The Lucifer Messiah

by Frank Cavallo

  “For proof of that we need only look back a year. They’re still slaughtering each other en masse. Tens of millions of them lay rotting in fresh graves.

  “No. They’re not ready for the likes of us yet. Attitudes take generations to change, ideas sometimes require longer. Someday, maybe by the end of this century even, their actions might finally converge with their ideals. Then it will be our time.”

  “And if we emerge before?”

  “Then I have no doubt that our kind will vanish forever. I intend to make certain that never happens. Prophecy or not, my duty is to protect the Children of Nestor. Everything I do is to that end.”

  “Even if that requires the death of Lucifer, the death of the prophecy that gives us all hope?”

  The Morrigan nodded.

  “Even that.”

  Now Argus was certain. The Keeper’s intentions were clear, and so then was the course that he would have to take. The old one did not answer.

  The Morrigan smiled. She offered a hand to her ancient friend. It was a congenial gesture, but Argus had been acquainted with her long enough to know that everything the Morrigan did, even the smallest motion, could be threatening. Her smile was no exception.

  “Thank you, my old companion. Your counsel has been a great help to me, as always,” the Morrigan said, leaving the pale, thin figure to wonder if he had somehow just revealed himself.

  TWENTY-NINE

  GIANNI’S TRATTORIA CAMPAGNA WAS CLOSED. THE SIGN in the storefront window said so. CLOSED in big red sans serif letters. It was dark too, and the doors were locked. Sean didn’t seem to care.

  “We’re going here?” Maggie asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Do you know the owner?”

  Again, there was no answer.

  Sean rummaged around in his coat pockets, and finally produced a set of keys. He played with them, trying each one in succession in the lock, until he found the right one.

  The doors opened.

  “Did you steal the keys to this place?” Maggie whispered as they entered.

  “I most certainly did not,” he replied, feigning indignation.

  “Then how did you … ?”

  “The manager gave them to me, if you must know.”

  “But why would he?”

  “I suppose you could say he mistook me for someone else,” Sean replied.

  A slightly impish grin curled his mouth as they stepped into the darkened, steam-warmed place.

  “I don’t understand; how could he do that?” she asked.

  Sean was no longer beside her by the time she finished her question.

  She was alone for only an instant before the house lights flashed like a series of Broadway spotlights. The restaurant was cozy, long, and narrow, with replica frescoes of Pompeii and Herculaneum painted on the walls. Freshly polished hardwood lay underfoot. A liquor-lined bar with a pair of cappuccino makers occupied the far left corner. Dozens of tables, almost too many for so small a space, covered the area, chairs turned upside down on top of them. All but one, and it was that one which drew her attention.

  In the very middle of the floor a single table was prepared, two chairs turned down with a rather stereotypical red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. The gleaming silverware of two place settings rested beneath a glass vase crowned with a single white rose.

  Music played, yet another scratchy old record, and another familiar old song. But she didn’t have a moment to think about it. Suddenly Sean was behind her again, though she had not heard him approach. Without a further word, he led her over to the table like a maitre d’.

  “A lovely flower for a lovely lady,” he said, presenting her with the seat.

  “Roses of Picardy” was the tune, another John McCormack recording. The music was haunting, all the more so because she knew every word.

  Roses are shining in Picardy

  In the hush of the silvery dew

  Roses are flowering in Picardy

  But there’s never a flower like you.

  Having seated her, Sean moved to his own chair. He wasted no time lifting a bottle of prewar Pinot Grigio from a bucket of ice and pouring it.

  “Where did you?”

  “Questions, questions, just relax. You said you always wanted to see Italy, right? Well this isn’t quite Italy, but it’s as close as I could get on short notice.”

  Once both glasses were filled, he raised his own for a toast.

  “To old friends, and more. Salute,” he said.

  Even though she wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, Maggie lifted her glass, clanged it against his and sipped the wine.

  “I used to hate this song,” he said. “Do you remember? But you loved it so much. I could never quite figure out why, but it grew on me after a while.”

  “I remember.”

  “That one time when I talked you into going to the Hippodrome with me. Must’ve been the summer of ’16. We snuck in through the service entrance and saw that band with the white hats and bowties. They were playing this just as we got inside.”

  She knew exactly what he was talking about. That humid, sweltering August night had been the first time they’d kissed. It had also been the last time.

  And the roses will die with the summertime

  And our roads may be far apart

  But there’s one rose that dies not in Picardy

  ’Tis the rose that I keep in my heart

  “I hate to spoil your hospitality Sean, but don’t we have a few things we need to talk about?”

  “I should think that we do,” he answered, leaning in across the table as though he meant to repeat the seminal event of that long ago evening.

  Her response was not what he had hoped. Instead she pulled herself back and put down her glass.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “It’s Vince,” she answered, momentarily relieved to have changed the subject.

  “He intrudes upon us again,” Sean sighed.

  He drained the contents of his glass before putting it down.

  Maggie grabbed her bag and sorted through some things. She produced the parchment envelope with the broken wax seal.

  “There was a note on my door this afternoon.”

  “From who?”

  “No signature. Here, take it. It doesn’t make much sense, not to me, anyway,” she said, handing it to him. “It says your old friend has Vince in his care. If you don’t return to church soon, Vince will never come back.”

  THIRTY

  THE SKY ABOVE MANHATTAN WAS BLACK. STORM CLOUDS gathered, blotting out the stars in the west and battling with the moon. Cold mist loitered over the city. Frost crystallized on windows and exposed steel. Snow threatened.

  From the north, a brood of crows split the fog in a ghostly descent of black feathers.

  There were ten, then twelve, or perhaps only nine. The dim made it hard to discern. Whatever the number, the flock turned and dove when they came close upon the broken cross that crowned the spire of an old church. All moved as one, and all landed in unison upon the iron and brick steeple—the highest point in the area.

  Though no one was looking, and no one would have seen the change, the birds waited in silence. Until a bank of clouds swept briefly over the moon, robbing what little light there had been from the city.

  When the clouds passed, and a scattering of moon-glows once more lit the steeple, the birds were gone. Sean Mulcahy rested there, naked but for a tattered black overcoat. His bare skin was drained of color, bone white and stark against the night.

  Like the ghost of a failed saint, he clung perched atop the fractured church spire, haunting a domain he had long ago rejected. Though his form was nearly normal in other respects, his face was still. His eyes gazed forth in emptiness, sunken deep into an alabaster visage that was only vaguely human.

  Fingers that stretched absurdly long wrapped themselves like twine about the rusted iron base. His beaten coat flapped in the wind, a dark and ersatz flag over a da
rk and grim neighborhood.

  What little remained of the cross that had once presided over the cathedral heights cracked and fell away when his unnatural grip loosed. His skin, his limbs, and his face all shrunk and grew paler until the whole of him seemed almost transparent. Then, like glacier ice melting into the dark of the sea, his feigned humanity dissolved into pure liquid. In a matter of moments, the stuff of Sean Mulcahy ran in streams down the side of the steeple and over the church roof like rain.

  Once it had seeped through the ashen-cracks in the ceiling timber, all which remained upon the spire was the once-elegant overcoat. Snagged upon the jagged metal, it continued to flap in the wintry air.

  Argus rested upon the chair he had built from the remnants of a confessional booth. The frame was oak, but the lacquer had been singed during the fire of ’41, leaving the legs and arms pockmarked and charred. The violet cushions had rather amazingly survived the fire intact, and their stitched velvet was still quite comfortable.

  He was alone. Beyond his “room” where the altar had once been, on the other side of the tapestries and veils, the cathedral was already half-empty. Word had spread of the Morrigan’s announcement at the Bleecker Street Haven. Most had left to follow the call of the Keeper. Argus had been forced to repose, and to consider his next move.

  How much did the Morrigan know? Had she somehow learned of their plot? Most importantly, had the Queen already dealt with Lucifer?

  Resting like a Buddha statue, hands lifted upward in the lotus position, the eyes of his face and navel were gently closed. Those on his palms, however, gleamed bright red. They reflected the candle-glows as they peered upward, knowingly.

  When the white, luminous liquid fell from the rafters like rain, his hands saw it. They knew not to be alarmed. Argus merely waited in silence as the strange fluid pooled upon the chalky floor, churned within itself, and arose into a human-looking form. Then he opened the rest of his eyes. And he spoke. His final question now had an answer.

  “Lucifer. I have been awaiting your return. Interesting choice for an entrance. But given your exit, I expected no less,” the ancient shape-shifter began.

  Sean waited to respond as the remainder of the liquid around his naked form swirled, and replicated clothing. Soon he stood before the six-eyed being fully “dressed” in black. Only his overcoat and fedora were missing.

  “Where is Vince?”

  “You have nothing to fear, Lucifer. Your friend is confused, understandably. But he remains as we found him. We merely needed to bring you back into the fold. We wish to harm no one,” Argus said.

  His voice was silky and whispering, all the better to match his ghastly visage.

  “I want to see him. Then we’ll talk,” Sean replied.

  “Very well. There is no need for hostility,” the changeling hissed.

  His gestures imbued with an awkward panache, more like an amateur magician than a sage, the ancient being unfurled his stringy arm like a flag. His gleaming fingernails pointed toward a small door at the edge of the altar-room.

  Without another word, Sean moved toward the door. His gaze never left Argus, those red eyes blinking one after the other, until he had turned the rusty knob and entered the room that had once been the dressing chamber for the church’s priests.

  It was dark. His eyes needed a moment to adjust. A brass candelabrum rested on a table at the far end, where a figure sat huddled against the wall. An empty chest of drawers stood silently beside him.

  “Vince?” Sean began, in a half-whisper.

  At first there was no answer. He was about to try again when the man lifted up his head and looked directly at him. His gaze was cold.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Vince asked, but it was more like a statement than a question.

  “One what?”

  “Don’t play around with me Sean, not after the crap I’ve seen lately.”

  Sean nodded. He stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. The scorched hinges creaked as they swung shut.

  “I’m sorry Vince.”

  He wasn’t sure what else to say, apologies seemed to be his forte lately.

  “Sorry? You’re sorry? That don’t even come close.”

  “I never meant for you to get pulled into all this,” Sean interrupted, moving closer. Vince remained slumped against the far wall. “You may not believe that, but it’s true. If the Morrigan hadn’t interfered, I never would have gone to your apartment that night. You never would have known I was here.”

  Vince dropped his head. He didn’t seem to care. Sean kept talking anyway. He needed to keep talking.

  “It was all going to be so perfect. Maggie would just disappear. You’d hear about it, of course, but by then there’d have been nothing you could do. You’d never have known how, or with whom. And you’d never have heard from me again.”

  “Monkey-wrench got tossed into your plans, though, huh?” the ex-cop muttered, without looking up.

  “Nicely put. Truth be told, I didn’t just show up the other night, I’ve actually been in New York for several months now. I’ve been watching you and Maggie both. Quietly. Following you; to the liquor store in the morning, to the bar in the afternoon, back home at night. Watching you squander your pension money. Laughing at you, honestly.”

  The insult piqued Vince’s attention. Insults usually did. Sean remembered that much from the old days.

  “No way. Even drunk I could smell a tail a mile away. Just ask these friends of yours who tried to follow me.”

  “First off, these are not my friends,” Sean replied, smiling. “And second, you never saw me because I never wanted you to see me. But I saw you, every single day.”

  “Yeah?”

  Sean made eye contact with his old friend. He found himself enjoying their repartee, it had been a long while since anyone could argue with him the way Vince always had.

  “Don’t believe me? Try this. You used to buy your morning paper each day from a lanky Italian guy named Joe, then a few months ago there was a new kid on his corner, a Puerto Rican you called buddy, there on Thirty-Ninth and Eleventh. Every day he said the same thing.”

  Sean swallowed, and gathered his breath. When he spoke again, it was in a markedly different voice, a voice all too familiar to Vince.

  “Gracias, Meester Vince, good day now”

  Vince shook his head. How could he know that? How could that be the same voice, the exact same voice?

  “When you were inside the Rock of Cashel pub, you noticed a new fella there, an old Irish guy sitting in the corner. You asked Tommy his name; he told you it was Whitey Pete. You offered to buy him a beer about three weeks ago, but he just shook his head and walked away.”

  Vince was getting agitated. He got up from the ash-stained floor.

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  Sean continued, undeterred.

  “Or how about the bum outside the bank where you cashed your check on the third Thursday of every month?”

  Sean stepped back then, into the thick of the shadows beyond the reach of the candlelight. Vince could hear him clear his throat again.

  A voice that was not Sean’s again echoed from the dark.

  “Hey sonny, couldyou spare a dime fer an old fogy?”

  When he looked, a tiny old man with a flea-bitten beard poked his head out from the dim into which Sean had retreated only a moment before. Hunched over, but smiling his crooked teeth, he only paused for an instant before slipping back into the gloom.

  “You see? It was me. They were all me,” Sean’s voice said from the dark into which the old man had vanished. A few seconds later, Sean once more stepped out of the void.

  “I don’t expect you to believe that, of course. I never would have, if I were you. But I really don’t care,” he said, clearing his throat one last time.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Vince was standing beside the table now. His legs were quivering, but he was trying hard not to show it.

&nb
sp; “Doesn’t it? You have no idea how much sense it makes, old friend. I spent thirty years trying to forget about you, and about Maggie, living a hundred different lives, in a hundred different places. But you know what? It was never the same. It was never me. It was always someone else’s life, someone else’s love. The only time it was ever real was here. Home sweet home.”

  “What are you trying to tell me? You want your old life back, after all these years?” Vince replied.

  “Not my life. That was never worth much of anything in the first place. No, Vince. I came back for your life.”

  Sean’s smile was gone now. His look was deadly serious. Vince’s whole body felt faint. It was all he could do to keep standing up. He couldn’t even wipe the sweat from his brow.

  “I have to admit, I was a little hesitant. Even me. Once I got back here, and I saw what you were doing with it, though, I didn’t feel so bad anymore. I mean, hell, if you’re just going to piss it away, why shouldn’t I take it?”

  “You’re all nuts. All of you. Frankie was right. I really thought that guy was out of his head, but he wasn’t, was he? Crazy, Vince, that’s what he told me. Guys in robes, dancing in circles around candles like savages or witches or something. A man who looked like a woman, turning into a thing with the head of a snake and the body of a wolf, eating a human alive. Then laughing out loud as it became Sam Calabrese? A thing called Morrigan!”

  Sean remained unmoved by his friend’s outburst. Vince nearly fell down as his emotions overcame him. He was halfway between laughing and crying. Or perhaps he was doing both.

  “You’re a bunch of sick, twisted things!” he finally shouted, collapsing to his knees.

  Sean nodded, and he placed a hand on the weeping man’s shoulder. He regarded his old friend for a long, quiet moment, his gaze alternating between his own hand and the bare skin of his friend’s face.

  Finally, he lifted his touch away, as though the contact itself was painful. Then he turned to leave.

  “Goodbye Vince,” was all he said.

  “You have had your time with your friend. Now, are you prepared to join with us? We haven’t much time. The Morrigan has already gathered the flock. The festival commences as we speak,” Argus said as Sean stepped out of the inner chamber.