if he was just … just projecting himself or something. But there was no doubt about it.”

  “He made a house grow out of the front of the train,” said Marlow.

  “He spoke to me,” Pan went on.

  “And what did he say?” asked Ostheim, his glare burrowing into her.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember.” Pan pushed her mind back but it was reluctant to go there. I’m here to help. “He said something about helping us, I don’t know.”

  “Mammon is a master of deception,” Ostheim said. “He has learned from the best. He is himself a father of lies. He was there to distract you, or to kill you. You only have to look at the noble Night to see his intentions.”

  “But if all he wants to do is unite the Engines,” said Marlow, “then why chase us halfway across Europe? It’s not like we’re in a position to stop him.”

  “No?” said Ostheim, and for the first time since they had met his eyes lit up. “But that is where you are wrong, my young friend. Mammon may have the Engines, and he may have Engineers. But he is not invulnerable. Far from it. He knows that you are still a threat, that you will be coming after him.”

  “You’re saying we can find him?” said Marlow.

  “Yes.”

  “And we can crush his ass?” asked Truck.

  “Oh yes.”

  “And what’s the but?” asked Pan, sensing one hanging in the air between them. Ostheim smiled, revealing a row of small, neat teeth.

  “Ah yes, the but. A simple one. But it will not be easy, Pan. Not easy at all. And if we fail, then you will not just lose your physical body. Your soul will be torn apart, for an eternity.”

  “And the world will end,” added Herc matter-of-factly.

  Pan laughed. Soul shredded, world ended.

  “What’s new?”

  HE WOULD HAVE SAID YES

  “It may be hard to believe now,” said Ostheim. “But we have a number of things in our favor.”

  The old guy opened his leather briefcase and Marlow took the opportunity to study him. Admittedly he’d spoken to Ostheim only once, by phone, but this wasn’t who he’d pictured on the other end of the line. The voice he’d heard then had been little more than a whisper, but it had radiated power. This guy was a joke. If Marlow had seen him walking through the streets of Mariners Harbor he probably would have started calling him names and lobbing beer cans at him.

  Ostheim found what he was looking for, setting a sheaf of coffee-colored papers down on the pew next to him.

  “One, we still have powers.” He glanced at Truck. “Not you, I am afraid.” Then at Marlow. “And you, friend, I imagine they will turn to your contract next. You are strength and speed, yes?”

  Marlow nodded. “The good looks are all mine.”

  Nobody laughed.

  “An easy contract to break, which is a pity, but they will still require a day at least, hopefully more. Pan, am I right in thinking that Patrick Rebarre told you your contract would be left to expire?”

  “Yeah,” Pan said. “He said it. Right before the demons dragged his sorry ass down to hell. Him and his wormbag sister.”

  “I heard. No mean feat, defeating a resurrected soul like Brianna. The fact that you won that battle is what gives me hope.” He smiled again, but it was short-lived. “It would be cruel of them to let you die like that, Pan, but I would not take Patrick’s word for it. Mammon knows that you are more dangerous with powers than without, and I would not be at all surprised if he set about stripping you of your contract.”

  Pan blew out a long, unsteady breath and Marlow could almost feel the relief ebbing from her, could almost hear her reciting please, please, please. She must have sensed him watching because she shot a scowl his way. He twisted his head back to Ostheim so hard that his neck spasmed.

  “So yes, we have powers.”

  “Don’t forget about these babies,” said Truck, flexing his biceps. The flab of his arms grew firm, like two melons hiding beneath a blanket.

  “Of course,” said Ostheim. “And, Herman, I know that you have … resources.”

  “Damn right I do,” he grunted.

  “Good. We have our army. It is small, but it is not without merit. It is enough.”

  If you say so, Marlow thought.

  “You said a number of things,” said Pan. “What else?”

  “I am afraid that by a number I really meant two,” Ostheim said. He turned to the papers, lifting the top one and unfolding it. It was the size of a bedsheet and he struggled to lay it out on the church floor. Marlow craned in, seeing that it was a map, an old one. “This is Paris, circa 1400.”

  “Paris?” said Truck, nodding. “City of Love.”

  “Indeed,” said Ostheim. “Although not in this case.”

  “You think this is where the Engine is?” asked Marlow.

  Ostheim sighed. “Perhaps if you all let me speak, you will find out. What you must remember is that the Engine itself has not moved. It cannot move, it is simply too big, and too complex. Whoever designed the Engines created them so that each would have a single entrance, and a single exit.”

  “The Red Door,” said Pan.

  Even hearing her say it seemed to make Marlow’s head pound the same way it had the first time he’d been here, just before Pan had led him into the Nest.

  “The Red Door,” said the old man. “Each of the Engines has one. A wound in the world, a scalpel taken to the flesh of our universe. The Engines’ creator cut a hole right through space and time, then sealed it tight with something right out of hell, something conjured with old magic. When Mammon breached our Red Door and entered the Nest, he did not seek to move the Engine. He only wanted to hide the entrance. He reprogrammed the Red Door so that it would be hidden, so that it would no longer open.”

  “But how?” asked Pan.

  “Because he is powerful,” said Ostheim. “He is the most powerful entity I know. He has used the Engine so many times that it is permanently in his blood. He is not yet a devil, but he is well on his way.”

  “One of the Pentarchy,” said Marlow, remembering what Pan had told him. “One of the Five.”

  “A quaint title. But meaningless. There have only ever been two foolish enough, or wicked enough, to push the Engine to its limits. Mammon, and a woman called Meridiana.” Here Ostheim hawked up a ball of phlegm and spat it across the church. It sat on the stone floor, glistening. “She paid the price for her greed. Her suffering will…”

  He seemed to remember himself, smoothing down the map.

  “It matters not. If we had kept the Engines apart then eventually Mammon would have gone the same way as her. Make too many contracts and the very fabric of your being changes, it corrupts. When you reach the point of no return then even a canceled contract leaves its mark. It makes you powerful, yes, but it takes much more. It possesses you.”

  Marlow squeezed his fists, felt the strength there, and suddenly hated it.

  “Now, though, with both Engines at his command, Mammon’s powers are immense. He was able to cut the Red Door off from every one of its locations.”

  “But he can still get out,” said Marlow. “I mean there must still be a door.”

  “Clever boy,” said Ostheim. “There is still a door. The Red Door exists, but only in one location—its original one.”

  “Where the Engine was built,” said Pan.

  Ostheim nodded. “That door simply cannot be moved. It can be concealed. It can be bricked over, but it cannot be moved.”

  “And it’s in Paris?” asked Marlow.

  “That I cannot say for sure,” Ostheim went on. “But it is my best guess.”

  Marlow heard Pan sigh.

  “So it might just be in Paris,” she said. “Which happens to b
e one of the biggest cities in Europe, and home to a few hundred thousand buildings and a few million people. No problem.”

  “Hey,” said Herc. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to, kid.”

  Ostheim held up a hand to calm him.

  “It is not their fault, Herman. Please. As I was saying, we have another thing in our favor. Mammon is seeking to unite the two Engines, and this will cause him problems. Two machines of this magnitude, of this power, cannot exist even close to each other without producing a signal. Think of it like … like two transmitters positioned next to each other, emitting feedback.”

  The comparison didn’t exactly help, and Ostheim must have seen the look on Marlow’s face.

  “You do not need to know the science, just know this: for as long as the Engines are in Mammon’s possession, until the moment he unites them, we stand our best chance of finding them.”

  “And destroying them,” said Marlow.

  “Yes,” Ostheim said. “Once and for all.”

  “So we’re heading to Paris,” said Herc. “Now.”

  Nobody seemed to respond, other than an exhausted yawn from Truck.

  “Now,” Herc said. “Come on. Who are we?”

  “Hellraisers,” said Truck.

  “I said who are we?” Herc tried again.

  This time everyone joined in. “Hellraisers!”

  “That’s right,” he said. He walked off, disappearing down the stairs, wafting his hand in front of his face. “Hell’s bells, Truck, what have you been eating?”

  “What hasn’t he been eating?” Pan said, jumping to her feet.

  Marlow was about to follow her when Ostheim called his name. The little guy was pushing himself up, those renegade strands of hair falling over his face again. Marlow had a sudden urge to grab a pair of scissors and snip them off. Ostheim walked stiffly to the far corner of the church and beckoned with his fingers. Marlow hesitated, looking to Pan for help and getting nothing but her cold shoulder.

  “Come, Marlow,” said Ostheim. “I will not bite.”

  Marlow popped his lips, then made his way over the rough ground, through the pool of sunshine, back into shadow. Ostheim was cleaning his glasses again, and he replaced them on his nose to study Marlow intently.

  “I know this has been hard for you,” he said after a moment. “You were betrayed by somebody you called a friend. Charlie took you for a fool, he took us all for fools. His actions have brought this world closer to ruin than anything in history.”

  Marlow hung his head, wishing that the floor would open up beneath him, a demon’s mouth swallow him whole. Better that than to stand here being reminded of his own mistakes. Because that’s what Ostheim was really saying, wasn’t it? Your actions, Marlow, your actions have brought the world closer to ruin than ever before.

  “No,” said Ostheim, those small eyes like chips of obsidian, gleaming in the dark. “No, Marlow. I do not blame you, and neither should you pour blame upon yourself. This is what Mammon wants, to divide us, to make us weak. Tell me, honestly, did you know what Charlie’s intentions were?”

  Marlow spluttered out the ghost of a laugh. He couldn’t even believe it now, despite everything he’d seen, everything that had happened. Not Charlie—his best friend, his only friend. They’d known each other for so many years, inseparable, until this.

  “No,” he said, locking eyes with Ostheim. “I had no idea.”

  Ostheim studied him for a moment, then nodded.

  “Why do you think he did it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Marlow. “I guess he was pissed at me for leaving him when all this kicked off. But I didn’t want him to get hurt, didn’t want anything to happen to him.”

  “Some of the greatest tragedies in history were born from good intentions,” said Ostheim.

  “They must have gotten to him, Mammon and the others. They must have taken control of him somehow.”

  “No,” said Ostheim. “No, if they had poisoned Charlie’s mind, his personality, then Hanson would have sensed it before bringing him into the Nest—even if he was unconscious. No, this was Charlie’s doing, pure and simple. It was his choice.”

  “I don’t know, they must have convinced him, then. But it doesn’t make sense. I mean he was a good guy, he got pretty worked up sometimes, threw a few punches, but he always did the right thing. I don’t get why he would have joined him.”

  “It’s like I said. Mammon is a father of lies, a master deceiver. Charlie may not even know that he is fighting for the wrong side.”

  “Yeah,” said Marlow, nodding. That thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him, anything that might help us?”

  Marlow chewed his lip, staring into the shadows of the church.

  “Family he may try to contact? Brothers and sisters? Other friends he could reach out to?”

  “No,” said Marlow. “He was in foster care most of his life, no brothers, a sister somewhere but they haven’t been in touch for years. He didn’t really … I mean he wasn’t the kind of guy you warmed to easily, y’know? Kept the walls high, kept the door locked, until he trusted you.”

  “And your school, would he have tried to make contact?”

  “School?” Marlow shook his head. “Hell, no. He was doing good there, but he hated it just as much as I did.”

  “Very well,” said Ostheim. “One more question, Marlow, and this is the most important. If we find the Engine, if we find Charlie, will you be able to convince him of the truth? Will you be able to win him back to our side?”

  Marlow closed his eyes, thought back. The first time he’d met Charlie, the kid had been about to beat two high school football players into the ground. He’d talked him down then, even though he’d almost lost some teeth for his trouble. And how many times since had they held each other back, stopped each other doing something really, really stupid? More than he could count.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I can talk him around.”

  Ostheim smiled.

  “That is good news. Very good news indeed. We may stand a chance here, Marlow. We may yet pull this world back from the brink.”

  He smiled again, then began to walk away.

  “Mr. Ostheim,” said Marlow, but when the old man turned around he couldn’t find the strength to carry on. What was he supposed to say? I’m too scared, I can’t do this. How would that sound? But it was the truth. His brother, Danny, had been the soldier. He’d been the one to charge into gunfire, to put himself on the line for his country, for his friends. Danny had been the hero, and look where it had gotten him—blown to pieces by a roadside bomb, scattered over the Afghan countryside, his coffin empty.

  Ostheim scrutinized him, and once again he seemed to pluck the thoughts right out of Marlow’s head.

  “Can I tell you something, Marlow? Can I tell you a secret? I never wanted to do this. When I was a child, growing up in Vienna, all I ever wanted was to be a musician. The piano was my thing.” He played an invisible one, his eyes twinkling at the memory. “I had three brothers born before me, and a sister, too. And every single one of them wanted to follow my father’s art, wanted to carry on our family’s duty to the Fist. Their only ambition was to study the Engine, to work out what it was and how it could wield so much power. Their only dream in life was to locate its twin, to find the other Engine, so that they could destroy any chance the Circle had of opening the gates. They were the jewels of my father’s eye, the pride and joy of my grandfather.”

  “What happened to them?” Marlow asked when Ostheim didn’t go on.

  “They died, of course. All of them. These were the days before the Lawyers, you understand. Our contracts, even the easiest of them, were unbreakable. One by one my father needed them, and one by one they sacrificed themselves to his command. Until only I remained.”

  There was a shout from across the church, Herc yelling that it was time to go.

  “I tell you this because I,
too, was scared. I cannot convey to you the extent of the fear I felt, and how crippling it became. I wanted no part of this, no part at all in my father’s work. I just wanted a chance to live my life like every other soul in this world.”

  “But you’re here,” said Marlow.

  “I am here. Yes. I am here. Because I understood that fear is simply imagining the worst that might happen. It’s your mind’s way of keeping you from harm, a preventive measure. Back then, as a child only slightly younger than you, I thought the worst that could happen was my own passing, my own sad little fate.”

  “And that isn’t the worst thing that can happen?”

  “Tell me, if you could ask your brother one question, what would it be?”

  Marlow frowned. The truth was he couldn’t even remember Danny, he’d been so young when he’d heard he wasn’t coming home. All he had to go on was that fading photo on his kitchen wall, Danny in his combat gear, his smile the brightest thing in the desert sun. It made him think of his mom, sitting at home slowly drowning in Bacardi. It felt like somebody had crushed his heart in their fist, and his face twisted with the pain of it.

  “I’d ask him…” What? Why he’d signed up? Why he’d wanted to fight? The answers to those questions were too easy. He’d fought for freedom, he’d fought for what was right, he’d fought for Mom, for his kid brother, and for Marcy, the girl he’d always liked. Marlow stared into the shadows and for an instant he thought he saw him there, a tall, well-built figure wearing sand-blown desert camo and Oakley shades. Danny, shaking his head and smiling. Marlow blinked and the figure was gone. He turned back to Ostheim. “I’d ask him if he thought it was worth it. Dying, I mean. I’d ask him if he thought he had made a difference.”

  “And what would his answer be?”

  This time Marlow smiled.

  “Yes,” he said, and some of the fear had floated away, had left him like a cloud passing out from in front of the sun. “He would have said yes.”

  “There you have it, Marlow,” said Ostheim, walking away. “Now, come. We have a war of our own to fight.”

  PART II