24.3

 

Roisin is pulled from the void back to her physical body like an infant plucked from the crib, nurtured for a moment and then replaced, suddenly bereft from the brief contact with its mother. She feels claustrophobic from the number of them

Only Steve’s eyes move, and his heart and lungs, she realises, since his chest still rises and falls with his breathing, but all his voluntary movement has ceased. Is this an effect of her ancient brother, she wonders or is it the result of some demonic magic that keeps his muscles frozen in place. Certainly, if it was a skill that could be learned she was up for learning it. Imagine how useful it would be if she could do that. Even in the limited world of fine art, shutting up men would be a blessing.

“Who the fuck is that?” Paul’s voice cracks from terror, even as backs away from the newcomer. “And where did he come from?”

Not all men, then. Just one at a time, as necessary.

Astaroth turns toward Paul, the smile of a gentleman who’s just won a guinea on a wager about who might soil themselves first, breaking the jagged nightmare of his face. Features rearrange themselves into the broad outline of humanity while the tusks, horns and extraneous eyes sink beneath the rapidly smoothing skin. He holds one claw up, watching in a distracted manner as it transforms into a human hand. “Be not afraid,” he says, as a sharp crack underscores his leg bones realigning. Paul winces but Astaroth shows no sign of pain from the adjustment. “I was invited to the party.”

His gaze moves from Paul back to Steve, and thence to the Nephilim, which Roisin can tell is wary of the newcomer, but not unduly concerned. Seeing the Nephilim able to relax reduces her panic, though poor Steve seems to be of the opposite inclination. “You called, old friend?”

Steve drops halfway to his knees as control of his muscles is returned to him, though he stumbles and falls to the floor, unable to use his arm to slow his descent. His face slams cheek-first onto the threadbare carpet and he emits a grunt of pain.

“Old friend?” Roisin turns to him as he gets one elbow under his chest to raise himself up. “You just happen to be friends with a captain of the Heavenly Host?”

“Duke of Hell now.” The demon winks at Roisin. “I understand you’ve been out of the loop for a few millennia. Young Christopher and I are old friends, aren’t we boy?”

“Christopher?” Robing nose wrinkles with distaste. “I thought your name was Steve.”

“It is.” Steve lightly touches his cheek and winces at the pain. “I changed it a long time ago.”

“What was it before?”

He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“It does when you know a demon named in the Bible personally.” Paul manages a half-sit, but doesn’t seem to trust his own muscles yet. The assistant places her hand on his arm. Probably for moral support, though Roisin distrusts her motive for doing anything.

Steve’s lips purse. “Before Steve? Richard. Anton before that. Vasily before that.”

Roisin speaks up. “But Astaroth called you Christopher.”

Steve nods. “That was a long time ago. Look, I promised I’d tell you the whole story, but is now really the time? Don’t we have more pressing matters to discuss?”

Astaroth sits on – on nothing, it seems, though Roisin suspects the somewhere among all the multiverse there’s one with a seat right there. “Somewhere you have to be?” he says. “Some personal business to attend to, perhaps?” He looks at Roisin and the room seems to pan and tilt like one of those tiny-world videos on YouTube. “You may have heard of him as Christopher Marlowe. He was a big man in Deptford, once.”

Roisin nods. “The playwright? That makes a lot of sense, I suppose.”

“Will someone spit and give me a clue?” Paul has managed to get to his feet, though he looks much the worse for wear, not least because of his soiled trousers. He is still holding his stone chisel, though he appears to have put his hammer down somewhere. “When I did literature in school we only covered the Irish writers.”

Roisin spoke without turning. “He wrote a play called ‘Faust.’”

“I’ve heard of that.” Paul steps forward. “The one about the guy who makes a pact with the devil?”

“Not the Devil,” Astaroth leans back in his invisible chair, his torso now at forty-five degrees to the floor. “Me.”