In the House of the Wicked: A Remy Chandler Novel

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Never mind the fact that he had already told his mother and father, who had ignored his indignant ravings; if there was anybody in his home that would understand, it would be his grandfather.

  And his grandfather had understood perfectly well, and told him what he needed to do.

  “Make them pay for taking it.”

  Some of his mother’s special sleeping medicine crushed up and slipped into Mr. Keady’s nightly coffee was how he set his revenge in motion. He had been so careful and quiet that night—invisible. The driver knew nothing of his drugged drink, downing the coffee, and preparing a bath. The cruel man had collapsed on the bed in his bathrobe as the water had run, filling the tub.

  Konrad didn’t know if he would be strong enough at that young age to do what he needed to. It had taken him close to two hours but he had done it, dragging the unconscious man to the now-filled tub and, with great effort, putting him into the bath.

  One of the maids had found him the next morning, screaming at the discovery that Mr. Keady had drowned in the bath.

  Konrad remembered how he had smiled when he heard the commotion caused by the discovery, and relived the satisfaction he had felt as he watched the man sink beneath the bath waters, the last of the bubbles from his mouth and nose popping to the surface.

  It was similar to what he was feeling now as he watched his enemy struggle to regain control.

  Veronica was there again, dancing at the corner of his vision. He could sense that she was about to tell him yet again what Stearns would do, and he didn’t want to hear it.

  “Shut up,” Deacon snarled, letting the divine power that he had been holding back flow into his enemy’s body unabated.

  For a moment, as the heavenly energy surged into his body, Stearns actually believed that he had won. Foolish man.

  Remy Chandler was drunk on the life forces of thousands.

  He could feel energy coursing through his veins like blood, sparks of memories, not his own, exploding in his mind in a cacophony of emotion, sight, and sounds.

  He had never experienced anything so wonderful and yet terrifying. It was like he was being hit by tsunami-force waves, one right after the next.

  Waves of people’s life experiences.

  Births, deaths, celebrations of every conceivable kind; one tumbling into another, his every sense on fire with the phenomena. He felt himself starting to slow, being driven to the ground by the perpetual onslaught, but he knew that he couldn’t falter.

  The fate of so many more were depending on him.

  As he used to do with the power of the Seraphim, he forced the bombardment down, pushing it deep within, where it threatened to explode from its confines. But he could not think of that.

  Remy found the broken stairway and made his way upward to where the television studio had once been, but now was nothing more than rubble open to the world.

  His attention was immediately drawn to the struggle going on across the expanse of wreckage: Deacon versus Stearns. The energy that radiated from the battling pair was incredible; he could feel its intensity on his face from where he stood.

  And then his eyes turned skyward, and he gazed in awe and horror at the swirling maelstrom of darkness that had opened there. It had grown larger in the short time since he’d last laid eyes on it, and it made the current situation all the more dire.

  Remy moved from the ruined doorway, up farther into the demolished studio. He found himself drawn to the sorcerers’ struggle, sensing that the fight was over the power that once belonged to him.

  The power of the Seraphim.

  A power that he would need if he had any hopes of stopping this madness.

  He gazed at the magick users in mortal combat through flying rubble and smoke, and had no idea what he should do.

  But he had to do something.

  His gaze dropped down to see the body of the Grigori Armaros slumped back against a section of broken wall. The other Watchers lay around him, all of them with the hilts of daggers protruding from their chests.

  A surge of memory like a bolt of lightning caused him to gasp aloud as it filled his mind. He was about to wrestle it, to shove it back away with the others, when something made him pause.

  And remember.

  Remy experienced the memory of the Grigori leader as he was given his gift of death. Hands from an impenetrable wall of shadow reached out to present the Watcher leader with something rolled in ancient sackcloth.

  “To still the heart of Heaven’s own,” said a silken voice as Armaros took the gift. “And create believers of us all.”

  The memory seemed to fast-forward as Armaros held the ancient dagger poised above his heart, and the explosion of pain and joy that was experienced as his life—and those of his brethren—came to an end.

  Their life energies surging outward into the golem child, and then out into the world.

  Remy gasped for breath as the memory released him, and he found his eyes locked on the hilt of the mystical blade protruding from the dead, fallen angel’s chest.

  To still the heart of Heaven’s own, he heard the mysterious voice echo within the halls of his thoughts, as he turned his gaze to the spectacle of battle still going on across from him.

  It appeared now that Deacon was winning.

  He squatted down, hand temporarily hovering over the hilt of the blade, before taking it in his hand.

  And pulling it from the angel’s stilled heart.

  Francis stopped at the stairwell door and turned.

  “Where the fuck are Squire and Ashley?” he asked.

  Angus turned to the corridor and the darkness that eventually swallowed it.

  “They were right here a minute ago,” the sorcerer said.

  “Damn it,” Francis snarled.

  “Should we go back for them?” Angus asked.

  The building trembled violently again, helping to shake loose his decision.

  “No,” the former Guardian answered. “We’ve got to reach Chandler if we don’t want this all going to shit,” he said, hand on the doorknob. “That Squire is one tough puke. I don’t think he’ll have any problems holding his own.”

  Francis pushed open the door, and they found themselves in a stairwell untouched by hungry shadows.

  “Isn’t this nice?” Francis commented, already moving toward the stairs that would take them higher. “Too bad we couldn’t hang for a bit. Have some lunch; maybe take a nap.”

  “I would love a nap right about now,” Angus said.

  “You and me both, but we’ve got some shit going on up above that’s going to need our attention.”

  On the next level they found another door, and another stairway that led up into a wall of solid shadow.

  “Something tells me I don’t want to go to the next floor,” Francis said.

  Angus had already pulled open the door, holding it for his companion.

  “After you,” the sorcerer said.

  “I would think you were being nice if it wasn’t for the fact that there could be some shadow beast just inside, waiting to eat my ass.”

  “You wound me, sir,” Angus said, as Francis passed through.

  “Looks pretty clear,” he said.

  The office space was obviously a prime location, the walls of one entire side of the expanse covered in floor-to-ceiling windows. Francis found himself drawn to them, curious as to what might be happening outside the building.

  “Holy crap,” the angel assassin gasped.

  The streets below them were filled with chaos, crowds of people surging away across the expanse of plaza. He could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, as well as some that may have had a connection to the military.

  A tendril of darkness flowed down from above, past the window, slithering to the streets below.

  “What the fuck was that?” Francis asked, pressing his face against the cold glass to see what was happening directly below.

  “The same thing that’s happening in here,” Angus answered. �
��The shadow realm is flowing into this world. By coming back here, Deacon must’ve somehow punctured a hole between realities.”

  “And that’s bad because…,” Francis urged.

  “That’s bad because the shadow realm could easily continue to flow into this one, eventually breaking down all barriers and flooding this world with total darkness.”

  Francis watched through the window as more and more streams of slithering black rolled down the front of the skyscraper to the streets below.

  “We’ve got to plug that hole,” he said finally.

  “Is that all?” Angus answered.

  Francis couldn’t stand to see anymore, leaving the window to find the next set of stairs that would take them closer to where they needed to be.

  Just another thing added to his to-do list.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Squire didn’t care to be shot again; he was funny like that. His shoulder already hurt like hell, and now his upper thigh felt like shit.

  The hobgoblin surged up onto his stubby legs, ignoring the pain, running to where he saw a particularly inviting patch of shadow.

  “Where are you going?” the tattooed man asked, firing his weapon wildly.

  How many fucking bullets does this guy have? Squire asked himself as he dove, his injured body hitting the pool of darkness, the substance of darkness swallowing him whole.

  He emerged on the other side of this particular path. It looked as though he was in some kind of warehouse, the smell of the ocean close by making the hairs in his pronounced nose tingle. It had been a long time since he’d smelled a living ocean.

  Squire crawled from the passage, using the moment of calm to check out his wound. The tattooed man’s bullet had hit him in the meaty part of his leg, but it looked as though it had passed through. He was lucky; if it had hit bone, he would have been a sitting duck. He would heal, but it would take a little time.

  His attacker surged up from the pool of black.

  “Bet you didn’t think I could follow you,” he said, aiming his weapon as Squire scrambled to his feet. “But it seems I’ve developed a knack.”

  He got off one shot, and then the gun clicked once, twice, three times on an empty chamber.

  About fucking time.

  “Huh. Outta bullets,” the pale assassin said as he tossed the gun aside and pulled a nasty-looking hunting knife from his side. “Guess we’re gonna have to do this up close and personal…which is fine by me.”

  Squire had lost his golf bag along the way, but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. His eyes scanned the warehouse, and he sniffed at the air, getting past the salty goodness of the thriving ocean. What he was looking for…what he needed wasn’t to be found here.

  He would have to take this conflict elsewhere.

  “Up close and personal is good,” Squire said, limping on the injured leg, making it seem as though Paleface might actually have the upper hand. “Why don’t you start without me, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  The goblin was running again, eyes scanning the various shadows, searching out one that could give him what he needed, a nice, ripe patch, one with real potential.

  The tattooed man was running full tilt, knife by his side.

  “I can follow you wherever you go,” he growled. “And as soon as you get tired…oh man, the fun will start.”

  The guy was a complete asshole, and Squire couldn’t wait until his piehole was shut for good, but he was gonna need to be very careful and play this just right, or he’d wind up with the shitty end of the stick.

  The stink of a ripe passage was close by, and Squire stopped momentarily to tilt his head back. Down an aisle of shelves, behind a wooden crate spray-painted with the words MACHINE PARTS, he found what he’d been searching for.

  “You mean the fun hasn’t started already?” Squire called out. “Thought we’d reached our full fun potential when I cut off your hand. Don’t know if my poor old constitution can take anymore.”

  He dove at the shadow, waiting for the cold, enveloping sensation as he entered the passage to another place but feeling only the viselike grip close around his ankle.

  Squire thudded to the floor of the warehouse with a grunt, the shadow path just beyond his reach. He flipped over to see that the tattooed man was on his belly, holding on to him with his one good hand.

  “Look at that,” the pale man growled. “You made me drop my knife.”

  Squire struggled to squirm free, but the man’s hold on him was ferocious.

  “Guess I’m just gonna have to use my teeth,” the tattooed man said, smiling like a great white, beginning to drag his weightier bulk up Squire’s body.

  Squire lashed out, bringing one of his legs up and kicking the pale man squarely in the face. He felt the sensation of something breaking through the sole of his boot.

  “You fucking monkey,” the tattooed man groaned, letting go of Squire to clutch at his own broken face. He picked at some loose pieces of white skin, revealing what looked like some sort of wet stone beneath.

  “Wonder how long I can keep you alive,” the pale man growled, then lunged for Squire.

  Squire did a tumble, rolling away into the embrace of a shadow passage. He felt himself falling, then landed unceremoniously on something soft and rubbery.

  The killer landed atop him with a grunt, and Squire took full advantage of the fact that his adversary was stunned by the landing. The goblin dug his stubby fingers into the man’s face and pulled wet chunks away.

  The tattooed man screamed like a banshee, arms flailing wildly. There was a glint of something in the dark, and Squire realized that his foe had managed to find his knife again. Reaching down to the floor of their confined space, Squire grabbed at something—anything—that he could use to block the blade.

  The sneaker he brought up from the floor was just the thing.

  Sneaker?

  The killer was going wild, slashing out with his blade. Squire tried to stay low, reaching up to find what he suspected he would find: hands wrapping around the cool, metal knob and giving it twist.

  The two tumbled from the closet into a child’s bedroom.

  The little boy sat up in his bed, screaming that the monsters were coming out of his closet. If only you knew how right you are, Squire thought as he tried to get away.

  In the faint glow of a night-light, he could see the damage he had done to the pale man’s face. It looked as though most of his nose and even more of one of his cheeks were gone. The tattoos didn’t look half as impressive anymore.

  “Shut your fucking mouth, brat!” the pale man roared at the child, as he surged after Squire.

  Squire had found an aluminum bat on the bedroom floor and used it to his fullest advantage. Swinging with all his might, he connected with his attacker’s leg, driving him to his knees.

  “Are we having fun yet?” Squire asked, hitting him again across the back.

  The pale man dropped to the floor, and Squire felt as though his arm was going to fall off.

  He glanced at the child, staring wide-eyed from the bed, and was about to tell him that everything was going to be all right when the tattooed man unexpectedly struck.

  What is he, the Energizer Bunny, for fuck’s sake?

  The knife blade slashed across Squire’s chest, cutting at least a five-inch-long gash.

  “Son of a bitch!” Squire hissed, jumping back and away before any more damage could be wrought.

  His attacker was already standing. It looked as though he was having difficulty with one leg, but he still seemed like he could do some serious damage.

  Squire decided to get the fuck outta Dodge. He turned his back on the man, already searching for an exit, and found it beneath the kid’s dresser. Not wanting to waste any time, he reached the piece of furniture, flipped it over, and dove inside.

  He didn’t even have to look to know that Paleface was following. Exploding out the other end of the path, he hit the ground at a run. His chest felt as th
ough it were on fire, the pain blending with the pain of his shoulder and leg wound; one big, happy fucking pain family. He could feel the blood running from the wound beneath his shirt, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, considering the situation he hoped to create.

  He knew immediately when he was in the right place. His balls grew incredibly tight, disappearing up inside him, and if he could’ve disappeared inside himself, he would have, too.

  “Where are you, you ugly fuck?” the pale assassin screamed as he emerged from the path, gunning for bear.

  “Look who’s talking,” Squire goaded, sensing where he needed to be. “Think there might be some difficulty in the A Face Only a Mother Could Love competition.”

  The pale man stalked toward him, knife blade still clutched in his hand.

  “Wait a minute,” Squire said, backpedaling. “Did you even have a mother? From the looks of it, I’m going to be taking home first prize.”

  “Gonna cut your face off and wear it like a mask,” the assassin said as he lunged.

  Squire managed to avoid the attack, but barely. He was starting to slow down, the loss of blood and the accumulated pain of his injuries getting to be too much.

  But if he did this right, it wouldn’t take much longer…. And if he didn’t do it right, nothing would really matter anymore.

  An icy tendril of fear ran down the goblin’s spine. Squire stopped, remaining perfectly still as the pale man limped closer.

  “What’s the matter—too tired to run?”

  “No, I could probably keep this going quite a bit longer, but I really don’t see the need.”

  “The first rational thing you’ve said so far,” the killer said, a glint of madness in his cruel, dark eyes.

  “Yeah, I figure we’ve come full circle, and we might as well end this here and now.”

  The tattooed man started, looking around, for the first time taking note of where they were. “We’re back where we started?” he asked, sounding somewhat uncertain.

  “Yeah, back in the Shadow Lands, minus the ugly house, of course.”