In the House of the Wicked: A Remy Chandler Novel Page 4

  And therein lay the rub. The mistrust the members had for one another was monumental, hindering any greatness their powerful gathering could muster.

  “It is the nature of powerful men and magick users,” Deacon excused with a shrug.

  “And you still hunger for their acceptance.”

  “Only for our benefit. If I can get them to come together, to join our powers…”

  Veronica only laughed and shook her head. “The great Konrad Deacon will change them,” she scoffed.

  “If I can convince Algernon Stearns, the others will follow suit,” he told her. “If he believes in what I have to show them…”

  “They’ll give you a special place in their club,” she finished scornfully.

  Deacon couldn’t stand it anymore. He charged across the room, slapping the drink from her hand, and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “Listen to me,” he roared, trying to hold back the violence he wished to unleash upon her. “I’m doing this for you and the boy!”

  “You’re doing it for power,” she spat, squirming to escape his grasp, but he held her arms tightly in spite of the agony he felt in his hands.

  “Yes, I’m doing it for the power…the power to keep you safe…the power I need to fight. Germany? Japan? They’re just the tip of the iceberg waiting on the horizon.”

  Veronica closed her eyes, refusing to look at him…refusing to see what he was trying to do.

  “There are dark times approaching,” Deacon hissed, squeezing his wife’s arms all the tighter, hurting her so that she might listen. “And the world will need men like me…like Stearns and the other members of the cabal…those who can lead the world from the shadows that will threaten to overtake it.”

  The door to the bedroom swung open, and Deacon immediately released his grip on his wife. Both of them looked to the doorway as their son entered, holding the hand of one of Deacon’s magickal creations.

  “Hello, Daddy…. Hello, Mommy,” Teddy greeted them, a hint of a British accent in his speech, an accent that Deacon was sure would fade now that the boy was in his proper home.

  “Hello there, Teddy,” Deacon said, shaking off the terrible mood his drunken wife had put him in. He opened his arms, inviting the boy to run to him.

  Teddy released the hand of the large and powerful golem and jumped into his father’s arms.

  “What are you still doing awake? You were supposed to be tucked in and fast asleep hours ago.”

  Deacon looked to the golem for answers, admiring his handiwork. What he had done with the information from the rabbi at Dachau was quite impressive, and he had perfected the magick with magick of his own.

  “The child summoned me to his room,” the pale-skinned being explained. His stark faux flesh was adorned with black tattoos, making the name that the artificial life-form had given himself—Scrimshaw—fabulously appropriate.

  “Is that so?” Deacon asked the boy.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Teddy said. “I heard cars coming up the drive. I didn’t know we were having company.”

  “In fact, we are,” Deacon said, holding his son close as he turned to his wife. Veronica rubbed the reddened places on her arms where bruises would surely form. “Some very important friends of your daddy will be here this evening.”

  “Can I meet them?” Teddy asked.

  “Not right now,” Deacon said, bringing Teddy over to Veronica. “Perhaps another time.” He placed his son in the arms of his wife and looked back to the creature that still waited obediently.

  “Have all my guests arrived yet, Scrimshaw?” he asked, humoring his creation by addressing him with the name he’d given himself.

  The artificial being beamed, his chest swelling with pride.

  “Yes, master. All of the cabal have arrived, except for Algernon Stearns.”

  Deacon’s stomach clenched. If Stearns did not show, there would be no point to this evening. The cabal would do nothing without first seeing what the oldest and most powerful of the sorcerers would do.

  “Fine,” Deacon said. “Tell our guests that I will be there shortly.”

  The tall, pale figure bowed at the waist and promptly exited the room.

  “What if he doesn’t show?” Veronica asked.

  Deacon looked at her, at his son in her arms, and said nothing, imagining a world where the cabal did not act together.

  A world not guided by their combined power.

  He could not bear to think of such a thing.

  As luck would have it, there was an empty parking space in front of Steven Mulvehill’s apartment building, and Remy pulled in close to the curb.

  Marlowe began to whine and pant from the backseat.

  “What are you going on about?” Remy asked as he put the car in park.

  “No going on. Excited,” Marlowe expressed, drool starting to leak from the sides of his jowls.

  “Yeah, we haven’t seen our buddy Steven in a while,” Remy agreed, glancing up at the second floor and seeing one light on. He retrieved the brown paper bag with his liquor-store purchase from the passenger’s seat and got out of the car, opening the rear door to let the dog out.

  “Excited to see Steven,” Marlowe said, darting across the narrow street and lifting his leg to urinate on a telephone pole.

  “I can tell,” Remy said, watching as the dog finished and began to sniff around. “You done?”

  “Yes,” Marlowe said, running back to join Remy on the steps to the front porch of the building.

  The doorbell was busted, but the front door was always unlocked, so Remy pushed it open and Marlowe immediately began the trek up two flights of stairs to Steven’s apartment. The angel followed, feeling a sense of trepidation.

  He hadn’t seen Steven in a couple of weeks, not since that nasty bit of business with the shape-shifting Shaitan.

  Remy had asked Steven to check in on an elderly friend of his, not realizing the connection to the case he was working on or the danger he was putting his friend in. The homicide cop had nearly been killed, and had gotten a full taste of the weird shit that Remy often dealt with. Since then, Steven had avoided Remy and hadn’t answered any of his calls.

  Marlowe’s whining interrupted Remy’s thoughts, and he reached the second-floor landing to find the Lab sitting outside Mulvehill’s door, wagging his tail.

  “Did you knock?” Remy asked.

  Marlowe looked at him indignantly. “No knock. No hands.”

  “Well, you could scratch,” Remy suggested.

  Marlowe just looked back at the door and cried as Remy reached out, rapping his knuckles on the heavy wood.

  He waited, listening for sounds of life from the other side, but heard nothing.

  “Steven,” Remy called out, knocking again. “I’ve got a bottle of Glenlivet here with your name on it…. Open the door and it’s all yours.”

  He tilted his head, listening all the more intently, but still he heard nothing. “Is he in there?” he asked the Labrador.

  Marlowe pushed his snout into the crack beneath the door and began to sniff. “Smell him.” He began to bark pathetically.

  Remy closed his eyes and reached out with his senses. He could hear everything in the building and even some of what was going on in the houses next door and across the street. He pulled back and focused on Steven’s place, the hum of the refrigerator, the whirr of the clock over the stove, the hiss and gurgle of the hot-water heater in the far corner of the kitchen.

  And the sound of someone breathing nervously—someone who did not want to open the door no matter who was on the other side.

  Or because of who was on the other side.

  “He must be out,” Remy said to Marlowe.

  The dog looked at him. “Smell him,” he growled.

  “Of course you do. It’s his apartment.” Remy turned and headed for the stairs as Marlowe continued to sniff beneath the door. “C’mon, buddy. We’ll come back another time.”

  Marlowe offered one more pathetic-sounding bark.


  But still the door did not open.

  The Labrador started down the stairs as Remy momentarily paused. He looked at the paper bag that held the bottle of fifteen-year-old Scotch and returned to the apartment door.

  “A peace offering,” he said, placing the bag with the bottle in front of the door before following Marlowe downstairs and back out into the night.

  Steven Mulvehill sat perfectly still, waiting for his friend to leave.

  He’d known it would be only a matter of time before Remy showed up; Steven had lost count of how many times Remy had called since—

  The images flooded his mind again: a beast whose flesh shifted and changed like smoke that had shown him the dangers of a hidden world.

  Of monsters and angels.

  The physical injuries Steven had sustained in his encounter with the Shaitan were healing well. But the mental ones were deep and still ragged, so much so that he was surprised when he actually had the courage to get out of bed these days.

  Seeing Remy Chandler right now wasn’t in the cards. As much as Steven hated to blame him, Remy was, after all, responsible for exposing him to things he never should have known about.

  A Boston homicide cop for more than fifteen years, and he’d never known this kind of fear before. He was reminded of his early childhood and how he’d gone through a phase when he’d been terrified to go to bed at night.

  And now he understood what he had known in those early years: that there really were good reasons to be afraid of the dark.

  The Catskill Mountains

  In a Subterranean Chamber Beneath the Deacon Estate

  August 6, 1945

  And to think, I wasn’t going to attend Konrad’s little soiree, Algernon Stearns thought as he watched one of Deacon’s golem servants finish attaching the last of the numerous coils and wires to a heavy metal harness the sorcerer wore on his naked body.

  The artificial man tugged on the vest to be sure it was secure and accidently pinched Stearns’ left nipple.

  “Damn you!” Stearns hissed. Supernatural energies that could easily have reduced the being to dust danced at his fingertips.

  “Is everything all right, Algernon?” Deacon asked as he checked the connections on his own vest.

  Stearns managed to suppress his anger, offering a tight smile. “Everything is fine, Deacon. Just a little pinch is all.”

  “Well, if everything goes according to plan, you’ll be experiencing far more than a pinch shortly,” Deacon warned. “But what you will gain from this temporary discomfort…”

  “Is power,” Stearns finished.

  He glanced around at the other four members of the cabal. They were all there: Daphene Molaar, Robert Desplat, Eugene Montecello, and Angus Heath—some of the world’s wealthiest and most powerful magick users. And they all appeared nervous, their eyes darting about the room.

  They stood in a circle in a subterranean room beneath Deacon’s estate, all naked except for the same metal vest that Stearns and Deacon wore. Cables trailed across the cold stone floor, connecting the vests to a series of complex machines that, in turn, were attached to an impressively large device that had been erected in the room’s center. Stearns understood that the device was a kind of antenna—an antenna that would attract vast amounts of life energies and distribute the raw power among those who wore the vests. If Deacon was right, his machine would transform the cabal forever.

  Konrad Deacon, the hero of the day.

  Stearns knew what the man was up to. Deacon coveted his position as leader of the cabal, and now the upstart believed that he had what was needed to steal away Stearns’ authority.

  Well, Stearns wasn’t about to let it go so easily.

  He thought about the night that had led to this. He had been tempted to stay in Spain and skip Deacon’s little party, but curiosity had made him change his mind. Even still, he had arrived late to Deacon’s mansion, and was amused by the relief he saw on his host’s face. In fact, the whole cabal shared the expression, for an affair of sorcerers could never convene without the presence of Algernon Stearns.

  It had been some time since they had last gathered, and Stearns was taken aback by how old and frail they all appeared. He wasn’t alone, after all; the use of magick was taking its toll on all of them.

  Then, as if on cue, Konrad Deacon had tapped the side of his crystal champagne flute with his knife, and all eyes were on him. He began his speech, and Stearns quickly grew impatient as Deacon welcomed them to his home, then launched into a dissertation on their responsibility to a world on the brink. The war in the Pacific lingered on and the instability in the world meant that nobody noticed the rise in supernatural activity, except for those in tune with the ways of the weird.

  These were all things that Stearns knew well, and he was considering walking out when the youngest member of the cabal made his daring pronouncement. He could give them back their vitality.

  Stearns was distracted from the memory of what had brought him back to the Deacon mansion for a party of a different sort. He watched as Deacon checked his machines once more. This was to be their rebirth—their bodies healed, transformed, and filled with the power to guide the world through troubled times.

  At first Deacon’s proposal had sounded like lunacy. Of course it had been a theory among the brotherhood of magick users that life energies could be used to restore the human form. Blood sacrifice had always been the method of choice within the cabal, but no one had ever been able to make the process work correctly, for the collected energies were expended far too quickly. They were having less and less effect, and the years of magickal abuse were quickly catching up to all of them.

  But if what they were up to tonight worked…

  “How much longer must we endure this discomfort?” Angus Heath grumbled. He shifted his great weight, threatening to disconnect himself from the machines.

  “Afraid you might miss a meal, Angus?” Stearns taunted.

  “The machine cannot be activated until the precise moment,” Deacon explained, hurriedly approaching the large man to make sure that his connections were still intact.

  “Patience, Angus,” Stearns said. “I hear it’s a virtue.”

  “Something that I never knew you to have, Algernon,” Daphene intoned, the crooked smile on her aged face hinting at their dalliances throughout the years.

  Stearns ignored her and returned to thoughts of Deacon’s plan. Over dinner that night, he had explained his advancements in the collection of life energies. The moment of death was when those energies were most powerful, he theorized, but multiple deaths were required if the energy was to have any prolonged effect.

  “So, what are we to do—murder entire cities in order to collect the proper amount of energy?” the oil baron Eugene Montecello had asked.

  Deacon’s answer had been startling and quite exciting.

  “We don’t have to murder anybody,” he had said. “We just have to be in the right place when somebody else carries it out.”

  Deacon returned to his space in the circle and glanced up at the clock hanging on the stone wall. “Our time is near,” he stated. “Prepare yourselves.”

  Evidently, this young upstart’s connections within the United States government ran deep, and those connections had given Deacon the answer to his—and the cabal’s—prayers. The military, growing weary of the seemingly never-ending war with the Land of the Rising Sun, had created a weapon, a bomb so terrible that it was guaranteed to bring Japan to its knees. They planned to drop it on a Japanese city, and Deacon had found a way to harness the energies of the many who would die as a result.

  “Ready in five…” Deacon began the countdown, eyes riveted to the clock.

  Stearns watched as well, as the second hand made its inexorable pass around the clock’s face.

  “Four…”

  He again wondered about this bomb.

  “Three…”

  Deacon said that they had nicknamed it Little Boy.

  �
��Two…”

  Certainly not a name that struck fear in the hearts of men.

  “One.”

  How powerful can it really be? Stearns wondered as the machine in the center of the room came suddenly to life with the most cacophonous of sounds.

  And the life energies of those instantly slain when the atomic bomb detonated over the Japanese city of Hiroshima were collected.

  And delivered unto them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Remy was surrounded by sleep.

  He sat on the red couch in Linda’s apartment, his girlfriend curled up on one side of him and Marlowe, lying flat on his side as if he’d taken a bullet, snoring at his feet.

  The Housewives was over by the time Remy had arrived, but Linda had saved him some wine and they’d cuddled until sleep had claimed her. Shortly afterward, Marlowe had succumbed, as well, leaving Remy alone with the television.

  But mostly it had left him alone with his thoughts, and there was much to think about this night.

  Like what he had been doing traveling to New Hampshire to confront the murderer of Charlotte Marsh and her daughters. At the time it had felt like a completely rational thing to do, and that scared him.

  He wasn’t thinking like himself. And what about the next time? Would the angelic side of his nature persuade him that it was perfectly all right to mete out God’s justice on the wicked?

  It was only a matter of time before he started burning people who were double-parked with the flames of Heaven. That was what he had been afraid of, why it had taken him so long to allow his angelic essence to meld with his human persona. He would have to be careful in the coming days; obviously, there were still some bugs to be worked out in the unification of his two sides.

  And then there was Steven. Remy could fully understand his friend’s anger, but there was very little that he could do to make things right. The snake had been let out of the box, so to speak, and there was nothing Remy could do to put it back. Steven had gotten dangerously up close and personal with an aspect of the world not usually seen by humanity, and for that Remy was sorry, but that was really all he could be.