In the House of the Wicked: A Remy Chandler Novel

  Daphene had stopped feeding.

  “How long was it after you spoke to Eugene and Robert that they…they…?” She had problems with the next word.

  “That they died?” Stearns asked, kneading the flesh of her shoulders, barely able to feel the tender muscle beneath the layers of fat. “Let’s not mince words, my dear. They were murdered.”

  The rats suddenly became more agitated, snapping, hissing and biting any other that was close by.

  “All right.” She swallowed noisily. “How long was it after you spoke to them that they were murdered?”

  “Actually, I spoke to them just before they died.” Stearns knew that he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He leaned close to his former lover’s ear and whispered, “Right before I killed them.”

  The rats were going wild now, and Stearns actually felt a hint of tension through the flab. Daphene tried to turn her bulk in the chair, but he held her tightly, feeling the tiny mouths that had formed on the palms of his hands less than a year after being hooked up to Konrad Deacon’s machine eagerly opening and closing.

  “What are you doing?” Daphene screamed.

  “What I need to do.” He gripped her flesh all the tighter, allowing the mouths to take hold. “Nothing else was enough. It was like Chinese food; I’d always be hungry again in a matter of days.”

  “Algernon, please,” Daphene begged. She was struggling to wheel herself away. The rats that continued to climb upon her body were biting at each other as well as at her.

  Stearns held her fast, feasting on the unique life force of another cabal member.

  “And then I started to think about all my good friends and what we’d been through together, and I became soooooooooooo hungry.”

  Daphene thrashed but could not escape his grip as Stearns continued to feed, making his pain go away. Satisfying the hunger.

  “Something deep inside told me that my friends were the answer, that they would be the ones to save me…to feed me…. And it was right.”

  He could feel the flesh beneath his hands starting to wither.

  The rats were in a panic as Daphene lost her grip on their tiny minds. They darted this way and that, frantic to flee the basement.

  His former lover no longer fought him. She leaned back in the wheelchair, her eyes now a milky white, looking up at him, begging him to stop before it was too late for her. But he would not. He had to take it all and leave nothing behind.

  The mouths on his hands eagerly sucked at the remaining life stuff, hungrily taking in energy. She would be dead soon; he could feel its approach.

  The cherry atop the sundae.

  As her life ended, he saw her memories, staccato flashes of a life of privilege, magick, and decadence. A life leading to this one spectacular moment when it would all be given up.

  For him.

  And then it was over. That last bit of delicious life clinging to the shriveled carcass in his hands broke free of its mooring and flowed into the mouths of his hands and into his newly enlivened form.

  Stearns shuddered with obscene pleasure, tossing his head back as he experienced the sensations of his revitalized body. It was like that morning in the Catskills all over again, when hundreds of thousands of people died to give him life.

  To make him strong.

  He released Daphene’s decaying remains, wisps of lingering life force, like smoke, trailing from her body to the sucking mouths still visible on his hands. The corpse pitched forward, tumbling from the chair to land upon the multitude of dead rats she had drained for sustenance.

  His entire body hummed with life—with power. He looked at his hands, watching as the writhing mouths receded back into his flesh. Then he moved swiftly through the shadows and out of the building.

  There was only one member of the cabal remaining, but Stearns had already set plans in motion for the future. Plans that, if carried out precisely, would sustain him long after the final cabalist had withered beneath his hands.

  It was a changing world, and Algernon Stearns was starving to be part of it.

  Remy returned to his room at the farthest end of the motor lodge with the clay skull beneath his arm, wrapped in his jacket.

  He was just about to slip the key attached to a green plastic pine tree into the lock when he sensed it.

  Danger.

  He hesitated a moment. He was still weak from his encounter at the farm. But, then, even though every preternatural sense screamed in warning, he unlocked and pushed open the door.

  A serious sense of menace rolled from the room like a thick fog as he stood in the doorway. The shades were drawn, but his eyes quickly scanned the dimness, searching for the cause of his overwhelming unease. His gaze fell on a shadowy shape sitting in the chair wedged into the corner of the room beside a floor lamp, and watched as the figure reached up to switch on the light, expelling the unknown.

  “What took you?” Francis asked. “I almost dozed off.”

  Remy forced himself to calm down, even though his senses continued to warn him of danger. He found that odd, for he and the former Guardian angel had been friends for quite a long time. He wondered if it had something to do with the fallen angel’s stay in the Hell dimension known as Tartarus. Something had happened to Francis there. Something he had not yet shared with Remy.

  “You got here fast,” Remy said, closing the door behind him. “I appreciate it.” He set his jacket-wrapped bundle on the end of the bed and sat down across from his friend.

  “What’s the story?” Francis asked, casually crossing his legs.

  The former Guardian angel and part-time assassin was dressed in his usual attire: two-piece suit, dark socks, dress shoes. He looked more like a certified public accountant than a fallen angel of Heaven serving out his sentence on Earth. Francis knew he had made the wrong decision when he chose the Morningstar over God, and had begged for forgiveness from the Almighty. For penance, he wound up as a guard at one of the passages between the hellish Tartarus and Earth.

  A job that had come to an end with the return of Lucifer Morningstar.

  “Somebody’s taken Ashley,” Remy blurted out, the words stirring the destructive power of Heaven that churned inside him, still waiting for its opportunity.

  Francis said nothing, which surprised Remy, but he continued anyway.

  “I wasn’t sure at first if it had anything to do with me, but—”

  “But it does,” Francis interrupted without emotion. He reached into his suit-coat pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes, tapped it against the side of his hand, and slid one from the package.

  “Yeah, it does,” Remy admitted, the very words painful.

  “Any idea who’s responsible?” Francis put the pack away and lit the smoke with a metal lighter that he took from another pocket of his suit coat.

  “I’ve talked to the guy. He called me with Ashley’s cell phone, but I haven’t a clue as to who he is. Seems to have a hard-on with the notion that I’m an angel.”

  Francis puffed on his smoke.

  “And how does he know that?”

  Remy shrugged. “Maybe from Ashley.”

  “But she doesn’t know, unless…”

  “No, I haven’t told her,” Remy said quickly, starting to think.

  “Never can tell,” Francis said. “Every now and then, you seem to get the urge to unburden yourself.”

  Remy wasn’t listening to Francis’ jab; instead he was focusing on the mysterious voice at the other end of his cell phone. He had specifically said that Ashley had told him, but if Ashley didn’t know, then how…

  And then he remembered the creature at the farmhouse, seemingly struggling with memories that did not belong to it. Could one of these creatures have taken some of Ashley’s life force, and, in doing so, somehow figured out what Remy was?

  There was still so much that he didn’t know, and it made his Seraphim nature want to destroy something. But Remy managed to keep a level head, which reminded him…

  He
turned on the bed and grabbed the object wrapped in his coat.

  “The last time the guy called, he told me go out to an abandoned farm for a meeting,” Remy said as he carefully unwrapped the clay skull.

  “What’ve you got there?” Francis finished his smoke, and, not finding an ashtray, pinched the tip and dropped the remains on the carpeted floor.

  “I was attacked by these artificial beings,” Remy explained as he showed the skull to his friend. “They appeared to be human, but when they got their hands on me, they began to siphon off my life energies.”

  “And this head belongs to one of them?”

  “Yeah. Most of them left after nearly draining me dry. This one stayed behind to finish me off.”

  “So you were set up,” Francis commented, taking the skull from Remy for a closer look.

  “Looks like it.”

  “So how do you know that Ashley is still alive?”

  “Don’t even think that,” Remy snapped.

  “I know it’s tough to hear, but you’ve got to think of this from all the angles. If one of this guy’s creature flunkies tried to kill you—or drain you dry, or whatever the fuck it was doing—then your contact could already have gotten rid of her.”

  “No. He wants something from me,” Remy said firmly.

  “Then why try to off you?”

  “I don’t get it, either. But there was something he said in our last conversation about needing to know that I was actually what he thought I was. Why the need to verify if he just wanted me dead?”

  Francis was still holding the skull, but stared at Remy. “You know you’re clutching at straws.”

  “It’s all I’ve got right now, which is why I gave you a call. Any idea what that thing is?” Remy nodded toward the skull.

  “Some kind of artificial life-form—a homunculus or golem—likely created by a pretty powerful magick user, but that’s all I’ve got to contribute.” Francis hefted the skull. “What the fuck is it made out of, anyway?”

  “I think it’s clay.”

  “Wonder if it has a brain, or something that functions like one,” Francis mused.

  “I have no idea,” Remy answered. “Why would you…”

  Francis reached into his jacket pocket to remove what looked to be a glowing scalpel, its blade seemingly made from light.

  “Did you get that from…,” Remy began.

  “Yeah, took it from Malachi,” Francis said casually. “Right after I put a bullet in his head.”

  Malachi had been one of the first angels created by the Lord God and had helped the Creator design many of the forms of life that had first appeared on the earth. The blade was his most prized tool.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Remy asked Francis.

  “If there’s a brain, or something like it, inside this skull, I’m going to use the scalpel to see what I can find out. You’d be amazed at what an all-purpose tool this is. I can see any memories stored inside there, and, if I want to, I can cut them out. You watch: All the kids will be screaming for one of these this Christmas.”

  Francis plunged the blade down into the hardened clay of the cranium and closed his eyes as he took a deep breath. “Oh yeah,” he said. “No brain, per se, but there is information stored here.”

  The jaw of the skull suddenly sprang open, and Francis pulled back the scalpel, dropping the skull to the floor.

  “Shit,” he exclaimed, as a thick, black smoke billowed from the mouth.

  Remy quickly stood, but the smoke didn’t spread. Instead, it formed a writhing cloud in the air before them.

  “That’s different,” Francis said.

  Remy saw that his friend had put away the scalpel and had now drawn a gun from inside his jacket, a gun that Remy had seen before—a gun that had once belonged to the Morningstar.

  “Remy Chandler,” said the gravelly voice that he recognized as the one he had heard over his cell phone.

  “I’m here,” Remy said, looking from his friend to the undulating mass of gray.

  “If you wish to see the girl alive…”

  “One of your…things already tried to kill me,” Remy interrupted. “Why should I trust anything you have to say now?”

  “An unplanned misfortune,” the voice explained. “My creations sometimes have strong attachments to memories that do not belong to them, which in turn cause problems with their function. That was the case in your situation, and I apologize.”

  Remy glanced at Francis to find him staring at the cloud, his finger twitching on the trigger of the gun that was once named the Pitiless.

  “In any case, you will do as I instruct, or the girl—beautiful, vivacious Ashley—will meet a fate that I wouldn’t wish on your dog.”

  Remy was taken aback by the acknowledgment of Marlowe.

  “Get on with it,” he snarled, angered that the voice knew so much, and he so little.

  “You will come when you are called,” the voice said. “And you will come alone.”

  Remy waited for more, but there was nothing. The roiling smoke collapsed in on itself, gradually receding back into the open mouth of the skull like some enormously long tongue.

  “I guess it told you,” Francis said, putting the gun away.

  “It did, at that.” Remy’s eyes were still on the skull as Francis bent to retrieve it.

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I really don’t have a choice,” Remy replied. “I wait until I’m called.”

  “Figured that’d be your answer.” Francis pushed past him into the bathroom, returning with a towel in which he wrapped the skull.

  “And what are you going to do with that?” Remy asked.

  “I’m gonna to take it to somebody who knows about these things,” Francis answered. “I doubt that making something like this is easy. Maybe someone in the know might be able to narrow down the playing field.”

  Remy nodded, liking what he was hearing. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Yeah, thought you would.” Francis put the towel-wrapped skull under his arm. “Even though it’s probably a waste of time.”

  “Don’t say it,” Remy said firmly.

  “Hey, you know me,” Francis said. “Always the voice of reason. Guys that can do shit like this usually play by their own rules.”

  “So I’ll play by his rules until…,” Remy said.

  “Until?”

  “Until it’s time to play by mine.”

  Francis nodded slowly as he turned his back on Remy. A section of air in front of him started to shimmer, like the reflective surface of a pond caressed by the wind. “I’ll give you a call if I learn anything,” he shot over his shoulder. Then he reached out with his free hand to tear away the vibrating section of air, ripping a hole in the very fabric of reality.

  Remy could only stare as his friend entered the passage he’d summoned, and the wound in time and space quickly healed behind him.

  Francis had never been able to do that before.

  Remy was aware of the passage of time by the movement of the shadows beneath the drawn window shades. He watched the shadows grow stronger, bolder, pooling in patches around the room, growing in strength as the daylight surrendered its supremacy once again to the inevitable night.

  He had switched off the lamp after Francis had departed, preferring the solitude of darkness. Carol Berg had called repeatedly, but he did not pick up. He couldn’t bear to speak with her now.

  He couldn’t let her know that this was all because of him. All he could do now was sit and wait.

  And do everything in his power to make things right.

  Remy’s eyes fell on a deepening stain of black on the closet door. There was something about the shadow and the swiftness with which it seemed to move across the wooden surface, blotting out the slats as it flowed down to the floor like dripping ink.

  Remy stood and cautiously approached the door, feeling the cold radiating from the area. This is it, he thought as he reached out for the door, not
surprised to feel nothing beneath his fingertips but cool air. A passage had been opened for him, and he did as he was expected to do, stepping into the blackness.

  The entrance gradually constricted and closed behind him, leaving him standing alone in a world composed entirely of shades of darkness. He turned slowly, attempting to get his bearings. Every one of his senses was alive, searching for something, anything, to take hold of. The place smelled of cool dampness, like an old basement, and that strange hollow sound he had heard over the phone was carried in the air.

  He raised his hand, willing it to be filled with the divine light of Heaven, and his fingers started to glow, dispelling the shadows. Holding his burning hand aloft, he walked farther into the shadowy world. There was a bizarre landscape beneath the cover of darkness, and Remy thought he might have seen movement among the inhospitable terrain.

  There was a sudden flash of brilliance, followed closely by what sounded like a clap of thunder, and Remy experienced an intense pain in his burning hand, and quickly pulled it to him.

  There was no doubt about it; he’d been shot.

  “Extinguish your damnable light, you fool,” boomed a voice from somewhere in the gloom.

  Remy fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding hand against his chest, waves of pain coursing through his body with each beat of his heart. He could feel his rage growing, eclipsing any logical thought. The pressure of Ashley being taken coupled with the shrieking pain in his injured hand made it difficult for him to see beyond the violence that the Seraphim could unleash.

  But he managed to hold it together, watching as a pair of muted green lights like cat’s eyes grew steadily closer, as did an engine’s roar. And then a vintage limousine stopped just inches from him with a squeal of brakes. Remy stood as the driver’s-side door swung open and a powerful figure unfolded itself from within, rifle by its side.

  “Sorry for shooting you,” the man said. “But your fire would have drawn the beasts in droves.”

  He stepped into the green light thrown by the vehicle’s headlights, and Remy could see that the pale skin of his face was adorned with swirling, patterned tattoos. He slung his weapon over his shoulder and smiled.