The Lucifer Messiah

by Frank Cavallo

  Charybdis smiled, and she laughed.

  “Somethin’ funny about that?” Vince questioned.

  “No. He was one of us once, as well. Many years ago. But he left our fold too. Lucifer does not like to stay in one place for very long.”

  “Lucifer. Why do you call him that?”

  “That is his name among us, among his kind.”

  Vince again did not respond, except to furrow his brow and fix a silent stare into her eyes.

  “Surely by now you must have guessed that you are not among ordinary folk.”

  “You don’t look so strange, a little pale maybe, but nothin’ compared to that last guy or the fella with all the eyes.”

  “Argus, yes. He is truly an unusual specimen, even among us. As for myself, however I appear to you now is merely a phase, a temporary form. In a matter of days, this will pass away again. Not a moment too soon, as well, I can assure you.”

  “What the hell are you people?”

  The comment was half-intended as an insult. But to Vince’s surprise, Charybdis took no offense. In fact, she grinned.

  “That’s debatable. Depends on who you talk to,” she answered. “Argus believes that we are a noble and ancient race, banished from our rightful place in the world, and destined to return to our former glory one day. The Morrigan on the other hand, she seems to think that we exist only to serve her.”

  “And you?” the answer had hardly satisfied Vince’s curiosity, but he still wasn’t sure if he wanted to know any more.

  Charybdis sneered, and she sighed.

  “No one has ever been much interested in my opinion, except perhaps for Lucifer. If you care then, I’ll tell you what I told him. I say we are a cursed lot, the damned walking silently among the saved, to put it in the Christian vernacular.”

  “And what did he think?”

  “When I knew him I suspect he might have agreed with me. He was a wretch in those days, lost and more scared of himself than anything else. Argus and I found him, rescued him according to the ancient one. He stayed with us, at our Haven in Prague, for almost a year.”

  “Prague, huh? As in Czechoslovakia? What the hell was he doing there?”

  “Wandering, drinking, causing trouble.”

  “Sounds like Sean.”

  “As closely as were able to discern, he came to Europe in 1917 as a part of the American Expeditionary Force, but he left his unit during the War. He first came to our attention in St. Petersburg.”

  “Florida?”

  “Russia, what they’re calling Leningrad today.”

  “Guy got around, didn’t he?”

  “Indeed. He left quite an impression as well, as you might imagine. I sit here today because of him, in fact,” Charybdis said.

  “Really?”

  “Again, a rather long story. In any case, after Russia we lost track of him ourselves for nearly six years, until he wandered quite accidentally into Argus’s jurisdiction, which used to be Prague.”

  “He’d just been walking around in Europe since 1917?”

  “Apparently so. He was never willing to discuss it much, and I was perhaps the closest person to him at the Haven.”

  “Haven? There’s that word again, as in the Bleecker Street Haven?”

  “Yes, our safe-house in New York. We have them all over the world, places for our kind to rest, and to do various other things.”

  “What other things did you do there?” Vince asked, with a wink.

  “Nothing as sinister as you may be thinking, my friend,” Charybdis answered, a smile on her own lips. “We tried to teach him the ways of our kind, our history, and our traditions.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was reluctant at first, then he seemed to accept some of what we had to show him, but it always seemed to me that he never really wanted to be among his own kind, he never felt like one of us. Argus ignored my worries. I thought we were becoming close, he and I, but then one day, he simply vanished.”

  “Vanished?”

  “Yes, Lucifer you see, has some rather, unique abilities.”

  Vince laughed. This time it was Charybdis’s turn to be confused.

  “Do you know something about that?” she asked.

  “What you’re talkin’ about? Not a clue. But unique is the right word for Sean, you hit that one on the nose.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “Have we anything but time?”

  Vince could not argue.

  “Well, okay. Sean was always a wild one. We used to fight all the time, when we were kids, you know? Our buildings were close to each other, about a block away. But his was on Thirty-Eighth, which was a mick block, and mine was on Thirty-Ninth Street, at the time one of the few Italian areas of Hell’s Kitchen. So naturally, we hated each other.”

  “Oh, naturally,” Charybdis replied. She didn’t quite understand, but the logic seemed to make sense to Vince.

  “He was kind of a small kid, we were about the same age, but I was much bigger than him. Anyway, there was always a lot more micks in the Kitchen than guineas like me, especially in those days; we’re talking about 1910 or so here. They didn’t like us movin’ into their neighborhood, and we had it out with them guys almost every day. Sean, even though he was a little punk, he was a loudmouth, and he took a beatin’ all the time. From me personally quite few times, in fact. Stubborn little jerk never gave up, though, didn’t matter how much you pounded on his ass one day, he’d be back the next day still calling you a dumb dago right to your face.”

  “Yes, difficult man to discourage, isn’t he?” Charybdis echoed.

  “Right. So then there’s this one day, we’ve got to be about eleven or twelve by then. My mother, God rest her soul, was sick, couldn’t leave the apartment. But she couldn’t miss lighting a candle at the church every day for my grandmother, who had just died back in Sicily. So she had me go all the way over to Holy Cross every day after school to light one for her. Problem was, I had to run through a big mick neighborhood to get there and back. And every day, there’s Sean, chasin’ after me, callin’ me names with all of his little shanty Irish buddies from the corner.

  “So one day, I’m just fed up, and I stop runnin’. They catch up to me in an alley, and me and Sean have it out. It’s just me you know, and him with all his dirty mick friends, but we fight one on one, fair fight all the way.”

  “How honorable of you,” Charybdis interjected. Vince ignored him, since the sarcasm was lost on him anyway.

  “Funny, I remember that no matter how hard I hit him, he just kept comin’ back at me, and damn if he didn’t hit hard for a little twelve-year-old potato-eater. Crazy thing is, he was smilin’ through the whole thing. I’d whack him as hard as I could, and he’d shake it off, laugh, and then wallop me right back.

  “This goes on for almost an hour. Finally, I’m dead tired. I catch him off-guard. I get him once in the gut, and while he’s doubled over, I crank him across the jaw. He goes down in a heap.

  “That’s when his buddies jump in. Three or four of them, all older and bigger than me. One gets me wrapped up with a chain, right around my neck, and another’s got a broken bottle. They’re passin’ some swill around, laughin’ as they try to decide how they’re gonna mess me up. I’m chokin’, I can hardly breathe, and they’re about to cut me.

  “That’s when Sean got up. I’ll tell you, I still don’t know why he did it, but I never much cared. In about a minute he had all of those micks off of me, and Sean told me to get lost. I didn’t waste any time.”

  “Interesting story,” Charybdis said.

  “Yeah, but there’s more. The next day, Sean comes down my street. Anybody else, any other time, and me and my paisans would a killed him. But I owed him in a funny sort of way, and I let him talk. He actually apologized for his friends, and told me that he always fought fair and that if I wanted to take a free shot at him, that was okay by him.”

  “And?”

>   “And we’ve been friends ever since.”

  “So you didn’t take a shot at him?”

  “Of course I did. But like I said before, that little mick was so tough, nothing could ever really hurt him.

  “We were buddies for years after that, he even introduced me to the girl I ended up marrying.”

  “Margaret.”

  The fact that Charybdis knew her name snapped Vince right out of his nostalgic funk. A slap of cold water right in the face.

  “How did you know that?” he demanded.

  Charybdis sensed his discomfort. She tried to calm him.

  “Lucifer told me, in Prague. He said that was why he left.”

  “Yeah. I bet he did. But now he’s back, isn’t he? And now he’s got Maggie all to himself, finally.”

  Charybdis looked up. She saw Argus gesture toward her from the altar. Politely, she excused herself from Vince’s company, dazed though it was, and made her way to the ancient one’s side.

  “I would allow you more time, but we haven’t the luxury,” Argus said. “What were you able to learn?”

  “Very little. He’s not entirely coherent. I think he believes Lucifer has run off with his wife,” she replied, with a wry smile.

  “Don’t dismiss him too quickly, Charybdis. Perhaps there is something to that,” Argus said.

  “What do you wish to do?”

  “Lucifer has called my bluff. That leaves only one option. You’ll need to make contact with the Morrigan. I had hoped to avoid a repeat of the events in Venice, but now it seems we are left with no other choice.”

  “What have you in mind?” Charybdis asked.

  “Go to the Morrigan. Tell her of my betrayal. Tell her that you once thought me wise, but that you have now seen the error of my course,” Argus said.

  “But master, I can’t …” she answered.

  “You must. Doubtless she now realizes that I am aligned against her. This is the only way. You must regain her trust. Despite our young trickster’s belief, the Morrigan will not stop her pursuit until one of them is dead.

  “I suspect that she has plans in the works as we speak. You must learn what they are, insinuate yourself into them and protect Lucifer from harm. If we can show Sean Mulcahy the folly of disregarding the Morrigan, we may have one last chance to use him for our ends.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THE “THRONE OF THE KEEPER” WAS A FIGURATIVE seat. There had not been a literal, honorary chair as such since the true throne had been lost amid the chaos of the early Holy Roman Empire.

  Yet as the day dawned across Manhattan, the Morrigan presided like a dark queen, perched upon a seat that was of her own crafting. It was a high-backed chair of bronze and iron, sunbursts carved beside the headrest, with white Chinese silk sewn over the cushions. Coated in gold from the cache of a Sultan, studded with gems from the vault of a Tsar, it was a testament to the many lives she had led among the human world, and a statement to those others who were her subjects. She was their lord. Both king and queen, emperor and empress, powerful, watchful, and above all, beautiful.

  With eyes that were flame-red and gleaming, she regarded the festival beneath. Her thin, lithe frame draped in a silken mantle, the being who had now shed the bloated form of Salvatore Calabrese rested atop a broad platform at the far end of the warehouse, which itself had been utterly transformed.

  The empty ruin was now a raging, bacchanalian paradise.

  Joyous mayhem reigned through a haze of hashish smoke and squeals of deep delight, the blissful chaos the Morrigan so loved. Hedonistic excess spilled out in every direction. Figures both beautiful and hideous cavorted in orgiastic glee, spread among the many gatherings scattered throughout the cavernous expanse.

  At the center of it all, a brood of naked celebrants slithered amongst one another, their skin oiled and slick. Limbs and fingers, legs and tails intertwined in fluid entanglements, dreamily captive to the rhythm of a hypnotic dance. Their every lascivious gesture called out cheers from their fellows, as the pace of their waltz ebbed and flowed to the notes of a twisted orchestra.

  Stationed at the base of the Keeper’s stage, they were the strangest collection of musical talent ever assembled. A pair of headless violinists joined their melodies with the notes from a trio of faceless cellists. A woman with four arms and four hands played two string instruments in unison, producing delicately interwoven sounds the likes of which no human ear had ever heard. A green-skinned woman who had no hands played the flute together with a yellow-skinned man who had no mouth. At their lead was a leonine creature who fiercely plucked the strings of a lyre with his spotted tail.

  A snarl from the left broke the mood of the party, however, alerting the Keeper to a sudden disturbance. A moment later it came again, more like a howl the second time, a familiar sound to the glowing Morrigan. It was the growl of Lycaon, and it was not a pleasant sound.

  The wolf-faced aide appeared amid the crowd, having just passed through the dark gates wherein the fearsome Daughters of Cerberus stood endless watch. The Morrigan took note of him at once, even before he reared on his thick hindquarters and bounded to the pinnacle of the Keeper’s platform in three great leaps.

  It was only then, as Lycaon came to rest on one knee before the black-haired regent, that the Morrigan saw he was not alone. Clutched among his hairy forelimbs were two unconscious figures. On his right he clung to the bloodied, half-molted form of Arachne. Her body, while partially covered in hardening self-secreted slime, looked to have already been ravaged.

  His left arm held Scylla, free from the cocoon and clearly a woman of surpassing features. She was unclothed, her skin bronze and flawless, her pose elegant even braced limply in the arms of the beast.

  For all the beauty of her thin frame and her soft face, however, those were not her most striking attributes. What garnered the Keeper’s attention were her arms, all six of them, arrayed from her shoulders like a Hindu goddess.

  A swatch of blood-soaked linen was tied hastily over the wound in her middle.

  The Morrigan arose from her seat with a start. She recognized Scylla at once, for though she had last seen her only a few days earlier, it had been years since she’d seen the changeling’s true form.

  “Scylla, lovely Scylla. What has befallen you?” she said, though only Lycaon could hear her.

  “She is not dead. But I fear her time may be short,” the wolf-thing answered as he set her down.

  A wave of his clawed hand brought forward a cadre of the white-robed adherents from the foot of the Keeper’s platform. The forms of the Maenads, however hideous or lovely, were all hidden by their heavy woolen shrouds. In a silent march they took up a circle around Lycaon and the Morrigan, turning their backs and shutting out all view of the Keeper, her trusted aide, and the two fallen women.

  When the Morrigan placed her graceful hand over her face, a warm light illuminated her features. Scylla’s opal eyes opened slowly.

  “My apologies, master,” she began. “I have failed you again.”

  “Unnecessary, but accepted nonetheless. Can you tell us how this terrible thing befell you?” the Morrigan asked.

  “Lucifer … I have sought Lucifer …” she answered, delirious. Her midsection was swathed in Lycaon’s poorly wrapped bandages. The blood loss had rendered her senseless.

  “I believe Argus is to blame,” Lycaon said.

  “Argus?” the Keeper inquired.

  “You sought proof of his treachery, now we have it. The ancient one has betrayed us,” Lycaon said. “When I came to her, this other one, Arachne was attempting to kill her. A younger member of our fold, she was Argus’s most recent aide and guard.”

  Their attention turned for a moment to the body of the motionless blonde.

  “Do we know of the ancient one’s location?” the Morrigan asked, her hand stroking Scylla’s brow gently as she fell out of consciousness.

  “He is not at the Bleecker Street Haven, and appears to have been gone from there for so
me time. We still have no idea where he has set his lair within the city. We do not know where he hides, or how many of his followers hide with him.”

  “And Charybdis?”

  “I have no information about her, only that she has been with Argus since he arrived here. Of her part in this plot I cannot say, though I have my suspicions.”

  “Indeed, we must locate her now.”

  “And of this one?” Lycaon asked. He was itching to sink his claws into Arachne’s flesh. “I would take it as a personal honor if you allowed me to kill her myself.”

  “No,” came the quiet reply.

  “My queen!”

  “Take some pause, loyal servant,” the Morrigan said, the light faded from her touch, as the life continued to ebb from Scylla’s wounded belly. “This one will suffer, of that you need not worry. But her agony will be for my gain. If she is Argus’s trusted aide, she may prove useful to me. Even if she doesn’t know it just yet.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  MAGGIE’S DOORBELL RANG, AND SHE JUMPED.

  Vince was in the bedroom packing a suitcase. He appeared in the foyer a moment later. His gun was already drawn from his shoulder holster. He cocked it slowly, with minimal sound.

  They did not speak. Both knew, of course, that few killers were in the habit of ringing the doorbells of their prospective victims. But it was prudent to be cautious. With a nod, he eased her behind him. She receded toward the hallway that led to the bathroom.

  Vince cleared his throat with as little noise as he could, and he stepped up to the door. He did not unlatch it.

  “Who’s there?” he began.

  The voice on the other side seemed to recognize him.

  “Vince? It’s me, Paddie. Let me in, we need to talk.”

  “Paddie?” he responded, suggesting he’d never heard the name before.

  Maggie kept watching, wondering what Vince was doing. She hadn’t seen Pat Flanagan for years, but even she remembered his gravely, two-pack-a-day voice.

  “Paddie? What is this? Very funny, Vince. Detective Flanagan, maybe? How’d you like that? What did you go soft in the head since I seen you last?”