by Sawyer Black
“Somebody else killed these kids and set you on fire?”
“No,” Hobo Bob said, rolling his eyes. “He killed them after they set me on fire. Came outta nowhere and blew the flames out. Killed the little arsonist fuckers and took off when the cops showed up.”
“You ever see him before.”
“Hell, evrybody has. It was the Hooded Angel. Though, given the horns, I’m thinkin’ Hooded Devil might be more like it.”
Stone stepped back, shaking his head and waving for them to set the drunk inside.
“May God have mercy on your souls,” Hobo Bob shouted through the closing doors.
The ambulance pulled away, and Stone turned to look at the crowd. He froze when his eyes landed on Henry.
Henry looked around and noticed the circle of empty space around him. Eyes on him with disgust. Fear. He looked down at the drying blood covering most of clothes. His heart skipped a beat. Fuck.
“Hey!” Stone reached to his lower back and dropped into a shooter’s stance as his pistol came around to find his other hand. Pointed right at Henry’s chest.
The crowd scattered in a screaming panic. Henry threw himself to the side and weaved through the stampede. Stone’s voice behind him was joined by the shouted commands of the BCPD. But Henry was gone.
Shadows at the edge of the crowd swallowed him. So he fled into the night, cursing his stupidity.
Chapter Eleven
After the alley murders, Henry kept the ring on his right hand. It fixed the city’s dull throbbing at the edge of his hearing like distant bass booming from a concert and turned gnawing hunger into a nagging heartburn that was easy enough to drown with a bottle.
He had taken up part-time residency at a seedy bar five blocks from Boothe’s apartment. Like a snowbird sick of Montana winters, he vacationed at Pub Brothers Bar & Grill. Whiskey and all you can eat chili cheese fries.
He walked through the dark streets, belly sloshing, waiting for a phone call. Or for Mandyel to pop out of a burning bush.
He started watching TV in the mornings. The news was too depressing, so he switched to Telemundo and tried to laugh at the weird ass Spanish variety shows until it was time to go drink. Lonely walks full of alternating boredom and blame.
One morning, after some microwave popcorn for breakfast, he called for an Uber on Mandyel’s phone, surprised to find it working. He had sat in the back, avoiding conversation while the rain made trails down the window until the Burg Spires Church of Hope finally crested the horizon.
He ran through the shower to the front door and threw his hood back, stomping water from his shoes. He avoided the eyes of Christ in the window and approached the voice coming from the nave. Pastor Owen held an open bible in front of him, pacing in the chancel, speaking softly to a group of men huddled in the front pews.
Men’s Bible Study. Must be Tuesday.
Henry couldn’t remember the last time he had known what day it was, his week a blur of drunken self-loathing and Caso Cerrado.
The pastor snapped his bible closed and stood bathed in light from the stained glass windows in the south wall. He smiled and swept his arm to the side. A man stepped from each corner with an offering plate. They leaned into the murmur of shifting congregants, passing the plate into their midst.
Someone cleared his throat to Henry’s left. He flinched away, spinning his back to the wall. A huge man stuffed into a black basketball jersey stood with an offering plate held in front of him. A bull neck rising to a shaved head with a tribal tattoo crowning his stubble from temple to temple. Eyes hidden behind black shades, he stepped forward like a man who owned the world. Gritty scabs covered his knuckles, the skin along his fingers cracked and angry.
Henry tipped his head toward the man’s hand. “You know they got cream for that kind of thing.”
The heavy leaned in and put the offering plate right up under Henry’s nose with a grunt. He stared at his reflection in the sunglasses and dug for the cash. He pulled a wad from his pocket and peeled off the top bill without looking. He raised it above the plate.
Boothe had money stacked in drawers all over the apartment. In his absence, Henry felt duty bound to spend the shit out of it. He dropped the hundred into the plate then stuffed the wad back into his pocket. He raised his chin and stepped forward until the plate’s edge was pressed to his throat. “Don’t steal it.”
The man snorted laughter, turning with a sneer. He rolled away without a care in the world. Henry watched him waddle away with anger quivering in his chest.
Fat fucker.
Shuffling feet, and he stepped aside as a line of men filed into the rain. Some older men zipping their bibles into their jackets. A few younger men. And a couple of hard hitters that rang alarms in Henry’s brain. The kind of guys that would set a hobo on fire. Or kill a comedian. Or at least steal a hundred dollars from the collection plate.
As the last man exited, Henry turned back to see Pastor Owen coming up the center aisle, his face open with questioning welcome. “I’m sorry you missed it. There’ll be another session next week, Mr …?”
“May I please speak with you in private.”
Concerned, the pastor nodded. “Certainly. Please, this way.” He led Henry to the side, then along the wall under the windows to a door in the front corner. He opened the door and waved Henry inside.
The office hadn’t changed since the last time he’d been there. The pastor walked around him to his desk, pointing to one of the oak chairs on his way. “Please, have a seat.”
Henry declined, instead changing the ring from his right hand to his left. Pastor Owen slid his own chair out and looked up as he sat. His mouth fell open in shock, and his knees folded, dropping him into his chair all at once. His teeth clicked together, and he jumped back up, hustling around the corner of his desk. Henry shied away as if the pastor might attack him, but Pastor Owen grabbed his hand, pumping it up and down as a grin split his face.
“My goodness, Henry. I wondered where you’d gone off to.” The pastor placed a hand on his shoulder. “I was worried about you.”
Henry collapsed against him, overcome with guilt and grief. The pastor led him to the chair, and Henry spilled his guts between hitching sobs, wiping his nose on his sleeve like a snotty child.
There was a knock on the door during Henry’s confession. He fumbled the ring onto his right hand before the door opened, then wiped the tears on his cuffs, composing himself while the pastor tended to business. He returned and asked Henry to continue.
This time Henry left the ring on, just in case.
He stopped short of telling the pastor about Mandyel and the auction. It would have led to the murders, and it was bad enough without the pastor hearing that shit.
Pastor Owen lifted a cup of coffee to his lips, looking at Henry over the rim. Before taking a sip, he said, “So this Boothe, he sold you out?”
“Yes.”
“But he was able to save his love?”
“I guess.”
“What would a man do to save the ones he loves, Henry?”
“What, you’re taking his side?”
The pastor set his coffee down and shrugged. “I’m not taking sides at all. I’m just asking a question.”
“Look, that guy is a piece of shit.”
“Henry!” The pastor’s voice cut through his anger and made him look up.
He shook his head in confusion, his train of thought interrupted by the pastor’s stern tone. “What?”
“What have you done for the ones you love?”
The face of the dying kid in the alley. The screams of his victims filling his ears. Shame heated Henry’s face. He looked down. “Yeah, I guess.”
“For people will be lovers of self rather than lovers of God.”
“Don’t give me that bible stuff, okay?”
“The word of God is all I have above my faith. If not for that, why did you come here, Henry?”
For some fucking understanding.
“I
really wanted to know if you heard anything more about the cult that targeted me.” Then, wanting to feel the hate as he said it. “Order From Chaos?”
Pastor Owen sighed.
Henry looked up into his sad eyes, but he refused to let the pastor make it his fault. It was the cult’s. And Boothe’s. Even Randall’s, and Henry wouldn’t be surprised if Mandyel had something to do with it all, too.
Pastor Owen nodded and lifted his cup for another sip. “Yes, I’ve been following some recent events. Some scary stuff from the inmates I visit. Before meeting you, I would not have believed it, but there is a spiritual war happening. And not the kind that I wage in front of a congregation. Other cults surfacing. Terrifying acts.” He swallowed and looked away, setting his cup down, splashing coffee over the rim to spill onto his fingers. “I am dismayed at the number of people who are turning away from God in such dark times.”
“What about Samantha? Has she turned away, or does she still come around?”
Owen scrubbed at the spilled coffee with a white handkerchief. He looked up with a smile. “Oh, yes. She comes around every Sunday, and sometimes even through the week.”
“With him?” Henry asked. “The cop?”
Pastor Owen’s face fell, and he sighed. “Yes. I’m sorry Henry. I know she misses you terribly. You and Amélie.”
“I just hate him so much. I want to kill the fucker, and I know I shouldn’t want to, but aside from the guilt and anger, the hate is the only thing I can feel. I want to watch him burn.”
Pastor Owen shocked him by laughing.
“What?” Henry said, spreading his hands in confusion.
“You are consumed by it so much that you have named yourself after the very act of revenge you desire.”
“Huh?”
“I want to burn him. Your words, Henry. Serafino means fiery one. All the way back to the Latin. Mike Serafino. Burning Michael.”
“Yeah well, I just want my daughter out of Hell.”
“Be patient, Henry. Trust in God.”
“Yup. Old Faithful Himself. Mr. Reliable.”
“Henry. He has been reliable. He has been patient. He sent message after message asking you not to kill, and you did it anyway. And he has still not given up on you. Don’t throw that forgiveness away by giving up on yourself, son.”
Henry knew it couldn’t be that simple, but he nodded. “Thank you.”
Owen slid a desk drawer open and reached inside. “I’m almost always here.” He handed Henry a business card. Crisp white and perfectly plain. “Call me day or night if there is anything I can do for you.”
“I really appreciate this. Thanks for listening, too.”
Owen came around the desk, and Henry felt uneasy in the man’s embrace. Then the pastor led him through his office door, separating from him at the altar. Henry was surprised to see that night had fallen.
On his way out the door, the heavy with the sunglasses cleared his throat from the corner and stepped into the light. He slid his sunglasses off and stared as Henry passed, then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the hundo that Henry had left in the offering plate, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed it with a smile.
Henry charged with his fists raised, but the door slammed in his face. The lock turned and the light above the door flickered off. Christ stared from the window. Henry ducked his head and turned away.
He felt someone staring at the back of his neck and hoped it wasn’t Jesus. That poor guy had seen enough.
Chapter Twelve
Henry left the bedroom after a bone-popping stretch.
He crossed to the kitchen, fiddled with the ring on his right hand, and filled a pitcher with water. He paused with it under his lips. The morning fog cleared from his mind, and he spun to face the open living room.
Mandyel stood at the window with his hands behind his back. A gray wool suit hung in neat lines, and his hair glistened with a pomade shine. Henry slurped on the water, but it sputtered down his chin when his eyes went to the couch. He bent over to cough out the remaining moisture, and stood wiping the water from his chin and the surprise from his face.
A woman Henry had never seen before sat on the couch with her legs crossed and one foot in the air, rocking up and down. Blue high heels with straps around the ankles. Her azure dress a second skin. One hand held a crystal ashtray. The other lifted a cigarette in a silver mouthpiece. Her red lips puckered around it in a smile, and the coal flared as she pulled. Blonde hair piled on her shoulders in heavy curls. Her flawless skin glowed in the morning light.
Mandyel turned from the window, waving smoke away from his frowning face. “Good morning, Henry.”
“Yeah, good morning.” He tore his eyes from the gorgeous woman and lifted the pitcher. He chugged, feeling more of his energy return with every swallow, then lowered the empty pitcher to the counter. “What’s going on?”
“It seems you’ve been invited to a party, pal.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Mandyel pointed to a wrapped garment box on the coffee table. A blue bow hung from the side. “Peterson sends his regards.”
Henry glanced at the woman on his way to the table. Her lips twitched with another smile.
He slid the box in front of the chair so he wouldn’t have to sit next to her, then tugged on the blue ribbon. The bow fell open and he lifted the lid.
A brown mask of a fox’s head. Soft and fuzzy with gold rings dangling from the tufted ears. Nothing below its nose so the wearer’s mouth would be free. Underneath the mask, a dark suit with a blue tie and sash. The exact shade as the dress worn by the supermodel at the end of the couch.
Henry lifted the suit from the box to set it beside the mask, and a card fell out. The Viazo Grand dragon spread its wings over a handwritten note.
You have intrigued us, Mr. Serafino.
We wish to know how deep you’ll go.
Peterson
Henry looked up, but Mandyel’s face was as inscrutable as ever. “What is this, some kind of test?”
“I don’t think so, pal. Just the next step.”
Henry turned the card over, and there was more writing.
Another auction, but one of dark importance.
Not the standard trinkets of the average collector, but items to nourish the body, mind, and soul.
Bring a date, Mr. Serafino.
She will regret it no less than you.
I promise.
P
“What the fuck does this mean?”
“It means, Dear Henry, that this may be the opportunity to learn about or perhaps even obtain, the Horn of the Lamb.”
“The Hell is that?”
Mandyel stepped around the end of the couch to stand directly across from Henry at the end of the coffee table. His swirling black eyes widened. His fists pressed into his thighs. “It is very important that we get the horn, Henry. I need it. We need it.” He relaxed his hands and raised his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side. “It can save your daughter, Henry.”
Henry fell back into the cushion and stared at Mandyel’s face. His mind whirled with all the ways the angel could betray him, like Boothe before him.
Henry opened his mouth to ask the question out loud, but the answer didn’t matter. He was losing his ability to care about details. Only the important things mattered. Amélie mattered. “Fine, let’s do it.”
“Even if you have to kill for it, Henry. It’s that important.”
“Yeah, I get it. I already said I’d do it, but only cuz you asked so nice and all.” Henry turned and pointed at the woman. She regarded his finger with a haughty lift of an eyebrow. “So, who’s the dame? She my plus one?”
“She is your date for the day, yes. You may need some help, and I don’t want to trust it to some hooker you’d pick up in the phone book.”
“So, she’s like a classy prostitute?”
The woman laughed. Throaty and open, her pink tongue shining behind a flash of perfect white teeth.
“No, Henr
y. She’s a demon who works for me from time to time.”
“Like your Goll Friday?”
The music of her laughter filled the apartment, but Mandyel wasn’t amused. “I suppose that’s funny.”
Henry waved the angel’s scorn away and turned his attention to the creature on the couch. Learning she was a demon set him at ease. Talking to a beautiful woman other than Sam had always caused a flop sweat. A demon in disguise, no matter how fine? Gravy. “You don’t really look like the demons I’m used to.”
She raised her right hand, the silver ring on her first finger glinting as she rubbed it with her thumb. “I’m Nadia.”
“I’m Henry. Or Mike. Or whatever you want to call me.”
She nodded, and Henry turned back to Mandyel. “So, when’s the party?”
“They like to start early at the Viazo. You’ve got an hour to get ready, so hop to it, pal.”
The mask’s eyeholes blocked some of Henry’s peripheral vision. It fit perfectly otherwise, and he had to admit it looked cool. A bit creepy, but still … Nadia walked next to him in a silver wolf’s mask. Her ruby lips clamped onto the silver mouthpiece. Smoky eyes challenging every man in the room.
She clung to his arm. Her hips rubbed against his as she walked with a swaying stride that even had a few ladies glancing over in envy or admiration.
“Hey,” Henry said, keeping his voice low in her ear. “Are you a boy demon or a girl demon?”
Nadia pulled the cigarette from her mouth and pulled away to look at Henry with that haughty smile he remembered from the apartment. “Does it matter?”
“Not really.” Henry shrugged and dropped his hand to her hip, pulling her firmly against him as they followed the crowd up the stairs. "Just curious.”
Her laugh brought more stares, and Henry realized some were from men jealous of him. “I’m a girl,” she whispered in his ear.
They neared the entry to the auction room, and the beginning of panic rose in his throat. The men and women were separating before the door. The men continuing inside, while the women moved into a second line flowing toward an open door down the hall.