Lucifer's Lottery

The combination of her beauty, intellect, and demeanor had made her the only person to tempt you not to become a priest.

“We both loved each other but . . . decided we loved God more,” you drone, remembering through a fog of heartbreak. “So we parted. I went to college to prepare for the seminary and she went to a convent . . .”

“Well, the lady’s convent days were short-lived. Convent day, I should rephrase.”

“She quit after only one day?”

“I’m afraid so, whereupon she immediately pursued avenues of life quite sexual. Whenever she was with another man, however, she always pretended he was you . . .”

First you gulp, but then frown. “You’re just saying that, Howard. To get me to accept!”

Howard’s pallid finger rises. “I’ll remind you, Mr. Hudson, that as the Trustee, I am not allowed to lie or to exaggerate. It must be your untainted free will that prompts your ultimate decision.”

You shake your gourd-head and sigh. “So . . . how did Marcie die?”

“I’m told she suffered a calamitous misadventure involving a steamroller, but that’s neither here nor there. What matters is that she’s here, now, in the flesh. She as well as the other Human Damned who mean the most to you.” Howard offers you a stern look. “And you’d be doing them all an immeasurable service by accepting the Senary, Mr. Hudson.”

“How’s that?”

“Because there’s no purpose in Lucifer keeping them here if you chose not to take up residence in the castle. Your friends and family would be redelegated back into Hell’s mainstream, where they wouldn’t fare well at all, I’m afraid.”

Your gaze at him shifts. “So it’s blackmail?”

“Lucifer has no qualms in revealing his motives. He wants something from you very badly, and he will go to great pains to urge you into giving it to him. By offering you the prize of all your dreams and all your fantasies, which you will be able to enjoy forever.”

“Sex, money, and luxury . . .”

“Yes, and let us not forget envy, for you will be envied, by everyone in Hell. The gift Lucifer wishes to bestow upon you—in exchange for the gift you will give to him—represents the distillation of what all Humans desire most.”

Now your eyes drift back to the sky. “I still don’t see what Lucifer gets out of the deal. Another soul? From what I can see, he’s got plenty of those.”

“Plenty, yes, but, lo, not yours. Not the Soul of one who willingly says no to God’s promise of Salvation. For someone so entirely on the plus side of the Fulcrum, to cast God aside in favor of Lucifer— that, Mr. Hudson, is the only satisfaction Lucifer can ever truly enjoy.”

Your vision reels again at the sight of the castle and its spectacular grounds, your friends and family, as well as the sheer carnal pleasures that await.

Carnal pleasure that you’ve never experienced . . .

Like a crack of mental lightning, you know.

You know what you are about to do . . .

CHAPTER NINE

(I)

Master Builder Curwen watched wide-eyed from his observation minaret. Thus far, the Sputum Storm appeared to be confined beyond the official limits of the Mephistopolis, its sickish green clouds leaving no doubt of its existence. From so far away, it looked like a mere phlegm-colored streak along the bottom of the scarlet horizon, but as Hell’s most dangerous type of storm, one could never rest assured. They’d been known to sit still and hang for extended periods, then suddenly move off with no warning at speeds of hundreds of miles per hour. Curwen wasn’t certain, but he believed the storm was sliding over the Outer Sectors, probably the Great Emptiness Quarter.

Pray Satan, let it stay there.

For such a storm to move here, over the Pol Pot District, there was no telling what damage might be inflicted upon the Demonculus.

Below on the field, the ancillary sacrifices continued, to keep the Electrocity Generators roaring and the Hell- Flux well charged. The boiled corpses of sacrifants were wheeled away in barrows by slug-skinned Ushers, only to be replaced by more. A wonderful sight, yes, but then Curwen gazed upward at the colossal form of the Demonculus.

Nothing can jeopardize my creation. Nothing.

Footsteps could be heard winding up the minaret’s spiral steps, and, next, a figure rose into the small open- windowed chamber: the project’s official Psychic Security Minister, a Kathari-grade Diviner.

“Master Builder Curwen,” the man-thing’s voice etched, and then it bowed. “It is my honor to be in your presence.”

Yet not mine to be in yours, Curwen thought. Curwen was Human, and therefore distrustful of all that was not, especially creatures like this, things that could supposedly see the future. Additionally, the Satanic Visionary was hideous to behold: it was bald, emaciated, and brazenly naked. The sucked-in skin and stringlike muscles were repulsive enough, but even more repulsive was the Clairvoyant’s skin tone, a bruising blue beneath which maroon arteries throbbed. Even more unsettling was the psychic being’s eye—not eyes, eye, for it possessed but only one, set hugely in the middle of its gaunt face. An eye the size of an apple. The Diviner’s bald head shined, tracked by various suture scars from multiple telethesic surgeries; its ears were holes, and its genitals . . .

. . . were best left undescribed.

“What tidings do you bring me, Seer?”

The Diviner’s voice keened like nails across slate. “Great Master Builder, I know that the distant Sputum Storm rests gravely on your mind, but it is with the joy of serving the Morning Star that I tell you to put your fears aside. I foresaw this very storm, and I have foreseen, too, that it shall not venture here.”

The aftereffects of hearing the Diviner’s awful voice left Curwen’s skin crawling, yet it was with relief that he sat down in his jeweled seat. “Praise the Dark Lord.”

“Yes.”

“But I pity those now in its midst. Is it the Great Emptiness Quarter?”

The visionary’s bald head nodded. Scarlet veins beat beneath the shining skin.

Curwen began, “I’ve heard—”

“So have we all—that something of grievous import is taking place there, but what it is, I’m not privy to, via my training and indoctrination.” Then the massive eye blinked once, clicking like the snap of a twig.

Curwen squinted out again, in the vicinity of the storm. What a ghastly thing to happen, even in Hell. A deluge of snot . . . But he must not worry over projects not his own.

Only the Demonculus and the success of its animation were his personal concern.

I must succeed.

Curwen’s gaze turned to his guest. “Diviner—”

The cadaverous figure smiled, showing black teeth. “Is there something you wish for me to divine, Master Builder?”

Of course, it could read his mind. But now that the very Human question had occurred to him . . . he was afraid to ask.

The Diviner’s voice screeched as the thing went slowly back down the spiral steps. “The answer to your question . . . is yes—”