They glared at each other, the immensity of the situation weighing on them both.
“Perhaps it wouldn’t unfold like we think,” Montagin suggested. “Maybe if we stress your belief that the Morningstar wouldn’t—”
“You know as well as I do that’s exactly how it would unfold,” Remy interrupted. “War would be declared as soon as they saw the body—and since when would any of the Heavenly host have anything to do with what I have to say? They can’t fucking stand me.”
“True,” Montagin agreed. “But I don’t know how I’m going to keep this secret for very long.”
Remy looked at the doors. “First, we have to seal this up,” he said.
“Seal it up?”
“Nothing gets in there,” Remy explained. “We’re better off if no one knows he’s dead.”
“A locked door will not keep a being of Heaven from getting inside,” Montagin informed him.
“True, if we’re going the traditional route,” Remy said.
Montagin stared, unsure of where this was going. “Go on.”
“Magick,” Remy said. “We’ll find a magick user strong enough to weave a spell around the study, to keep anybody from getting in. Hopefully that will buy me enough time to come up with something to keep the dogs of war on their leashes.”
“And how do you suggest we locate this magick user?” Montagin questioned. “Should I look him up in the phone book, or use one of those computing devices and find him on the interweb?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Remy said. “I think I know enough to find somebody that should be able to handle the job. The payment might be steep, but considering the alternative . . .”
Montagin laughed—one of those freezing-cold displays of emotion popular with these creatures of the divine.
“Did I say something funny?” Remy asked him.
“All this effort, and we’re not even sure if it’s true or not,” the angel said, shaking his head.
“If what is true?”
“That Lucifer isn’t somehow responsible for this,” Montagin said. “Responsible for what’s gone on in there.” He pointed briefly to the closed doors, the horrible secret on the other side just pushing to get out and explode upon the world.
“That’s something I’m just going to have to find out,” Remy said. “That, and a magick user to put the granddaddy of all padlocks on that door.”
Castle Hallow
1301
Simeon vaguely recalled the sound of the heavy metal bolt in the door being slid back, and the creak of rusty hinges, before being taken by unconsciousness again.
It was the intense pain of claws scratching across his lower body that drew him up from the pool of oblivion.
Simeon screamed.
He opened bleary eyes to gaze upon a foul sight: a demonic creature of pale gray flesh with a humped back and a circular, tooth-ringed mouth like that of a leech. It had dug its long, filthy claws into his belly and was digging bloody rivulets into his fragile flesh.
His screams echoed mournfully throughout the dungeon.
“How do you do this?” asked a voice from somewhere within the room of torture.
Simeon could see that it was not the beast who spoke, its ringed mouth not likely made for speaking. With great effort he lifted his head from where he hung naked, chained by the wrists and ankles, and squinted bloodshot eyes to see what addressed him.
Something tugged excruciatingly from below, and his eyes dropped to see that the demon had torn a hole in his belly. It had withdrawn a rope of his innards and was now feeding it into its circular maw.
Simeon felt himself on the verge of tumbling back down into the black of the abyss when the voice spoke again.
“Every bone broken—mended in a matter of days,” the voice said. “Stabbed, flayed, and now disemboweled and eaten while still alive.”
The darkness crept closer around his eyes, threatening to claim him once more, when the figure that was speaking stepped into the faint light thrown by a smoldering brazier. Earlier it had heated instruments of torture that had been used upon his flesh.
Ignatius Hallow stood before him, clad in heavy robes, a skullcap of glistening copper atop his head.
“I ask you again, what manner of thing are you?”
Simeon answered before he could again be pulled down into temporary death. “I . . . I am . . . I am a man.”
He vomited a stream of blood on the demon squatting below him. The hellish beast didn’t seem to mind, its gray skin now speckled with color.
Hallow laughed.
“Oh yes. Of course you are.”
As the demon excitedly tugged more length from the coiled intestines inside his belly, Simeon briefly died.
Briefly.
When he came round once more, he was no longer chained to a wall, but had been strapped to a wooden table, the tall figure of Ignatius Hallow hovering over him.
“Ah, you’re with us again,” the necromancer stated.
“Yes,” Simeon croaked, doubting he would be for very long.
And he was right.
Hallow lifted a blade and brought it down with all his might into Simeon’s chest, causing his heart to explode as the metal blade perforated it.
Simeon died again in a white-hot flash of agony, before the coolness of the dark dragged him below.
“The Nazarene,” said a voice that pulled him up from the depths of nothing.
Simeon opened his eyes, and found himself gazing at his own reflection in a blood-flecked mirror. As his eyes slowly began to focus, he could see the form of Hallow looming behind him, hard at work, delicate metal instruments probing the bloody insides of his head. The top of his skull had been cut away, his neck and head strapped tightly to the back of a chair.
“How do you know of him?” Simeon asked weakly.
“The brain is a most magnificent organ,” the necromancer stated, putting down one of his surgical tools only to have another placed within his bloody hand by a demonic assistant. “If one were to look closely enough, I feel that one could find the secrets of all existence. . . .”
Hallow jabbed the point of his metal tool into a specific spot of the soft, gray matter of Simeon’s organ of thought.
“Or at least yours,” Hallow finished as stars erupted before Simeon’s eyes; he could not help but laugh hysterically, though he did not know the reason.
He laughed and laughed until he could no longer breathe, and another bout of death came round to see if this time would be the last.
It wasn’t.
When next he lived, Simeon opened his eyes to the sight of Hallow sitting upon an enormous throne of intricately carved wood, directly across from him, goblet of wine in hand, staring intensely.
“Fascinating,” the necromancer stated before bringing his drink to his mouth.
Simeon then realized that he was seated in a chair, and not bound in any way; that his plentiful wounds had been allowed to heal, and that his previously tortured flesh was adorned in robes of heavy wool.
“Bring him some wine,” Hallow ordered, and another creature of demonic origin scampered over with goblet and pitcher. “I imagine continuously dying might work up quite the thirst.”
The monstrous thing poured the wine sloppily into the cup, and then placed it in Simeon’s trembling hands. He was about to thank the foul thing but thought better of it.
“Touched by the hands of God’s supposed son,” Hallow said from his throne of oak. “And now you cannot die.”
Simeon attempted to sip from his cup, but his thirst was too great to hold back, and he greedily gulped at the liquid.
“Is this a blessing?” Hallow asked, swishing the contents of his goblet around as he pondered his own question. “Or is it a curse?”
Simeon lowered his cup. “Some more?” he asked, unsure of what the question might bring. He thought he might find himself strapped to a table, being forced to drink until his stomach bloated so badly that it eventually exploded.
The beast responded with a throaty growl, loping back to refill the cup.
“Are you . . .” Simeon began, before partaking of any more wine. “Are you going to kill me again?”
Hallow laughed, a booming sound that echoed throughout the vast chamber of his castle home.
“It is a possibility,” the necromancer said with a slow nod. “But for now I believe I have seen enough.”
He drank deeply from his goblet, his steel gray eyes never leaving Simeon, seated across from him.
“When you first arrived here . . . when my vines took hold of you, I asked why you had come,” Hallow said. “You said that you’d come to learn.”
Simeon had finished the wine that had been poured in his cup, and was starting to feel its effects. His head had grown light, and the pain from his healing body didn’t seem quite so bad.
“I did,” Simeon answered. He looked toward the demonic creature squatting beside its master’s throne and held out his cup, giving it an impatient shake.
The demon hissed, showing off rows of razor-sharp teeth, as it looked from Simeon to his master, and then back to Simeon.
“Give him more,” Hallow stated, and the demon begrudgingly obeyed.
“To learn,” the necromancer then said as the demon poured more wine into Simeon’s cup. “That is an awfully broad statement. What have you come to learn?”
Simeon stared at the older man over the metal rim of his cup.
“Everything that you know.”
Hallow laughed—a loud, braying sound. “Everything, you say. Do you realize how long I’ve lived to know what I do?”
Simeon stared intensely, wanting the necromancer to know how serious he was.
“How long it would take for you to learn even a fraction of what I’ve already forgotten?” Hallow asked.
Simeon could not help but smile at the older man. “Doesn’t matter,” he stated flatly. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
The necromancer at first seemed startled by the sudden levity of Simeon’s words, but then the true meaning permeated through his copper skullcap, and down into his brain, and Ignatius Hallow began to laugh.
Sharing the joke of the forever man. Sharing the joke of the man who could not die.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A certain energy once again radiated from the brownstone on Newbury Street, but up until recently, that energy had been missing.
Remy hoped to kill two birds with one stone on this visit. Climbing the concrete steps to the front door, he let himself into the entryway as he fished for the key that would get him into the building.
The fact that people actually lived in the building again seemed to give the old brick structure a life of its own, and Remy could feel it in the air as he stepped into the lobby.
Francis was back, reclaiming the building that had been left to Remy when the fallen Guardian angel was thought dead, killed during the upheaval in Tartarus caused by the return of Lucifer Morningstar.
But he had returned, unscathed, and with a new employer. Though the identity of his fallen friend’s new boss had yet to be discussed, Remy had his suspicions.
One does not walk away from an upheaval in Hell and not have scars to show for it.
Remy figured Francis would have the inside scoop as to what might have happened to Aszrus and on whether the Morningstar was interested in escalating a conflict with Heaven. He headed for the door leading to the fallen angel’s basement apartment, and immediately sensed that his friend was not at home. He pulled open the door anyway, but the silence confirmed his suspicion.
No matter. He’d hook up with Francis later. Instead, he turned his attention to the second bird. He was in need of a magick user, and Francis just so happened to have one living in his building.
Angus Heath wasn’t the most pleasant of individuals. A former member of a band of sorcerers interested in the acquisition of supernatural knowledge and power in order to influence the world, he and Remy had recently been forced to work together in order to stop a renegade member of his former cabal.
Heath had since claimed an empty apartment on the third floor, and Remy quickly took the stairs two at a time to reach his destination. It was surprisingly cool outside, and the steam heat in the long hallway hissed like a snake, as if in warning.
Remy rapped on the door with his knuckle, listening to see if he could hear anything inside. Thinking that he might have heard movement, he knocked again.
“Angus,” he called. “It’s Remy Chandler. I need a favor.”
There was movement behind the door, and Remy stepped back on instinct as it came open to reveal not at all who he was expecting to find.
“Hey, Remy,” the creature named Squire said. His arms were filled with items as if he’d just come from grocery shopping, but they’d run out of bags. Squire was attempting to hold on to a loaf of bread, a jar of mayo, multiple packages of cold cuts, and a king-sized bag of potato chips.
“Did I knock on the wrong door?” Remy asked, checking the number.
Squire now lived in the building, too, after helping out with the same case that had introduced Remy to the sorcerer, Heath. Squire was a hobgoblin from an alternate version of Earth where something really horrible—something that he wasn’t too keen on sharing—had transpired. He had the ability to use shadows as a means of transport. He was also pretty good in a fight.
“No, you’re good,” the hobgoblin said, closing the door behind him, but dropping the loaf of bread in the process. “As you can guess Angus isn’t home.”
“Which is why you’re helping yourself to his food,” Remy said.
“Exactly,” the squat, homely creature said. “Could you grab that bread for me?”
Remy bent and picked it up, watching as Squire headed down the hall to an apartment on the other side.
“It’s unlocked,” he said, motioning with his chin for Remy to open his door.
Remy turned the knob and pushed it open, Squire heading in first.
“Make yourself at home,” the hobgoblin said as he walked into the kitchen area, putting his plunder down atop the counter. Remy tossed him the loaf of bread as he looked around.
The apartment was practically empty, except for a leather couch and a beat-up old recliner. There was a large, flat-screen television hanging on the wall.
“Can I make you a sandwich?” Squire asked. He had torn into the packages of cold cuts and the bread and was making a monstrosity of a meal. “I got roast beef, provolone, and ham.”
“No, I’m good,” Remy said. He watched the goblin construct his lunch in awe, multiple pieces of meat and cheese creating a sandwich at least five inches thick. And since he didn’t appear to have any silverware, he just dipped his chubby fingers into the jar of mayonnaise and smeared it on the meat and bread. He then placed some whole pickles and a handful of potato chips onto the heap of cheese and meat.
“There, that oughta hold me for a bit,” he said, proudly placing the other piece of bread on top and pushing it down with a muffled crunch.
Squire grabbed the huge sandwich off the counter and started toward the living room.
“I’d offer you a drink, but I forgot to see what Angus had in the liquor cabinet,” he said, hopping up into his recliner. A cloud of dust shot up into the air as he hit the seat.
“Love what you’re doing with the place,” Remy said sarcastically.
“Can you believe that somebody was throwing this chair out?” Squire asked. With the hand that wasn’t clutching his snack, he found the remote control and pointed it at the television.
The sounds of moans and shrieks of pleasure filled the apartment, and Remy glanced toward the screen to see a naked man and woman in the midst of a pornographic act that was probably illegal in at least fifteen states.
“Really?” Remy asked, looking back to the grinning creature.
“Not a fan of the arts?” Squire asked with a
cackle. He pointed the remote again and turned the porn off. It was replaced with The Price Is Right.
“So, what do you need Angus for?” the hobgoblin asked, taking a huge bite of his sandwich as some of the contents between the two bread slices spilled out from the bottom onto his shirt.
Squire really didn’t seem to care.
“I need a magick user for a case I’m working on,” Remy answered. “Any idea where he went?”
“Pretty sure he headed over to Methuselah’s,” Squire answered with his mouth full. “Said something about planning the dinner specials for the week.”
Remy nodded, reminded that the sorcerer was the cook at the tavern located at the edge of multiple realities.
“Let me finish my snack and I can open a shadow path and take you over,” Squire suggested.
“Wouldn’t want to take you away from your art,” Remy said with a smirk.
And the hobgoblin began to cackle, the last of the sandwich unappetizingly visible from his open maw.
* * *
The corridor of shadow opened up just outside the large, wooden door with the neon sign flashing METHUSELAH’S hanging above it.
“I always thought you needed a key to find this place,” Remy said. He had a key. It had been Francis’, but he’d left it back on Beacon Hill.
“Yeah,” Squire replied. “But I’ve got a knack for finding shit that ain’t supposed to be found.”
“Good to know,” Remy said.
The hobgoblin and Remy stood in the stone alleyway, total darkness at their backs.
“Are you coming in?” Remy asked. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Naw,” Squire said. “I gotta get back to the apartment. I’m getting cable installed and they’re supposed to be there between ten and five.”
“No worries,” Remy said. “I owe you one, then.”
“And don’t think I won’t take you up on it,” Squire said, turning back to duck inside the shadow portal.
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