“I don’t think we’ll find Heaven in here, up or down.”
By the tenth floor we’re sweating like pigs. By the eleventh we’re sweating like filthy pigs. It’s a relief to hit the last staircase until it stops halfway up. There’s at least a fifteen-foot gap between where we are and the top of the stairs.
Lights come on overhead. Flashlights shine down into our eyes with more lights blinking on in the hotel level above.
“Stay where you are.”
It’s a raspy male voice. A whiskey voice or just someone who took a hit to the throat hard enough that it never healed right. There are six other guys behind him. All are armed with homemade blades, morning stars, and slings.
“Who are you?”
Paul takes half a step forward, right to the gap.
“We’re friends. We’d like to speak to Hattie.”
“Would you? Why would Mama Hattie want to speak to you?”
“We have offerings.”
“What kind?”
“Special. But they’re only for Hattie.”
The guy turns and chats away with a couple of other members of the welcoming committee. They’re wearing a ragged assortment of designer robes and furs. From what Delon said, I’d guess a mix of family heirlooms and things they looted from the stores below.
Candy whispers, “Who’s Hattie?”
“The family matriarch,” says Delon.
The group above breaks up. The rasper comes back to the front.
“Go away. We don’t need your offerings. We get what we need just fine.”
“Not this you don’t.”
“What is it?”
“Nehebkau’s Tears.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Shut up, you ignorant boy.”
It’s a woman’s voice, coming from behind the group. An old woman pushes her way to the front.
The whole Mangarm crew is gaunt but the woman looks like a mummy with a hangover. But she’s alive. I can hear her heart and smell her sweat, which isn’t all that pleasant.>Delon stops walking for a second. He has to take a couple of big steps to catch up.
“You’re not a vampire, are you?”
Delon has to sidestep a gaggle of drunk bachelorettes pouring out of a limo, dragging a bewildered-looking soon-to-be bride into what’s probably the third club of the night.
“Tykho said you were hard to figure out. Like whether you’re just making things up to keep a mysterious image. Did you really go to Hell?”
“Many times.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s dark, full of monsters, and it smells bad. The upside is that people don’t ask too many questions.”