entrusted Curwen to this most unholy of endeavors. Indeed, Lucifer had told him outright in his impossible, shining voice, “My brother Curwanus, you are perhaps the only of the Human Damned I trust; hence, it is into your hands that I place this task, one of the greatest offenses against God ever devised. I have foreseen that you shan’t disappoint me.”
Indeed, I shan’t
, Curwen thought, still staring up at the beatific—and atrocious—thing. Soon, he knew, the lifeless horror that was the Demonculus’s very body would thrum with life . . .
MY life. To forever serve the Lord of Lies
. . .
In his lofty title of Master Builder, Curwen wore the brand of the Archlock on his forehead—the inverted cross blazing within the Sign of the Eye, proof of his Oath of Faith and completion of Metaphysical Conditioning—and a radiant warlock’s surplice of spun lead. This rarest of garments shined much like Lucifer’s voice, and proved still more of his Lord’s trust in him. And being one of status, Curwen knew that the Demonculus was but one of many such new projects serving Satan’s un-divine plan, projects of the most serious import. He’d heard rumors—which were rife in Hell—that something incalculable was brewingin the Great Emptiness Quarter. Though he hoped that all ungodly pursuits succeeded grandly, his pride made him hope that the Demonculus succeeded above all the others, for there was no true god but Lucifer, the Morning Star, once the Angel of Light but now the Prince of all Darkness.
The creature’s sheer height—that of a seventy-story building—forbade the use of scaffolds, which turned impractical past 300 or so feet. Instead, crew pallets buoyed in the air by noble gas balloons—Balloon Skiffs—sufficed, each overseen by a Conscript and Air Operator. From the skiffs, Imps and Trolls leaned out to manipulate the Demonculus’s flesh, with bare hands and styli administering the final touches to the thing’s pestilent outer skin. Many such artisans fell—indeed, some jumped of their own will—but were replaced by the next cycle.
The Master Builder watched fascinated as the highest such balloon hovered at the Demonculus’s face, a slab of horror with gashes for eyes and mouth.
Soon
, Curwen thought,
unholy life will shine behind those dead eyes, while MY heart beats in its infernal chest
. . .
Hundreds of feet below him, a clamor rose, as did Curwen’s joy. Ushers and Constabularies were unloading prison wagons full of the next round of sacrifants, most of whom appeared to be women and children.
(III)
After sundown within the next six days
, the words rolled around his head like dice. Hudson walked down the side road toward the glittering lights and hot-rod-and-motorcycle traffic of the main drag, his return trip from that evening’s church duties. The money hadn’t vanished yet, so by ten P.M . he had no choice but to believe that theentire incident with Deaconess Wilson was not the product of a dream.
That’s a lot of money
, he thought.
Walking along, he wondered briefly about the young guy he’d spoken with earlier—Gerold, in the wheelchair. Hudson had seen that look before during his volunteer duties in hospices and critical-care wards.
The look of death in someone still alive
. One could only do so much, he knew, but at least Hudson felt some relief in the nearly universal notion that true suicidals
never
raised the issue. He felt reasonably sure that Gerold would attend Sunday services and talk to Father Darren afterward.
He damn well better
.
He walked into the Qwik-Mart, a ubiquitous 7-Eleven clone that was stuck between a pizza place and a Thai restaurant. It was here that Hudson’s best friend from childhood worked night shifts—Randal—who’d now risen to manager. One could never see inside due to the literal wallpapering of the front glass with poster-size advertisements: mostly LatinoAmerica! phone cards and the state lottery. PLAY TO WIN! one poster assaulted
Indeed, I shan’t
, Curwen thought, still staring up at the beatific—and atrocious—thing. Soon, he knew, the lifeless horror that was the Demonculus’s very body would thrum with life . . .
MY life. To forever serve the Lord of Lies
. . .
In his lofty title of Master Builder, Curwen wore the brand of the Archlock on his forehead—the inverted cross blazing within the Sign of the Eye, proof of his Oath of Faith and completion of Metaphysical Conditioning—and a radiant warlock’s surplice of spun lead. This rarest of garments shined much like Lucifer’s voice, and proved still more of his Lord’s trust in him. And being one of status, Curwen knew that the Demonculus was but one of many such new projects serving Satan’s un-divine plan, projects of the most serious import. He’d heard rumors—which were rife in Hell—that something incalculable was brewingin the Great Emptiness Quarter. Though he hoped that all ungodly pursuits succeeded grandly, his pride made him hope that the Demonculus succeeded above all the others, for there was no true god but Lucifer, the Morning Star, once the Angel of Light but now the Prince of all Darkness.
The creature’s sheer height—that of a seventy-story building—forbade the use of scaffolds, which turned impractical past 300 or so feet. Instead, crew pallets buoyed in the air by noble gas balloons—Balloon Skiffs—sufficed, each overseen by a Conscript and Air Operator. From the skiffs, Imps and Trolls leaned out to manipulate the Demonculus’s flesh, with bare hands and styli administering the final touches to the thing’s pestilent outer skin. Many such artisans fell—indeed, some jumped of their own will—but were replaced by the next cycle.
The Master Builder watched fascinated as the highest such balloon hovered at the Demonculus’s face, a slab of horror with gashes for eyes and mouth.
Soon
, Curwen thought,
unholy life will shine behind those dead eyes, while MY heart beats in its infernal chest
. . .
Hundreds of feet below him, a clamor rose, as did Curwen’s joy. Ushers and Constabularies were unloading prison wagons full of the next round of sacrifants, most of whom appeared to be women and children.
(III)
After sundown within the next six days
, the words rolled around his head like dice. Hudson walked down the side road toward the glittering lights and hot-rod-and-motorcycle traffic of the main drag, his return trip from that evening’s church duties. The money hadn’t vanished yet, so by ten P.M . he had no choice but to believe that theentire incident with Deaconess Wilson was not the product of a dream.
That’s a lot of money
, he thought.
Walking along, he wondered briefly about the young guy he’d spoken with earlier—Gerold, in the wheelchair. Hudson had seen that look before during his volunteer duties in hospices and critical-care wards.
The look of death in someone still alive
. One could only do so much, he knew, but at least Hudson felt some relief in the nearly universal notion that true suicidals
never
raised the issue. He felt reasonably sure that Gerold would attend Sunday services and talk to Father Darren afterward.
He damn well better
.
He walked into the Qwik-Mart, a ubiquitous 7-Eleven clone that was stuck between a pizza place and a Thai restaurant. It was here that Hudson’s best friend from childhood worked night shifts—Randal—who’d now risen to manager. One could never see inside due to the literal wallpapering of the front glass with poster-size advertisements: mostly LatinoAmerica! phone cards and the state lottery. PLAY TO WIN! one poster assaulted
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