Bart of Darkness (The Book of Bart 2)

by Ryan Hill

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Sadly, Steve wasn’t finished. “The Magister is a God we can see, hear, interact with. One who will reward his followers with a real Paradise. Not one that exists only in our minds.”

  My lips involuntarily curled in disgust as he spoke. I hated hearing people mindlessly spout off about stuff like this, like they knew what they were doing. If only these morons used their heads for a change and thought for themselves. Then again, people like Steve were my core demographic. When it came to corrupting souls, the young, confused ones who didn’t know how to think were my bread and butter.

  “Now that the Magister has a blessed being, tonight–”

  Jurgen snapped Steve’s neck mid-sentence. The pianist didn’t even give me a heads up. He just yanked Steve’s head and twisted it 180 degrees, the guy’s neck crumbling like a saltine cracker. Even Ozzie whelped.

  “The Heaven?” I asked.

  “What?” Jurgen seemed surprised that I was upset. “You weren’t going to let him live, were you?”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t made up my mind.”

  Jurgen let Steve’s body fall to the ground. “That may be, but I don’t just want the Magister to answer for his sins. I want everyone involved with him to.”

  “That’s all well and good, but were you listening to Steve? He was pretty much in the middle of telling us everything the Caelo had planned for tonight, including what they were doing with Sam.”

  “If he was talking about Sam.”

  I slapped my forehead. “What other blessed being did they capture tonight? I’m pretty sure the Pope is in the Vatican City right now.”

  “You’re probably right,” Jurgen said.

  “Oh, I’m right. It’s great that we know where the Caelo are, but if you’d waited a few seconds to snap Steve’s neck, we might’ve even found out how much trouble Sam was in.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Party Crashers

  It took us a good ninety minutes to walk back to the Audi I stole, then drive to the mansion. If the Magister was creating Paradise as soon as tonight, Sam probably played a part in that. I didn’t have the slightest clue how, thanks to Jurgen impulsively snapping Steve’s neck, but I knew I needed to get to the almost-angel sooner rather than later.

  And now we’d driven so far into the country, it seemed like the only living things for the last twenty miles were cows and deer. I didn’t see lights from nearby houses—because there weren’t any—oncoming cars, or even a hole in the wall bar or strip joint for anyone unlucky enough to live here. All we needed to complete the scene was a vulture and some Spaghetti Western music.

  I parked the car on the side of the road, a quarter mile from the mansion. The distance ensured that anyone lurking about wouldn’t know we were coming. That, and Ozzie had to relieve himself so bad he’d been pawing at the windows for a good ten minutes.

  Ozzie hopped into my lap as I turned off the Audi, tail wagging so quickly he almost achieved lift-off. I opened the door and he jumped out, his paws digging into a rather … sensitive area on my body. I tried to hide the pain from Jurgen, but Ozzie’s paws had dug deep.

  “Nerves?” Jurgen asked.

  “Dog got me in the nards.”

  We stepped outside of the car. The little Hell Hound was relieving himself in a ditch close by. Jurgen rocked back and forth on his heels, waiting by the car’s trunk.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “The house is the other way.”

  He seemed surprised. “You mean you don’t have any weapons tucked away in your trunk?”

  I pffted, making sure it sounded nice and wet. “What am I, a gangster?”

  The idea that I was some wannabe member of the Cosa Nostra was a little insulting. Those guys ate large heaps of spaghetti and bashed people’s heads in because they were behind on their bookie payments. I seldom ate large heaps of spaghetti, and when I did bash someone’s head in, it was for fun. Not because someone owed me money.

  Jurgen held up his hands. “What good can we do, armed with only these?”

  “You don’t think we can take them using only our wits, guile, and good looks?”

  “No.”

  “Me either,” I said.

  “That’s a shame.”

  “You could always ‘roid up and unleash the beast.”

  “I’d rather not,” Jurgen said. “I want to remember the look on the Magister’s face when we destroy him.”

  “Do you have a phone?”

  Jurgen felt around his body, but shook his head. “I must’ve left mine at the hall.”

  “Mine was demolished earlier tonight,” I said. “All I’ve got now is a cheap burner, but it doesn’t have a camera.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “I know, we could’ve recorded the whole destroying-the-Magister bit for posterity.”

  Ozzie barked, done with our conversation, and ran ahead of us toward the mansion. I smirked. Leave it to the dog to keep us on task. I laid a hand on Jurgen’s shoulder, squeezing it for support.

  “I need to see the Magister’s dying breaths with my eyes,” he said. “Not the monster’s. Promise me you’ll do everything you can to make that possible.”

  “I promise.”

  Bless it all. What else could I have said? No? Jurgen probably would’ve walked back to Raleigh and left Ozzie and me to deal with the Magister on our own. With the monster, we had a fighting chance of saving Sam. With Jurgen, the willy-nilly, vanilla, don’t squash that ant musician, I’d probably be fitted for a wig before sunrise. But I couldn’t say no to the maestro’s request. Besides, promises, like rules, were sometimes made to be broken.

  The two of us left the street and followed Ozzie down the mansion’s long, dirt driveway. Trees on each side bustled in the wind, almost like they were waving at us to go back. Most people think things like trees bustling is something that happens because of science, but I knew better. It was a warning. That, and the fact that there weren’t any cars parked between us and the mansion, which had light escaping from every window. It made me a little uneasy.

  “I’m confused,” Jurgen said. “Is anybody home?”

  “I think so.” I kicked a rock. “My guess is everyone came via the black holes on top of their heads.”

  “So there could be hundreds, maybe even thousands waiting for us,” Jurgen said.

  “I think the Fire Marshall would frown upon thousands being in the house, but yes. I have no idea what’s waiting for us.” Except for a bunch of grade-A turds.

  I wasn’t about to tell Jurgen, but it bothered me how quiet things were outside. We were close enough to the place to notice if there were guards, watch dogs, even motion-sensing machine guns at the ready. There weren’t any. The Caelo may have had a few hidden cameras watching us, but apart from that, it was like we’d been given an open invitation to walk right in the front door. I’m not a genius—an online IQ test took that merit badge away—but it was obvious that the whole thing was a trap. The Magister and his Mop Tops had Sam. They knew I knew. I knew they knew I knew. Even still, they must’ve liked their odds against me trying to save her.

  The weird thing was that I wasn’t saving Sam out of a sense of obligation. In the past, I may have felt that way, but not this time. Nobody was forcing my hand. I was here because I wanted to save her.

  I shivered. It was like a ghost had walked through my body. Did wanting to save Sam make me some kind of hero? I wasn’t turning goo– … goo– … mildly okay, was I? I wasn’t a hero. I was a villain. Or, at minimum, a well-dressed neutral third party.

  “Are you okay?” Jurgen asked. “You look sick.”

  “I’m fine.” I waved him off. “Just feel like I’m getting my sea legs back.”

  I wondered if rescuing Sam made me an objectively decent being… I couldn’t go through with it. Like I was better off going to a bar and seducing a virgin, or at least a girl who was less than three lays away from a virgin.

  And that attitude wasn’
t going to get Sam saved. I needed to look at this operation in a different light.

  I was staring at a framed painting hanging on the wall through one of the mansion’s second floor windows when the idea struck me like a needle poking my eyeball. I wasn’t saving Sam. I was ruining the Magister’s whole deal. This wasn’t a rescue operation. I wasn’t the hero. The Caelo in Terra saw me as a threat. I was the villain. Their villain.

  Ozzie curled around my leg, approving of this new mindset, and I got pumped. Ready. Excited, even. I got to play my natural role as the bad guy again, and it was fabulous. The satisfaction enveloped me like a fuzzy blanket. Everything else was drowned out. Tonight, the world would remember what a badass Bartholomew was. Suddenly Jurgen’s pleas to keep the monster at bay seemed like a far-off dream. Ozzie tugging at my pant leg didn’t bother me, and neither did the sound of the tearing fabric. I was wholly focused on wrecking the Magister’s day.

  I stepped onto the mansion’s front porch, the smell of fresh, white paint invading my nostrils. I stopped in front of the black door, adrenaline making me bouncy with anticipation. I hadn’t felt excitement like this since I convinced Christopher Columbus he’d sailed to India, when in reality he’d made landfall in the Bahamas.

  “Ready?” I asked Jurgen.

  “Yes.”

  My lips curled into a smirk. I was in my element. I kicked in the door and it flew open, breaking off the top hinge and hanging at an angle as the bottom hinge clung to the door.

  I stepped inside, ready to break open some skulls. “I’m back, baby.”

  I tried to crack my knuckles, but I was thrown off-guard by Veronica. She came running toward me and threw her arms around me; the sensual aroma of her perfume rising from her neck. It was so awkward and unexpected that I couldn’t help but give her a light hug in return. All my aggression deflated.

  It was terrible.

  The whole thing felt weird. Nobody should’ve been hugging me. If anything, everyone in this mansion needed to run for their lives. This was a sabotage/rescue/complete and utter demolition. Somebody was going to lose an eye. Bones would be broken. Feelings would most assuredly get hurt. I’d figured the Caelo in Terra were expecting me, but Veronica? I’d half-expected it, but that didn’t stop my pride from getting wounded.

  If she was here, it meant she was part of the Caelo. I still didn’t know in what capacity, but the fact remained that my now ex-lover was in cahoots with the Mop Tops. Imagining Sam’s indignant look of triumph only further wounded my pride, deflating my confidence. Still, bad as I felt in this moment, if given the chance, I’d have done it all again. Veronica was gorgeous, and I got to have sex with her. Demon, rogue, or otherwise, not many males would pass up that opportunity—even with the murky circumstances.

  “We weren’t sure you’d come.” Veronica’s arms hung around my neck like a noose.

  I was an idiot. I should’ve listened to Sam. Instead, I went and got the hots for another in a long line of femme fatales. Cleopatra, Medea, didn’t matter who they were. I always fell into their trap. The sex, the sin, the façade of wholesomeness… How could I not fall for that every single time? I was but one rogue.

  “You?” I blurted out. “This is all you? You’re part of Caelo in Terra?”

  “You got it.”

  “You’re not the Magister Caelo, are you?” Stranger things had happened. It wasn’t too crazy to think the Magister changed sexes over the centuries.

  “No, silly.” Veronica giggled, her breath tickling my neck.

  “But you’re not wearing a wig.”

  Veronica shook her head, making her hair move in a wave-like motion. “Perks of being part of management.”

  “Then who’s the Magister?”

  I glanced around the immaculate foyer. Re-creations—at least, I’d hoped they were—of murals like Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam adorned the walls. The ceiling’s gold molding looked tacky, like it made up for the owner’s insecurity by screaming, “Look! I have gold on my walls!” Mostly, though, the foyer and double staircases were overflowing with Mop Tops. None of them were dressed in formal wear or had their wigs on, but it still felt like I’d barged into some kind of gala. At the center of the brouhaha were … Kenan and Bunny?

  Kenan and Bunny? Really? I’d rather it was Veronica. Kenan was a boob and Bunny screamed bake sale. In hindsight, it made for a terrific cover. I’m one of the most dashing, intelligent, and well-dressed beings in existence, yet Kenan and Bunny managed to pull this one over on me. Kudos to them, the rancid beef patties.

  Kenan wore a knock-off Tropical shirt with three buttons left undone, revealing stray chest hair. Shameful. He’d existed long enough to have more style sense than that. Unless he enjoyed dressing like a dad at a Jimmy Buffett concert. I shivered at the thought. Bunny sort of looked more the part. She’d at least made an effort, wearing a sparkling blue dress that gave off an “I’m going to prom” vibe. If she were a virgin and not part of Caelo in Terra, I’d probably have had a roll in the hay with her.

  Jurgen muttered something in German under his breath. I couldn’t hear most of it, but it probably went something like, “Bartholomew, you are the smartest non-demon I’ve ever come across in the entirety of my existence. I stand before you, awed by your mere presence.”

  That was what Jurgen said. It wasn’t the complete and utter opposite of that. Not. At. All.

  “Stupid moron,” he said in English, punching me in the shoulder blade for added emphasis.

  Kenan stepped forward, arms spread open like an angel’s wings. “So happy to see you.”

  He held out his hand for me to shake and I shrugged Veronica off, then forced a smile as I took his hand in mine.

  “Likewise?” I asked.

  “Never got a turnout like this at any of my parties Downstairs.” Kenan made a sweeping arm movement, referring to everyone in the foyer. “Amazing, how things can change. Don’t you think?”

  “Sure.”

  I hoped he wouldn’t go into a monologue about a nerd becoming the popular kid, or whatever happened in those movies from the Eighties where the geek took on the world and won. Yes, sometimes a nerd came along and won the belt from the champ, but not when I was involved. Well … maybe once or twice. I’ll never get over the Spanish Armada fiasco.

  Kenan clapped. “Where are my manners? Can I get you two a drink?”

  “What do you have?” I asked. Trapped by the bad guys or not, alcohol was still alcohol.

  “I believe we’re serving some cases of Beaulieu Vineyards’ Private Reserve from 1947.” Kenan glanced at Bunny. “Right?”

  “Right you are, my dear,” she said with a wry smile.

  “That’s a good year.” If I’m honest, it was only an okay year. The World War II era reserves were much better.

  “We’ll get you two some,” Bunny said. “Relax. Mingle. The party is just getting started.”

  The couple disappeared into the crowd of Mop Tops and I glared after them. Why all the hospitality? They knew why we were here. It wasn’t like we were invited to the party. What was going on?

  Then Jurgen poked me in the back. “I don’t see him,” he said in a whisper.

  I tilted my head back to hear. “Who?”

  “The Magister. I don’t see him.”

  “Doesn’t mean he isn’t here. Let’s get our drinks, pray they don’t chop our heads off, find Sam, and get the Heaven out of here before one of these assholes sucks us into, well, you know.” I scanned the crowd in search of Remy, but there was no sign of the Cajun fish-fried turd anywhere, either.

  Good. Maybe the Magister had sucked him into oblivion and out of existence.

  Jurgen moved ahead of me, walking past a skinny guy adjusting his floppy wig. I danced around the crowd and caught up to the musician, who didn’t break stride. We entered a large dining room, complete with a table running almost the entire length. Paintings from that period—I can’t remember which—when featuring overweight women was the in thing adorn
ed the wooden walls. The table was covered with plates of food from one end to the other.

  “I really hope these paintings aren’t the real deal,” I said.

  “Does it matter?” Jurgen asked.

  “Absolutely. They deserve better than to be in presence of these nut funguses.”

  I picked up a deviled quail egg with caviar and stuck it in my mouth. Each bite of the divine and sinful appetizer felt like an explosion of high society on my tongue. I wasn’t a fan of the taste, but upper-echelon food always made me feel classier than usual.

  Jurgen slapped what remained of the snack out of my hand. The quail egg portion landed on the floor. The caviar fell, coming to a rest on my shoe.

  “Keep it up,” I said with food in my mouth, “and I’ll make the monster come out.”

  “Can you stay focused for more than two seconds?” Jurgen asked.

  “I’m blending in. If we go straight through the house with a stern, German look on our faces, people are going to think they’re about to be raided.”

  Jurgen sighed. “Can we … please?”

  “Okay.” I licked crumbs off my lips, then grabbed another deviled quail egg, blocking Jurgen from the appetizer with my free hand. “But can you try to look only mildly grumpy? You look like you just witnessed the brutal murder of three puppies.”

  “How’s this?” Jurgen forced a smile. It was creepy, and not in a cute way, but still an improvement over his usual scowl. I wanted to mouth off at him, but opted to eat the quail egg instead.

  We needed to find a way downstairs. Nobody ever held someone against their will in a fancy bedroom or study. It was always in a basement. Or catacomb. Or dungeon. Somewhere below ground, regardless of what the room was called.

  Servers in white coats were walking out of the back corner of the dining room now, carrying trays with food and drink, while waiters with empty trays were disappearing into the same corner. I figured that was our entrance into the deeper parts of the mansion. And if that was true, it meant Sam was somewhere beyond that doorway. I mock-smiled and chuckled my way through the dining room, moving toward the hallway.