And she would not stop laughing.
Remy called the number on the piece of paper, and the phone was picked up immediately. A voice that sent a slight shiver down his spine quickly asked who it was, and when Remy told him, it gave him an address and abruptly ended the call.
He wished he could have been a little more surprised when he pulled up in front of the former Saint Augustine Church in West Roxbury. Saint Augustine was another one of those churches that everyone in the Commonwealth had read about, closed down by the Archdiocese because of poor attendance and even poorer contributions to the Catholic Church’s coffers, despite it having been a fixture in the old neighborhood for well over seventy-five years. The church had been deconsecrated, and now it was just an empty building waiting to be sold.
Remy closed the door of his car and crossed the street to the steps leading up to the old building. There were two older women sitting in collapsible lawn chairs in front of the entrance.
He knew why they were there; many parishioners of the closed churches had been sitting vigil twenty-four/seven, hoping that somebody with some power would take notice of their protest and eventually reopen their place of worship. Their faith in their cause was admirable, but it had all become matters of dollars and cents to the monolithic church; Saint Augustine, he guessed, wasn’t even a blip on their radar.
One of the women was knitting furiously and looked up as he approached, reaching out to nudge the other beside her, who had fallen asleep, a hardcover book in her lap.
“Good morning,” Remy said, placing a foot on the first step leading up to the entrance of the church.
The one who had been napping eyed him with suspicion. Remy could have sworn that he felt her eyes boring into the top of his shoe.
“Good morning,” the old woman who continued to knit said with mock friendliness. “Can I help you? Are you lost?”
“I don’t think so,” Remy said with a smile and a shake of his head. “I’m supposed to meet somebody.”
The old women shared a cautious look.
“I don’t know who you’d be meeting here,” the knitter said. “There’s only us until we’re relieved at two thirty.”
“There’s no one else around?” Remy asked, suspecting that the old girls knew more than they were letting on.
“Just Clara and me,” the knitter said, as Clara continued to practice her death stare.
He was about to retreat to his car when he caught the sound of a lock being turned, and one of the large wooden doors opened a crack.
“Let him in,” a voice whispered from inside.
“Are you sure?” Clara asked, her beady eyes going from Remy and back to the door.
“I’m sure.”
The knitter dropped her needles for a moment and gestured for him to approach. Remy climbed the stairs.
“Can’t be too careful,” she said, retrieving her needles and picking up where she had left off.
Remy took note of how quickly her hands manipulated the twin needles, and also the fact that they were quite thick and golden in color. He also noticed sigils that he recognized as markings of power etched upon them.
The knitter looked up, realizing that he was staring. She smiled, pulling one of the thick needles from her work in the blink of an eye and pointing its sharp end at him.
“Can’t be too careful,” she repeated, and, having made her point, returned to the blanket she was making. It was then that he chanced a quick glance over at Clara to see her adjusting her book over the pistol in her lap.
“Are you coming in, or do you plan to sit vigil with the girls?” asked the voice from behind the door.
Remy took the heavy wooden door in hand and opened it enough so that he could enter. It was dark and cool inside, and he had to blink his eyes repeatedly to adjust to the gloom.
“Where the fuck have you been?” an unfamiliar voice asked as the figure hurriedly walked away from the door into the empty church. “We don’t have much time.”
“I’ve been on a case,” Remy said, following the man. “Would it be too much to ask why you bothered my dog and scared my girlfriend?”
The figure turned and Remy recognized him as one of the Grigori. “Believe me, I didn’t want to get you involved. It’s just that when I realized how big a cluster fuck this was, and that it likely had something to do with you, I figured you might as well get involved.”
“You’re one of Sariel’s,” Remy said, watching a steely reaction come over the fallen angel’s face.
“Yeah. I’m surprised you recognized a face in the background. I’m called Garfial.” The angel quickly turned around again, motioning for Remy to follow him.
Remy followed Garfial across the deconsecrated church. He was surprised how bare it was; even the wooden pews had been removed, leaving only a large, empty room where the faithful had once communicated with their God. There was a sadness to the space but also something more, and since his senses were still numb, Remy couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.
Garfial climbed the stairs to the altar, disappearing through another doorway and then down a set of stairs to more darkness.
Even though his senses were practically dead, Remy could still feel the preternatural energies that filled the air in the cool chamber below the church altar. It was like some kind of strange laboratory filled with tables upon which beakers and test tubes sat. There were stacks of books everywhere, and a number of jars sweaty with condensation, their contents a mystery.
“What is all this?” Remy asked.
“This is what I do,” Garfial said. “I was kind of like the biologist of the Grigori. I was to keep tabs on the various life-forms that the Almighty had seeded the planet with, making sure that everything was going along as planned.” The angel paused, looking around his makeshift lab.
“Which it was. Which is why I became bored and…”
“You did something stupid,” Remy finished.
Garfial snarled. “You should talk. I’m not the one who killed Sariel and got us into the mess we’re currently in.”
Remy leaned against a table.
“Why don’t you fill me in on what my stupidity has supposedly done,” he said.
Garfial was staring at him now.
“There’s something off about you,” the angel said. “You’re different… There’s usually a scary vibe that isn’t there now.”
“Let’s just say I’m a bit under the weather.”
“Well, let’s just hope you’re functioning with all cylinders firing by the time things hit the proverbial fan,” Garfial retorted. He went to one of the steamed jars and carefully picked it up.
Remy watched as the fallen angel unscrewed the top of the jar and reached inside.
“I should have known killing Sariel would come back to bite me,” Remy said.
“And then some,” Garfial agreed, pulling something from the jar between his fingers. Whatever it was hung limply for a moment, dripping with a slimy substance, and then it began to move.
“This is one of the stupid things that I did when I got bored with the world of man,” the fallen said. “I learned how to create life.” The object dangling from Garfial’s fingers started to struggle, tiny arms and legs thrashing about, a faint squeal drifting in the air as the life-form showed its displeasure. “And then teaching humans how to do it was my next big mistake.”
Garfial placed the squirming, artificial life-form back inside the jar and screwed on the lid. “That one isn’t even remotely ready,” he stated. Setting the jar back down beside at least ten others, he wiped his hands on his black pants.
“You’re losing me,” Remy said.
“Believe it or not, this all has something to do with what’s going on,” Garfial said. “I learn how to produce artificial life, I teach some humans, the Lord gets pissed about that and some of our other dalliances, and the Grigori are condemned to Earth. And here we’ve been ever since.”
Remy had started to walk around the lab, only
half listening as the Grigori continued to speak, until he noticed a large pile of damp-looking clay on a nearby table, and something clicked into place.
“Artificial life,” Remy said aloud, looking at him.
“You’re gonna have to keep up with me,” Garfial chided.
“You showed them how to make golems.”
“I did at that.” Garfial nodded. “And they got pretty good at it, too… Not as good as me, but still not so bad. Many human magick users put their own spin on these creatures.”
“Life-energy collectors,” Remy stated flatly.
Garfial smiled. “Now you’re catching up. So here the Grigori are, living among the humanity they corrupted, trying to make amends for what they did so they could someday go home.”
Remy would have smiled at the perversion of the facts, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“We were doing everything we could to get Heaven to notice us again, trying to make things right,” Garfial went on. “Sariel promised us that one day God would see us and how sorry we were, and welcome us back through the pearly gates with open arms.”
Remy couldn’t hold it back any longer.
“You guys worked with widows and orphans, right? Helped the homeless and unwed mothers? You make it sound like you were all playing on Mother Teresa’s team. I’ve seen some of the parties you guys threw.”
Garfial chuckled. “They were pretty intense, weren’t they?” He smiled at the memory. “Some of us really did believe that we were going to be forgiven… Personally, I like it here and couldn’t care less if I ever see the Golden City again. The Golden Banana on Route One was just as good to me, if you know what I mean.”
Sadly enough, Remy did. Living among humanity had done pretty much the same thing to him, minus the perversity and decadence.
“But like I said,” Garfial continued. “Some of us were actually working toward going home, but all that got thrown into the wood chipper when Sariel was killed.”
“He murdered Noah,” Remy said.
“Yeah, I know,” Garfial said. “But he was still our leader, and without him, many of us were lost.”
The fallen angel grew quiet, starting to move beakers of strangely colored fluid around, seemingly neatening up the space.
“After Sariel’s death, I kind of lost track of you guys,” Remy said.
“We became lost,” the fallen said. “More lost than we had ever been. You thought the parties we had before were wild… Days blended into weeks, into months… Without Sariel, we lost our purpose…our direction.”
“I’m guessing that didn’t last,” Remy said.
“No, it didn’t,” Garfial agreed. “A new leader rose in our ranks, and his name was Armaros…Sariel’s lover.”
Remy sighed, crossing his arms as he leaned against a table.
“And let me guess: He wants revenge.”
Garfial brushed off his table with the side of his hand. “You killed our shining star…our guiding light…”
“He was a murderer,” Remy stated.
“And Armaros loved him.”
“So now he wants the world to suffer for what I did?”
“Armaros wouldn’t admit that, but I’m sure it’s there, writhing beneath the surface,” Garfial said. “What he’s telling us is that he wants to make God notice the Grigori again…to really recognize how sorry we are.”
“And how does he intend to do that?” Remy asked.
Garfial’s eyes drifted to the television in the corner of the room, distracted by the frantic movement of what appeared to be The Price Is Right.
“I love this show,” the fallen angel said dreamily.
Remy waved a hand in the air. “Hello? World on the brink of something disastrous?”
“Sorry,” Garfial apologized, collecting his thoughts once more. “Sariel always believed that humanity was in such a state because of the path we led them down, and Armaros shared that belief.”
Remy waited for all the pieces to present themselves, forming an image he could understand.
“He believes that most of humanity has become godless, forgetting who’s responsible for their very existence. Armaros has concocted a plan to make humanity remember God…to fear Him as we know He should be feared.”
Tension started to form across Remy’s brow and at the back of his neck; a sign that he was about to learn something that wasn’t going to make him the least bit happy.
“This is where I come in to the picture,” Garfial said. “Even though I gave them the knowledge, it was the human magick users that perfected the artificial-life process, nudging and tweaking their creations to a whole new level.”
Remy waited silently for the head butt he was sure was coming.
“Armaros wanted me to join with one of these sorcerers, the most powerful of them all, to design and create a flawless piece of work-a tool to drive the faithless back into the Lord God’s arms.”
“A tool,” Remy repeated, confused.
Garfial snatched up a leather-bound journal, opening it and holding it out toward Remy. He saw exquisite drawings of two human figures, older women, and recognized them as the knitter and Clara.
“Golems.”
“Tools,” Garfial corrected. “Like the ladies upstairs who protect my workshop from prying eyes. Tools with a specific purpose and function.”
Remy felt the band of tension across his forehead grow so tight that he imagined his skull imploding.
“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with Algernon Stearns?” Remy asked, a piece of the puzzle looking to be placed.
“Very good, Remy,” Garfial applauded. “You must be a detective.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
Remy had a terrible feeling that he knew exactly where this was going. Francis and Angus had both talked about Stearns’ plans that could harm millions, and Remy dreaded this connection.
“This golem…this special tool,” Remy fished. “What was it created to do?”
Garfial grabbed the notebook and flipped to another page. He was about to show it to Remy when the fallen angel froze, his eyes on the television again. “Oh, shit,” the Grigori said.
“What?” Remy asked, turning around to see that The Price Is Right had been replaced by a special news report.
The anchors seemed to be very serious as they talked, the image of a smiling little girl projected behind them. A little girl that Remy recognized as Angelina Hayward.
Confused, he looked back to Garfial. “What’s going on?”
“You wanted to know what the special golem was created for?” Garfial asked. “I think the world is about to find out.”
“Who does this car belong to again?” Angus, sitting beside Francis in the front seat of the pristine 1960 Lincoln Continental, asked.
“A friend,” Francis answered, cruising along Boylston Street, searching for a place to park.
“It smells like blood,” the sorcerer said, moving his large bulk uneasily in the passenger’s seat as he tried to get comfortable.
“Yeah, I know,” Francis said casually. “But beggars can’t be choosers. My friend Richard agreed to do us a solid as long as we didn’t take her out of the city. Right, girl?”
Angus could have sworn that the vehicle responded, the low murmur of a talk show on the radio suddenly changing to a syrupy pop song from the seventies.
“That a girl,” Francis said, still looking for the perfect space as he reached a hand out and rubbed the black leather dashboard affectionately.
Angus could not get comfortable. The tangy, metallic odor of the car and the warm, almost fleshlike feeling of the leather beneath his ass made him feel as though he were inside the mouth of some large predatory beast.
“There’s something wrong about this vehicle,” Angus flatly stated.
“You might want to keep your opinions to yourself,” Francis warned. “You don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“Then you admit this ride is…different
?”
“She’s different, all right,” the former Guardian agreed.
The steering wheel suddenly jerked roughly to the right, startling Francis as the car pulled itself into a space just vacated by a UPS truck.
“Good one,” he said. “I would have driven right past it. Thanks, Leona.”
“Is that its name?” Angus asked.
“That’s her name,” Francis quickly corrected as the engine turned off without his hand being anywhere near the crowded key chain that dangled from the ignition. “Relax. She has this kinda effect on a lot of people,” Francis explained. “Actually, you should be honored that she’s letting you ride inside her.”
“I feel like Jonah in the belly of the whale,” Angus stated, every instinct that he had on full alert.
“Look, we needed a ride to check out Stearns’ headquarters, and my business associate was nice enough to allow Leona to take us,” Francis said. “So, let’s do what we came here to do.”
Francis got out of the car.
Angus pulled on the door handle, but the door would not open. He was about to motion to Francis for assistance when the handle suddenly functioned again and the door swung wide.
For a moment he could have sworn that he heard a sinister chuckling over the car’s speakers, but he decided that it was likely only the pinging sounds made by the car’s engine as it started to cool.
“Will this be all right here?” Angus asked Francis.
“She’ll be fine,” Francis said crossing Boylston Street. “Richard fed her just before we called.”
Angus followed the fallen angel to the small plaza and the eighty-story skyscraper that he recognized from his contact with Algernon Stearns. A large sign read HERMES TELEVISION NETWORK.
Angus stared up at the impressive building of smoked glass and polished steel, feeling a queasy uneasiness pass over him. He turned to speak to his partner, but the angel was gone. Looking around the crowded street, he found Francis at a food truck.
“What are you doing?” Angus asked, walking over.
“Getting a bite. Want something?”
“No, I do not want something. We need to report back to-”
“They have American chop suey.”
In the House of the Wicked rc-5 Page 21