Hell on Earth - Hardcover

Reaves, Michael

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0345423356 ISBN 13: 9780345423351

Publisher: Del Rey, 2001

Synopsis

A MAN. A DEMON. AN ANGEL.
WILL THEY SAVE THE WORLD . . .
OR DESTROY IT?

In a Greenwich Village townhouse, a mysterious man named Colin, an orphan raised by sorcerers skilled in dark magic, awakens to find the talisman known as the Trine missing from its place of safekeeping--and an angel named Zoel impatiently ringing his doorbell.

In the death chamber of the Oregon Federal Penitentiary, Liz Russell, author of a bestseller on the serial killer called the Maneater, watches her subject receive the lethal injection that will end his life. But the Maneater has sworn that she will be his next victim--even if he has to claw his way up from Hell.

And in an Alabama backwoods clinic, a young girl gives birth to something monstrous and unholy, something that thirsts not for mother's milk, but for the blood of all that lives . . .

Now it's up to Colin, with the assistance of Zoel and the demon Asdeon-- aiding Colin for his own sinister purposes--to recover the Trine before its awesome power can be used to spark Armageddon. It's a struggle that Liz will find herself part of as well, whether she likes it or not. The only trouble is, without the Trine, Colin's magic is no match for that of his enigmatic adversary. And Zoel can be trusted no more than Asdeon to avert an apocalypse that may be as much God's plan as the Devil's desire.

About this title

From the Inside Flap

A MAN. A DEMON. AN ANGEL.<br>WILL THEY SAVE THE WORLD . . .<br>OR DESTROY IT?<br><br>In a Greenwich Village townhouse, a mysterious man named Colin, an orphan raised by sorcerers skilled in dark magic, awakens to find the talisman known as the Trine missing from its place of safekeeping--and an angel named Zoel impatiently ringing his doorbell.<br><br>In the death chamber of the Oregon Federal Penitentiary, Liz Russell, author of a bestseller on the serial killer called the Maneater, watches her subject receive the lethal injection that will end his life. But the Maneater has sworn that she will be his next victim--even if he has to claw his way up from Hell.<br><br>And in an Alabama backwoods clinic, a young girl gives birth to something monstrous and unholy, something that thirsts not for mother's milk, but for the blood of all that lives . . .<br><br>Now it's up to Colin, with the assistance of Zoel and the demon Asdeon-- aiding Colin for his own sinister purposes--to recover the Trine before its awesome power can be used to spark Armageddon. It's a struggle that Liz will find herself part of as well, whether she likes it or not. The only trouble is, without the Trine, Colin's magic is no match for that of his enigmatic adversary. And Zoel can be trusted no more than Asdeon to avert an apocalypse that may be as much God's plan as the Devil's desire.

Reviews

It's Alive and The Silence of the Lambs meets The Stand in this ambitious but ultimately unsuccessful blend of quest novel and splatterpunk epic. The book begins with a bang, as it were: a 15-year-old gives birth to a horrendous winged monstrosity that rips its way out of the mother's womb, then proceeds to exsanguinate everyone present. Unfortunately, this is typical of what's to come: the atrocities pile up and up until they topple over into absurdity. Colin, an orphan raised by sorcerers; Zoel, an angel; and Asdeon, a demon with a sarcastic sense of humor and an unsettling tendency to transform into tough-guy icons like Humphrey Bogart, team up on a quest to recover the Trine, three talismans that impart galvanic power, missing from its place of safekeeping. Along the way they encounter a psychic young woman stalked by a serial killer who survives not only death but dissection, as well as a Gulf War vet turned professional bodyguard whose former client was Cuisinarted to death. The plot strands all converge in Las Vegas where else? where the Devil is planning to end the world. The denouement is predictably apocalyptic. This uneven m‚lange of serial killer thrills and ornate Gothic narrative may appeal to some hard-core horror fans, but for most readers it's an unsavory mix. Even more disconcerting that Reaves (Darth Maul: Shadow Hunter) excoriates mindless slasher films in some irrelevant asides when he himself is serving up the literary equivalent of those cinematic abattoirs. (May 1)Forecast: Darth Maul: Shadow Hunter has been on PW's hardcover bestseller list for three weeks as of this writing. That's much more because it's a Star Wars title than because it's a Reaves title, of course, but some readers will remember Reaves's name and give Hell on Earth a strong initial push.

Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc.

A magician named Colin, who trained in the dark arts in his mysterious youth, has custody of three talismans, which are stolen. A dazzling angel, Zoel, appears at his door, and soon after a personable, "good" demon joins them for a chase across Transylvania to recover the talismans. Why? The forces of hell are about to be loosed for a struggle preceding Armageddon, and the talismans are humankind's only defense. Several demons make violent appearances, prompting reporter Liz Russell--who, in the novel's best scene, has been buried alive--to heed a premonition that she should travel to Las Vegas. Joining her are Terry Dane, a former army ranger and bodyguard who has stumbled onto demon doings, and Colin, whose recovery of two talismans points him toward the location of the third. Reaves is heavily indebted to Dean Koontz and Thomas Harris for concepts and development, but he moves things right along and manages to keep at least some of his cards to his chest. John Mort
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

The birth of a demonic monster in a small Alabama town signals the beginning of a nightmare of terror that has its source in the eternal war between good and evil. In order to prevent the triumph of Hell, a young man versed in the ways of magic must join forces with agents of Heaven and Hell to recover a magical talisman that holds the forces of darkness at bay. Set in the same universe as Street Magic and Voodoo Child, this belongs in most libraries' horror or dark fantasy collections.
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

He awoke from a dream of blood and snow.   Colin knew there was an intruder in the house before he opened his eyes. The taste of the other's anger and hatred was a bitter gall in the back of his throat, a flicker of heat lightning behind his closed lids. The commingling of senses was strong, as well—when he opened his eyes, violet and purple trapezoids skittered and danced at the edges of his vision, and the silence stank like hot metal.

A tresspasser—here, in his sanctum? It was inconceivable—but he knew it was true. His intuition had been right too many times before for him to doubt it now.

He slid quietly out from under the down comforter on the huge four-poster bed, wincing as his feet touched the cold floor. The bedroom was on the third floor of the brownstone, and he usually left the window at least partly open. Though it was well into May, the night air was still cold enough for him to see his breath. Colin had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering as he slipped on a pair of once-black jeans, now faded to a dull charcoal. The leather patch on the waistband listed them as thirty-twos, with an inseam of thirty-four. With only ten percent body fat, he felt the cold more intensely than anyone he knew. But the night temperature wasn't the only reason he was shivering now.

He was afraid.

The digital clock on the night table gave the time in glowering red numerals: 3:28. Even Greenwich Village was reasonably quiet this late at night. The only sounds coming through the open window were occasional car engines and the yowls of cats in heat.

For one brief moment he thought of picking up the bedroom phone and dialing 911. He almost smiled at the absurdity of the concept. He didn't know who had invaded his home, but he knew without question that the police would not be able to handle the situation. To call for help would simply be summoning them to their deaths.

For better or worse, he was the only one qualified to deal with this situation.

Colin moved past the massive carved armoire and stopped with his hand on the doorknob, wondering if he should take a weapon. He decided against it. He could already tell that the intruder was not the sort that would be affected by guns, or knives, or anything like that. He would be better served using his wits—and, if necessary, the Shadowdance.

And even that might not be enough . . .

Whatever it was that had entered his sanctum, it was powerful—otherwise it would not have been able to slip past the wards that surrounded the building. And if it was strong enough to get in without setting off the "alarms" he had put in place, then it was strong enough to cause him big trouble. Colin gripped the doorknob, feeling it grow warm and damp. Could this be an agent of Morningstar, come to collect the devil's due at last? He swallowed, feeling his heart beating faster, feeling the rush of adrenaline through his body. He took several deep breaths, seeking to calm the ancient "fight-or-flight" reaction. Though he had faced adversaries in the past that would reduce most people to whimpering insanity, there were still threats that could frighten him. Oh, yes. His knowledge of the Shadowdance would give him an edge, but that was all. It was no guarantee of success.

He thought of stepping into the Shadows, just far enough to magnify his awareness, to quickly search the house mentally rather than physically. He decided against it. Such a move would leave him vulnerable, open to psychic attack, if the invader was still here. It would be safer—though not by much—to investigate in the flesh.

Colin centered himself, felt his pulse return to normal, knew that he was as ready as he could be to deal with whatever the threat was. Then he opened the door.

He stepped out into the narrow, high-ceilinged hallway. There were four bedrooms and a storage closet on this floor. He had taken the biggest of the bedrooms for himself when he had moved in; the other rooms had barely been opened in the five years since then. None of the bedroom doors were locked; nevertheless, Colin knew the intruder was not in one of them.

The swirled patterns of the carpet would be nearly invisible to people whose senses and reactions had not been honed as his had, since the only illumination coming in was moonlight from the gabled skylight above. He could see quite well, however, well enough to make out the green, gold, and blue colors of the patterns. They soothed him, offered some respite from the angry vivid hues that still floated in geometric shapes at the boundaries of sight. The shapes were more complicated now; fractal, mutating forms, their colors electric, flowing, like a hard-edged painting come to life.

Not a good sign.

He gripped the knurled cherrywood of the banister and started down the stairs. They were narrow and steep. He moved slowly but with sure feet, reaching the second floor landing without a sound.

The second floor was all business: his office, library, and laboratory. Also at the end of this hallway was the Door, an ornate slab of wood that rested heavily in its frame, locked and protected to the best of his knowledge and abilities. Colin was pretty sure the intruder wouldn't be opening it—at least, not without serious repercussions.

He checked the library first, easing into the dark chamber. He sensed the residue of an alien presence, but it only took a moment spent in the huge room full of modern and ancient tomes—some of the latter bound in copper, some iron-hasped, a few covered in tanned human skin—to feel certain that he was the only one there now.

The library was two stories high; he'd had the floor removed in one of the bedrooms above to make room for the collection of books he'd amassed. The dark wood shelves rose twenty feet on all sides. Rolling ladders and a spiral staircase that led to a narrow mezzanine gave easy access to all of the nearly fifteen thousand volumes. Some of them had been bought in this country, though the majority came from Europe and Asia. There were times when he felt he had been a little excessive in his acquisitions, but they weren't just necessary tools for research—he also loved books. He liked nothing better than to sit in one of the room's deep-backed leather chairs and read while rain coated the windows and drummed on the gabled roof.

He glanced about the library one more time; then, satisfied that it was secure, left the room, locking the door behind him with a whispered word.

The next open door was his office. He merely glanced inside it. The room was small, almost more of a walk-in closet. There was barely room for the two filing cabinets and the rolltop desk with his open laptop on it. He moved cautiously on down the hall.

It was in the last room on the second floor—his laboratory—that the smell hit him. He almost recoiled, as if from a physical blow. He recognized it immediately. This was not a case of scrambled sensory input—his synaesthesia had calmed down by now, reduced mainly to intricate visuals that vanished if he tried to look directly at them. Besides, he could usually tell the difference between a genuine olfactory experience and one crossed over from another sense. This smell was strong, but Colin knew it well. It was the kind of smell that, once experienced, is burned into the brain for a lifetime.

It was the scent of brimstone.

Not the rotten-egg stink of sulfur that most people associated with the word. This was a stench few people had experienced and lived to tell of. It reminded one at times of roasting human flesh and burning hair, and the throat-closing sharpness of hot tar, yet it was really like none of these. It brought to mind the gagging fetor of flyblown corpses, of long-unburied remains, as well. It was a foulness so corrupt that nothing wholly of this world could produce it.

He still didn't know who the intruder was, but now he knew what it was.

One of the Fallen had been here, only a few minutes ago. Colin felt anger vying with his fear. How dared this creature be so bold? He promised himself that, no matter who was responsible, this invasion would not go unpunished.

As if to corroborate what he had suspected from the start, he saw the final proof: there, burned into the dark wood of the lab's worktable next to the convoluted glass piping, retorts, and titration stands that formed a distillation apparatus, was the print of a splayed hand. Colin stared at it for some time. The palm area was at least six inches wide, the length of the two longest fingers easily that, as well. The fingers ended, he knew, in talons of dark horn that had gouged—no, burned—inch-deep holes in the dark mahogany.

It was a warning, that much was obvious. But a warning against what? Things had been relatively quiet lately—which was just fine with him. Perhaps it was an admonition for him to lay low, to back away from whatever part he might have to play in some drama as yet unfolded.

He had to know who it had been. One of the Dukes? A lesser manifestation? There was only one way to find out.

Colin tentatively touched the scorched, indented area with one slim finger. And recoiled as the nauseating taste of corruption exploded up the length of his arm, ending in silent flak bursts of night within his skull. It seemed that he could hear dark laughter from somewhere far away . . .

The room faded momentarily around him, to be replaced by a dark vision of an underground chamber. A grim-faced man in his sixties, wearing gray nondescript robes, stood beside an open sarcophagus. He reached into its open confines, scooped a handful of dust out, and flung it toward Colin . . .

Colin shook his head violently, as if to dislodge the memory—as though anything could. He was back in the laboratory again, although his nostrils flared with the need to sneeze, and the taste of that ancient dust was worse than the flavor of brimstone.

He glanced quickly a...

Edition details

• Publisher: Del Rey
• Publication date: 2001
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0345423356
• ISBN 13: 9780345423351
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 288