All were wild amalgams of recognizable animal parts, and they were in successively advanced states of decay. The deeper they had been in the pit, the longer theyd been dead, suggesting that theyd been killed one by one over a period of time, and not all at once. Whatever had gone on here, it hadnt been a massacre.
And then they came to the final hazmat tent, off by itself on the far side of the pit. This one was buried alone, said Dr. Amhali, lifting the flap for them. In a shallow grave.
Eliza entered, and at the sight of this final exhibit in the dead menagerie, sadness sang in her brighter than ever. This was the one without marks on his palms. Hed been buried with some suggestion of carenot flung into the stinking pit, but laid out and covered with dirt and gravel. A grayish residue of dust clung to his flesh, making him seem like a sculpture.
Maybe that was why she was able to think, right away, that he was beautiful. Because he didnt look real. He looked like art. She could almost have wept for him, which made no sense. If the others were variously monstrous, he was the most demonic or devilish: mostly humanoid, with the addition of long black horns and cloven hooves, and bat wings stretched out on the ground on either side of him, at least a dozen feet in span, their edges curling up against the sides of the tent.
But he didnt strike her as demonic. As the angels hadnt struck her as angelic.
What happened here? she wondered in silence. It wasnt her job to figure that out, but she couldnt help herself. Questions rose in a stir, like startled birds. Who killed these creatures, and why? And what were they doing in the Moroccan wilderness? And what were their names?
A part of her mind told her this was the wrong response to seeing dead monstersto wonder at their namesbut this last body especially, with its fine features, made her want to know. The tip of one horn was snapped off, a simple detail, and she wondered how it had happened, and from there it was an easy trajectory to wondering everything else. What had his life been like, and why was he dead?
The men were talking, and she heard Dr. Amhali telling Dr. Chaudhary that the creatures seemed to have been living in the kasbah for some time, and had vacated it only the day before yesterday.
Some nomads witnessed their departure, said Dr. Amhali.
Wait, Eliza said. There were some seen alive? How many?
We dont know. The witnesses were hysterical. Dozens, they said.
Dozens. Eliza wanted to see them. She wanted to see them living and breathing. Well, where did they go? Have you found them?
Dr. Amhalis voice was wry. They went that way, he said, pointing up . And no, we have not.
According to the witnesses, the demons had flown toward the Atlas Mountains, though no evidence had been found to back this up. If it werent for the proof of the story in the form of liquefying monster corpses, it would have been dismissed as ludicrous. As it was, helicopters continued to scour the mountains, and agents had gone by jeep and camel to track down any Berber tribes and herdsmen who might have seen anything.
Eliza stepped out of the tent with the doctors. They wont find them , she thought, looking at the mountains, the vision of snow-capped peaks so incongruous in the heat. There is another universe, and thats where theyve gone.
35
THRICE-FALLEN
Get. Off.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Jael, emperor
of the seraphim, gave a savage lurch and twist of his shoulders to dislodge the invisible creature riding on his back.
If Razgut had wanted to stay put, such a maneuver would never have knocked him loose. His grip was strong, and so was his will, andafter a long life of unimaginable tormentso was his pain tolerance. Make me, he might have snapped, and laughed his mad laugh while the emperor did his worst.
Usually he found it worth the pain to cause others misery, but, as it happened, Jaels foulness superseded even the pleasure of torturing him, and Razgut was happy to oblige. He let go of him and flailed to the marble floor with a thud and gasp, becoming visible at the moment of impact. He pushed himself upright, his atrophied legs splayed to one side. Youre welcome, he said, a parody of dignity.
You think I should thank you? Jael removed his helmet and thrust it at a guard. Only in privacy could the ruin of his face be revealed: the hideous scar that slashed from hairline to chin, obliterating his nose and leaving a lisping, slurping wreckage of a mouth. For what? he demanded, spittle flying.
A grimace teased Razguts own hideous facea bloated sack of purple, his skin stretched blister-tight. He replied peevishly and in Latin, which the emperor could of course not understand: For not snapping your neck while I had the chance. It would have been so very easy.
Enough of your human tongues, said Jael, imperious and impatient. What are you saying?
They were in an opulent suite of rooms in the Papal Palace adjacent to St. Peters Basilica, and had just come from a meeting of world leaders at which Jael had presented his demands. Had presented them, that is, by way of repeating every syllable Razgut whispered in his ear.