Of Saints and Sinners

by Erik Lynd

  Mort peeked as though unsure; once he saw Silas wasn’t lying he turned back to the camera.

  “Silas, you can’t just go around doing that. You gotta warn a guy…”

  “Stimulating conversation Mort, but when you’re done glaring at me can you tell me why you called?”

  “I found the student you asked about, Lillian James.”

  As he spoke a second monitor came to life, displaying Lily’s face and location information.

  “Lillian James, is currently at NYU working on a graduate degree in anthropology. Well specifically she was in the Institute for the Study of the Ancient World. She seems fairly accomplished with several publications to her credit.”

  “What? Like Playboy’s Girls of NYU?”

  Mort just glared at him again. Silas smiled back.

  “I sent the location of her apartment and the office she works out of on campus to your cell phones.”

  “Cell Phones? Why the plural?” Silas asked, but realized the answer right away.

  “Well, you and St. Abigail of course.”

  “Oh, so now you are working for her is that it?” Silas was not sure why this made him angry, but it did.

  “I don’t work for her and I don’t work for you. I work for Moreales and the Inquisition. Moreales says she’s your partner in this, so I share my intel with both of you.”

  “Intel huh? That’s a pretty fancy word for Google.”

  “Well maybe this was pretty basic research, but I got the info.” A smile crept across Mort’s face. “Oh yeah, I also told her where you live.”

  “Great, now I got to get out of here before she shows up,” Silas said and hit a key on the keyboard to end the call. He threw on a shirt and pulled on his boots. After grabbing his keys and wallet, he hopped on his bike and hit the button for the lift.

  He started the bike and relished the throaty roar of the exhaust. Already he was feeling better. As the lift stopped in the upper garage he opened the garage door. Outside, blocking the exit sat St. Abigail on a sleek racing bike. She was dressed in tight, all-black racing armor. Damn, she looked sexy.

  Silas killed his engine, swung off the bike and walked over to her.

  “Crotch rocket huh?”

  She looked him in the eye. “Faster than yours.”

  Silas grunted. “Yeah, but mine is cooler and bigger.”

  “Well, you know what they say about a man with a big bike. He’s compensating for other shortcomings.”

  Silas stepped closer to her. The smile never left her face and she didn’t back down. He could have said it was the supernatural in her now, but he had met her when she was a human and thought even then she would not have backed down.

  “Aren’t there rules against Saints wearing outfits like that? Shouldn’t you be wearing an ankle length dress or maybe a heavy robe? Lead us not into temptation and all that?”

  “Why Silas you say the sweetest things, I don’t know why some woman hasn’t snatched you up yet.”

  There was movement from the alley. Silas turned, ready for an attack. St. Abigail pulled a stiletto from somewhere, but with an outfit that tight Silas had no idea where she had concealed it. A shadow flickered across the alley.

  Silas sniffed the air. He recognized the scent. He reached out a hand and gently pushed St. Abigail’s deadly knife down.

  “Come on out, Michael.”

  The shadows shifted, but the boy did not emerge. Silas turned to St. Abigail.

  “Michael’s brother has disappeared along with a few other patrons of the mission. Father Deluca asked me to look into it.”

  “Have you looked into it?”

  “Not really,” Silas shrugged. “Been busy with this other stuff about monsters roaming the streets of New York.”

  “I knew it!” The boy sprang from the alley. “I knew you didn’t care.”

  “Look kid…” Silas started.

  “You’re just like the rest, you don’t give a shit about us,” the boy cried. “He was right, nobody cares; everybody just wants us to disappear.”

  St. Abigail moved past Silas, stepping a little closer to the kid. Silas instantly felt the shift in her demeanor. Just as he could radiate malice and danger, from her he felt calm, peace, and love. Yuck! His demonic nature flared briefly, but he tried to rein it in. It was too late; he instantly saw the change in the boy. One moment he was enthralled by the approaching saint then as Silas’ own power flared, it canceled out whatever energy Abigail was projecting. The boy went back to the balls of his feet, ready to run in an instant.

  “It’s okay Michael, nobody here wants to harm you,” St. Abigail said.

  “I know, nobody cares,” he said tears shown in his eyes.

  “I care. Silas cares, even though it doesn’t seem like it.”

  For a moment Silas believed her; just as it was his nature to inspire fear and hate, she emanated trust and peace. He knew it was working on him, because he could feel that maybe he wanted to help the kid. The streets may not have been like his Hell, but they couldn’t be good for a kid. Especially one who had lost his only family.

  What was he thinking? He shook his head as if to clear a bad dream. He had to watch it; her power could get to him.

  “He said we’re all on our own and he was right. We need to stick together,” Michael said.

  “Who said that Michael? Who said you were on your own?” St. Abigail had taken a few steps closer to the kid.

  “The preacher guy.”

  “Father Deluca?” Silas asked.

  Michael glared at him, “No, the street preacher.”

  “Michael, can you start from the beginning?”

  He shot an evil look one last time at Silas and then slumped against the wall, giving up.

  “He was just a street preacher, maybe not as crazy as some others that roam the area. He didn’t scream about God’s vengeance or how everybody was a sinner. In fact, he doesn’t mention God that much at all.”

  He shuffled his feet a little and gave St. Abigail a little smile. “I guess that doesn’t make him a very good preacher.”

  “If he doesn’t talk about God what makes you call him a preacher?”

  “I don’t know, I guess prophet is a better word. He calls the people who listen to him his flock. And he says things like, we have been baptized by fire since we live on the street. Mostly he just sounds like one of those preacher guys you see on TV.”

  Silas stepped forward and leaned to her ear. “We don’t have time for this. We need to go fight the bad guys, the real bad guys.”

  She ignored him. “Were you and your brother part of this flock?”

  “Not really. We listened to him a few times, sometimes he made sense. He talked about how most people don’t understand us and think us homeless people are all drug addicts and scum. He tried to tell us how we did not need this society. I’m not sure what he meant by that, but he spoke about you people, the people that don’t have to live on the streets, with contempt and hatred. He tried to tell us there was a path to a better life, but my brother and I didn’t believe it. The streets are our only life.”

  “But maybe your brother started to think there was something to what this guy was saying?” St. Abigail asked.

  Michael’s eyes got wide and he shook his head. “No, Jared wasn’t buying it, but…” he looked at Silas, a little sheepishly. “I didn’t tell you the whole truth the other night with Father Deluca.”

  “No shit? A street punk lying? Get the fucking action five news team, we got a scoop,” Silas said.

  St. Abigail held up her hand to silence Silas.

  “Now might be a good time to tell us everything Michael. We can only help if you let us,” St. Abigail said.

  Michael nodded. “When Father Deluca asked us to look into the disappearances we noticed that a lot of the missing we had seen listening to this preacher guy and his buddies--acolytes he called them--so we followed him around awhile. We could never find where he slept at night or where he went when he was
n’t speaking to people on the street. I think my brother found out where they might be having a meeting though; I think that was where he was going when he disappeared.”

  “Why didn’t you tell any of this to Father Deluca and Silas when you saw them?”

  “’Cuz I was scared,” he stood a little straighter on the wall. “This preacher guy and his buddies are creepy, nobody fucks with them. Besides this was all my brother’s theory, about the preacher being connected to the disappearances. I didn’t know what was going on. Now because I was scared, I might never see Jared again.”

  He started crying and Abigail reached out to him, pulling him into a hug.

  “It takes a brave man to admit he is scared,” Abigail said quietly. Michael cried all the louder into her shoulder and squeezed her tight.

  Silas thought for a moment while they did the mushy stuff. The boy had said nobody fucks with this street preacher. Strong choice of words and it didn’t jive with his image of a wasted-looking guy spouting gibberish on the street corner and wearing a sign that says John 3:16. They were the type of guys you definitely did fuck with. This was getting more interesting. Maybe he should follow up on this when he had some time.

  “Look, I’m glad we had this breakthrough, but I ain’t Doctor Phil and this ain’t the Oprah show. Abigail, we got some pressing problems at the moment. Can we get a move on?”

  The boy pushed away from Abigail and screwed up his face, mixing anger and tears only the way a kid could. “Fuck you Silas. I know you don’t care about shit. So go fuck yourself. I don’t need your help,” Michael screamed. He turned and ran off down the alley sobbing and kicking empty boxes and trash out of his way.

  St. Abigail watched Michael run off down the alley. She didn’t try to stop him. She turned back to Silas.

  “You are a dick,” she said and walked back to her bike.

  Silas looked back to where the kid had run. St. Abigail’s aura was still working because he could almost feel a pang of guilt… almost.

  “Come on Silas, let’s go see your friend. If he is your friend, I am sure he will be a real charmer. Probably likes to drown puppies in his spare time. I’ll follow you.”

  Gone was the almost flirtatious air that they had just enjoyed. Now she hated him again. It was probably for the best.

  7

  They pulled up in front of the bar and looked at the sign above the outdoor table area. “Faust” was written on it. Silas grunted at the irony. Mephisto always loved that story, though it was completely made up. Ever since it was popularized by Christopher Marlowe he was always flaunting it in other demon’s faces. kind of like Hell’s equivalent of a reality show celebrity. Now he had named his bar after it and boy, did it look snooty.

  Maybe bar was the wrong word. It was more like a fancy restaurant, a bistro they were called. Silas was definitely underdressed, but this wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Silas, when you said you were going to have a few drinks with a friend I pictured something a little different. Something a little less sophisticated, maybe something more beer soaked and smelly.”

  “I may have exaggerated when I said he was a friend; he’s more like a lifelong enemy who would just a soon stab me in the back with anything handy than help me. If he were really my friend he would be beer soaked and smelly, so don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  “But if you had told me where we were going I would have dressed differently, something more appropriate.”

  He eyed her up and down.

  “You look very appropriate to me,” Silas said, hoping to recapture the mood from before. It didn’t work.

  “Who is this friend we are seeing anyway?” Abigail asked.

  “Mephisto.”

  “You mean Mephistopheles? One of the grand dukes of hell?”

  “Yeah, I’m surprised he settles for this dump as well. Could do better.”

  “I wasn’t referring to his bar.”

  She stepped in front of Silas, blocking his way into the building. A valet stood off to the side, apparently unsure of what to do about the motorcycles blocking the curb.

  “He is one of the most powerful demons in Hell. Do you think he is just going to let us walk in there, ask for his help—I am not even sure why we are here anyway—and then let us leave?”

  “He’s like family. I’m sure he’ll be civil, besides he won’t want to damage his nice establishment. One thing though--don’t mention that you’re a Saint because he will kill you… again.”

  “Then who am I supposed to be?”

  “You could pretend to be my girlfriend,” Silas said.

  St. Abigail just raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, you’re right. You don’t look slutty enough to be my girlfriend. Just tell him you’re working with the Vatican on special assignment. He’ll just assume you’re mortal. He knows all about my um… predicament.”

  She did not look convinced, but it would have to do. He stepped past her and into the swanky restaurant. The inside was just as nice as the faux stone and dark wood exterior suggested. The restaurant was crowded and the bar area packed with a little spill over onto the restaurant tables nearest it. His eyes passed over the patrons gathered at tables dressed in their look-at-me designer evening wear. Rich men with cheap plastic faces stared at cheap silicone women, not listening to each other, just being seen. Yeah this was Mephisto’s place alright.

  And it only took him a moment to see the proprietor. He sat in the back of the restaurant, in a private room. He could see him through the open door, but it was draped in shadow and if he had been mortal his eyes would have slid right passed it. As it was he saw Mephisto himself sitting in front of a large pile of pasta and stuffing his face. For a moment Silas almost did wish he was mortal and his eyes would slide past the sight in front of him. Mephisto was large. No, that was too kind. He was morbidly obese. His bulging frame was draped by an impeccable Italian suite like a tarp covers a van. His second and third chin lay jiggling like Jell-O as he stuffed his face with meatballs and pasta. Jowls that would have impressed a bull dog dangled below deep-set eyes.

  “Is that him? That’s one of the grand dukes of hell?” Abigail asked, disbelief in her voice.

  Silas had been so engrossed in observing his fellow demon that he had not even heard her enter behind him.

  “Yeah, he kind of let himself go. I guess he let the fame go to his head,” Silas said.

  “Should we wait until he is done? We might get accidentally eaten.”

  Silas chuckled. “I wish we could, but I have a feeling it might be a while. He doesn’t look like one to skip dessert if you know what I mean.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. Two men, definitely not obese, but built like tanks stood against the wall near his table. Silas had heard Mephisto was playing at the Mafioso roll lately, He had always been a ham for clichés. Time to get this over with.

  Silas navigated his way through the drunks and diners to Mephisto’s table. The two thugs noticed his approach and detached themselves from the wall to intercept him.

  “Those are Screamers--low level entities, but definitely a threat to our mortal forms,” Silas whispered quickly to St. Abigail. He slipped his hand into his pockets and found his earplugs. He had them for gigs, but rarely used them.

  One of the thugs held up his hand to block their approach.

  “Is Mr. Duncan expecting you?” The Screamer asked, his voice high-pitched and out of place coming from such a large figure.

  “Mr. Mephistopheles will want to see us,” Silas said.

  The Screamer looked back to the table. Silas could see Mephisto look up from his feeding. He glanced at them, eyes widening a little in surprise, then with his fork he made a small gesture for them to come forward.

  “Are you armed?” Asked the other Screamer. His voice was impossible low.

  “Only with charm and wit.”

  “Silas, where have you been hiding? Come over, come over,” Mephisto called.

  Silas shoved passe
d the Screamers and sat in the chair Mephisto gestured to. As St. Abigail sat next to him, Mephisto gave her an appraising look and raised an eyebrow to Silas.

  “And who is the young lady?” Mephisto asked.

  “She’s my assistant. I know she isn’t much to look at, but good help is hard to find nowadays,” Silas said. St. Abigail put her hand on his knee under the table, but not in the good sort of way, more like the nails biting into flesh and bruising sort of way.

  “An assistant? For you Silas? You’ve always worked alone.”

  “Not really my idea. My employers sort of forced this one on me; I guess Mort just couldn’t keep up.”

  “Your employers?” Mephisto laughed. “You mean your masters? Yes, masters, and it serves you right gallivanting around looking for any chance to be summoned and bound to human flesh. No wonder your binding name became known to the Enemy.”

  “I have tasted more of human life than any of my brothers.”

  “Brothers,” Mephisto laughed. He pointed the fork at Silas flicking a piece of pasta onto his jacket. “You are and always will be an outcast, not even a gnat in the hierarchy of the damned. You are not of our world.”

  “But I savor this one. I know this one, perhaps better than any of you. You know I am an asset for the Final Accounting, when souls are divvied up between heaven and hell.”

  Mephisto stared at him for a moment, his puffy face seeming to deliberate between anger and disgust. Then he laughed loudly.

  “I suppose so. Are you hungry? We have great Italian food here,” Mephisto said.

  “You do realize Faust is German, not Italian?” St. Abigail asked and Silas almost winced.

  Mephisto gave her that same puzzled look as though trying to decide how he should kill her when he suddenly laughed again.

  “Oh, I like her. She’s got a tongue that one,” he said between barks of wheezing laughter. “And brave too.”

  He stopped laughing after that last sentence, but the smile remained on his face.

  “Well, if you are not here for my food, why are you at my table?”

  “Information,” Silas said.

  “Information, huh? That can be expensive stuff. What kind of information?”