Bart of Darkness (The Book of Bart 2)

by Ryan Hill

  Remy looked disappointed.

  “What?”

  “The Titanic? That was you?”

  “No, I was hitching a ride. Blessed nice boat, if you ask me. Blessed nice.” At the time, the ship was the height of luxury. Especially when compared to the Carnival Cruise Line crap they passed off as “nice” these days. Stupid iceberg. My suit froze to me, the water was so cold. After my “rescue,” I had to break the suit into several pieces to get it off.

  “I saw Jurgen play the other day,” Remy said. “He’s still got it.”

  “I don’t say this often, but that warms whatever sort of heart I have.”

  “You could see him,” Remy said with a grin. “I’m pretty sure he’s playing tonight.”

  Jurgen Slusser was a lot like Rasputin, except he’d died maybe eight thousand more times than that Russian knucklehead. Originally a soldier in the Marcomannic Wars, he’d been captured by the Romans after they crossed the Danube in 172 AD, and then tortured to death. The Roman army had Jurgen drawn and quartered—one of the nastier ways to go. Nothing like being tied to a slab while someone yanked out your small intestine like a row of sausage.

  But a funny thing happened to Jurgen after he’d been pronounced dead. The next morning, he woke up alive and quite well. No marks, no evidence at all that he’d had his innards removed inch by inch. It took real guts to survive something that horrible. The Romans? They weren’t happy to see Jurgen rolling off a pile of dead bodies, trying to make an escape.

  Over the next four years, they executed him every day, in the hopes of making him stay dead. None of them worked. On top of that, when he got really angry, his skin would turn green and he’d smash his tormentors to bits.

  Kidding about the green part, though something did happen to Jurgen when he got angry. I never saw it for myself, but rumor had it that if he lost his temper, pretty much everything within a square mile, living or not, was likely to get torn to bits.

  The Romans were too stupid, cynical, or both to figure it out, but Jurgen was possessed by something that rejuvenated his body whenever he died. Maybe it was an alien, a vampire, or something that didn’t yet have a name. Nobody knew what brought him back to life, least of all the man himself. A handful of times the monster came close to taking over for good, but Jurgen figured out that playing music helped keep the thing dormant. And, bless it all, did he have talent. He could play anything, but piano was his forté.

  It turned out Jurgen was in town as a special guest of the Raleigh Symphony Orchestra, performing in their winter concert series at the Duke Energy Center for the Performing Arts. To keep from arousing suspicion, he used a fake name for a good twenty or thirty years, then disappeared in a “freak accident.” He’d lie low for a while, and after things cooled down, re-emerge with a new identity and haircut. Since the Nineties he’d been going by the ridiculous name Rupert Falkenreem. Of all the names to choose, of all the different combinations of letters and words in the universe, Jurgen went with a name that sounded like some sort of Rumpelstiltskin knock-off. For the existence of me, I had no idea why.

  Regardless, with Jurgen in town, if nothing else I had to see him perform. He was one of the greatest musicians to pick up an instrument. These days, his classical talent went unnoticed by the main stream, what with their pop songs, but that was fine with me. Him too, considering the low profile he kept. Regardless, Jurgen could play any instrument. He could bring a grown man to tears with nothing more than a plastic kazoo.

  I got two box tickets for that night’s performance, and even took Sam, on the caveat that she wore her finest evening gown. Something that wasn’t bedazzled, yet showed off a hint of cleavage. Not too much, because that took away from the classiness, but the perfect mix between respectable and disreputable.

  She wasn’t sold.

  “Why do I have to wear my finest evening gown?” She made air quotes with her fingers as she spoke.

  “This isn’t some poppy boy band that may or may not have sold their souls for celebrity,” I said. “It’s a musical concerto. To attend such an elegant event requires a little class and panache.”

  “So why are you going?” Sam asked.

  “Hush, you.”

  Part of me expected to see her wearing a second-hand prom dress, or even the one she wore to the prom we went to last year to stop a Golem from destroying the world, but nope. To my surprise, she wore a tight, charcoal dress that looked awfully sexy, clinging to her hips with a faint touch. It showed off the perfect amount of cleavage.

  Best of all? It wasn’t bedazzled. I hadn’t thought Sam had it in her to look so … so … ravishing? Delectable? Watching her in that dress made me lose my train of thought.

  Sam waved a hand in my face. “Are we going to this concerto in our finest evening wear, or are you having second thoughts?”

  “Right, sorry.” I tugged at the lapel of my black Brioni tuxedo, held out my arm for her to take, and went inside.

  “Who is this guy again?” Sam asked as we took our seats. “Some sort of immortal?”

  “Basically.”

  “Why can’t we talk to him before the show?”

  “Because a musician needs to prepare before a concerto, not get asked a bunch of questions by us.” Like everything else, playing at Jurgen’s level took a decent amount of mental preparation. “Just try to enjoy the break from your emo music and experience some culture.”

  “That’s funny, coming from you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Have you seen where I live? What I wear? I have culture coming out of every hole, crevice, and crack I have, you heathen.”

  “I meant the emo music,” she said with a wry grin. “You know you like it too.”

  I dismissed her with a pfft. “Tonight is about appreciating fine art, okay? Soak it in.”

  Culture was one of the most important weapons in a demon’s arsenal, with a unique power that compared to nothing else. It was the best humanity had to offer. Art, music, theater, even finger paintings by kindergarteners. Through its beauty, culture could become more than just a visual treat or a delight for the ears. It could hold up a mirror to civilization. Sometimes it showed off the best of society, but more often than not it pointed out the worst, with a precision that would make a surgeon blush or a laser feel obsolete.

  There was power in culture, but demons didn’t always hold it in such high regard. It wasn’t until a bunch of us got together to figure out how, in corporate terms, we could “streamline efficiency” in regard to corrupting souls. We couldn’t decide on a single answer, but some of us concluded that to break humanity down to their worst, you had to first understand them at their best. Music, wine, fine clothing, orgies ... whatever was held in the highest regard by civilized society.

  Some of us, including myself, took this course of action. We learned all there was to learn about culture. In the process, we acquired a taste and appreciation for it. Fine dining. Luxurious fashion. Grooming products.

  Immersing ourselves in the humanities worked better than imagined. We were free to create some of the most incendiary works of art the world had ever known. Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure got the erotica horse and buggy rolling in 1748. A Doll’s House stirred unhappy women to divorce. If the work stirred controversy, chances were Hell played a part in it.

  It also didn’t hurt that people were much more apt to let a well-dressed demon versed in popular culture walk all over them than one who was wearing a pauper’s outfit or a tank top that somehow had armpit statins.

  “Culture it is,” Sam said. “We can rock out to some emo later.”

  Around us, the lights dimmed, the crowd hushed, and the curtain rose. The orchestra was seated on stage, the string section finishing their tune-ups. Jurgen entered from stage right to rapturous applause. Even I stood up and clapped. Sam gave me a funny look as she joined in the applause, like she’d gotten something in her eye. She opened her mouth to speak, but I held up my hand to stop her.

  “Not now. Culture is ha
ppening.”

  “I understand, but how long do you think this will take?” Sam bobbed up and down, excited to move forward with her task. “I really want to talk to him.”

  Jurgen stopped at the middle of the stage, his stringy brown hair flapping as he took a bow. He took a seat by the piano, his fingers hovering over the keys. Then, in what felt like a wave washing over the audience, the musician dove into the Piano Concerto Luminari by a fellow named Bernhard Schulman, who was an alter ego of Jurgen’s back in the day. The Concerto was beautiful. Moving. I could see my old acquaintance’s soul stirring as he played. People needed food to survive. Vampires? Blood. Jurgen needed music. He swayed back and forth as his lightning-quick fingers danced between the keys.

  Sam’s fingers danced on the armrest. I glanced over at her, eyebrows arched in a V.

  “Sorry,” she mouthed.

  I wanted to speak with Jurgen as much as Sam did, but the music this man played… Jurgen didn’t just make sound with his fingers. No, he brought sound to life. It reminded me of why he knew most everybody worth knowing. He’d gained a reputation with one crowd for being impossible to kill, and his musical talents gave him access to a different sort of crowd all together … because culture. The musician had access to the best and worst the world had to offer.

  Sam’s knees bounced. She bit her thumbnail. The girl looked to be crawling up the wall with anticipation to speak with Jurgen. I wanted to laugh at her and move on with the evening, but it was messing with my enjoyment. I laid a hand on her knee to stop the bouncing.

  Sam let out a slight gasp. Which almost made me gasp.

  Was she surprised that I touched her? Excited? Emboldened by the music, I let my hand rest on her leg to see what she’d do. If the reduced-fat angel did nothing, I would slide my hand upward. If she move–

  Bless it all.

  She moved it. Oh well, it was worth a try. I crossed my legs and turned my attention back to the rapturous music.

  After two and a half hours without an encore break, Jurgen and the orchestra finished their final piece. The audience, including myself, sat in stunned, enraptured delight. If I’d had tear ducts, they’d have released Niagara Falls. Nobody made music like Jurgen. It even made my loins feel lighter. There was something about the way he played that, for lack of a better phrase, would make even the most ardent atheist believe in G– Well … that might take it too far. His music would make them believe in something, at least. I glanced over at Sam, who was clapping in a slow, forced manner. She glanced at me sideways.

  “Can we talk to him now?”

  “Did you enjoy the concert?”

  Sam pouted. “Does it matter? Let’s go.”

  I sighed and absentmindedly stared off into space. I wasn’t going anywhere until Sam admitted she loved every note that was played.

  “Okay, yes, it was amazing.” She pushed me toward the end of the aisle. “Move.”

  The two of us rushed out of the auditorium, doing our best to maneuver around the exiting crowd of people, knowing we needed to get to Jurgen before he left for the evening. We made it outside of the center and briskly walked around the corner to the staff entrance to wait for him. Somehow, a dozen people beat Sam and I out there, hoping to get a souvenir autographed or their picture taken with the pianist.

  For the moment, the man of the hour was nowhere to be found. He was most likely still backstage, unwinding from that magnificent performance. I hoped he wasn’t in a rush to get back to his lodgings, otherwise I’d have to fight dirty to get through those groupies. Hair pulling, fingernails to the eye, a good, old-fashioned slap to the face … by any means necessary. I wasn’t above any of it.

  Sam stood on her tiptoes, trying to get a view of the staff entrance. “I can’t see anything.”

  “You don’t need to,” I said. “When the groupies start screaming and crying, you’ll know he’s outside.”

  It wasn’t choreographed, but just then the staff entrance door opened and Jurgen emerged to the applause of a dozen fans. The musician seemed hesitant to mingle with the “little people,” looking as if he wanted to run away, but instead greeted them. He made small talk with them, posed for pictures with a genuine smile on his face, and signed everything that was shoved in his face. All the while, he slowly moved away from the groupies, hoping to disentangle himself and get home.

  Finally, he waved. “Thank you, thank you, but I really need to get to my room. I’m glad you enjoyed the concert.”

  The crowd responded with a mixture of claps and sighs. It was never enough with fans. Sometimes it didn’t matter how much a person gave; a fan always wanted more.

  “Finally,” Sam said, making a beeline for him.

  Great. Sam was just going to come off as another superfan. I followed behind, trying to keep up with the imitation angel.

  “Excuse me, Jurgen?” she asked.

  He bowed. “Thank you, but I really need to get going.”

  “No,” Sam said. “I’m not a–”

  I moved next to her and waited for Jurgen to recognize me. It didn’t take long before his eyes widened and jaw fell.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Of all the gin joints in all the world.”

  I shook his hand, squeezing hard enough that no less than six bones in a human’s hand would’ve cracked. It was the sort of greeting reserved for someone I truly respected. He responded with his own vice-like grip. I’d forgotten Jurgen had the strength of a football player hiding inside his long, thin frame.

  “You were amazing tonight,” I said. “There aren’t enough words, moans, or grunts to describe how superbly you played.”

  Jurgen ehhed. “I improvised a little in the second movement and couldn’t figure out which way I wanted to go. It could’ve been better.”

  Bless it all. This guy was the best of all time. He’d just performed one of the greatest concertos I’d heard in my existence and he still found a mistake to improve upon. The performance was perfect, yet that wasn’t good enough. For Jurgen, it was greatest in the history of all mankind or bust.

  The three of us adjourned to Fox Liquor bar down the street from the Duke Energy Center for some wine. Located underneath a chicken and waffle restaurant, Fox felt like a speakeasy, but was in reality a very modern-looking bar, with steel countertops and hanging lights.

  Jurgen and I started off with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Sam drank water, because she was a ready-bake angel without a fake ID.

  “We haven’t seen each other since…” Jurgen tapped his chin. “The Titanic, wasn’t it?”

  “The water was colder than the Ninth Circle of Hell that night.”

  “Damn fine ship.” He pushed some of his stringy brown hair back. “I’m proud to have played on her only voyage.”

  Sam tapped my leg under the table with her foot. She sucked in her lips so far, part of me hoped it would start a chain reaction that would end in the almost-angel’s implosion. Not that I wanted her gone; it just would’ve been hilarious.

  I’d wanted to wait until Jurgen had a bit more alcohol in his system before Sam and I went into detective mode, but such was existence. I raised my eyebrows, letting her know that not only was it time, but I was taking the lead.

  “We were wondering if you could maybe help us with something,” I said.

  Jurgen sipped from his wine glass. “What is it?”

  “I certainly don’t want to bring up any bad memories, but by any chance are you familiar with the Caelo in Terra, or a Magister Caelo?”

  The pianist tried to take it in stride, but the way his neck expanded when he swallowed some wine gave away the façade. Bad memories were bubbling underneath the surface.

  “If it’s too much, we can change the subject,” I said, nodding to Sam for help.

  “Absolutely,” she said, sounding perky. “How did you learn to play the piano?”

  I forced myself not to wince. It was a silly question.

  How does a person learn to walk?

 
; They just do.

  How does someone become the greatest piano player in the past one hundred million years?

  They just do.

  Jurgen ignored Sam’s question, and rightfully so. “I don’t know of any Magister.” He took in the wine’s aroma before drinking again. “I remember that during my ‘stay’ with the Romans, before they started in with all the fun, they’d brought in this man. At first, I thought he was a monk, or priest, giving me last rites.”

  “What was he?” Sam asked. “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know.” Jurgen took another sip. “My memory gets a little hazy when I go back more than a few hundred years.”

  I smirked into my wine glass. “I have that same problem sometimes.”

  “Excuse me.” Jurgen cleared his throat. “It can be a little … uncomfortable when I reminisce.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sam hunched over the table, putting her hand on his. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.”

  Jurgen closed his eyes, tapping his fingers, as if he were playing the piano again. Sam’s gesture didn’t provide any comfort—and I needed to calm Jurgen down. Too much stress or anger overwhelmed him to the point his more … monstrous side came out to play. Nobody, not even Jurgen, knew how this other part of him arose, but it was the reason the musician had lived for so long.

  “You’re all good,” I said. “We’re just catching up on old times, relaxing and enjoying some fine wine.”

  “I apologize.” Jurgen’s eyes opened. “I want to help you.”

  Sam leaned forward in her seat, eyes wide, ready to soak everything in. “Was the man the Magister Caelo?”

  Clearly, my warning to take it easy on Jurgen was going right out the window.

  “He didn’t have a name.” Jurgen played with the stem of his glass. “Looking back, I don’t even think he was a man. But he wore a hood religiously, as if hiding something on his head.”