by Paul Crilley
There are more cars coming along the drive. I take a deep breath and turn towards the house, climb the stone stairs to the entrance. The huge door is standing open, a young girl waiting with a tray of champagne. She has the same vacant stare as the valet.
I take a glass, trying to catch her eye, but her gaze slides away like ice over stone. I send out a few subtle strands of shinecraft, immediately picking up on the tendrils that hang over her. She’s been glamoured, her mind locked away for the night. She won’t remember a thing come tomorrow.
I look around, casually sipping my drink. The entrance hall is huge, with full-on English-haunted-mansion in decoration choices. Polished wooden floor, oil paintings of knights and oddly dressed men, two staircases that wind up either side of the wall to meet on the second-floor landing, and dark mahogany wall panelling. It feels like I’ve stepped back into Victorian times.
A few guests are milling around chatting. I quickly duck through one of the doors that open off from the foyer in case any of them decides to draw me into conversation.
The door leads into a huge library. Despite the summer heat a fire is roaring in the hearth. There are more guests in here, standing around in small groups exchanging low conversation. They look at me suspiciously as I enter, drawing closer together. I ignore them, pretend to glance at the books on the shelves, then head through a second door on the far side of the room.
I wander through the house for the next hour. Never pausing for too long, constantly moving as the rest of the guests turn up and the house gradually fills with expensive cologne, superiority complexes, and hundreds of different masks: faeries, wolves, dogs, butterflies, snakes, crocodiles. All of them expensively made, and, if I’m not mistaken, covered with real jewels. Diamonds, sapphires, and rubies.
I don’t think Dumelo’s mask has anything of that kind of value, though. Maybe he was entry level. Not as important as he obviously thought he was.
I try to fit in, but it’s hard for me not to run screaming from the house as I hear these people mumbling about their problems.
‘. . . Oh, and they were all out of Beluga Caviar, darling. I couldn’t believe it.’
‘. . . I said to him, I want the A6 tomorrow, delivered to my house with a silver bow on it, or I’ll get Audi to pull your dealership licence.’
‘. . . My boy is very sensitive. I mean, obviously it was the other boy’s fault little Donny threw him out that window. Hmm? No, the school made it all go away. It’s what we pay for.’
‘. . . I said to him, yeah, it’s eight thousand jobs gone, but really, it’s nothing personal. You have to separate the sense of self from business dealings. Hmm? What did he do? He killed himself. Nose dive from the overpass.’
I grit my teeth and drink my champagne.
-Dog? How’s it going?-
-Wonderful. Your boss found me some booze in the kitchens and tossed it out the window. She’s very considerate.- There’s a pause as the dog thinks about this. -Actually, now I think about it, I had to dodge pretty quick to avoid the bottle.-
-Where is she now?-
-No idea. She just told me to sit on my arse and drink my booze.-
It’s about eight o clock now, and most of the guests are loudly drunk, trying to outdo each other in their poor-rich-me stories. I’ve been watching these people closely. Obviously some of them know each other, or how else would their big deals get done? In fact, I’ve seen small groups heading into the various rooms, closing the doors behind them while they have their private pow-wows.
But the others . . . those who are not supposed to know each other? They really seem to want to be known. Proclaiming loudly for all to hear what they did last week in their job. Dropping hints about this or that government policy, about who they know, about who was at dinner with them last week. It’s like they all want to rip off their masks and scream out, Look at me! I’m important!
I’m doing my second circuit of the house when I sense a ripple of movement running through the guests. They whisper to each other excitedly, leaving the rooms and heading towards the front of the house. There’s excitement in the air. A tension that is slowly rising.
I flow with the crowd as it spills into the entrance hall. I’m at the rear of the crowd, a hundred or so guests standing in front of me. I make a half-hearted attempt to get closer to the front, but all that earns me are dirty looks and elbows in the ribs.
‘Can I have your attention, please.’
We look up. Conversation falls away to excited mutterings and hopeful sighs. A tall man wearing a charcoal grey suit is standing on the second-floor balcony directly above the foyer. His face is deeply creased, with eyes so startlingly grey they’re almost white.
‘Good evening to you all. I just want to take this opportunity to welcome you to our little soirée.’
He speaks with what sounds like a Scandinavian accent. He scans the masked faces staring rapturously up at him. ‘Now, I know you’ve all had a very stressful couple of months, if the many emails and letters I’ve received are anything to go by. This is understandable. You are hard workers. The best in your fields. You make the world go round, yes? This is very stressful, I think.’
He leans slightly over the balcony, staring down at us all. ‘That is why I am here. I am your psychiatrist. I am your priest. I am a-hah-hah, Dr Feelgood, yes? You have problems, you come to me. I make them go away. Forever. I take them from you.’ He holds his hands to his chest. ‘I lessen the burden of life. That is my job.’
He smiles. He’s pretty good, I have to admit. I almost believe he cares about us. About me.
‘My friends, tonight is your night, yes? Your night to enjoy yourself. To let loose. To relieve the pent-up frustrations of the past months. To purge your systems and do what comes naturally to us all. Because, let us face it, yes? Society and its laws are not for us. A veneer of lies to help the sheep sleep better at night. You are the one per cent, the ones who know what it means to be human. You are the ones who embrace all sides of your nature. You do not deny who you are. Why should you? Let your true nature rise up, my friends. Enjoy who you are. Embrace the lust.’ He smiles at us all and presses his hands together, almost in prayer. ‘And now? Go to it. Tak. Thank you.’
The crowd bursts into cheers. Frenzied, animalistic howls and ululations. I raise my glass and voice like the rest of them, trying to hide my unease. There’s danger here. The danger of a mob let loose to do as they will. I’ve seen it often enough in my work. The mob becomes a single organism, feeding itself on the emotions the more powerful members generate. I can feel it here, as the self-styled Dr Feelgood looks down on us with a smile of ownership, like a master looking on his dog.
Then all the doors that were locked during my exploration of the house open up and long lines of naked men and women walk out to join the party. I watch them file past, moving into alcoves and along passageways, some of them heading deeper into the house. They have that same vacant look as the valet and the girl at the door. Glamoured. Or drugged.
A sense of anticipation hangs in the air. A feeling of urgency. The guests stop talking. They eye the naked people hungrily, licking their lips.
One of the new arrivals – a young man, beautiful and flawless – climbs the stairs and comes to stand next to Dr Feelgood.
‘And now,’ says Feelgood, ‘to start the night off in the proper manner, we will indulge in one of our . . . special traditions. Who will open the bidding?’
The guests shout and raise their hands. I look around in confusion. What are they bidding for? A sex slave?
‘What was that?’ says Feelgood, leaning forward. ‘Did I hear one million? Come now, my friends. That is loose change to you all.’
‘Ten million!’ shouts a voice.
Feelgood smiles. ‘That is more like it. We have ten million. Do we have fifteen?’
‘Fifteen!’
‘Twenty!’
Twenty million? What the hell? What are they paying for?
Feelgood smiles do
wn upon the masses and takes out a gold knife. He holds it up.
‘The winning bid will also receive this exclusive knife. It is a one of a kind piece from my own private collection.’
‘Twenty-five million!’ shouts a woman’s voice.
‘We have twenty-five. Twenty-five million for the honor of first blood. Do I hear thirty?’
Feelgood scans the crowd.
First blood?
‘No rise on twenty-five million? No? Then sold to the lady with the vulture mask.’
A polite round of applause strikes up. The crowd parts to allow the winning bidder access to the stairs. She climbs to the landing and Feelgood hands over the knife.
‘Do your worst, my dear, then come to me for absolution. I will be waiting for you.’ He gestures to a room behind him, then lays a hand gently on her head ‘For it is your right.’
‘It is my right,’ the woman murmurs back, as if responding to a benediction.
I look around in horror, realization of what is going on finally sinking in. I was expecting a drug-fuelled party. Maybe a bit of an orgy later when some of the guests got out of hand.
But this . . . this is a sin party. The rich and powerful getting to indulge in their sickest fetishes and still leaving free of sin. Free of guilt. Free of the memories of what they’ve done.
I swallow the bile in my throat, reach behind my back for the Glock shoved into my pants. I’m not going to just stand here and watch this.
That’s when I smell cloves and jasmine, and a hand rests lightly on my arm.
‘No, no, my friend,’ says a deep voice. ‘Let us keep the weapon hidden away. There’s a good boy.’
I glance to my right. See a figure wearing the mask of a demon. Look to my left. Another figure. This one wearing a red devil mask.
But they’re not wearing tuxedoes. They’re wearing black trench coats.
Angels.
Chapter 16
The angels pull me away from the foyer, moving deeper into the house. To be honest, I’m not sorry to be going. The other guests are starting to get into the swing of things. I hear shouts of joy, screams of agony. The cackle of giddy laughter as the veneer of society is stripped away and the animal inside let loose.
From the lower half of their faces I can see one of the angels looks old. Tanned skin, creased with wrinkles. The other looks younger, with that generic, cold-statue look I mentioned before.
I struggle against the older one’s grip, but I can’t budge. I might as well be trying to lift a ton of metal. Doesn’t stop me trying, though.
‘Such a strong will,’ says the older angel. He leans close to me and inhales. Then he gently strokes my hair. I jerk away and he clicks his tongue in disappointment.
The younger angel leans close. ‘Michael sends his regards,’ he says.
I glare at him. ‘Seriously? You just here from a Godfather retrospective?’
His mouth purses with annoyance. He turns to the older angel. ‘Ramiel?’
The older angel – Ramiel – sighs. ‘He means you are talking in clichés, Azazel.’
Ramiel and Azazel? I’ve heard those names before. And recently, too, when I was reading up on Lilith. The Book of Enoch, I think. They’re part of the Grigori, the fallen angels who came to earth to fuck their way through the human population. (And to teach us how to make weapons and shit. They’re probably the kickstarters of civilisation.)
‘Aren’t you supposed to be chained in a hole in the desert or something?’ I ask Azazel.
‘No,’ says Ramiel. He reaches behind me and gently strokes Azazel’s cheek. He obviously likes physical contact, does old Ramiel. ‘The “hole in the desert” – this was never true. But Michael has temporarily released us from prison to come and . . . take care of you. He does not wish your death to stain his soul.’
‘You want to talk about staining your souls? Shouldn’t you be doing something about all this shit going on here?’
Ramiel shrugs. ‘It is in their nature. Would we stop a lion from hunting? A vulture from devouring a corpse? Of course not. Now come. Let us find a quiet room.’
Azazel pulls me and we move deeper into the house.
-Dog. Could do with a hand here.-
-Hah! Thanks, London. You won me my bet.-
-What bet?-
-How long it would take before you needed help. I said two hours.-
-What did Armitage say?-
-Twenty minutes.-
-Nice.-
-So what’s the problem?-
-Two angel hitmen.-
-Huh. Michael must be going soft. He used to do that shit himself.-
-I need a distraction.-
-How big?-
-Big. I’ve eyeballed the head honcho here. Once I shake these two loose I’m going to have a word with him.-
-Right. Just to make sure. Are we talking like, BANG! big, or Big-badda-boom big?-
-Big-badda-boom, Leeloo. Definitely. And quick.-
-Leave it to me.-
By this time, the angels have me in a long, wood-panelled corridor. Ramiel picks a room at random and opens the door.
‘Clear,’ he says, peering inside.
-Rear of the house, dog. First floor. Middle of the building.-
-Got it. You’re gonna like this, London. You know they’ve got their own gas pump here? How upmarket is that?-
I wince. The dog and fire never go well together.
-Just hurry up. Running out of time.-
Azazel shoves me in the back and I stumble into the room. It’s a study. A huge desk facing the door, leather-bound books arranged by colour on the shelves behind it.
There’s a large window straight ahead. I think I can see something flickering outside. Something orange. I position myself so that the two angels stand between me and the glass.
‘I’m curious,’ I say. ‘How do you square this with the big man and his ten commandments? You know, “Thou shalt not kill”?’
Ramiel frowns at me. ‘It is not for us to question the Will.’
‘Ah. Got it. Just following orders, eh?’
Ramiel raises his arm and a sword appears in his hand. The blade bursts into flame, blue fire coursing along the blade. The light reflects against his face, illuminates the study.
I immediately want one. With every fibre of my being. Heavenly lightsabers. How goddamn fucking cool is that?
‘Am I really such a big deal to you guys?’
‘Not you. What you are doing.’
‘Yeah. Sticking your nose into stuff that isn’t your business,’ says Azazel.
‘Oh, come on.’ I look appealingly to Ramiel. ‘You can’t kill me with him spouting this shit.’
‘You are correct,’ says Ramiel. ‘Azazel. Shut the fuck up and cut his head off.’
Azazel grins. ‘Sure. Afterwards, can we visit the city? Before we have to go back to heaven? I want some pizza.’
‘We’ll see.’
Curiosity gets the better of me. ‘I thought you said you were in prison?’
‘I am not in prison,’ says Ramiel defensively. ‘I am a guard.’
‘But he just said heaven.’
‘Not the real Heaven, cock-head,’ sneers Azazel. ‘That’s what we call the prison. Where the Fallen are locked away—’
‘Enough,’ snaps Ramiel. He hands the sword to Azazel. ‘End him.’
‘With pleasure.’ Azazel grins and steps forward.
The explosion, when it comes, is spectacular.
The windows explode inwards, shards of glass cutting into the backs of the angels, sending them staggering forward. A huge fireball soars up past the house.
The sword flies from Azazel’s hand, hits the floor next to my feet. I grab the hilt, and almost drop it again when I feel the freezing cold burning my hand. Azazel straightens up and lurches for me. I grit my teeth and swing the sword. He lifts both arms to protect himself and the sword slices through them at the elbows. Like they weren’t even there.
His arms hit the carpet,
fingers clenching up like dying spiders.
Azazel stares at them in horror, then glares at me. ‘Look what you did, man! How am I gonna eat pizza now?’
I swing the sword again. His head flies through the air and hits the bookcase. His body drops to its knees and then just sits there.
I advance on Ramiel.
‘Don’t be stupid, human. You kill me, you make a very powerful enemy.’
‘More powerful than Michael? Because I think I’m already on his shitlist.’
He tries to smile. ‘Fine, fine. What about . . . what about a gift? You want anything? Women? Money? No? Your tastes run different, yes? A child—’
I rush him.
He holds up his hand and a second sword appears, this one blazing with red fire. The swords connect.
Purple fire explodes in the room, magical lighting writhing around the blades, bathing our faces. I step back, swing for his head. He blocks it and kicks me in the stomach. I stagger back, arms cartwheeling, but still manage to hold onto the sword. I hit a bookcase and push myself upright just in time to meet Ramiel’s counter-attack.
His blade almost hits my neck. I bring my own sword to stop it just in time. The purple light glints in his eyes. On his teeth.
‘You have no idea how much trouble I’m in now,’ he snarls. ‘Azazel was my ward. I’m probably going to have to face a committee. You realise how boring committees are? Especially committees of angels?’
‘My heart bleeds for you.’
I duck, and the force he was putting on his blade sends him staggering to the left. He swings his arm behind him, stopping my sword from cutting into the backs of his legs. He turns to face me, still holding the blade down, blocking my own.
‘Paperwork. I’m going to have to fill in a missing prisoner file. In quadruplet.’
He pushes me back. I can’t move my own blade. It’s holding his down. If I move it, he’ll use the momentum to cut me in half. I glance over my shoulder. A few steps from the wall. I’m going to be stuck in a corner. I won’t be able to swing.
I briefly consider using the tattoos, but then remember it’s only been a couple of days. The strength they’ll have gained from me will still be coursing through them. It’s too soon. What’s the point of using them to combat one threat if they just turn around and devour me once they’re finished?
