“Take care,” cautioned the Ghoul. “Steady . . . You mustn’t miscalculate even by half an inch.”
Sweating the most minute error, the Imps continued with their task. Three complete turns, then four.
Five. Then—
“Six!” shouted the Teratologist. “Stop! Right there on that mark! Perfect!”
“Yes,” Curwen’s voice creaked. The psychic patina of his Wizard’s vision told him beyond doubt. It is. Perfect.” You and your Journeymen have done fine work.”
“Thank you, Master Builder.”
“Extract the Auger.”
Chains were hooked into each end of the Auger’s handle, then rung through pullies fixed to the Skiff’s mast. The Imps grabbed the chain ends and planted their webbed feet.
“On the count of six!” ordered the Teratologist, and when he counted down—
“Pull!”
The Imps’ corded muscles tightened, and they gritted their fangs when in unison they pulled back on the chains.
“Yes!”
The Auger was smoothly extracted from the monster’s chest. It clanked against the Skiff deck.
Curwen rushed to the newly formed cavity.
“Great Lucifer! The Hexes are working pristinely!”
Indeed. The Auger’s removal left a roughly six-inch tunnel in the Demonculus’s chest. The tunnel’s walls as well as the all-important mounting seat at its terminus glittered with Anti-Light, a sign that the Animation Spells were regenerating.
A great day in Hell, Curwen thought, stepping back with steepled fingers as he appraised the work. His leaden surplice sparkled. “These newest Occult Sciences truly boggle the mind,” he muttered more to himself.
The Ghoul nodded, grinning with black teeth. “And I needn’t remind you, Master Builder, that these wondrous sciences were theorized and then executed by you.”
“Yes, indeed, but all by the grace of the Morning Star . . .”
“Bring the chest plate back down,” ordered the Teratologist, “and re-cover the cavity. The Diviners have predicted inclement weather in multiple Districts. We can’t risk damaging the cavity . . .”
Curwen watched as the great iron plate was pulled back down and rebolted to the Demonculus’s chest.
“All I can muse upon, Master Builder,” remarked the Ghoul, “is when? When might this miracle occur?”
The gravity-defying Skiff began to lower. Curwen’s black and yellow eyes strayed out over the smoking District trademarked by a million severed heads on pikes.
“Soon,” Curwen whispered. “Sooner than you or any of us may think . . .”
(III)
—you are there.
Your head spins like a proverbial top as your senses first alight and you think you hear . . .
A deep, incessant throb, like crickets in a vast field only much more intense. Before you can even contemplate the nature of the sound, it brings an immediate smile to your face.
It’s then that your vision turns crisp; you find that you are indeed standing in a vast, sweeping field of verdant grass a yard high.
It’s beautiful.
And the sounds throb on.
“Cicadas,” you dreamily mutter. “The seventeen-year kind. It’s one of my earliest childhood memories—that sound. It’s always been my favorite sound . . .”
“The powers that be are aware of that,” Howard tells you, your head-stick in hand as he walks along through the gorgeous, blight-free grass. The scent of the grass is intoxicating. “As a Privilato, everything you are endeared to, everything that brings you jubilancy and exultation will be heaped upon you to the very best of our abilities. And, mind you, forever.”
Then Howard turns and you see the castle.
“Noticing a familiarity?” Howard asked.
The castle’s great buff-colored blocks gleam atop the grass-swept hill, with five massive bastions rimmed with turrets, merlons, and arrow slits, a moat surrounding all. And come to think of it:
It DOES look familiar, you recall.
“You were quite an aficionado of the Middle Ages when you were in middle school—”
Then the memory sweeps into your head. “Château-Gaillard . . .”
“Correct, the famed bastion of Richard the Lionheart, in Les Andelys, France. Of course, the real one is a ruin now, but Lucifer’s Architects have constructed this duplicate, down to every excruciating detail. It appears as it did, in every conceivable way, in 1192 AD. In your early teens, castles, knights, and the like had a tendency to fascinate you.”
And he’s right; you remember now.
“While the interior has been modified to a scheme you’re sure to be delighted in,” Howard added.
Incredible, you think. As Howard approaches the drawbridge you notice eleven other magnificent castles on eleven other hills in the dim distance. “Who lives in those?”
“Your neighbors. The other men—er, I should say, ten men and one woman who’ve won the Senary since it began in 4652 BC.”
“Ten men but just one woman?” you question.
“Yes. Women seem to be more concrete about their notions of sin versus redemption. Our only female winner is a quite attractive Judean named Arcela, a concubine of a Roman governor. You’re certain to make her acquaintance, along with all the winners.” But then Howard clears his throat. “That is, if you decide to accept your winnings.”
“But I’ve already decided not to,” you remind your guide. “This castle looks like really cool digs . . . but it’s not worth my soul.”
“Of course, of course, but . . . wait till you view the interior.”
Your gourd-head sways along on the stick as Howard carries it across the magnificent drawbridge and through a barbican and iron portcullis. Next, up a stone spiral staircase, and suddenly the air feels cool as if climate-controlled. Through a spectacular archway, you’re startled by a brilliant shine, then—
“Oh, wow,” you utter.
“This is the Hall of Gold.”
You’re standing in a long room completely walled in pure gold.
“Stunning, eh? The decorative effect seems to awe Humans. Six hundred and sixty-six tons of gold have been used to wall this room,” Howard tells you as he walks on, through another arch, “while six hundred and sixty-six tons of diamonds wall this one—the foyer.”
The sight is dizzying. You’re now in the middle of another chamber walled similarly with diamonds. The effect is impossible to describe. “This really is beautiful,” you admit.
“I should say so!”
“But it’s still not worth my soul. Come on, be serious. I get to spend eternity in a neat castle full of gold and diamonds? Big deal. I’m still in Hell.”
“Um-hmm,” Howard consents. “But you haven’t met your house staff—sixty-six of them, by the way.” Howard snaps his fingers, and then a diamond panel raises, and through it saunter dozens of beautiful women—Humans and Demons alike.
The drove of smiling women don’t make a sound as they enter, stand in rank, and bow.
Yes, the most gorgeous Human women you’ve ever seen, but now you must confess that some of the Hybrids and Demons are even more gorgeous. Fellatitrines, Vulvatagoyles, Succubi. Lycanymphs and Mammaresses, and even a Golemess that puts your sultry chauffeur to shame.
“The sins of the flesh, Mr. Hudson, but not a bad thing in a domain where sin does not exist,” Howard’s voice echoes in the glittering hall.
You gulp. “Yeah, but I couldn’t get it on with all these women in a hundred years.”
“But of course you could, and a hundred after that and a hundred after that. Forever. And when you weary of these, more will be afforded you.”