Sweet Pandemonium

Chapter 3

Terry’s house was the lone spectator to one of Hell’s most awful and spectacular views: a wide valley framed by the smoking mountains, the flesh-coated meadows bustling with Nephilim. The cannibal giants shoveled their macabre harvest into fire pits, no doubt getting ready for a festival unlike any this Circle had ever seen. Hopefully, her business with Terry would be done long before that started. She walked in without knocking. Terry’s kitchen was spare and old; ugly green linoleum glistened under a gently swinging fan and the cheap wooden cabinets needed polishing. The colonel sitting at the round table in the center looked exactly opposite.


“Ire,” Hanan greeted without looking up from his newspaper. His British-red uniform glittered with black and gold medals, his caramel skin practically glowed, and his black hair was slicked sideways, Most in his organization went for the grizzled veteran look, but Hanan always dressed as though he were the grand marshall of a military parade. For some in Hell, that was the ultimate power play. He sipped from a dainty white cup, wetting his full mustache with latte foam. “Bloody weather we’re having, eh?”


“Ha,” she laughed sarcastically. “Where’s Terry?”


“He has a guest in the back that he’s entertaining.”


“Customer or prostitute?”


“Customer, I think. There should be some coffee left, if you would like some.”


“Is there a demon in this batch?”


“If I were possessed by the coffee, do you think I’d admit it?”


Ire shrugged. “Fuck it then.” She didn’t dare add steamed milk to hers, and poured a cup black. Terry’s coffee was gritty and vaguely metallic, but no demons as far as she could tell. She sat by Hanan and drummed her fingers against the cup. “Corpse storm was worse than usual,” she offered.


“The Daily Discord says they’ve grown unusually intense,” Hanan flipped the page. “Almost as powerful as the ones during the World Wars.”


“Weird. What are the newbs saying?”


“...‘Newbs?’”


“It’s something the internet trolls say. Just trying it out.”


“Please, never try it out again.” He flipped another page. “They say many things. There was an awful Hurricane that hit Ireland just the other day…”


“Third one this year,” Terry’s graveled voice announced as he suddenly emerged through his study door. “First time in human history that such a thing has happened.” The blind old man wore little else but his bathrobe, a thicket of white chest hair burst out from the front fold. He guided himself his counter and cabinets to the fridge, and vanished behind the door for a just a moment. He emerged with three IV bags full of blood. “Thank you for your patience, colonel. I’ll only be a little longer. Ire, this way please.”


Ire glanced over at his study. “Hanan said you were with a customer…?”


“Now, please.” Terry urged as he felt his way across the wall. “No need to stare colonel, I’m perfectly all right.” Hanan had been staring at him with worry, and Ire felt her own twinge of concern. Terry had witnessed a thousand strange and impossible things - both in life and in death - and was usually unflappable. But now his hands shook as he held the bags, and his brow glistened with sweat. When an oracle like Terry was shaken, it meant empires were going to crumble. She followed him in and closed the door, Hanan’s curious gaze following them until the last.


Terry’s study had two comfy chairs and a comfy couch, the single table sported a single amphora depicting Hercules as he battled Cerberus. Three walls were buried under shelves of books. The last wall was dominated by a wide window facing the valley. Someone with short black hair and a blouse had their back to them, motionless as a statue. The ruinous valley stretched beyond, the Nephilim were busy as ants as they built up their barbecues. Terry cleared his throat. “Maria, this is Ire.”


She turned, arms folded in front of her, and Ire saw her sleeves of tattoos and wide black eyes. Her shocked ‘o’ of a mouth quickly broke into a nervous smile and she crossed the room to shake Ire’s hand. “Hi,” she greeted. The old man went to a little bunsen burner sitting on an end table by the window, and he emptied his cold blood pouches into a bowl. Ire accepted Maria’s handshake with a tight smile, her concern for Terry fading fast.


“What’s going on, old man? I put on pants for this.”


“Gaia’s tits,” Terry laughed breathlessly, “I barely know where to begin… I asked you here so I can learn more myself.”


“Terry, you’re an oracle. Don’t tell me you don’t know why I’m here.”


“You’re here because Maria’s prophecy declared that I must read you your prophecy with her present.”


Ire gawked. “... Well that’s stupid and ass-backwards! Unless your prophecy is me drinking wine without pants by the Styx, I really don’t care. I’m retired, Terry. I’m staying that way for the next two thousand years if I can swing it.”


Maria attempted to speak. “Um…”


“Thanks for the coffee,”  Ire continued over her. “Do you need anything fixed or butchered while I’m here?”


“Ire, I have the answer to your question!” Terry exclaimed over her, his hands waving excitedly.


“Terry, for fuck’s sake…” Ire stopped as Terry’s words sank in. A distant volcano rumbled like thunder on the horizon.


“Uh…” Maria glanced between them, clearly feeling out of place and wishing for context.


Ire ignored her, and slowly stepped forward. “Which question, Terry?”


“‘Bring Ire here and read her prophecy. You will have the answer.’ That was this young woman’s own prophecy Ire, and for someone’s destiny to be so immediate, and to be so closely entwined with someone else’s…”


Ire raised a hand to slow him down, her eyes wide. “As in… you know how to get me out of here?”


Terry beamed like a fool. “Let me prophecy for you, and yes Ire, I will know how to get you out of Hell.”