Free Hell's Pawn by Jay Bell Page A

you’re going to like it.”
    They were alone now, the most recent arrivals having dispersed to whatever their destination was. Not knowing what else to do, J ohn followed Dante through a large ornate hall. The exit was blocked by the standard passport control usually found in airports. E ven the guard on duty, who appeared human enough, seemed appropriately bored with his post.
    “What are we going to do now?” John asked.
    “S how them our I Ds, of course.” Dante pulled a passport from the air. He looked as surprised by its appearance as J ohn did. The passport was blood red and had the word
    “Hell” emblazoned on it beneath a stylized depiction of a devil’s head.
    “Where did you get that?”
    “I don’t know,” Dante admitted. “I was going for our papers from Purgatory.” John tried the same trick but came up empty-handed. “Now what?”
    “Let’s see what they say. If you aren’t allowed in, then they’ll show you the exit.” W ithout waiting for approval, Dante strode up to the guard on duty and presented his credentials. He was waved through the barrier, where he waited for John.
    “Passport,” the disinterested guard droned.
    “I don’t have one.”
    “He’s with me,” Dante offered.
    “Get lost,” the guard growled. “Next!”
    John looked behind him. There was no one else in line so he stayed where he was.
    R eluctantly, the guard turned his a ention back to him. “I said to get lost, so turn around and go back the way you came. Don’t make me sick the three-headed dogs on you.”
    “Forget him,” Dante called. “Who follows the rules in Hell anyway? Come on!” The guard bared his teeth and stood, readying himself for conflict, but then a look of surprise crossed his face. He placed a finger to one ear and listened, responding finally with a humble, “Yes, sir.” S i ing back on his stool, he thumbed toward the barrier, indicating that John could pass through.
    “W hat did I tell ya?” Dante smirked. “No problem. P repare yourself for some fun, Johnny-boy, because I was right. See for yourself!”
    O utside the station was a long stretch of concrete slashed across by rail tracks.
    B eyond this, an old E uropean city was squeezed in between rows of canals. The buildings, tall and narrow, were covered in ornate detail that had been worn down over the centuries. From behind the station, barely detectable over the typical city sounds and smells, was the scent of a harbor and the occasional call of a seagull.
    “Welcome to Amsterdam,” Dante said, throwing an arm around J ohn’s shoulders and leading him forward.
    “I thought we were in Hell.”
    “Call it what you like, but either way it’s paradise to me.” As they made their way around the stationed trams, J ohn read their destinations: L as Vegas, S odom/G omorrah, Shanghai, Bangkok. Despite his apprehension, J ohn couldn’t help but laugh. So Hell was one big bachelor party?
    Dante’s earthly visit to Amsterdam must have been fresh on his mind, because he made a bee-line for the old part of the city. Here the cobbled streets narrowed so much that the sky above was almost lost behind the tall, leaning buildings. All around were smoky coffee shops, windows full of blow-up dolls and pornography, and stores offering a plethora of mushrooms and herbs. The streets were stuffed full of people, not all of them entirely human, but J ohn couldn’t focus on them lest he lose Dante in the crowd.
    Dante led them to a coffee shop on the corner. The smoke was thick inside the dark interior, and most of the stools were filled with patrons not the least bit interested in coffee. David B owie was blaring over the speakers, singing something about sound and vision, as Dante pointed happily to the ceiling and grinned. J ohn realized he hadn’t heard any music in P urgatory. He couldn’t imagine going without it for as many years as Dante must have.
    They wound through the tables until they found a free spot in the back. Dante