Lucifer's Lottery - Edward Lee [67]
“By psychic command.”
Curwen stalled.
“The De Rais Labs have recently invented the process,” the shadow added. “So, in spite of your own miscalculation, you needn’t worry yourself. Indeed, we are in the hands of a great lord, are we not?”
“We are,” Curwen croaked.
“You’re a brave one, Supreme Master Builder, and I must say”—Aldehzor’s invisible gaze strayed upward again, at the immense Demonculus—“that you have my utmost admiration.”
“Why?” Curwen nearly spat.
“To sacrifice forever your Hell-given Spirit Body in order to become . . . that thing?”
“You refer to the Demonculus with vehemence, dear Messenger. It is the greatest entity to ever be manufactured here, and it is the Demonculus you’d do better to admire, not I. I am blessed like no other in this opportunity to serve Great Satan. Be he forever praised.” Curwen’s silver teeth flashed bladelike with his smile. “It almost sounds as though you’re afraid of the Demonculus’s success; for when, through me, it rids the Mephistopolis of all opposition . . . whatever shall you do to stay in our lord’s good graces?”
Aldehzor seemed to hiss.
Yes. What use will there be for a messenger with no messages to deliver?
The veiled joust was over—Curwen had won.
“Be prepared,” came Aldehzor’s whisper like the smoke off a ball of pitch. “What you long for will come soon.”
Curwen stared the Incorporeal down.
“In the name of all things unutterable, hail the Prince of Lies,” the Grand Messenger said and got out of the carriage.
Curse ye, and be gone with you, Curwen thought, and then when he saw another sixty-six Mongrels dropped at once into the Cauldron he nearly swooned as if opiated. Their screams were like the sweetest of songs to his ears.
(III)
The hollow sound in your head follows you as the Turnstile’s evil formulae are triggered and you and your guide are pressed yet again through the gauze of distance-collapsing sorcery. When the vertigo passes, you jerk your gaze to Howard.
“So that’s it? The winners of the Senary get to become Privilatos?”
“Ah, I see your observations have at last heightened the acuity of your powers of deductive reckoning. I gratefully affirm.”
You frown.
“However, our chancing upon Mr. Swikaj and his comely harem came quite by happenstance. We’re on our way to behold further facets of the abyss that should deliver a more formidable impact.”
Shylock Square is long behind you now, though curious occult graft work is still visible among passersby. One stunning woman in hot pants and a bra of the finest leaden fabric has no face at all but only smooth white skin and a belly button where her nose would be. Her face has been transplanted upon her abdomen, and when that fact finally registers, you notice that she is smiling at you. A buff man, Human save for elaborate horns, walks confidently into an enterprise called CRIPPENDALE’S; he’s wearing a vest of penises, and onto his earlobes have been sewn scrotums. Lastly, a slyly smiling She-Imp passes, her majora replaced by what appears to be a baby’s buttocks.
“I can perceive that you’re finally acclimating,” Howard remarks. “Your revulsion appears to be growing staid—quite a good sign.”
Finally you’re able to blurt, “You want me to accept the Senary, which means I’ll become a Privilato after I fucking die. Is that it?”
“Yes,” Howard says, his already long face lengthening further; his distaste obvious. “However, if I may conjecture, profanity does not suit you at all. It’s quite inappropriate and wholly uncharacteristic of a studious and devout man such as yourself.”
You fix on what Howard just said. Profanity? Yes, I cussed, didn’t I? I said “fucking die,” instead of die. The speculation unwinds like a coil of string. “I never swear,” you tell your guide. “Sure, a damn or a hell or an ass on occasion, but never . . . the F-word or the S-word.”
Howard is frowning. “It’s uncomplimentary, sir. It bespeaks ruffianism and roysterishness. Better to maintain an air of the dignified, even in so undignified a habitat as this.”
Trivial as the