Startled, Zane recalled how his hand had slapped bare flesh, though the man had seemed to be fully clothed. The notion of souls wearing illusory clothing was odd, but in the context of Hell, it made grim sense. "Yes — "
Molly let her skirt slide away to expose more of her thighs, then opened her blouse another notch. Zane understood why Sean had thought she would be a grandmother at age sixteen; she had died at that age, but had a body that suggested prompt male action. Maidens bloomed early and well in Ireland! "So now you know, too. Death. The Father of Lies is lying to you. He's not reforming souls at all. He's keeping them forever in vile bondage. He'll never let them go. And you can't trust his word on anything."
The implication was stunning. If Satan had lied about the nature of his proceedings in Hell itself, in what other context would he ever tell the truth? If he was not truly reforming souls, what was it that Luna, later in life, would stop him from doing? If Hell was no reformatory and Satan was in fact building an empire, then of course his reason for eliminating Luna was suspect. Under no circumstances should Death cooperate with the Prince of Evil!
"Thanks, Molly," he said. "You have served your office well. I shall remember."
"Get out of here immediately," she said. "Get to Mortis, who can better protect you. I know how Satan operates; his minions are at this moment moving to take over this mansion, to make quite sure you go his way."
"Agreed." Zane stood up, and she slid to her own feet, becoming weightless again. He strode toward the door.
A huge man in a chef's hat met him at the portal. "Your repast is ready, sir."
This was not his regular cook. "I will return for it in due course," Zane said, attempting to squeeze by him. The chef put a massive and calloused hand on Zane's shoulder. "But it is ready now, sir."
Molly remained insubstantial here in Purgatory, except when she concentrated, but this man was as solid as a side of beef. Zane squirmed out from beneath the punishing grip. "Not now, thanks."
"I am sure you will reconsider, sir," the brute chef said, his hand dropping to Zane's forearm.
Angry and somewhat alarmed, Zane turned his gaze directly on the man's face. He knew the other saw the death's head, for he remained in uniform. "Whom do you think you are touching?" he demanded grimly.
The big man blanched, as most people did when confronted by the Death mask, but stood his ground. "I am already dead. There is no harm you can do me."
Then why had he blanched? Zane lifted his right hand. The gems on his wrist glowed. His fingers caught the man under the chin and lifted him up. The man lifted readily, becoming cellophane — thin; he was, in fact, a soul. Zane folded the soul in half, and then in quarters, and finally wadded it into a ball and hurled it downward through the floor toward Hell.
Then he paused, surprised. He hadn't known Death could do that! But it was obvious, in retrospect, since Death routed souls to their spots in Eternity. When he took deliberate hold of a soul, it moved as he willed it to.
"That was pretty," Molly murmured. Zane had forgotten her presence. "Maybe you had better get out of here, too," he suggested. "Satan's minions could probably manhandle you."
"It's very hard to hold a ghost against her will," she said, and faded from view.
"Thanks again for your help," he called. "You have opened my eyes!"
"You're welcome. Death," her breeze-faint whisper came. Then he was alone.
He strode through the doorway — and encountered a truly regal and lovely woman, garbed in elaborately archaic paraphernalia. "I am Helen of Troy," she announced.
Zane was, of course, familiar with the historical, virtually legendary accounts of this famous woman's activities. Hers was the face that had launched a thousand spells and precipitated a savage ancient war between the city-state of Troy and the massed forces of Greece. Naturally Helen now served Satan more directly.
"Now you do call-girl duty for the Father of Lies," Zane snapped, brushing by her.
"Please!" she cried, clutching at his arm. "You do not know what it is like to be three millennia past your prime! You can not guess what the Lord of Flies does to women who fail him!"
Against his better judgment, Zane was moved by her plea. She might be three thousand years dead, but she was one lovely creature. "I wish you no harm, Helen. But I am trying to keep a good, living woman out of Satan's grasp. Would you seek to betray that woman?"
Helen looked at him. Tears formed in her beautiful eyes and streaked down her classic cheeks. Slowly her face collapsed in on itself, and her body became a shapeless mass. She dissolved into vapor, and her soul sank through the floor on the way to what she dreaded.
She had understood. Helen of Troy had been a good woman in essence, refusing to betray another of her kind. Saddened, Zane moved on outside. Mortis was waiting for him, saddlelight blinking urgently.
Zane mounted and set the translation jewel in his ear. "What is it, gallant steed?"
"Satan has loosed Hellhounds."
"That sounds bad. What's a Hellhound?"
"A demon in animal-form. You cannot fold its soul, for it is not human."
Zane digested that. It seemed Satan was playing with a harder ball now. "What can I do?"
"It is not my place to say. Master. I can protect you if we encounter them singly."
"Do Hellhounds hunt singly?"
"Not necessarily."
Zane felt a chill. "How much time do I have?"
"It takes time to run all the way from Hell's Houndpound to Purgatory, even for supernatural creatures. You may have fifteen minutes before they arrive."
"Good. I have an errand to attend to. Take me to the Records Department."
Mortis galloped for the big Purgatory building across the plain. "Do not be long about your business," the horse warned. "I cannot be with you inside."
"I'll rejoin you before the Hounds arrive." Zane dismounted, entered the building, went immediately to the computer terminal, and turned it on.
A GREETING, DEATH,' the screen flashed. THE INFORMATION YOU SEEK IS NOT IN MY STORAGE BANKS.
"I'll bet it isn't," Zane muttered.
NO ORDINARY CREATURE CAN STOP A HELLHOUND.
News traveled fast! "That isn't my question." The computer flickered its screen, seeming startled.
SURELY YOU ARE CONCERNED.
"How many souls have been released from Hell?"
MEANINGLESS QUERY. PLEASE REPHRASE.
"Oh, no, it isn't meaningless, machine! According to the Prince of Evil, he only processes souls to expiate their burden of evil, then releases them to Heaven. How many souls has he released to date? A round figure will suffice."
There was a pause. NO INFORMATION, the screen showed at last.
"What do you mean, no information? You've got the records of Eternity!"
I MEAN THERE HAVE BEEN NO ENTRIES OF THE TYPE YOU DESCRIBE.
Zane gasped. "No souls have been released from Hellin all Eternity?"
CORRECT.
"What a colossal liar Satan is!" Zane cried. "I was sure he exaggerated, but there should have been at least a modicum of substance to his claim!"
THE CLAIM WAS NOT FALSE. ETERNITY HAS NOT ENDED.
Zane considered. "You mean that, theoretically, Lucifer will release souls at some future date?"
CORRECT.
"Some loophole! It's a blank check! Eternity, by definition, never ends."
The screen was blank. Zane turned off the terminal. He had learned what he came for. He had guessed that Satan might be underreporting the cured souls, saving out a certain percentage beyond their appointed tenures in Hell, but the reality was grossly worse. Certainly Death was not going to do things Satan's way!