In the House of the Wicked: A Remy Chandler Novel

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “Fifty-dollar cover,” the vessel repeated as he held out a fifty-dollar bill.

  The bouncer’s hand closed around the cash, snatching it from the vessel’s grasp. Their fingers touched briefly as the exchange was made, and the vessel sampled some of the large man’s energy. It was relatively healthy, clean of any terminal disease. The selection was accepted, and now the vessel was that much closer to being full.

  The big man swayed ever so slightly, then seemed to shake it off as he pulled open the door for the club’s newest guest.

  “Enjoy yourself,” he said, as the vessel passed by him on his way inside.

  The vibrancy of life emanating from within nearly pulled the vessel down a red-lit corridor, electronic music growing louder, beating like a strong, healthy heart. The hallway ended at the top of a metal staircase and the vessel stopped for a moment to watch the activity on the dance floor below him—bodies overflowing with an abundance of vivacity, their exuberant gyrations beckoning him, calling him to walk among them.

  To sample the vitality they radiated.

  The vessel descended to the dance floor. With hands outstretched, he waded into the sea of bodies, and everyone he passed, everyone he casually brushed up against, filled him with their life.

  The Shadow Lands

  Sixty-seven Years Ago

  It was dark in the Shadow Lands, but then again, when wasn’t it? That was probably one of the things Squire liked most about the place: It didn’t pretend to be anything other than what it was.

  The hobgoblin pulled his tattered cloak about his squat, muscular body as a freezing wind from another time and place found its way into the repository of shadows to caress him.

  It was a realm of perpetual darkness, a place connected to all the shadows that ever existed—then, now, and even into the future. Traveling the Shadow Paths could take him just about anywhere, but for right now, the hobgoblin was content where he was.

  Squire sat, reveling in the quiet. He couldn’t recall how long he had been here this time but knew that this was where he needed to be…where he belonged.

  The long hairs on the back of his thick neck suddenly came to attention, and the hobgoblin was in motion, pulling the concealed machete from inside his cloak to meet the attack from one of the myriad life-forms that called this black realm its home. Shades of darkness writhed about him, and he narrowed his vision to see the beastie that used the shifting colors of black and gray for cover.

  It was insectoid in its basic design, and he had run into one or two before. Squire also recalled that its meat was quite tasty, if one enjoyed the flavor of rotting meat soaked in Listerine, which he did.

  The creature attacked high, and Squire went low, slicing the blade that he had sharpened that very morning across the exoskeletoned belly of the large bug. Its innards spilled out onto the ground, its life ended before it could even complete its leap.

  Squire was used to such things, always waiting, always ready for that next attack. For as long as he could remember, somebody or something was trying to kill him.

  The hobgoblin figured that it probably all started with his birth, when his kicking and screaming from his mother’s womb resulted in her death. That didn’t go over well with his father, to say the least. And from that day forward it seemed as though someone had pinned a sign on his back saying KILL ME, and that’s what everybody had been trying to do since.

  Of course, it hadn’t helped that he’d gotten himself mixed up with a band of would-be heroes—monsters, ghosts, and magick users trying to save from various supernatural threats a version of the Earth that he had made his home. At first that had seemed like a really good idea, but in the end…

  Not so much.

  The hobgoblin hated for his thoughts to go there; he’d spent too long remembering what had happened to his friends and the world that they had been trying to save. Emphasis on trying.

  But failing miserably.

  He’d used the Shadow Paths to travel to other worlds just like the one he had lost. Though details varied, he found them all on the verge of heading down that same road his world had gone, or, worse, having already succumbed to the planet-devouring threat.

  No, he would just stay here in the realm of darkness. It was simpler here, and the things that tried to kill him were only doing it because they loved the taste of hobgoblin meat.

  Nothing more complicated than that.

  Squire dug into the insect’s carcass with his knife, breaking the thick shell to get at the soft insides. Just like lobster, but different, he thought as he cut away the foul-smelling meat and shoved it into the lined leather bag that he always carried.

  He felt the disturbance in the air behind him and readied himself for another attack, but as he turned, he realized that it came not from an imminent threat but something off in the distance. The sky in this place was like a black velvet curtain, and as he gazed across the plain of shadow, it looked as though something was moving behind that curtain, punching and pushing on it.

  Stretching it.

  He’d never seen anything quite like it, and got that nasty feeling in the pit of his belly that told him it couldn’t be anything good.

  Leaving his kill, he trudged closer. The phenomena intensified, the sky writhing like the belly of a shadow snake after swallowing its prey alive. Squire suddenly knew that something was about to happen—he could feel it on his skin like pinpricks of electricity—and he raised his cloak to cover his face just as the explosion came.

  The sound was deafening in the dark and quiet world. The force of the blast tossed him across the blackened landscape, tumbling like a pile of dry fall leaves, until he managed to sink his fingers into the solidified shadow that comprised the ground of this place, stopping his progress.

  As the winds died down, he carefully climbed to his feet and could not believe what lay before him. Where there had once been only rolling plains of shadow, there now stood a house…a mansion, really.

  It sat there, squatting in the perpetual gloom like some gigantic prehistoric toad.

  The air was tinged with the stink of ancient magicks, and he knew that the dangerous environment that he had come to embrace had now been changed forever.

  “Fuck me,” the hobgoblin grumbled before spitting a wad of something hard and green onto the ground. “There goes the neighborhood.”

  The Deacon Estate

  The Shadow Lands

  Sixty-seven Years Ago

  Deacon had wished them all dead, using every ounce of power his body had stored.

  He had never expected to awaken, but his eyes did open and the nightmare that his world had become was reintroduced to him. His wife and son were still dead, his research ransacked. The bodies of his enemies were nowhere to be found, and he had to believe that the spell he had cast had failed.

  Weak beyond words, he dragged himself from the basement study, leaving behind the remains of his family.

  He hauled himself up the stairs to the first floor, remembering how the estate had moaned and groaned as he’d unleashed his spell, as if being torn asunder in the grip of a powerful storm. He was surprised to see that the old manse had managed to stay in one piece. Although as he lurched through the door and rebounded off the wall, he realized that the house was strangely askew. He was reminded of a family trip to a Coney Island fun house, and almost heard the shrieks of laughter from his son as they made their way through the distorted amusement.

  But there was nothing amusing about this.

  The ancient spell had come from someplace deep within his memory, something discerned from an arcane tome, deciphered and memorized in the effort to acquire as much ancient arcana as he could store in his human brain.

  He passed a mirror that had fallen from the wall and caught a glimpse of himself in the shattered fragments. It appeared that his home was not the only thing changed by the spell. The magick had taken much from his human form, leaving behind not the visage of a man rejuvenated by the life forces of thousands, bu
t an old man in the twilight of his existence.

  The spell has taken much, but did it succeed?

  Deacon thought he’d had an understanding of what the spell would do, but realized that his translation of the scroll may have been…

  Lacking.

  The house creaked as he struggled through it. He hoped to see the bodies of the members of the cabal along the way, but found only those of his golem staff, left by his former partners in their assault upon his home.

  Did they manage to escape? he wondered. Were my efforts wasted?

  Deacon struggled to maintain his footing on floors that bulged upward and then slanted precariously to one side, as he fought to reach the foyer of the grand old home. On aching hands and knees, he crawled up a section of marble floor, then slid down the other side to reach the front doors, now skewed drunkenly to the right.

  He reached up, grasped one of the doorknobs, and pulled himself to his feet, the bones in his spine popping loudly as he righted himself. The brass knob was incredibly cold in his gnarled fingers, but, surprisingly, it turned. He tugged on the door and it swung heavily open.

  At first his mind rationalized what he saw outside his door as only nighttime in the Catskills, but then he noticed the lack of stars in the sky. And where were the verdant forests just beyond the front gate?

  There was only darkness, the blackest he had ever seen.

  Slowly it dawned on him. This wasn’t the night at all; he—his entire home—had been transported to somewhere else.

  And it didn’t appear to be anyplace on Earth.

  The call of inky shadows drew him outside the safety of his home. Deacon squinted into the pitch black, trying to see beyond the ocean of darkness, but there was nothing.

  Suddenly, there came the slightest of sounds, and at first he believed he had imagined it, that his mind was attempting to fill the vacuous void that now surrounded him. But then he heard it again: the soft expulsion of breath, like a sigh.

  Deacon moved farther from the front door and was about to descend the steps to the stone path that led from the front doors to the gate when he thought he saw movement.

  Something darker than the blackness around him.

  And then it rushed at him, swimming through the ocean of dark, mouth agape, ready to claim its prey. Even in his prime, Deacon wasn’t sure he would have been fast enough to escape it. The only thought in the magick user’s brain was the hope that the other members of the cabal had met with a similar fate. If that was the case, Deacon would go to his death happily.

  A hand fell hard upon his scrawny neck, and Deacon felt himself yanked roughly backward toward the still-open door. A powerful figure now stood where he had been, the sounds of gunfire echoing strangely in the world of shadows.

  The attacking beast emitted a high-pitched shriek that caused the hair on Deacon’s body to rise, but the rifle fire was enough to drive it away.

  He blinked wildly as he stared at the broad back of the one who had saved him. Slowly the figure turned, and he looked into the pale, tattooed face of the golem Scrimshaw.

  “It is dangerous here,” the golem said, moving to his master and pulling him to his feet. “We will need to be careful if we are to venture outside.”

  “You should have let the damnable thing take me,” Deacon spat. “There is nothing left to live for.”

  “What of your son?” Scrimshaw asked, shouldering the rifle.

  “My son?” Deacon asked angrily, looking at the tattooed face of his creation. “My son is dead.”

  Scrimshaw slowly shook his head.

  “No, master. Your son still lives.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Remy didn’t immediately recognize the woman as she entered his office. Even though he had known her for years, Carol Berg had never been to his office, and it threw him off a bit to see her there.

  “Carol,” he began, a smile making its way across his face as he realized who she was.

  “She’s missing, Remy,” Carol said quickly, and it was then that Remy noticed her troubled expression, the lines of worry that had already etched their way into the skin of her face.

  She looked ten years older.

  “What are you talking about?” he questioned as he stood and moved around his desk toward her. “Who’s missing?”

  Carol’s shoulders sagged, and he was afraid that she might fall down. He helped her to the chair in front of his desk and knelt beside her, a comforting hand on her arm.

  “What’s happened?” Remy asked gently, trying to remain calm even though his heart was now hammering in his chest in anticipation of what was to come.

  “It’s Ashley…We’ve been calling her for days and she hasn’t answered,” Carol said, reaching into her purse to get her phone on some off chance that a call had come in and she hadn’t noticed. “We’ve left message after message…begging her to call us…”

  The woman’s voice cracked and she started to cry as she slid her phone back into her purse.

  Remy sat back on his haunches, allowing the information to sink in. Ashley Berg was Carol’s daughter. She was also a good friend of Remy’s—more than a friend, really—and had proven herself the most reliable babysitter Marlowe had ever had. He stood and grabbed a box of tissues from his desk, holding it out to Carol.

  “Have you called the school?”

  Ashley had gone off to Ashmore College in Brattleboro, Vermont, not three weeks ago. They had talked last week, and she was very excited about her classes, living in her own apartment, and finding a part-time job.

  Carol nodded as she took the Kleenex and dabbed at her eyes. “They said she hasn’t shown up for classes in three days. We called the police and they’re working with the college, but we don’t know what to do.”

  Carol fell eerily silent, staring ahead as if seeing a glimpse of something right around the corner. “Oh, my God, Remy,” she gasped, emotion dripping from every word. “Oh, my God. What if somebody has hurt her?”

  Remy reached out to put his arms around her, to lend her some of his strength. “It’s going to be all right,” he tried to soothe her, as she sobbed into the collar of his button-down shirt.

  “Where is she, Remy?” Carol asked between sobs. “Why isn’t she answering our calls? Why hasn’t she been to school or her apartment?”

  “I don’t know,” Remy said, holding her tighter, afraid that she might disintegrate in his arms. “But I’m going to find out.”

  She pulled away from him then, her wide, wet eyes staring into his.

  “I’m going to find out,” he repeated with a nod of promise.

  “I knew that’s what you’d say.” Carol’s lips trembled as she tried to pull herself together. “She loves you and Marlowe so much….” And then she closed her eyes, rivulets of tears running down her face. She crammed the tissues against them.

  “Carol, where’s Karl?” Remy asked about her husband, Ashley’s father.

  She looked at him again, appearing to think a moment before answering. “He’s at the house…just in case she…just in case somebody calls and…”

  “That’s good,” Remy said, standing beside her chair. “I think you should go there, as well…be with Karl. Support each other.”

  “We’re going up to Brattleboro as soon as I get home.”

  Remy had no doubt that that’s where they would be heading.

  “Keep me in the loop,” he said. “Give me a call if you hear anything at all, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

  She got up from the chair. Remy held her by the elbow just to be sure she was steady enough on her feet.

  “I will,” she said, sniffling. “I’m so sorry that I broke down like that…. I…”

  “No worries,” Remy said to her.

  She managed a halfhearted smile and walked toward the door.

  “What are you going to do?” she then asked.

  The Seraphim nature was fully aware and listening, sensing that what it could do—what it existed for—would soo
n be called upon and put to use.

  “I’m going to start my own investigation,” Remy told her.

  She nodded, opening the door, and was about to step out into the hall when she stopped and turned.

  “Promise me that you’ll find her,” Carol said. “That no matter what, you’ll bring my little girl back to me.”

  “I promise,” Remy told her.

  And he’d never meant anything more.

  Beacon Hill

  Summer 1996

  Remy trekked up the hill from Charles Street carrying a bag of groceries, odds and ends Madeline had asked him to pick up for supper.

  It was a blazingly hot day on the Hill, but Remy didn’t allow himself to feel it. He enjoyed being human and all that it entailed, but if he could tweak his body temperature during the hot-and-humid Boston summers, he could see no problem in acknowledging what he truly was from time to time.

  An angel of the Heavenly host Seraphim could be comfortable at the North Pole, on the surface of the sun, or even Beacon Hill in the middle of August.

  As he headed up Mount Vernon Street, he noticed a Gentle Giant movers’ truck double-parked in front of one of the brownstones. The back of the truck was wide open to reveal a jam-packed trailer filled with a combination of covered furniture and multiple boxes. The movers were just starting to unload and were already soaked with sweat.

  Bet they wish they were of the Heavenly host Seraphim, Remy thought as he drew closer.

  The sidewalk in front of the brownstone was crowded with items unloaded from the truck, so he stepped into the street to get around it.

  And that was when he noticed the little girl.

  She couldn’t have been any older than five, and was crouched down outside a black, wrought-iron fence in front of a house across the street on Louisburg Square. He could hear her little voice, talking away as he drew nearer. Where are her parents, and who the hell is she talking to? he wondered.

  He could now see a frazzled-looking woman giving instructions to the movers from the steps of the brownstone, and a man on a cell phone pacing back in forth in the midst of a heated conversation with what sounded like the cable company.