As soon as I crossed the threshold, I had no doubt about where I was: screams of pleasure, desperate cries, coarse laughter — everything melded into a single soundtrack, an orgy of euphoria and damnation. The place recalled the casinos of '60s crime films, with red carpet swallowing every step and tables scattered like islands in an ocean of smoke. Demon croupiers with crooked smiles and rickety servants moved cards and chips, while scaly tails lit up at each triumph of the House.
The colossal slot machines flashed like electric metopes wedged between columns, occasionally opening into side corridors. Curious, I stepped down two stairs and entered a smaller hall. Barely ten meters wide, but as long as an aircraft hangar. Here they played Twenty-One: well-dressed men, tight faces beaded with sweat, constantly shifting from one seat to another.
Around the tables, like moths, beautiful succubi fluttered — wearing little more than their smiles. One of them locked her eyes on me and swooped down as if I were the only free client in the room.
"Hi there, handsome!"She had long hair and eyes that promised forbidden paradises. "Fancy a little round?"
I swallowed. "Thanks, I'm good."
She smiled, revealing a tiny gap between her teeth that made her dangerously irresistible. With a slow gesture she loosened a strand of her neckline, letting the fabric slip just a little. "You sure? You could have all this for a ridiculous price."
I straightened my tie to buy time. "Look, I don't have any money on me."
"Oh, sweetheart…" — her lips curved into a glowing heart — "…money isn't needed." She brought a finger to her chin, tilting her head. "I just need one. A tiny one. One you won't miss. Isn't that a bargain? A trivial little memory in exchange for an unforgettable night?"
Her gaze pierced me: two amber wells that begged and commanded at once. For a moment it almost seemed logical. What was one memory less, among so many? Her hands were already sliding well past my tie when I managed to stop them. I remembered Allu, and the cold blade of regret she'd left behind.
"Maybe l-later…" I stammered, clumsier than Roger Daltrey in My Generation. Where the hell was my inhaler when I needed it?
She sighed — a sigh that could melt the bones of a corpse. "All right, beautiful… If you change your mind, ask for Rusalka." She winked and drifted away with a sway of her hips, leaving my heart lodged in my throat and my legs soft.
I pressed on through the tables, turning down more invitations. Further ahead the room shed its skin: from Blackjack to Poker, with four-armed demons dealing cards and chips at inhuman speed. Guttural laughter boomed at each lost all-in. Beyond that, a third hall — one that needed neither cards nor dice. Its smell betrayed it. Dark canopies, tight curtains, and from behind them came sighs and strangled mewls: a market of flesh.
And yet, that wasn't what unsettled me. The building's shape felt familiar, but lights, sounds, and canopies muddled everything, keeping me from grasping the whole. Until, past the roulette hall, I saw it: beyond two colossal guards rose a transverse nave, long and majestic, at whose center an arch opened into a semicircular apse rich with glittering mosaics. I froze, jaw suspended.
There, in gold and lapis tiles, Christ handed the scroll of the Traditio Legis to Peter, Paul, and the Apostles. It was a gigantic Early Christian cathedral — a temple of faith profaned and bent to vice.
In the transept stood rows of banquet tables, where men devoured meat and shellfish, toasted with golden chalices, and paid chips to demon waiters. Jaws worked furiously, wine flowed like rivers. My stomach rolled when I recognized Winston Churchill, dead drunk, throwing a small fortune on black.
A voice snarled at me, abrasive."You! What are you staring at? You invited?"
It seemed the entrance guards had noticed my stunned expression. Two ebon mountains, well over two meters tall, with shoulders like ramparts and metal pauldrons engraved with patterns. Each held a gleaming guan dao, and their faces — tattooed with saffron-colored signs — were framed by thin lips from which curved fangs protruded, adorned with golden rings.
I took a deep breath. "I'm looking for Charon. He told me to come here."
"Show the invitation, wretch!" they growled in unison.
The only object I had was the tarot card. I drew it, hoping it was the right key. The guards' eyes, pulsing with golden light, fixed on the card. I nodded. They nodded back and swung open the gate separating the transept from the central nave.
"Go to the apse. He's waiting."
I didn't wait for a second order. I stepped through the gate, passing beside Churchill's table. The old bulldog was still stuffing himself, surrounded by plates and empty bottles.
"Mr. Churchill… what's a man like you doing here?"
He didn't even turn. "Bet more than you can afford to lose, and you'll learn the game." He downed a gulp of whiskey, burped shamelessly, and returned to his cards.
I decided not to push it.
"Dearest Mr…?"
"Cremaschi."
"…Cremaschi!"The voice thundered from the far end of the apse.
And there, upon his throne, Charon looked like the undisputed sovereign of vice. He held a mug of dark beer that dribbled into his bristly beard with every sip. His eyes — incandescent coals — drilled straight through me.
"To what do I owe this surprise? Have you come to play at my tables? Or to try my women? In either case, I guarantee you wouldn't be disappointed."
"You told me to seek you out when I needed something."
He scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Ah, right… that's true! Everything well at home?"
A knot tightened my throat. "I wouldn't know. I'm dead — I don't get news from home."
He burst out laughing as if I'd told a joke. "I meant your new home. Here. Getting settled?"
His tone was that of a shark describing circles around its prey. I tried to steer the conversation. "I like your casino."
"You like it?" He spread his arms proudly. "It took me a lifetime to build. Putting the pieces back together, adapting them, bending them to my will… you've no idea how hard it is."
I tried provoking him. "I thought buildings here appeared as they were at the moment of their demise."
Charon let out a cavernous laugh, slamming his mug against the throne's armrest. "Nothing is created or destroyed, my friend. What dies up there returns here. And I piece it together as I please."
"So you rebuilt this cathedral from the ruins?"
"Correct!"
"But what if the materials had been reused?"
He snorted, embers flaring from his nostrils. "Do not confuse spirit and body! I'm too old for metaphysics lessons for fledglings. So… to the point. I must escort a soul to see her children shortly."
I stopped. "You can really do that?"
A cruel smile split his face. "Of course. Am I not the ferryman?"
My heart hammered. "Could you take me too?"
His gaze flared. "Everything is possible, if you have the resources."
Clara. I could see Clara again. My breath failed me. "How long does the trip last?"
"Depends on the offering. The energy of the object you give me is the medium."
I didn't think twice. I pulled out my leather pouch, reached inside, and drew out Claudius' denarius — a coin I'd found as a boy, during my first archaeological dig. I can still hear my supervisor: 'Keep it as a souvenir — the first find of your first excavation.'
I laid it in Charon's palm. He weighed it, smiled, and rose slowly from his throne.
"Follow me."
He moved toward a side door, his footsteps echoing like drumbeats.