Bart of Darkness (The Book of Bart 2)

by Ryan Hill

  “Do we knock out a couple of them?” Jurgen asked, nodding toward the servers. “Take their coats?”

  I sighed, making sure to continue grinning. “Knocking someone out isn’t nearly as easy as it looks on TV. In reality, it would cause a lot of brain damage.”

  “Oh,” Jurgen said.

  “Then there’s the matter of hiding the body,” I said. “And when they wake up, depending on how loopy they are, chances are they’d tell someone they got knocked out.”

  “I guess I hadn’t thought it through,” Jurgen said. “I’m not used to this kind of thing.”

  “We can wait for an opening, but with the number of people here, I’m guessing the help is slammed,” I said. “Better to say nothing and walk right past them.”

  “That will work?”

  “Of course. Walk with a purpose, look straight ahead like these people are nothing to you, and we’ll be fine.”

  “Must you call them the help?”

  I tilted my head at the pianist. “Well it’s not like they’re the entertainment.”

  Jurgen nodded, his face becoming calm yet assertive. “I don’t like it, but I see your logic.”

  Turning, the two of us walked straight for the dining room’s exit, taking care not to lock eyes with anyone. It was essential to the ruse. Anyone who took notice of us would think something was going on with the help, but not to worry because Jurgen and I were on the case. Relieved, the suspicious person would go back to their blissful intoxication, failed sexual proposals, and finger foods, while forgetting they ever saw us.

  In the spirit of fairness, this only worked half the time. If that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Secret Passage

  For the moment, the plan was working. Nobody paid the pianist or me any mind as we moved past the harried caterers and into the hallway, which was covered with a gorgeous but uneven stone floor. It made for an odd choice of flooring, but walking on the stones reminded me of simpler times, when all I needed to cause a ruckus was to sneak into a castle and sleep with a prince’s intended the night before the wedding. So much fun.

  If I did the same thing with a bride-to-be now, at worst the groom would cancel the wedding and the deposit on the reception venue would be lost. Back in the Middle Ages? It started wars. Those were the days … oh yes. Those were the days.

  Around us, most of the doors, crafted out of fine wood that felt smooth and dry to the touch, with circular knobs made of metal—sorry, this hallway was amazing to look at—were open, leading to typical rooms like studies and dens.

  “This place would make for a fantastic real-life game of Clue,” I said.

  Halfway down the hall, however, I came upon a rare closed door. I tried to open it. Locked. All the other doors were unlocked, so this one had something special on the other side. Maybe it was full of dolls and teddy bears, outfitted to look like they lived in a space station … or maybe it was hiding a kidnapped Sam.

  “I think we’ve got a winner,” I said. “Check the rest of the doors to be safe.”

  Jurgen nodded and walked past me, looking side to side at the doors. One was closed, but unlocked, and he tossed open the door, glanced around the room, and nodded at me. Meanwhile, I knelt to get a good look at my door’s lock. Amazing. This thing even took one of those old, big keys, like it was a dungeon!

  “Nothing down there,” Jurgen said, returning.

  “I have to find out who designed this place.” I extended the claw on my index finger and jammed it into the lock. I twisted and turned, trying to slide everything into place, while a cold breeze blew through the crack between the door and the frame. The door may not lead to a basement, but it led to something. But probably the basement.

  “Hurry,” Jurgen said.

  “Not as easy as it looks.” These big locks were some of the easiest to pick, but this one was harder to break into than a medieval chastity belt. I forced my claw deeper into the lock, hoping to jam my way through the locking mechanism. I’d have kicked the door in if necessary, but I didn’t want to destroy a door built with such fine craftsmanship.

  Finally, the lock clicked and the door opened with a creak. Jurgen and I winced, hoping nobody would notice. They didn’t. The party down the hall was too loud. I flipped a light switch on the other side of the door, illuminating a circular, stone-built stairwell.

  “That doesn’t remind me of anything at all.”

  “What doesn’t?” Jurgen asked.

  “The stairs,” I said. “Descending in a circular motion, just like Hell.”

  Jurgen’s eyes bulged and the corners of his lips turned. “That makes zero sense.”

  “You know, the Nine Circles of Hell?”

  Nothing.

  I narrowed my gaze. “Has there ever been a funny German? Ever, in the history of the universe? I’m asking for me, not a friend. I think they’ve done polls, and you lot came out as the least funny. Name one German comedian. One.”

  “Well, there’s–”

  “No there isn’t,” I said. “Because a German wouldn’t know a joke if it was cooked into a bratwurst, digested by your stomach, then inserted into your bloodstream.”

  Jurgen’s mouth hung slightly open, shocked that I’d dare mock the Fatherland. He didn’t speak, because what could he say? That what I said wasn’t nice?

  I broke our silly stand-off and descended the stairs, my steps echoing exactly like they would have if I were in an old movie. Before I made the turn, I heard Jurgen step down onto the first step.

  “Be sure to lock the door,” I said.

  Jurgen said something to himself in German, but I was too far away to understand it. I heard the door clang shut, and the space went darker. Except for the lights, this old school stairwell made me wish I had a torch to light the way. It also would’ve kept me warm. The further I descended, the colder it got.

  I finished rounding the steps and was greeted by Kenan and Bunny’s wine cellar. It was a thing of beauty. Row upon row of bottles resting on wooden shelves, begging to be drunk. I knew Kenan had been holding out on me with that 1947 Beaulieu Vineyards. I picked up a bottle and squealed. A Château de Goulaine white wine from 1748!

  How was this possible? It was common knowledge that earlier Goulaines had disappeared in the first days of the French Revolution. I know, because I was one of the ones who helped make them disappear. Once word got out that Marie Antoinette’s days were numbered, demons—the ones with class, anyway—had flocked to France in search of all things high class to plunder. Especially wine. The only explanation for a Goulaine made before 1800 in this wine cellar was if Kenan got some, then hoarded his stash.

  Jurgen walked into the wine cellar, unimpressed. “I will never understand why people get so worked up about liquefied grapes.”

  I gasped and dropped the bottle. I reached down for it, but it slipped out of my grip and flew away from me. Thankfully my clumsiness wasn’t punished, since the bottle landed firmly in Jurgen’s grasp.

  “Now beer is another matter.” He gazed at the bottle’s label. “Fermented wheat is nectar of the gods.”

  “Spoken like a true German.” It didn’t matter that the musician had stopped the Goulaine from smashing on the floor. Simply dropping a bottle was unforgivable. I’d still regret it five thousand years from now. “I’m just glad you averted a worldwide tragedy by catching the thing.”

  Jurgen set the bottle on a shelf in a random spot. I took the bottle and placed that sweet nectar in its original place. His mouth soured, but I let it slide since he’d saved the Goulaine from certain death.

  “What now?” he asked. “We’re not going to find your friend in here.”

  I looked around the cellar. Cobwebs lined the point where the ceiling met the wall … except for one place. The shelves also had varying degrees of dust, though I found very few cobwebs hanging between bottles, which was a stroke of good luck. And there wasn’t a speck of dust on the shelves beneath the clean area on the ceiling. I moved in front
of them and inspected the bottles. They were real, but none of them really stood out. It was like they were only on there for show. I tried to take a bottle—but it didn’t move. I tried another, with the same result.

  “It’s like they’ve glued the bottles to the shelves.” I turned to Jurgen. “Maybe we’ll find my fr– associate here after all.”

  I pulled at each end of the shelf, hoping it would reveal a secret door or a poster of a naked woman. There was neither. Jurgen helped me, but the shelf held fast until I kicked it, frustrated. This was stupid.

  “Why would they have this mock-up here if it wasn’t hiding something?” I barked.

  “I don’t know,” Jurgen said. “But I agree, it’s definitely suspicious.”

  I looked over, under, and around the mock-up. There had to be a secret switch somewhere. Why go to the trouble, if there wasn’t anything hiding behind it? I slammed my palm against the shelves.

  “It’s like Kenan’s playing a practical joke, but it’s only for us.” I kicked off a shoe, then grabbed the closest bottle of wine and stuffed it in my shoe. “If Sam isn’t here, then where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Jurgen said.

  “Am I wrong to assume this place doesn’t have more than one entrance underground?” Standing near the entrance, I slammed the heel of my shoe against the stone wall, knocking a bottle of white wine on the closest shelf loose. The trick also knocked the cork halfway out of the bottle in my hand. I took the liberty of removing it all the way and chugged the wine, trying to drink it all in one massive gulp. I didn’t care that a decent amount missed my mouth and spilled onto my shirt. The drink warmed my stomach, which served to fuel my frustration. I threw the empty bottle across the room and it hit a shelf … but didn’t break.

  It bounced off, then rolled around on the floor in a circle, coming to a stop in the moat between two stones.

  “I can’t even do that right.” I leaned back against the wall and burped. “Bunch of bull crap.”

  Jurgen eyed me. I gawked back at him.

  “This isn’t the time for star gazing.”

  “Get over yourself.” He moved closer, pointing at the wall. “This one stone is not like the others.”

  I turned to get a look for myself. The stones were dark grey, smooth, and worn—with one exception. Jurgen ran his hand over a stone that was lighter in color. I pressed my hand against the stone, unsure of what would happen. It didn’t feel like stone at all. Any application of pressure moved it in, and relieving that pressure allowed it to move back out.

  The blessed thing was a button.

  I pushed it further, and without a sound, the shelves with the fake bottles swung open. Jurgen and I stood in silence at the revelation.

  I clapped. “I told you Kenan was hiding something.”

  “A fool is ever laughing,” Jurgen said.

  He didn’t deserve the last word before we descended into the creepy, crawly dungeon, but chugging the wine had slowed my thinking a touch. Not so much that I struggled to stand straight, but enough that I failed to think of a comeback to Jurgen’s remark that didn’t involve Hitler or the Holocaust. Hitler wasn’t worth the effort, and some things just shouldn’t be joked about, even for an ex-demon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Magister Caelo

  The secret passage didn’t have a spiral staircase like the wine cellar. No, these steps went straight down. A shadow moved back and forth in the light at the bottom. I nodded to Jurgen, then let out my claws.

  We took our time, descending each step with as little fanfare as possible. Why alarm whoever awaited us at the bottom of the steps when Jurgen and I could get the jump? The shadow moved closer to the stairwell, though, and the two of us stopped. The shadow’s footsteps got louder.

  “What do we do?” Jurgen asked in a whisper, desperation clinging to him like flypaper.

  I held out my hand, gesturing for him to wait.

  In the next few seconds, the shadow’s owner would come into view or not. Jurgen hissed. A pair of black boots appeared. One step closer, and we’d be spotted. The boots didn’t move, but the toes were pointed straight at us. I knelt, ready to lunge. The boots turned away and disappeared from view.

  Jurgen sighed, relieved we hadn’t been noticed. I grinned. Whoever was pacing back and forth at the bottom of these stairs had their back turned to us.

  “Now.”

  I rushed down the steps. Behind me, Jurgen let out a war cry. What a jackass. We weren’t on a suicide mission, like a soldier charging into No Man’s Land circa World War I. The two of us were taking down some petty minion. Considering my superior strength and super-sharp claws, it wouldn’t require a great deal of effort to incapacitate our target. I jumped past the last step, ready to attack, but stopped my stride when I recognized the target.

  Remy.

  Jurgen didn’t notice I’d stopped and crashed into my back, knocking me forward.

  The Creole stood guard over Sam, who sat on the hard, stone floor to my right, trapped behind metal bars. Her hands were tied, palms facing each other. It was a smart move on the turd’s part, preventing the almost-angel from using her Hand of God power. Otherwise, she’d have been free to use the power to rearrange Remy’s face.

  Duffy sprang up from his spot next to Sam.

  Remy seemed pleased to see me. “Hey, man.”

  “Seriously?” I asked. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “It’s typically how one greets a friend,” Remy said.

  “I’ve got a better greeting.” I charged him, ready to rip chunks of flesh from his body with my claws. The Creole jumped back, holding up his hands and begging me to stop, but I wrapped my fingers around his neck, then dug the claws into his flesh. All I needed was to apply a little pressure and Remy would sprout so many leaks he’d look like a human sprinkler.

  “Stop.” The Creole struggled to speak with his voice box collapsing under the force of my grip. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that.” I nodded at Jurgen. “See if there’s a key to the cell lying around.”

  “Absolutely.” Jurgen set to work finding the key.

  “I didn’t want to hurt you,” Remy said, coughing. “I didn’t want any of this. I had to.”

  “Talk to the angel if you want forgiveness.” I squeezed Remy’s throat tighter. Thin lines of blood trickled from the puncture wounds. To me, they looked like party streamers. All that remained was the fireworks. “Because you won’t get an ounce of it from me.”

  “Kenan made me do it,” Remy gasped. “All of it. You think I like doing this?”

  “I wouldn’t like to kill you,” I said with a grin. “But I’m warming up to the idea.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Duffy said. “Somebody else was down here and said he was under a spell.”

  It made sense that Remy was cursed. Even if that explained his actions, though, I was still angry with the Creole. He’d melted me. That’s not something I could easily forgive. Or forget.

  “For someone who deals in voodoo,” I said. “It must be awfully embarrassing to fall under someone’s spell.”

  “No comment,” Remy said.

  “I don’t see a key anywhere,” Jurgen said behind me.

  “Where is it?” I asked Remy.

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Liar.” I motioned with my eyes for Duffy to check Remy for the key. The kid ran through the bars, then stuck his tongue out at Remy.

  “Where’s the kid?”

  Duffy froze. “I thought he couldn’t see me?”

  “Heaven,” I said. “Gabriel came to collect him earlier today.”

  “Good for Duffy,” Remy said. “Hope he enjoys Heaven.”

  “Aren’t you sweet?” I asked. “But back to business. You may not know what happens to a person when all of the arteries in the neck are punctured, but I do. And soon enough, everyone down here will too.”

  “Honest,” Remy
said. “I’d tell you if I had the key.”

  I glanced over to Sam. “Do you know where it is?”

  “Arthur has them.”

  That shifty grease ball. At least he was on guard duty and not partying upstairs with the others.

  “I don’t want to wait around for that leaky jelly doughnut to show up.” I looked around, trying to think of something that might break Sam out. “We could use Remy’s head as a battering ram.”

  The Creole moaned. “That’s going to dent my head, isn’t it?”

  “Probably.” I tried to lift him off the floor, but it didn’t work out so well. Nothing happened. The Cajun didn’t move one millimeter off the floor. He must’ve used voodoo magic to weigh himself down. There was no other reason for me to be unable to lift him up—because lack of strength wasn’t the issue. I was strong like a bull.

  The extra pressure to Remy’s neck did turn his face purple, though, so I had that going for me.

  “Bartholomew,” Jurgen said. I ignored him.

  “You’re almost one hundred years old,” I said. “Is this how you want to go out? Disgraced and excommunicated by your home? Strangled and dismembered by one of your best customers?”

  “No.” Remy coughed.

  “Bartholomew, don’t–” Jurgen said. But I didn’t care what he had to say.

  “He’s right,” Sam said, moving close to the cell door. “You need to let Remy go.”

  “Are you mad?” I asked.

  “Something’s wrong with Jurgen,” Duffy said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “He said you might want to check on your friend,” a voice said. “He ain’t doin’ so hot.”

  I turned to see Arthur Powell standing at the entrance, his stance making his gut hang out below the Hawaiian shirt he wore. Remy tried to use the opening to get free, but I dug my claws in deeper. The blood leaking from his wounds went from a trickle to a slight gushing. It almost made me giggle.