“I don’t suppose you have any idea who might be responsible for this little creation.”
Methuselah’s head and neck made a harsh grinding sound as he shook it. “I’d love to meet him, though,” he said. “Having my soul transferred into something like this would be like going from an Edsel to a Ferrari.”
“Know anybody who might be able to tell me more?” Francis asked. He swiveled on the barstool, looking out over the tables. “Anybody in here, maybe?”
“Nah, just the usual bunch of reprobates right now, I’m afraid,” Methuselah said as he wiped down the bar with his towel. Then he stopped, as if he’d suddenly gotten an idea. “Wait a minute. Give me a second, will ya?”
“Sure,” Francis said, continuing to enjoy his Scotch as the stone man lumbered off through a set of double doors near the bar.
It wasn’t long before he was back, a fat guy wearing a stained apron and a paper hat in tow.
“This is Angus, my cook,” Methuselah told Francis. “Makes an excellent meat loaf, but he also knows a few things about magick.”
Angus pushed past his boss, his rounded belly leading the way as he approached the bar. He was carrying a large glass of ice water and was about to take a drink when the motion stopped.
His eyes were transfixed by the golem skull.
“Look familiar to you?” Francis asked, closely watching the big man.
Angus finally took his drink, and Francis noticed a slight tremble in his hand, one that he didn’t think was there before.
“Nope,” Angus said, turning quickly toward his boss. “That it?”
“Nothing?” Methuselah asked.
“Nope, it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before,” Angus answered. “I gotta get back to the kitchen… Tonight’s haggis special isn’t gonna make itself.”
Methuselah waved the man past, and Francis watched him head quickly back through the double doors, sure the cook knew more than he was letting on.
“Sorry about that.” The stone man shrugged. “Thought he might’ve been able to help you.” He reached for the bottle of Scotch. “Hit you again?”
“No, I’m good,” Francis said, although he was sorely tempted.
He climbed off the stool, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.
“No worries,” Methuselah said, shaking his stone hand in front of Francis as he retrieved the empty tumbler with the other. “Your boss has an open line of credit here.”
“But this isn’t my boss’s case,” Francis told him.
The stone man laughed, dunking the dirty glass into a sink of soapy water beneath the bar.
“It always starts off that way, doesn’t it?” Methuselah said as he started to rinse the glasses from the sink.
“Be seeing you, Francis. Nice to know that the rumors of your demise were greatly exaggerated.”
Francis knew that it was only a matter of time before Methuselah’s cook would step out back for a smoke. His fingernails, stained brown with nicotine, had been the dead giveaway.
He had been waiting in the shadows for more than an hour, the golem skull on the ground at his feet, observing the comings and goings of the strange, insectlike creatures that were Methuselah’s busboys as they took their breaks. He was fascinated by the odd game they played, similar to dice but with two small, hairless rodents that screamed like the dickens when they were rolled.
The screen door opened again with a creak, and this time Angus the cook finally stepped out. He was already lighting up as the screen door slammed closed behind him.
Francis noticed that he’d removed his paper cap and was no longer wearing his filthy apron. It looked as though the cook’s shift was finished. How opportune; now Francis could have him all to himself.
Angus took a long, deep pull on the cigarette. And Francis took the opportunity to kick the golem skull toward him. It rolled awkwardly across the pavement and stopped directly in front of the cook, staring at his feet.
Francis couldn’t have asked for a better kick.
Angus was so startled that he leapt backward, dropping his cigarette and muttering something beneath his breath. In a matter of seconds, his fingers were crackling with a spell of defense.
Methuselah had been right about the large man’s magickal background.
“See, this is why I decided to hang around,” Francis said as he stepped from the shadows. He lit up his own smoke, casually puffing away as the cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. “That reaction to the golem skull tells me you do know something about it.”
Angus unleashed a blast of supernatural energy that arced through the air like lightning. Francis ducked, and the destructive magick struck an overflowing Dumpster, flipping it over and sending foul-smelling refuse across the alley.
The cook was gearing up to let loose another volley, but Francis was already on the move, darting across the alley to place the blade of the divine scalpel beneath the fat man’s throat.
“I don’t think we need any more spells. Do you?”
“What do you want from me?” Angus asked, eyes wide as the blade dimpled the flabby flesh beneath his chin.
“I want to know the truth about that skull,” Francis said.
Angus squeezed his eyes shut. “I told you I don’t know anything about-”
“And I’m telling you that you’re lying,” Francis interrupted coolly, pushing ever so slightly on the scalpel so that its tip entered the flesh no more than a millimeter.
Angus hissed, pulling away, but Francis and his blade followed.
“Look, I used to be an angel of the Heavenly host Guardian, and we can totally tell when somebody is lying, which you are.”
Some of the insect busboys had come outside for another round of their game. They caught sight of Francis and Angus and immediately crouched lower to the ground, clicking and buzzing, watching with their segmented eyes.
“Everything’s fine here,” Francis announced. “Go on and play your game. And watch out for that one.” He nodded toward the bug standing closest to the building. “I think he’s cheating.”
The insects reacted, as the accused bug attempted to defend himself.
“Let’s go someplace less crowded and talk,” Francis said quietly to Angus. He withdrew the blade and placed it inside the pocket of his suit coat.
Angus stumbled back with a gasp, the fat fingers of his right hand wiping at the bead of blood that seeped from the wound in his chin, while the left started to radiate with excess magickal energy.
Francis just stood there, staring at the man with unblinking eyes.
“You’re…you’re not going to kill me?” Angus wheezed.
What remained of his cigarette still dangled at the corner of his mouth, and Francis let it drop to the ground. “No, as long as you take that glowing hand you’re sporting and stick it in your pocket.”
Angus seemed to think about that for a moment, then brought the hand shining with destructive potential to his mouth and blew on it, snuffing out the power.
Francis nodded.
“I didn’t know that about Guardians,” Angus said.
Francis wasn’t sure what the man was talking about, and his confusion must have shown on his face.
“That you could tell when somebody is lying,” Angus elaborated.
Francis laughed.
“We can’t,” he said, turning to leave Methuselah’s back lot. “I lied.”
Francis marched Angus into Methuselah’s, taking a table in the far back of the tavern, the single candle in the table’s center barely keeping the encroaching shadows at bay.
A waitress with skin so pale that Francis could actually see her entire circulatory system brought them drinks. Both were having Scotch, neat. No surprise there. What else would a guy named Angus drink?
“So tell me about it,” Francis said, puffing on another cigarette.
Angus was holding the skull in his chubby, nicotine-stained fingers, staring into the dark recesses of its eye sockets.
“There’s no do
ubting the craftsmanship,” he replied, turning the skull around. “I didn’t want it to be so, but it all makes a twisted kind of sense now.”
He set the skull on the table and grabbed his drink, pouring it down his gullet in one gulp. Then he smacked his lips and breathed heavily, his massive chest heaving up and down.
Francis caught the translucent waitress’s eye and motioned for another round.
“So I’m guessing you do know who made this,” Francis said, finishing his own libation.
Angus nodded, his round face glistening with perspiration in the feeble light of the candle. “Knew him, and believed myself partially responsible for his death.” He picked up his empty glass and tipped it back, as if hoping for one last drop. “Myself and the cabal.
“But this,” he said, eyeing the golem skull again, “tells me that he still lives.”
“Let’s start with who,” Francis prodded. “Who’s still alive?”
“Konrad Deacon,” Angus answered. “He was a member of a sorcerous cabal that included me and four others.”
See-through Sally returned to the table with their drinks, and Angus eagerly grabbed at his.
“Why don’t you drink that one a little slower,” Francis suggested. “I don’t want you forgetting anything important.”
The sorcerer glared, but did sip at his drink.
“There ya go,” Francis said. “Lasts longer that way, anyhow. So, tell me about this Deacon.”
“He was the youngest, and the last to be accepted into our exclusive club,” Angus recalled. “He had a gift for creating artificial life… Golems were his specialty. In fact, he gave us the knowledge to create our own. We all used them. They were great for walking the dog, doing yard work, taking out nosy reporters doing a tell-all story on one’s family.”
Francis placed his hand atop the clay skull and turned it to face him. “And you can tell that this is one of his?”
Angus nodded. “He had quite a knack. Nobody I’ve encountered since has been able to make them so realistic…so human.”
“And this somehow led to his supposed death?”
Angus paused for a moment, his drink partway to his mouth again. “In a way, perhaps,” he finally stated. “He showed great promise as a leader…until Stearns decided that he was too dangerous to live.”
“Stearns?”
“Algernon Stearns. Newspaper family. Very influential politically; has branched off into electronic media, television, and Internet. He’s extremely reclusive.”
“Oh yeah,” Francis said, vaguely familiar with the name. He remembered that one of Boston’s newer skyscrapers was owned by the family.
“At that point, Stearns was the leader of the cabal.”
“Ah,” Francis said. “Should have figured that one out.”
“Stearns convinced us that Deacon was dangerous, that he would try to usurp our power, so we did to him what we believed he would do to us: We attacked first, taking his magickal knowledge to split up among us.”
“But Deacon didn’t die.”
“We thought he had. In fact, the rest of us barely escaped with our lives that night.” Angus was staring wide-eyed into the darkness, reliving the moment. “Deacon unleashed a terrible spell. His entire home seemed to collapse in on itself and was sucked into the unholy abyss of nothingness.”
“This Deacon sounds like one powerful magick user,” Francis commented.
“We all were…and we owed it to Deacon. He showed us how to tap into the power of life…how we could use the universal force of existence to make us the most powerful magick wielders upon the planet.”
“And you tried to kill him for it,” Francis said.
“We thought we’d succeeded, but now…” Angus gazed at the skull. “The cabal eventually disbanded; petty squabbling caused us to go our separate ways…and we lost track of one another.”
Angus’ eyes shifted uneasily to Francis.
“But then I heard murmurings in the magickal community that members of the old cabal…our cabal…were turning up dead. I decided to make myself scarce, just in case.”
“Which explains why you’re cooking at Methuselah’s.”
Angus shrugged. “I’ve always liked to cook, and I needed something to do with my spare time.”
“So, you think Deacon is still alive and is hunting for you?”
“I wasn’t sure at first, but now…seeing this.” Angus gestured toward the skull with his chin, the thick wattle around his throat vibrating. “I’m convinced it’s him.”
“So I’m thinking you haven’t a clue as to where I can find this Deacon?”
Angus raised what remained of his drink. “If I knew that, he’d already be dead.” Then he downed the last of his Scotch.
Francis stood. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
Angus was eyeing the Scotch left in Francis’s glass, so he slid it across the table to him.
“Help yourself. And thanks for the information.”
As Francis started for the door, Translucent Tricia moved to intercept him with the bill.
“Put it on my tab,” he said. “And be sure to give yourself a good tip.”
Angus Heath, fortified with twenty-five-year-old Scotch, ventured out into the night, weaving a shroud of enchantment to distort his appearance and warn him of magickal attack.
He had no desire to end up like the others, whatever their fates may have been.
Passing through the heavy wooden door at the end of the path from Methuselah’s, he entered a maintenance closet in one of New Orleans’ finest restaurants. The smells of the place made him remember what it was like to eat. He breathed in the delicious aroma of gumbo and shrimp remoulade, a specialty of the house. But no matter how much he wanted to indulge, he dared not.
His body craved a different sustenance.
He had been sorely tempted by the life energy emanating from the fallen angel and had almost reached out to sample his tainted divinity. But something had stopped him, telling him it wouldn’t be wise. He remembered the scalpel of light and how easily the angel had wielded it, as if it were an extension of his body. No, he was glad he had shown restraint.
He left the restaurant and began wandering the nearly vacant, rain-swept streets of the French Quarter. His home was located on Royal Street. A big, old, three-story American town house he’d converted to his needs over the many years he’d lived there. To the average eye, the place appeared unlived-in, but looks could be deceiving. Angus couldn’t count the number of times he’d glanced out the window of his second-floor bedroom to see people crossing themselves as they passed.
Angus climbed the steps to his front door, waved a hand before the lock, and listened as the mechanisms within changed their configuration and slowly the door swung open to grant him entrance.
It was dark inside, so he clapped his hands together, igniting the lamps that hung from the walls-lamps that contained the nearly developed souls of the aborted. It was surprising how much light they could generate.
That special hunger was gnawing at him now and he could think of nothing other than sustenance. He hauled his bulk up the stairs to his second-floor living quarters, but he did not stop there, continuing on to the third level, where he stored his food.
The hunger grew with the exertion of the climb, and he was nearly beyond insatiable as he let himself into his larder. He liked to keep it full, receiving frequent shipments of teenage boys and girls from a special supplier. The cost was outrageous, but on nights such as this, when the hunger was like a thing alive inside him, screaming to be satisfied, it was worth double the price.
He rushed inside the room and froze.
Nothing could have prepared him for this.
They were all dead, his beautiful young adults, strewn haphazardly about the room, their life forces silenced, leaving behind nothing but empty husks.
Something moved, and Angus immediately began to summon a spell of combat. But then a familiar voice called out to him.
�
��Angus. Is that you?”
“Algernon?” Angus lowered his guard. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’ve been looking for you,” the onetime leader of the cabal stated. “To warn you…”
“It’s Deacon,” Angus said excitedly. “Konrad Deacon is alive and seeking revenge.”
“Deacon, you say?”
Angus nodded eagerly. “I’ve seen proof that he still lives.”
He looked sadly at his food, spoiling on the floor. “Is this how you found them?” he asked.
Stearns was gazing at the bodies, but Angus could tell that his former leader’s thoughts were far away.
“Algernon?” Angus approached his comrade.
“No,” Stearns said suddenly. “They were all quite alive when I arrived.”
Angus was startled but had no time to react, for it was then that Stearns struck. His arm shot out, his hand grabbing Angus’ corpulent face, fingers splayed.
“I had no idea how long you would be, and I was famished.”
Angus tried to pull away, but found his strength sapped. He could feel movement against his face, small openings-like eager mouths-on the palms of Stearns’ hand attaching themselves to his face.
Hungry mouths feeding upon him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The idea of being used as some kind of weapon felt like the point of a spear being jammed into Remy’s belly and slowly twisted.
“You look uncomfortable, Mr. Chandler,” Deacon said.
“I don’t care for the idea of being used,” Remy replied quietly, rearranging his silverware. “In fact, it makes me quite angry.”
Deacon leaned back in his chair, as much as the exoskeleton would allow him. “Would it help if I apologized?” he asked, his tone lacking all sincerity. “I’ll do so if it will clear the air.”
“I doubt it would matter.” Remy could feel his true nature attempting to assert itself, but he forced it back. It wasn’t yet time to call on its talents.
The old man seemed to think about that for a moment. “I guess you’re right,” he said finally. “Abducting the girl does set a bit of a tone.”
The silver knife was cold in Remy’s hand, and he imagined it hot, radiating with the divinity of Heaven.
In the House of the Wicked rc-5 Page 12