In the House of the Wicked: A Remy Chandler Novel

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Remy heard the sound of movement and spun around as the four figures in the yard rushed at him. The men grabbed at his arms and the woman fell to her knees, taking hold of his left leg.

  Remy gathered his strength and managed to shake them off, kneeing the woman backward into the dirt.

  And that was when he realized how weak he was feeling, how his head had started to swim.

  “Tasty,” the man on the porch said as he slowly descended the rickety steps. “But nothing too out of the ordinary.”

  The three men and the woman were on their feet and heading, arms outstretched, for Remy again. He reacted purely on instinct, shedding his human guise and assuming the form of the Seraphim. Wings the color of gold exploded from his back, and his human garments were replaced with the armored raiment forged in the divine fires of Heaven’s armory.

  “Keep back,” he warned, his body radiating a heat so intense that it warped the air around him.

  Remy’s attackers hesitated but only for a moment, and then they were on him again, grabbing hold of his holy visage even as their bodies burst into flames. The angel tried to rip them away, but they continued to cling to him like thirsty ticks, and he felt himself grow steadily weaker. Somehow the mere touch of these creatures was draining his strength.

  He had to get away. He stretched out his wings and crouched down, preparing to take flight, but there was a sudden weight on his back and he realized that the man from the porch had joined the fray. The combined weights of the five attackers brought him to his knees on the dusty ground as even more of his energy was siphoned away. Remy fought to stand, but was finding it hard to even remain conscious.

  Then one by one the creatures released their grips. Remy watched as they absorbed the flames of Heaven, leaving behind creatures burned and blackened, with not even a hint of the mask of humanity they’d once worn.

  The one from the porch was the least damaged of the five, his clothing singed and his flesh burned a red so deep that it was almost purple.

  “Vessels, return home with what you’ve collected,” he instructed, and the charred creatures immediately formed a line and marched toward what was left of the old barn, and disappeared inside.

  Remy looked away from the barn and focused on the man who still loomed above him. “What are you?” he managed.

  “Very, very hungry,” the creature said, reaching down to take the angel’s face in his hands.

  The pain was incredible, but Remy was too weak to cry out as his life force was slowly drained away.

  For as far as he could see, the golden fields of Heaven were buried beneath the bodies of his fallen brethren.

  Yet still they came at him.

  He was tired and did not want to fight anymore, but the angel Remiel continued to defend his Lord God against those who had chosen to stand with the Morningstar.

  Not long ago they had been one family, and now they were enemies. They descended upon him, wings pounding the air as they screamed for his death, their fiery blades eager to drink deeply of his Seraphim blood. Remiel tried not to look at them, tried not to see which former brother desired to take his life.

  But it was an impossible task. The art of warfare, of violence and death, was such a personal thing.

  He struck them down, his brothers, one after another. And as each body fell, its blood seeping into the rich soil of Heaven, tainting with a hint of scarlet the few yellow blades of grass that managed to reach up from between the corpses of the vanquished, Remiel of the Heavenly host Seraphim cried out to his Lord God that he could do this no more.

  Yet still they came.

  And still he fought.

  Remy awoke to the sounds of clattering dishware.

  Cautiously, he opened his eyes, not wanting to make it known that he had returned from unconsciousness as he gathered his strength and surveyed his surroundings.

  He was inside the farmhouse, lying in the center of a wooden table. The creature that only wore the guise of a man moved around the table, setting out dust-covered plates and cups, muttering to himself.

  “It’ll be just like old times,” he said, placing a broken cup next to the jagged half of a plate. “A real family dinner. Just like I remember.” He stopped, his bulging eyes scanning the settings. “But…what do I remember?” He rubbed a burned hand across his forehead, as if he had an excruciating headache.

  “They’re not yours,” he said bitterly. “They belong to somebody else.”

  “They are mine!” he screamed, grabbing a coffee cup and smashing it to the floor. “I collected them and now they belong to me!”

  He leaned against the table, breathing heavily.

  “All right, then.” He took a deep breath and stood straight, adjusting the neck of his shirt as if he were wearing a tie. “Let’s just sit down and have a nice dinner, without the drama.”

  Pulling out a chair, the man sat down and made himself comfortable. “Fine by me,” he muttered. He picked up an oily rag and laid it across his lap. “I’m absolutely famished.”

  He reached across the table to lay his hand upon Remy.

  “Enough,” Remy cried, coming suddenly to life. He captured the man’s wrist in one hand and with the other grabbed a knife from the table, infusing it with the intensity of Heaven’s fire. He pulled the man closer and plunged the glowing blade squarely into his captor’s chest.

  The man yanked his hand from Remy’s grasp, stumbling backward, gazing with disbelieving eyes at the metal instrument protruding from his chest. “Now, is that any way for dinner to act?” he asked.

  Remy sprang from the table as tongues of divine flame began to consume the man from within.

  The creature stumbled about the room, fire leaking from his burning form, igniting the ragged curtains. “All I wanted…,” he screamed. “All I wanted was to have them for my own…memories of my own…”

  The farmhouse was primed to burn, and in a matter of seconds, the entire house was engulfed. Flames swirled hungrily around Remy like eager dogs anxious for play, but they did not try to touch him, for they knew he was their master. He spread his wings and leapt through the burning ceiling and into the smoke-filled second floor before ripping through the roof to the clear air outside.

  Remy hovered above the farmhouse, watching as it collapsed in upon itself with a forsaken moan of weakened timbers. Then, as if satisfied, the flames began to dwindle until only ribbons of thick, gray smoke remained.

  His mind was filled with questions. What were these human-shaped creatures that could drain away his life energy with just a touch? He’d never seen their like before, so why had they targeted him? And why through Ashley?

  He lowered himself to the ground in front of the rickety old barn and assumed his human guise. Since he’d allowed his first opportunity for answers to burn in a fire of his own making, maybe he could find something in the barn where four of his attackers had disappeared.

  The barn was empty, nothing but the lingering aroma of magick in the dusty air, too faint to track. “Damn it,” he snarled in frustration.

  He walked toward the smoldering wreckage of the farmhouse and surveyed the remains. Something wedged beneath a section of wall caught his attention. He reached down and pulled away plaster that disintegrated in his grasp, to reveal a charred skull nestled in a pile of ash. Pulling the remains from the rubble, he gave the skull a shake, loosening the soot that clung to it. The skull was far heavier than it should have been, and as Remy ran a finger along the jawline, he came to the realization that it was not composed of bone, but from some sort of stone.

  Or clay.

  He gazed at the grinning skull for a moment, then pulled his cell phone from his pocket and placed a call.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” he said into the phone. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I think I might need some help.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The jet-black limousine cut through the rainy Detroit night, tires hissing as they rolled across the water-covered blacktop.

  F
rom the backseat, Algernon Stearns gazed out at the dilapidated ruins that had once housed businesses but now were just empty shells, reminders of what had been.

  Shadowy figures watched from doorways as the luxurious vehicle drove past. Stearns could feel their eyes, their hungry eyes, starving for just a morsel of what he had.

  With that thought, his own body began to ache. Every part of him, right down to the individual cells, was suddenly awake, demanding to be fed. Calling it hunger did no justice to the agony; it was so much more than that. He had learned to live with the pain but not to ignore it, for to do so was to suffer beyond words.

  Stearns looked at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, then leaned his head against the cool, tinted glass of the window, allowing his eyes to follow the ascending numbers on the storefronts.

  “Right here, Aubrey,” he announced, tapping the glass with the diamond ring he wore.

  The driver obeyed at once, slowing the car and pulling over to the curb in front of a particularly dismal-appearing structure. The driver exited the vehicle and moved around to the rear passenger’s door, holding an umbrella in one hand as he opened the door with the other.

  “Thank you, Aubrey,” Stearns said as he stood and breathed in the humid air of the nearly deceased city.

  “Shall I go with you?” Aubrey asked, closing the door.

  “No need.” Stearns eyed the building before him. “I should be fine.” He felt a tremor in his legs brought on by the hunger, and hoped that he had the strength he would need to accomplish what had brought him to Michigan on such an ungodly night.

  “Very good, sir,” the driver said. He shielded Stearns from the rain as they walked toward the front entrance of the building, then promptly turned back to the limousine when Stearns gestured him away.

  There was a filth-encrusted buzzer on the side of the metal door, and Stearns tentatively raised a finger. Deciding that he wouldn’t be making contact with it long enough to catch something contagious, he quickly pressed the button.

  How many of these kinds of visits have I made over the years? he pondered as he waited. He looked back to the car and saw that Aubrey still stood with the umbrella, observing his progress. His driver was one of a kind. He had actually passed away from pancreatic cancer a year ago, but Stearns wasn’t about to let death stand in the way of twenty-five years of excellent service. Good help was so hard to find; a simple spell of resurrection had saved Stearns the trouble.

  A sharp click interrupted his musings as the door popped open about a half inch. Stearns gave his driver a nod as he pulled open the door and slipped inside the building.

  It was dark in the entryway, lit by only a single bulb from an emergency light; its partner had burned out. There was a door below the emergency light, and Stearns moved toward it, careful to avoid the dust-covered pieces of office furniture that had been left in the hallway.

  Is that where Daphene is waiting?

  Stearns had been searching for his former lover for quite some time and had begun to believe that she had met an untimely end, when she had reached out to him. She had learned of the murders of Desplat and Montecello and feared the future for herself. They had arranged a meeting, and here he was.

  Stearns stopped short just before the door, encountering one of the largest rats he had ever seen. He considered grabbing something from the floor to throw at it, but the way it looked at him—unwavering as it balanced on its thick, gray haunches—was almost as if it were studying him.

  Verifying him.

  Seemingly satisfied, the rat turned its large, hairy body toward the door that opened with an offending buzz.

  Stearns stepped through the heavy door and began to follow the rat down a series of concrete steps. Wall-mounted emergency lights tinted the stairway an arterial red. They descended three levels, the already damp air growing more fetid with the nearly choking smell of urine.

  As he reached the last step, the rodent darted quickly away into a patch of darkness. Stearns could not see what waited beyond it, but knew that was where he needed to go.

  Cautiously, he entered the shadow. Something smelling of mildew brushed against his cheek, and he recoiled, then carefully reached out to touch what seemed to be velvet curtains. He pushed them roughly aside and entered another passageway. The rat was waiting for him and turned to scamper through an open doorway at the far end of the short corridor, where a flickering light in the room beyond beckoned.

  A sudden spasm of pain nearly sent Stearns to his knees, reminding him of what he needed. He took a deep breath and managed to right himself, using the damp cinder-block wall to steady himself as he made his way toward the room at the end of the hall.

  The air grew heavier with the stench of mold and piss, and there was also a sound. He could not place it at first, but when he was finally able to discern the squeaks and growls of multiple rats, an image started to form inside his head.

  An image that became reality as he stepped into the large, underground storage room.

  The floor was a sea of writhing, furry bodies. Everywhere he looked there were rats, thousands of them, crawling atop one another, some lashing out with snarls and hisses, some busily grooming themselves as if wanting to impress a suitor, some just attempting to scurry from one area of the floor to another, others simply waiting for who knew what.

  Stearns was both disgusted and fascinated.

  “Is that you, Algernon?” a woman’s voice asked from somewhere in the room.

  “Daphene?” he called out, moving farther into the room, trying not to step on the living carpet at his feet.

  “I’m so glad you were able to come,” the woman said.

  And with those words, the rats seemed to part like the Red Sea before Moses, revealing a hunched figure sitting in a wheelchair at the far end of the space.

  Stearns had expected to see the same vivacious woman with whom he’d shared numerous sexual liaisons over the many years they had been alive, perhaps a bit older, given the time that had passed since last they’d seen each other, but still with the same hungry vitality for life she had always possessed.

  But the closer he got, the more disturbed he became.

  For sitting in the wheelchair was a swollen wreck of a woman, her obscenely fat body straining against the material of the drab, short-sleeved dress she wore. Her arms were pale and flabby, like unbaked dough; her legs were a mess of blue veins crisscrossing beneath mottled, ulcerated skin. Her slippers were split at the sides, unable to contain the flesh of her puffy feet.

  “Have I changed that much, my love?” she asked in a wheezy, congested voice.

  And to think she once made her fortune in fashion design.

  Stearns was repulsed by what he saw. He stared at her bloated face, looking for some trace of the woman he had once lusted after hiding beneath layers of pale, sickly flesh.

  “It has been too long, darling,” he finally said, watching as the rats crawled upon her chair and her person. She stroked them lovingly as they came within reach, and then he saw the oddest thing. As Daphene laid her hands upon them, the rodents became suddenly still, falling limply onto their sides.

  “Even though we’ve been given more life than the average person, time still marches on at an alarming clip,” Daphene answered, brushing still bodies of rats from her expansive lap.

  “And what have you been doing with that additional life?” Stearns asked, fighting to hide his revulsion.

  “What haven’t I done?” she exclaimed with a laugh, causing her ample flesh to undulate. “I made the world my lover…. I had whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it. It was good for a time,” she said, gazing off into the distance. “Quite good. But then it all went wrong when the dreams started.”

  She turned her glassy-eyed stare to Stearns.

  “Do you know what I’m talking about, Algernon?”

  He knew exactly what she meant: the memories of all those killed in Hiroshima coming to him when his mind was at rest, desperate to be claimed as
his own. “The dreams,” he said, reaching down to swat a rat beginning its ascent up his trouser leg. “They can be quite…overpowering at times.”

  “Yes,” Daphene agreed. “They can be, but once I adjusted to them…the hunger came.”

  Just the mention of the word made every muscle in Stearns’ body contract painfully. He hid his body’s response with a casual cough.

  “At first I had no idea what was happening, but then I realized that Deacon’s experiment that night had changed me. I hungered for the energies of living things.”

  She continued to stare at him, petting rats two at a time, draining their life forces before moving on to the next.

  Insatiable.

  He could have sworn she was growing larger before his eyes.

  “Which explains your little friends,” Stearns said, still in awe of the multitude of vermin that surrounded them.

  “They breed very quickly, and are quite nutritious as far as life energies go,” she explained. “They’re also very easily manipulated with magick.”

  The rats were climbing up, then dropping off, her body in droves now, their conversation obviously making her anxious—and hungry.

  “What about you, Algernon?”

  Stearns stared at her, pretending he didn’t know what she was getting at.

  “Were you changed, too?” she asked, a trace of desperation in her voice.

  Stearns finally nodded. “Yes, Daphene. Deacon’s damnable contraption changed all of us.”

  She picked up a squirming rat and squeezed the life from it like the juice from a lemon.

  “Have you talked with the others?” she asked.

  He nodded and began to shuffle closer to the wheelchair, the rats at his feet shrieking with protest as he stepped on their tails.

  “Robert and Eugene, yes. I tried to find Angus, but have had little success. You were quite difficult, too, but then you found me.”

  He was standing behind her now. He took a deep breath, then placed his hands on her shoulders, gently massaging the soft, pliant flesh beneath the cotton dress. It felt disgusting, but it was necessary.