Monstrous 2

by Sawyer Black

“Mike Serafino. Right here in Burg City.”

  “Oh? What do you do, Mr. Serafino?”

  “Nothing,” Henry chuckled. “I find as many different ways to spend my family’s money as I can.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. Breathless and hollow like the town drunk in an old western, she flapped a hand in front of her face. “You sound just like my grandchildren.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. You know, when my Paul died, I had such a hard time keeping the little leeches at bay.”

  “How’d you finally do it?”

  “I had the youngest one murdered.”

  Henry stared, struggling to hold his smile of polite interest. Thelma grinned and laughed again, holding a hand to her stomach. Again, she patted his knee. “Oh, my. I was only teasing, but you should have seen your face.” She wiped tears from her eyes and fanned herself with her own numbered placard. “No, I just bribed them until they shut up.”

  “That seems a lot better.”

  “No, Mr. Serafino. I love my grand babies. I say babies, but to be honest, the youngest one is almost thirteen. Do you have any children, Mr. Serafino?”

  “Call me Mike, and no. No children.”

  “They’re a pain in the ass. You should keep it that way.” She rested her hand on his thigh and leaned toward him. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re a joy. Like the youngest one I just mentioned. She goes to the Sanctum Glorianis.”

  She looked at Henry with the expectant expression of a bragging grandparent. He smiled and nodded. “Really?”

  “Oh yes. She is scheduled to graduate the torturing portion of this semester at the head of her class.”

  Henry froze his smile again, his cheeks sending cramps into his forehead. “Really?”

  “Oh, yes.” She leaned in closer, and Henry bit on the urge to throw himself from the chair. “She opened a man from pubis to throat, and he barely even made a sound. She has a very steady hand. We’re all so proud.”

  Henry was spared his reaction by the light rapping of the gavel. Thelma removed her hand, and he sagged in relief, following her excited gaze to the front of the room.

  The mermaid stood behind the lectern, and a man in a black tuxedo over a silver vest and red tie carried a blue gallon jar full of murky liquid to the pedestal. A wrinkled cylinder of flesh coiled in a rising spiral floated inside it, drifting back and forth with the man’s steps.

  “What is that, Dillinger’s cock?”

  Thelma giggled. “Oh, Mike.” She slapped him with her bidding placard and settled back to read the auction brochure. Henry pulled his out and read it.

  The Apophis Tail: The evil lizard of the Nile brought forth to coil around the sun, removing the light and power from Ra himself, he was struck down in mighty battle, the tip of his tail torn free during his banishment to the underworld. Lying just under the horizon, he eats the souls of those foolish enough to wander from the path between worlds.

  The possessor of Tail manipulates from the shadows, protected by its mantle of darkness. The price of its use is yet undiscovered, but its power is immeasurable, even exerting influence over its surroundings without the blood offering required to activate its gifts.

  It was long held in the collection of Samuel Easton, kept in a cavity beneath the floor of the Bethel Waterfront Trust and Loan. When Bethel burned to the ground, the only building which remained after the inferno raged through the city was Easton’s bank.

  Legend maintains it was the protection afforded by The Apophis Tail itself. Bidding begins at $4M.

  Henry peered over the edge of the brochure as the bidding began, placards rising left and right. The mermaid’s voice flowed through her auctioneer’s stream with a magical lilt. Graceful and musical. Mesmerizing. A siren’s call. She moved into the next item. Henry sat up straight and took a deep breath. This was the first item on his buy list.

  Ofskelor’s Last Wish: Hand written and bound, this manuscript recovered from the estate of Regal Anthony, Marquis of The Sumerian Order, is believed to be written in an undiscovered demonic language by Ofskelor himself, after being trapped in his human form during The Great Confession. He was known to desire his knowledge be given to mankind upon his death.

  Though often considered a fabrication, it may yet provide secrets of great value, and would fit nicely into an amateur collection. Bidding begins at $127T.

  It looked like a plain diary. Heavy stitching and ragged leather.

  Henry opened the bidding. Against a man on the phone, they were the only two raising their placards. Thelma looked up at him out of the corner of her eye, and he smiled down at her when the man on the phone shook his head and hung up.

  “Yours at three hundred,” the mermaid said with a smile.

  The next item was a gnarled staff that shot fireballs. Thelma won it with a staggering seven-million-dollar bid. She giggled and clapped, leaning into Henry with bright eyes. “Wait until they see what their Grammy got!”

  Thelma talked about her Paul through the next three items while Henry smiled and nodded at what he hoped were all the right spots. He interrupted her with a pat to the knee when his second item came up. She locked her lips with an imaginary key, throwing it over her shoulder with a smile.

  A shining iridescent vial with a crystal stopper was set on the pedestal. The spotlight dimmed, and the bottom of the vial twinkled with a faint red light.

  Kempf’s Blood: While another Kempf rose through the Nazi ranks in 1941, Vernor Kempf was in South America, where he was negotiating for arcane power on Hitler’s behalf. Betrayed during a meeting with what has been reported, but not confirmed, as Tezcatlipoca himself, his blood was rendered into brine containing the acidic bitterness of the Aztec god’s power of dark entropy.

  Able to dissolve any substance known to man, save for its impenetrable vial, it has been nearly exhausted through the years, its minute glow the only reminder of its former power. Bidding begins at $150T.

  A three-way battle to win the blood pushed Henry into worry when the price went over five hundred grand. A woman in a blue dress too small for her quivering flesh sent a bloody gaze his way whenever he raised his placard. Finally, at five hundred and thirty thousand dollars, she sat back and crossed her arms with an audible humph.

  Henry won the blood, but he had no time to enjoy his victory. The third item on his list came next. A small black knife with a stained leather handle. Coarse hair spilled from an iron grommet on the pommel. Black gems glittered, seeming to steal the light from the room for their own.

  Heaven’s Blade: In the forges on the shores of the river Styx, many weapons were made to aid in the defense of hell against the agents that would attempt to free the souls of the dead from their rightful place of damnation. Decorated by the hair of St. Margaret, harvested by Veltis during her persecution, and bound by the feathers of the dove that appeared to her, Heaven’s Blade can make the bearer aware of the presence of the divine.

  It has been rumored that the blade may even possess the power to kill emissaries of heaven. This theory has not been tested. Bidding begins at $17M.

  The mermaid opened the bidding, and Henry’s was the only placard raised. In the awkward silence that followed, Henry lowered his number, and the mermaid struck the lectern with her gavel. “Done.”

  The murmur of conversation resumed as the next item came out. Thelma clasped her hands together and looked up at Henry in reproach. “And why in the world would you buy that?”

  “I don’t know …” Henry tried to come up with something, but a hand fell on his shoulder. He flinched away, spun around, and found himself looking up into the smiling face of a sister in red.

  “Peterson would like to meet you.”

  Thelma grabbed his sleeve. Henry jumped with a squeal, spinning to face the little old lady with the torturing granddaughter. “Ooh, Peterson wants to see you.” She lowered her voice and ducked her head in conspiracy. “You must have impressed him.”

  Another tap on his shoulder, and
Henry twisted back. The sister was still smiling, her hand out, inviting him to stand.

  “Don’t make him wait, Mike.”

  Henry touched Thelma’s shoulder on his way to his feet. “It was nice meeting you, Thelma Wencsis from Oregon.”

  She snatched his hand up and held it to her cheek. “It was nice meeting you, Mike Serafino from Burg City.”

  He pulled his hand away and waved goodbye as he followed the sister to the back of the room and through the double doors overlooking the lobby.

  Henry was surprised by his calm. His smooth bearing. With every step into the unknown, into possible danger, he felt his confidence grow. It was easy when every step brought him closer to Amélie.

  Daddy’s coming.

  CHAPTER 8

  Peterson was a thin black man with close hair and sharp cheekbones. His red suit hung in crisp lines, the black shirt underneath shining like oil. The white buttons and red bow tie made him look like he was ready to take the stage as part of a soul revival act.

  He looked at Henry with pale eyes through the lenses of a pair of wire rimmed glasses. He took a sip of coffee from a tiny crimson cup and favored Henry with a warm smile. “I’ve not seen you around here, Mr. Serafino.” His accent was thick and British.

  “Well, I only just started collecting, myself.”

  “As the items you won would suggest. Except for that last one. That one usually keeps ’em at bay.”

  “I’m not interested in what anybody else thinks, Mr. Peterson. I like what I like.”

  Peterson tipped his head with another smile. “Don’t we all, Mr. Serafino.” His brows wrinkled and looked up at the ceiling. “Serafino. Can’t say that name’s familiar to this group.”

  Henry shrugged. “I’d like to change that.”

  “Would you, now?”

  “I would.”

  Peterson nodded like as if weighing his response, then he flashed his teeth in a grin that Henry thought was probably the last thing a mouse saw before being eaten by the family cat. “How’d you get started with this, then?”

  “My uncle was a collector. Kind of the black sheep of the family. He and my dad were … connected, let’s say.”

  Peterson nodded and took another sip of his coffee, all polite attention.

  “My mother was very religious. Sheltered me growing up. Hid the family business from me, well, tried to. Not my dad so much. But my uncle took me under his wing and showed me …” Henry trailed off. He wanted to sell it.

  “What did he show you, Mr. Serafino?”

  “That Christ is the oppressor. True freedom lies in darkness. He showed me the way, Mr. Peterson.”

  “Ah, that he did, my son. That he did.”

  “Anyway, they were both killed last year in a war on the docks with some Russian gentlemen and the BCPD.”

  Peterson narrowed his eyes. “I think I may have heard of that one. A bad bit of trouble there. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  “With that being said, would you be interested in selling anything from your uncle’s collection?”

  Henry laughed and shook his head. “Maybe someday.”

  “That’s a shame. So, if not to sell, then only to buy?”

  “What I’d really like to do is learn. I want to experience the darkness that my uncle told me about. As much as I can. To experiment.”

  Peterson set his coffee cup down and clasped his hands in front of him. And he was back to that mouse-eating grin. “I think I can help you with that, Mr. Serafino.” He held up a finger and his face grew serious. “But the cost may be a bit steeper than today.”

  “Costs are no problem, Mr. Peterson.”

  Peterson reached into his inside pocket and removed a brown business card. “That’s what everyone says before they’ve seen the menu.”

  He handed Henry the card. Thick and heavy, the back was blank, but the front held an image of a crowned man riding a camel. A phone number in Roman numerals along the bottom. The sense of antiquity ran through his fingers.

  Peterson stuck his hand out, and Henry took it in a friendly shake. He ignored the chill slithering up his arm as Peterson looked into his face with eyebrows raised. Peterson nodded and released his grip. “Call that number and mention my name. They’ll take care of you.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Peterson.”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Serafino.”

  Henry needed a piece of cheese.

  Henry settled into the backseat of the limo. He rested his head against the leather and closed his eyes. The car rocked as the porter from the Viazo Grand put his purchases into the trunk. Francesco pulled away from the hotel, and light in the cabin faded.

  Ice clinked in a glass next to him, and Henry flinched away, snapping his eyes open, heart hammering against his ribs.

  Mandyel lowered the drink from his lips and regarded Henry with amusement. “Calm down, pal. It’s only me.”

  “Holy shit, man. You can’t do that.” Henry leaned back and put his hand over his heart with a dramatic sigh.

  “My humble apologies, Dear Henry.”

  “Yeah well, I got all the stuff on your list.”

  “Did you, now? That’s just aces.”

  “Aces? What the fuck, anyway?” Henry looked over and leaned back to get all of the angel into his view. “What is with you? Where do you go when you’re not here?”

  “Wherever I choose.”

  “So where did you choose to go while I was in Castle Hades just now?”

  “I was stationed nearby.”

  “How near?”

  “Earth.”

  Henry threw up his hands. “That’s just great. Ma Kettle rolled a plus ten fire damage with that staff, and Bring Out The Funk Peterson acted like I would make a great appetizer, but you were nearby. On Earth.”

  “I’m but a thought away, Henry. I can be wherever and whenever … I choose to be.”

  “Fine. Whatever. What’s the knife for, anyway?”

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  Henry pinched the bridge of his nose. “You don’t know why I was told to buy it?”

  “That’s not what I said, pal.”

  “Right. You said you couldn’t tell me. Like, you’re not allowed to?”

  “No, like I choose not to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t need to know, and because I don’t want to tell you.”

  Henry shook his head, watching the street lamps whiz by through the window. “That’s bullshit.” He slapped his hands on his thighs. “You’re just like Boothe.”

  Mandyel leaned forward, his eyes blazing. Henry drew back, pressing deeper into his seat. “I am nothing like Boothe. Unlike that criminal, I will do exactly as I say. You give me what I want. First. Then I will give you what I promised. I chose to give you a chance, despite my misgivings, and you chose to help. If you now choose to go back on our deal …” He leaned back and smiled. Just friends out for a ride. “I walk away, and you find someone else to help you save Amélie.”

  Henry swallowed his tears. Battled the rage. Took a trembling breath and nodded. “You really are a bastard.”

  Mandyel swirled his drink, keeping his eyes on the whirlpool of whiskey. “So, you met Peterson?”

  “Yeah, and he gave me a card.”

  Mandyel switched the glass to his other hand. “May I see it?”

  “Sure.” Henry fished out the card and handed it over. “I don’t know what it means, but there’s a number at the bottom.”

  The angel brought the card up to his eyes, squinting at the image on the front. “Paimon.”

  “Is he the Purveyor?”

  “He may be. This depiction is of a demon that commanded legions. Before ascending to power he was a teacher of forbidden knowledge, often dealing with obscure and hidden things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Better to not talk about it, pal.”

  “You’re so fucking dramatic. So, is that the guy or not?�
�

  “Maybe. The guy or a guy who knows him. Only one way to find out.” He passed the card back to Henry and reached into his overcoat pocket. Then he pulled out his hand and tossed something over.

  It gleamed as it twirled through the air, landing heavily in Henry’s surprised palms. About the size of a deck of cards and made of brass. Complex designs carved into its surface reminded Henry of old manuscripts at the museum. He turned it over and over, reflecting light into his eyes, seized by its beauty. A seam along its narrow edge caught his attention. “What is this?”

  “Open it.”

  Henry looked at Mandyel, but saw nothing in the angel’s eyes. He opened it like a box full of spiders, turning his face away from whatever might jump out. The brass block parted on invisible hinges. The carving continued on the inside, and there was a gold circle with a burning sun pressed into it. Glittering silver mesh covered a pair of holes along the outside edges.

  Henry looked at Mandyel with a sarcastic tilt of his head. “What is this? The Holy Cellphone Of Antioch?”

  “Sorta.” The angel tipped his head at the object. “Try it.”

  “How am I supposed to try it?”

  “Press the gold button.”

  Henry rolled his eyes then mashed the button with a petulant thumb and brought the thing to his ear.

  The pop and hiss of an open line, and the tinny voice of 1930s phone operator. “What number, please?”

  “Um … never mind.” He snapped the phone shut and dropped it into his lap, pulling his hands up to his shoulders. “What the fuck is that thing? Was Phil Robertson right? Do I have a direct line to Jesus?”

  “Not exactly, but they’ll get you into contact with just about anybody by name. By the number is even better.”

  The car came stopped and the motor died. Henry looked out the window. They were in front of his building.

  “You know what?” He turned to finish, but Mandyel wasn’t there. Just an empty glass with melting ice on the seat. “Fuck it.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Henry sat on the couch in Boothe’s loft. All that modern white and stainless steel gave him a headache. His stomach rumbled, and something pulled at his attention like a half-remembered appointment. He shook his head and flipped the brass phone open, pressing it to his ear and waiting for the operator.