Deacon leaned his head back against the chair. Although the brace around his neck prevented his body from totally relaxing, the pleasure of feeding was clear on his face. Remy watched him for a moment, then realized that he appeared healthier, his cheeks flushed with a new vitality.
Younger.
“How does all of this explain why you took Ashley?” he asked.
The old man opened his eyes to slits. “With life energies also come residual memories—emotions, tastes, smells.”
The humming of the machine began to quiet, and Scrimshaw was again attentive. He approached the vessels and pulled the needles from their chests.
“About a week ago, there was a street festival in Brattleboro, Vermont,” Deacon continued as Scrimshaw carefully returned the needles and cords back to the housing compartment on the back of Deacon’s brace. “One of my vessels was there, walking among the teeming crowd, gently brushing against those who had come to enjoy the fair. These events are always my particular favorites—so filled with life and happiness. I was eager to sample the energies and dug in, so to speak, as soon as the vessel returned.”
Deacon looked at Remy with calculating eyes.
“Imagine my surprise as I feasted, bombarded by the memories of those whose energies sustained me…and I saw you, Remy Chandler. I saw you with this lovely young lady and received the slightest taste of the residual energy you left behind.”
The old man paused, his stare becoming even more intense.
“I was able to read that energy, Mr. Chandler. And I saw you for what you truly are.”
“You saw that I’m Seraphim.”
“I saw exactly that,” Deacon agreed, nodding slowly. “Through Ashley’s memories I could see the fire that lives inside you…but I also saw you had the potential to be so much more.”
He leaned forward as if to share a special secret with his guest.
“I saw you as a weapon, Remy Chandler,” Deacon said, eyes no longer dulled with age, but twinkling with life.
“An instrument for revenge to be turned on my betrayers.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Francis no longer carried the special key to Methuselah’s. He’d left it to Remy Chandler while he was vacationing in Hell.
But his current employer, one Lucifer Morningstar, had a unique relationship with the owner of the otherworldly gin mill, so it was never too far from where Francis needed it to be.
Still clutching the towel-wrapped skull beneath his arm, Francis walked across the weed-covered parking lot to what had been the Rubber Ducky Car Wash until the current recession had made people realize that their mileage was just as good with a dirty car. He approached the open concrete bay where filthy cars had had their offending grime washed away and peered inside.
He could feel that this was the right place and walked farther into the bay. Inside the cool space, he found a door, its glass window covered with cardboard. It had probably led to the manager’s office, but Francis sensed that at this particular moment there was something far different on the other side.
He tried the handle and found it locked. He gave it a bit of a jiggle and waited a few seconds before trying it again. The second time was a charm. The door opened with an ear-piercing squeak, and Francis found himself looking down a long, stone corridor, at the end of which was another heavy wooden door with a red neon sign announcing METHUSELAH’S.
Francis strode down the hallway as the door to the car wash slammed closed behind him and was replaced by a wall of moist-looking rock. But he wasn’t looking at where he had been; he was thinking about where he was going. If there was any place where he could learn more about the creation whose head he carried, it would be Methuselah’s.
Placing a hand on the cold metal handle, he squeezed the latch and pushed the heavy wooden door open into the warmth of the bar. It was dark inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, he found himself looking into the not-so-friendly face of the minotaur bouncer who charged toward him on cloven feet, horned head lowered menacingly.
“Phil, you ugly son of a bitch,” Francis exclaimed, reaching up to slap the creature’s thick skull between his ears and horns. “How the hell have you been?”
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve walking through that door like you own the place,” Phil said, getting so close to Francis’ face that he could have easily reached up to give the gold ring hanging from the beast’s flaring nostrils a good yank.
The minotaur’s dark, animal eyes bored into the fallen Guardian’s, and Francis began to think that maybe he had made a mistake when the bull-man let out a barking laugh and pulled the fallen angel up into his thick, muscular arms.
“We all thought you were dead,” Phil cried, practically squeezing the life from Francis as he spun him around. “Hey, boss,” he called out, dropping Francis and turning toward the wooden bar across the room. “Look who it is.”
Francis watched the large stone man behind the bar drying a beer mug with a filthy rag.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Methuselah said. The expression on his stone face changed ever so slightly, but Francis knew he was smiling. “How are you, Francis?”
“I’m good,” the former Guardian said, strolling across the floor to the bar, Phil at his side.
“Didn’t I say he was still alive?” the minotaur said, throwing his powerful arm around Francis’ shoulders. “I said it would take a lot more than Tartarus going ass end over teakettle to put Francis down for the count.”
“You did say that,” Methuselah agreed, still drying the inside of the heavy glass mug.
“Nice to know that somebody’s got a little faith in me,” Francis said as he grabbed a stool and took a seat, placing the towel-wrapped skull atop the bar.
There were some strange-looking folks sitting on either side, and as he made brief eye contact with them, they decided they no longer wanted to sit at the bar and slunk off for the privacy of one of the many tables that littered the floor.
“Great to have you back, Francis.” Phil gave him one last hard slap on the shoulder before returning to his post at the front door.
“I never even knew he liked me,” Francis said to the stone man.
“He just about broke down in tears when he heard the rumors of your untimely demise,” Methuselah said, slinging the dirty towel over a broad shoulder. “What can I get you?”
“The usual would be nice.”
“Your buddy was in here not too long ago,” the bar’s owner said as he picked up a glass tumbler from beneath the bar and turned to a display of dusty old bottles behind him.
“Chandler?” Francis asked. “Yeah, he’s still got my key.”
“You don’t need a key.” Methuselah shook his head as he poured a drink for Francis. “You’ve got the all-access pass now.”
“And Phil loves me.”
“And Phil loves you,” Methuselah agreed, placing the drink in front of him. “Think that gets you a free appetizer once a month or something.”
“Sweet.” Francis took a large swig of the ancient Scotch. “Remind me of that the next time I’m in.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
They were silent then, the sounds of the bar—multiple voices conversing softly in myriad languages, forked tongues lapping eagerly at libations, the ghost of Roy Orbison singing from the vintage Wurlitzer jukebox at the far end of the establishment—reminding Francis that he’d been away for a while.
And how good it was to be back.
“More?” Methuselah held up the old bottle.
“You twisted my arm,” Francis said, pushing the tumbler toward him.
“So, you on the clock?” Methuselah asked, tipping the bottle’s golden contents into the empty glass.
“Not right now.”
“Looking for work? I got a few freelance gigs that could provide you with some nice shekels for one or two of those medieval playthings you like to collect,” the stone man said as he placed the glass stopper back in
to the bottle and passed the tumbler to Francis.
“Actually, I’m poking around for Chandler,” Francis said. “Got something I want to show you.”
“A free appetizer doesn’t make us that intimate,” Methuselah joked.
Francis smirked, sliding the wrapped skull toward the bartender. “I thought you might be able to tell me something about this.”
“What’s the Seraphim gotten himself involved with this time?” Methuselah asked, unwrapping the towel with thick stone fingers. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed, staring at the skull.
“Were my suspicions right?” Francis asked, taking a drink.
Methuselah picked up the skull and carefully ran his fingers over its rough surface. “Whoever’s responsible does exceptional work,” the barkeep said, his stone eyes scrutinizing the object in his great hands. “I’d love to see the rest of it.”
“Yeah, too bad it was destroyed in a fire of divine reckoning.”
“Hate when that happens,” Methuselah said, setting the skull down on the bar, gaze still riveted to it. “Where did you say it came from?”
“I didn’t,” Francis replied. “When it was whole, it and a few others attacked Chandler, but that’s pretty much all I know. It’s got something to do with a case he’s working on.”
“Doesn’t it always?”
“From your mouth to my ears.” Francis held up his glass in a toast. “From what I was told, it looked completely human.”
“You don’t say,” the stone man said. “If I had known this level of golem quality was out there somewhere, I’d have seriously been thinking of an upgrade.”
Methuselah was one of the oldest original human beings on the planet, but far too many years of wear and tear had caused his body to break down. Wanting to continue with the long-lived existence he’d grown accustomed to, the old man had decided to transplant his life force into the body of a golem.
He was the first person Francis had thought of upon seeing the stone skull Remy found.
“So it is a golem?” Francis asked.
“It’s a golem, all right,” Methuselah confirmed. “But it’s top-of-the-line.”
“I don’t suppose you have any idea who might be responsible for this little creation.”
Methuselah’s head and neck made a harsh grinding sound as he shook it. “I’d love to meet him, though,” he said. “Having my soul transferred into something like this would be like going from an Edsel to a Ferrari.”
“Know anybody who might be able to tell me more?” Francis asked. He swiveled on the barstool, looking out over the tables. “Anybody in here, maybe?”
“Nah, just the usual bunch of reprobates right now, I’m afraid,” Methuselah said as he wiped down the bar with his towel. Then he stopped, as if he’d suddenly gotten an idea. “Wait a minute. Give me a second, will ya?”
“Sure,” Francis said, continuing to enjoy his Scotch as the stone man lumbered off through a set of double doors near the bar.
It wasn’t long before he was back, a fat guy wearing a stained apron and a paper hat in tow.
“This is Angus, my cook,” Methuselah told Francis. “Makes an excellent meat loaf, but he also knows a few things about magick.”
Angus pushed past his boss, his rounded belly leading the way as he approached the bar. He was carrying a large glass of ice water and was about to take a drink when the motion stopped.
His eyes were transfixed by the golem skull.
“Look familiar to you?” Francis asked, closely watching the big man.
Angus finally took his drink, and Francis noticed a slight tremble in his hand, one that he didn’t think was there before.
“Nope,” Angus said, turning quickly toward his boss. “That it?”
“Nothing?” Methuselah asked.
“Nope, it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before,” Angus answered. “I gotta get back to the kitchen…. Tonight’s haggis special isn’t gonna make itself.”
Methuselah waved the man past, and Francis watched him head quickly back through the double doors, sure the cook knew more than he was letting on.
“Sorry about that.” The stone man shrugged. “Thought he might’ve been able to help you.” He reached for the bottle of Scotch. “Hit you again?”
“No, I’m good,” Francis said, although he was sorely tempted.
He climbed off the stool, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.
“No worries,” Methuselah said, shaking his stone hand in front of Francis as he retrieved the empty tumbler with the other. “Your boss has an open line of credit here.”
“But this isn’t my boss’s case,” Francis told him.
The stone man laughed, dunking the dirty glass into a sink of soapy water beneath the bar.
“It always starts off that way, doesn’t it?” Methuselah said as he started to rinse the glasses from the sink.
“Be seeing you, Francis. Nice to know that the rumors of your demise were greatly exaggerated.”
Francis knew that it was only a matter of time before Methuselah’s cook would step out back for a smoke. His fingernails, stained brown with nicotine, had been the dead giveaway.
He had been waiting in the shadows for more than an hour, the golem skull on the ground at his feet, observing the comings and goings of the strange, insectlike creatures that were Methuselah’s busboys as they took their breaks. He was fascinated by the odd game they played, similar to dice but with two small, hairless rodents that screamed like the dickens when they were rolled.
The screen door opened again with a creak, and this time Angus the cook finally stepped out. He was already lighting up as the screen door slammed closed behind him.
Francis noticed that he’d removed his paper cap and was no longer wearing his filthy apron. It looked as though the cook’s shift was finished. How opportune; now Francis could have him all to himself.
Angus took a long, deep pull on the cigarette. And Francis took the opportunity to kick the golem skull toward him. It rolled awkwardly across the pavement and stopped directly in front of the cook, staring at his feet.
Francis couldn’t have asked for a better kick.
Angus was so startled that he leapt backward, dropping his cigarette and muttering something beneath his breath. In a matter of seconds, his fingers were crackling with a spell of defense.
Methuselah had been right about the large man’s magickal background.
“See, this is why I decided to hang around,” Francis said as he stepped from the shadows. He lit up his own smoke, casually puffing away as the cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. “That reaction to the golem skull tells me you do know something about it.”
Angus unleashed a blast of supernatural energy that arced through the air like lightning. Francis ducked, and the destructive magick struck an overflowing Dumpster, flipping it over and sending foul-smelling refuse across the alley.
The cook was gearing up to let loose another volley, but Francis was already on the move, darting across the alley to place the blade of the divine scalpel beneath the fat man’s throat.
“I don’t think we need any more spells. Do you?”
“What do you want from me?” Angus asked, eyes wide as the blade dimpled the flabby flesh beneath his chin.
“I want to know the truth about that skull,” Francis said.
Angus squeezed his eyes shut. “I told you I don’t know anything about—”
“And I’m telling you that you’re lying,” Francis interrupted coolly, pushing ever so slightly on the scalpel so that its tip entered the flesh no more than a millimeter.
Angus hissed, pulling away, but Francis and his blade followed.
“Look, I used to be an angel of the Heavenly host Guardian, and we can totally tell when somebody is lying, which you are.”
Some of the insect busboys had come outside for another round of their game. They caught sight of Francis and Angus and immediately crouched lower to the ground, clicking and buzzing, watchin
g with their segmented eyes.
“Everything’s fine here,” Francis announced. “Go on and play your game. And watch out for that one.” He nodded toward the bug standing closest to the building. “I think he’s cheating.”
The insects reacted, as the accused bug attempted to defend himself.
“Let’s go someplace less crowded and talk,” Francis said quietly to Angus. He withdrew the blade and placed it inside the pocket of his suit coat.
Angus stumbled back with a gasp, the fat fingers of his right hand wiping at the bead of blood that seeped from the wound in his chin, while the left started to radiate with excess magickal energy.
Francis just stood there, staring at the man with unblinking eyes.
“You’re…you’re not going to kill me?” Angus wheezed.
What remained of his cigarette still dangled at the corner of his mouth, and Francis let it drop to the ground. “No, as long as you take that glowing hand you’re sporting and stick it in your pocket.”
Angus seemed to think about that for a moment, then brought the hand shining with destructive potential to his mouth and blew on it, snuffing out the power.
Francis nodded.
“I didn’t know that about Guardians,” Angus said.
Francis wasn’t sure what the man was talking about, and his confusion must have shown on his face.
“That you could tell when somebody is lying,” Angus elaborated.
Francis laughed.
“We can’t,” he said, turning to leave Methuselah’s back lot. “I lied.”
Francis marched Angus into Methuselah’s, taking a table in the far back of the tavern, the single candle in the table’s center barely keeping the encroaching shadows at bay.
A waitress with skin so pale that Francis could actually see her entire circulatory system brought them drinks. Both were having Scotch, neat. No surprise there. What else would a guy named Angus drink?
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