In the House of the Wicked: A Remy Chandler Novel

  “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 t
he 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.”

  “They do?”

  “Two American chop sueys,” Francis told the man behind the counter.

  “The building is quite fortified against the likes of us,” Angus said, looking back to the front entrance.

  “Figured as much,” Francis answered, going through his wallet. “Gonna need to come up with a way of getting inside without making too much of a ruckus.”

  “I’m sure the magickal barriers are only the first line of defense,” Angus stated, watching the building. He caught sight of multiple security officers, and from the vibe they were giving off, he doubted very much that they were human.

  “Here,” Francis said, handing Angus a heaping Styrofoam container. “What do you want to drink?”

  “Water’s fine.”

  “Two waters,” Francis added, as the counter person brought the remainder of his order and he paid.

  “Let’s sit over here,” Francis said, leading Angus to the short concrete wall that bordered the plaza.

  It was lunchtime in Back Bay on a beautiful fall day, and the area was humming with activity. A perfect time to go unnoticed, Angus thought as he enjoyed his meal.

  “So, what do you think?” Angus asked after awhile.

  Francis had eaten in silence, staring at the formidable skyscraper before him, as if committing every detail to memory.

  “I think we have a problem,” the angel assassin said. “There are wards scrawled everywhere. Every brick fifty feet or less from the main entrance has been scrawled with some mystical hoodoo to keep the likes of us from passing through the front doors.”

  He took a bite of chop suey and slowly chewed.

  “I hate it when somebody tries to keep me out,” Francis stated. “It makes me feel so unloved.”

  “There will be even less in the world to love you if Stearns succeeds,” Angus reminded the angel. “And by feeding on that level of death energy, I hate to think how powerful he might become.”

  They had finished their lunches and stood to throw away their trash in a nearby barrel when there was a flurry of activity from the building. Security guards—large, powerful-looking men that probably weren’t men at all—spilled from the building and took up positions around the entrance.

  “Something is happening,” Angus said, as they made their way back to the waiting Leona.

  “I’m guessing somebody caught wind of our visit,” Francis said.

  “Or whatever it is that Stearns is up to,” Angus added, “is about to begin.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Scrimshaw squatted down beside his threadbare bed, going through the wooden chest that he had hidden beneath it.

  Mr. Deacon wanted them to be ready for what was about to happen; now infused with the power of the Seraphim, his master was about to attempt something that Scrimshaw had never believed possible.

  Mr. Deacon was going to attempt to bring them home.

  His pale hands rummaged through the contents of the chest, old yellowed photographs, Social Security cards, driver’s licenses—anything that could define someone as who they were.

  Scrimshaw hungered for such an identity, and if he could not have one of his own, then he would covet the lives of others.

  He was afraid that something might happen to his treasures and decided that he would carry some of them with him, just in case. A photo of a family picnic; three smiling children standing before a man and woman. He could see such love in their eyes, so much life that had already been lived and so much to come.

  There was no denying what he truly was: an artificial life molded from clay infused with magick in his master’s lab, sculpted to look human for the sole purpose of carrying out his master’s wishes no matter what they would be. He should have been just like all the other golems that populated the Deacon estate, but from the first day he’d come to life, he knew that he was different.

  He yearned for an identity, something to set him apart from all the others. His master was amused by this odd, independent thought, and encouraged him to grow, even allowing him the unique tattoos that he’d etched upon the pale, artificial skin of his face that had become his namesake.

  Scrimshaw.

  He hungered not only for the life he would create for himself, but for the lives of others—looking upon their life experiences like multifaceted jewels, bounty for the taking.

  Selecting a few of the driver’s licenses and a pretty red bow he had claimed from a child on her sixth birthday, Scrimshaw placed the cover back on the box and slid it beneath his cot. Then he put his prizes into the top front pocket of the heavy denim shirt he wore, close to where his artificial heart pulsed with magickal life.

  He remembered how he had acquired each of them on his occasional visits back to the earthly realm to check up on the golem vessels that Mr. Deacon had sent out to collect the life energies he needed for his continued survival. As Mr. Deacon needed those energies, so did Scrimshaw grow hungry for the life experiences of others. Life experiences that he took as his own. Images of murder flashed in his mind, but he was not bothered by them.

  Killing was all part of the process, the final step to claiming what he needed to be his.

  Scrimshaw looked forward to acquiring even more keepsakes, knowing that being back on Earth permanently would make his access to the thriving populace even more bountiful.

  Standing up beside his bed, he felt the h
ouse begin to shake. It was a strange sensation but not unfamiliar, recalling when the Deacon estate had first been transported from the Catskills to the world of shadows.

  His master was already at work, manipulating the magicks necessary to transport the entire estate back to where it had originated. Scrimshaw hadn’t a moment to spare. He left his room in search of the master’s son. Mr. Deacon wanted the boy prepared for the journey they were about to undertake.

  Scrimshaw walked the tilted hallway to the wing where Teddy kept his room. The house shook again, the lights in the wall sconces flickering to darkness, before illuminating again, but this time at only half their brilliance. The passage was deep with black shadows now, and Scrimshaw grew cautious, taking a knife from his pocket.

  Just in case.

  Something moved in the deep darkness ahead of him, and Scrimshaw stopped, squinting his eyes to try to pierce the shadows. The sound of grunts and gurgles reached his ears as bounding feet drew closer.

  Scrimshaw tensed the muscles in his legs, preparing to lunge and gut whatever it was that was about to pounce. It was almost upon him, and he brought his arm back, ready to drive the point of his blade up into the torso of his attacker, when he saw that it was Teddy.

  The feral child scampered from the dark, dragging the angel’s little girlfriend on a leash behind him.

  “That’s a good way to get yourself killed,” Scrimshaw grumbled, dropping the blade to his side.

  Teddy grunted, rubbing his running nose with the back of his hand. He looked behind him and gave the leash a violent tug, causing the girl to stumble forward, tripping over her own feet and falling to the floor.

  Having gotten more from the angel than they’d even anticipated, the girl was really no longer needed and had obviously been forgotten by his master. Scrimshaw stared at the young woman, who struggled to keep from crying as she slowly climbed to her feet on the uneven floor. He wondered about her life and what had made her so strong. He couldn’t imagine that an average girl of her age, taken from the world and brought to this place, wouldn’t have lost her mind.