In the House of the Wicked: A Remy Chandler Novel Page 13

  “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 doubting 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 rémoulade, 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 youn
g 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.

  But his concern was for Ashley. If there was any risk that she could be harmed…

  “I took the girl to prove how serious the situation is, Mr. Chandler.” Deacon leaned forward again. “That I would be willing to take the chance of arousing the ire of a being as powerful as yourself to finally get what I have craved for so long.” He paused.

  “Revenge, Mr. Chandler,” he continued. “Revenge against those who betrayed me…who harmed my beautiful wife and child…and were responsible for my time here in a land of darkness.”

  Teddy jumped up from his seat and crawled across the table, grabbing at the food, tearing off chunks of strangely colored meat and shoving them into his mouth.

  Deacon closed his eyes with a sigh, lifting an arm to address one of the golem butlers, but Scrimshaw was already on the move. He dragged the growling child from the table and sat him back in his chair.

  “In exchange for Ashley’s safety,” Deacon began again, “I would like you to consider me your god, for the time we are together.”

  “Don’t do this,” Remy warned, fire in his eyes.

  “And as your god, you will do as I tell you.”

  “Don’t,” Remy warned again, his anger nearly blinding.

  “You will rain holy vengeance down upon my enemies,” the old man continued, ignoring his guest. “And you will show them no mercy, for you wouldn’t want to upset your god.”

  Remy jumped up, sending his chair tumbling backward.

  “I warned you,” he said, and he could feel the fire starting to crackle from the tips of his fingers, his wings starting to press against the flesh of his back.

  Scrimshaw was suddenly standing behind Ashley’s chair, holding her knife, still stained with the blood of her meal, against her tender throat.

  “And I warned you,” Deacon stressed.

  The tension in the room was escalating.

  “Stand down, Mr. Chandler,” Deacon snarled. “Your god commands you.”

  Remy could hold it in no longer. But as his wings exploded from his back and the fires of Heaven swirled around his head, the blaring sound of an alarm distracted everybody in the dining room. Using the distraction, he sprang into the air and, flying across the table, landed in a crouch before the addled Ashley. He lashed out with a wing, swatting at Scrimshaw, sending him crashing across the room.

  “I’m getting us out of here,” Remy told Ashley as he pulled her from the chair and into his arms.

  Teddy began to howl, tugging on the leash still attached to the collar around Ashley’s neck. Remy yanked the leash from the boy’s grasp, driving the wild child back with a ferocious glare.

  Ashley in his arms, Remy was about to take flight when Scrimshaw made his move. Remy hadn’t heard his approach over the clanging alarms, and suddenly the artificial man was on his back, throwing his powerful arms around him, constricting his wings. Remy roared with unbridled fury as the three of them fell atop the table, then crashed to the floor with the dishes.

  Remy recovered quickly, wanting to burn the life from this mockery of a man, but Ashley was too close.

  Scrimshaw took advantage of that, inhumanly powerful blows striking relentlessly at Remy. The Seraphim spread wide his wings and lashed out at his attacker. Scrimshaw rolled back and away, then leapt to his feet, ready to attack again. But he hesitated.

  And Remy saw a smile creep across his face.

  The angel began to turn, his senses on full alert, but he wasn’t fast enough.

  Steel needles were thrust into his back, just beneath his wings. He cried out, wings flailing, as the metal rods scraped along his rib cage.

  But that was nothing in comparison to the pain of the needles being activated. Remy spun around, reaching out for the trailing wires, but the infernal feeding device had already started its work.

  He could feel his strength waning as the fury and the fire that was the essence of the Seraphim was drawn from his body. He crashed to the floor as if a rug had been pulled from beneath his feet. He tried to summon the fires of divinity, but all he could produce were small bursts of flame that quickly flickered and died.

  Remy could feel himself dying, everything that he was being drained away. He fought to his feet, calling on every ounce of strength he had left, but Scrimshaw was suddenly there, a savage kick sending Remy back to the floor to writhe in the grip of agony.

  From where he lay, he could see Deacon, an expression of euphoria on his face as he tasted divinity, even as the old man’s mechanical skeleton began to smoke. The sorcerer had no idea of the power he was playing with. Remy tried to warn him, but Scrimshaw kicked him again.

  He rolled onto his side, trying to protect himself, and caught a glimpse of Ashley cowering in the corner of the room, Teddy jumping up and down beside her. Remy didn’t want her to see this, as all that he was was taken into Deacon’s infernal machine.

  But it would not go quietly.

  It would not go without a fight.

  He rose to his knees, his body a quivering mess. Scrimshaw came at him again, but the Seraphim, desperate to live, was now in charge. As Scrimshaw’s foot descended for another kick, Remy lashed out, grabbing the ankle with a twist, and hurled the artificial man away.

  Remy stood on shaking legs. His wings, his glorious wings, were fading. Feathers fell to the floor like autumn leaves. He was dying…. This man…this sorcerer was killing him. He looked at Deacon, crackling wires still trailing from the external skeleton that he wore over an ancient tuxedo and into Remy’s back.<
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  The Seraphim grabbed at the wires, wrapping them about his fingers. They burned his hands, and the stink of his melting flesh wafted into the air as he savagely pulled. Deacon lurched toward him, but the wires held. With smoldering hands, Remy dragged the sorcerer closer. The old man struggled with surprising strength, trying to plant his feet, but the soles of his black dress shoes were smooth, sliding across the wooden floor.

  Remy was weak, weaker than he could ever remember being.

  Would this be the time? Would this be what finally ended his existence? This pathetic old man ravenous for revenge. He thought of Francis, what his friend would think, and managed to be embarrassed.

  The struggling Deacon was closer. The man appeared younger, his flesh healthy, flushed tight with blood. The mechanical skeleton he wore had started to spark, to whine in protest, for the supernatural energy that filled it was too much.

  Too powerful.

  Something designed and created by humans was not meant to contain the power of Heaven.

  “Is this what it feels like?” Deacon gasped, his voice little more than a breathless whisper above the still blaring alarms. “To be this close to God?”

  Remy caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye. At first he thought it was the artificial man—Scrimshaw—coming back to help his master, but then he realized who it was who stood in a patch of shadow, and wasn’t surprised at all.

  Israfil was there, watching, waiting.

  The Angel of Death had come for Remy Chandler.

  But Remy wasn’t ready.

  He looked away from the death specter and his eyes fell on the cowering form of Ashley Berg, whose life had been transformed into a living nightmare because of her association with him.

  Remy had to fix that; he had to make it right. Then death could come for him, as it had for his beloved Madeline.

  But not right now.

  The angel that he was rallied from the brink of surrender, like one of the great fishes of the ocean being drawn in on a line and finding that deep, hidden reserve of strength for one final attempt at freedom.