AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Masterful, sir, simply masterful! May I help in any way?"
I shift back into my accustomed human form, which allows speech instead of unintelligible screeches. "You can insert your head into the anus of a rhinoceros and take a deep breath."
The hellspawn looks around at the blasted land, helpless. "Should one appear, I will do my best, sir."
"Just get me to the nearest exit."
"Certainly. Please follow me."
I collect all my weapons from the ruin of the imp horde and limp after him, my head constantly craning about me, looking for new threats. None appear, and it's almost more nerve-wracking than if something concrete had materialized to attack.
Uncountable moments of heat and pain later, the hellspawn stops and raises an insect leg at the air in front of it.
"Here we are, sir. Just a moment." He mutters something unintelligible, his leg spasms in a pattern that must have some arcane significance, and the air puckers and warps in front of him before a rectangle shimmers and resolves into a window to the plane of Midgard.
Just as the portal pops into solid reality and I feel a cool gust of air from New Jersey that is no doubt putrid by human standards but qualifies as a benediction in hell, Lucifer appears to my left, unfolding himself out of the air in a flutter of cherubic feathers. I ready the ice knife in case he attacks.
"What now?" I bark at him.
~I merely wished to congratulate you on making it this far. Perhaps you will have more luck in your rebellion than I thought. I will not aid you, but as you have earned my respect, neither will I hinder you. Seriously, though, you need to get a clue about David Bowie and Prince. You missed quite a bit being bound for all those years in the bowels of the earth. Before you decide to burn it all down and start over, take some time to appreciate creative geniuses. For you wish to be one, correct?
"A creative genius? No, that is not among my ambitions."
~If I'm not being too forward, Loki, perhaps it should be. My father was a creative genius, much as I despise him. I hear Odin is, too. Quite a few of the beings I presume you'll be fighting against are creative geniuses. It would be wise to know your enemy, if nothing else. But also wise to have a plan to build your utopia once the day is won.
"I have a plan. No need to worry about that."
~Ah. Fair enough. Well, then. It's all very exciting, isn't it? This should be good. I'm off to make some popcorn. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Cherubim cannot actually process genemod corn--oh, never mind.
The wings fold around him, and he spins like a top in the air until he shrinks and pops out of existence. What a strange adversary.
I'm left alone with the Bosch horror who did nothing to help me--not even provide so much as a warning--against Lucifer's ambushes. I'd like to try out the ice knife on him and see if he has a soul it can drink. The heat of hell has taxed the blade; the red reservoir along the top has noticeably diminished during our trek. It looks thirsty.
"Please step through," the hellion says. "I can only keep the portal open for a few more moments."
Ah, clever to remind me of that. I can't afford to risk being trapped here. I nod as a measure of insincere thanks and step through to New Jersey. The portal closes behind me, and good riddance. If a large portion of humanity can imagine such a creature as Lucifer and a realm as bleak as hell, then Ragnarok will be a merciful fate by comparison.
Time to get on with it.
THE RESURRECTIONIST
CAITLIN KITTREDGE
"The Resurrectionist" is set in the continuity of the Hellhound Chronicles during the early 1930s. This is a collection of stories about villains, but Lee Grey is a monster hunter--a man who'd probably be considered a hero for protecting humanity. But Ava and the other characters populating the Hellhound Chronicles are monsters, and to them, a man like Lee, with special abilities designed to kill their kind, would be the ultimate enemy.
This is the very beginning of Lee's story . . . but far from the last time he and Ava will cross paths.
Los Angeles
1932
Louie Montrose told me to kill Tom Mason on a sunny September afternoon. He didn't flat-out say it, since Louie "the Rose" Montrose never used four words where fourteen would do, but I got the message all the same.
"You like cowboy movi
es, Lee?" he asked while he was pouring his third glass of whiskey. Louie had left behind the cheap suits and greasy hair on the East Coast, but he still had a thug's taste, and a thug's manners.
"I prefer detective pictures," I said. Louie puckered up his face, pink like a fat cabbage rose, and downed the whiskey. He hadn't offered me any.
