The Lucifer Messiah

by Frank Cavallo

  “You fiery bitch!” Brian shouted as he grabbed hold of her, clenching her arms hard in his grasp.

  “Yeah! Nail her right here, Bri!” Brendan shouted.

  Kevin, the tallest of the group, with dark hair and a large pale face, said nothing. He merely nodded, looking Maggie up and down as the others laughed. Then he opened a switchblade.

  “Make sure Ger’ is okay,” he told Brendan. Then he turned to Brian, who had Maggie held fast in his dirty hands. “And you make sure you don’t let go of her.”

  He waved the knife in front of her face. Maggie spit at him, but it was a feeble gesture. The tip of the blade stroked her throat and sliced open her blouse. She wanted to scream, but she felt her chest tense and her voice failed her. A tear formed in her eye as the knife pricked her flesh.

  Then everything froze.

  A cat squealed in the shadows.

  Something rattled a chain-link fence in the dark, just out of sight.

  Someone cleared his throat.

  “Now, boys. Play nice, eh?” a voice scolded from the ether.

  It wasn’t clearly male or female, but it was authoritarian; commanding in a weird way, like a mother talking to her children. It seemed to have no source whatsoever.

  “What the hell is that?” Brian questioned.

  “Whoever you are, scram! This ain’t your problem.” Kevin shouted into the dim.

  He was answered with a deathly still. A quiet that was unusual for Hell’s Kitchen.

  Thinking his words to have scared away any interlopers, Kevin continued to trace the blade along Maggie’s exposed chest. Gerry smiled as he got up.

  A tin can tumbled out from behind a dumpster, rolling in the awkward end-over-end fashion that only happened when someone kicked it.

  “I’ve warned you once. Now go away boys,” the peculiar voice intoned again. For an instant, the last word resonated through every corner of the cramped space.

  “Take her over there,” Gerry said.

  Brian dutifully obeyed. With some of the others, he tugged on Maggie and forced her to walk behind a second dumpster, beneath a fire escape.

  “Whoever you are. We’re gonna make you sorry too,” Kevin said, Gerry and Brendan at his sides, fists bared.

  They waited for an answer.

  A scream was all they got.

  It was horrible. Ghastly. The wailing of a boy frightened beyond his understanding, shaken to his young, delicate heart.

  It was Brian. His cries were mixed with pleas, rendered through a voice that quivered with every breath. The boys found themselves momentarily stopped, unable to move. When Gerry did finally step forward, toward the dark and slimy place where Brian had secluded their victim, he screamed too.

  From the cold, thick evening shadows, yelping like a dying cat, something crawled out into the alley. A chattering, clicking buzz accompanied him, accompanied it. And the boys who saw it felt their limbs go numb.

  Roaches. A thousand of them. Ten thousand, maybe. They teamed and crawled in a feeding frenzy, circulating like a hive over the prostrate form of a small human. The figure, covered head to toe by the ravenous insects, tried to lift an arm toward the boys, and then a head. When he did, some of the giant, brown bugs fell away from his face, and the once-fearless gang saw the bloodied remains of their friend’s features beneath. All that remained of Brian were blue eyes and gently freckled cheeks, barely visible under dozens of discreet, blood-soaked bites.

  Before the boys could catch their breath, the pestilent horde moved off what had once been their friend. It left behind a naked, gnawed-on husk thrashing about beneath the fire escape. Then, as though mustered by some unseen master, the carnivorous horde clambered toward Gerry and his pals. The sound of a hundred thousand insect limbs striking the concrete raised a clatter.

  Bravado aside, the rest turned and ran. They didn’t stop until they reached the Hudson.

  Maggie, shaking still, finally opened her eyes when she was sure the screaming was done. She found herself in the damp, rancid corner between the dumpster and the fire escape, but the alley was deserted. All but deserted, anyway. The soft meow of a cat caught her ear. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a black feline leap from the dumpster, and flit across the alley.

  Slowly, she stepped into the burgeoning moonlight, and she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “Sean?”

  “Hey, Maggie. You alright?”

  He was sitting, dangling really. Perched, like the cat she had heard a moment earlier, on a ledge atop a ten-foot wall across the way.

  “The neighborhood’s getting better, I can say that,” he said, shaking his head. “But these kids? When I used to run the streets with little punks like them, we never acted like that. Damn hoods have no respect anymore.”

  Maggie just stood there. She was still shaking.

  “God, I’m sorry. You’re probably pretty shaken up, and here I am musing about old times.”

  “Christ, Sean!” she finally said, looking down at the mangled, still-breathing body of Brian on the sticky pavement. “I’ve been looking all over! What the hell are you … ?”

  She stopped her sentence in mid-thought, because when she looked up, Sean was no longer perched on the ledge. He was standing a few short feet in front of her.

  “Go ahead, what were you saying?” he answered.

  She ignored the impossibility of how fast he had moved, for the moment.

  “I thought I told you to keep your head out of sight. You know how much trouble you’re in?” she scolded.

  He merely smiled, placed his hand on her shoulder, and tried to fix her torn blouse.

  “I know, but this is still a pretty rough part of town. Funny, even after all this, you’re still worried about me.”

  “What happened here doesn’t change anything. Not for you,” she said, looking up at him as he adjusted her coat. “But I am glad you were here. Vince is in trouble, I think with some of your friends.”

  Sean nodded again, and smiled.

  Looking directly at him, near enough to kiss him again, Maggie couldn’t help but marvel at how young he looked. It was as if he had just stepped out of 1917, or the last thirty years had vanished in a heartbeat.

  She suddenly felt self-conscious.

  “You hungry?” he asked, as though there had been no mention of Vince at all.

  “What? I just told you …”

  “Are you hungry? You wanna eat?”

  “I … I can’t … what are you talking about?”

  “Just trust me. C’mon, you’ll like this, trust me,” he said, and she couldn’t help but follow.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE FRONT DOORS TO THE BLEECKER STREET HAVEN were old. They had been installed during the only renovation in the building’s 113-year history. That had taken place during the tenure of the first man named Roosevelt to occupy the White House.

  When the hinges creaked and rattled from the outside, none of the people socializing in the foyer or the library room paid any attention. The wind usually caused that kind of sound, especially in the late fall and winter. Generally, though, it didn’t last long.

  When the rattling grew louder rather than softer as the moments wore on, however, some among the gathered noticed it. Argus was there, speaking again with his old friend Cygnus, the latter now fully molted into the human-swan hybrid that suggested her ancient namesake. Both paused when the wind outside drew up a gust that sent the doors swinging open.

  A rush of cold air tumbled into the entranceway and the antique-furnished sitting room beyond. Argus stood from his chair. He extended his all-seeing hands.

  A hush fell over the parlor.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  For a moment there was no answer, just the light from the outside flooding into the tobacco-smoke and candle glows. Then, a figure emerged from the evening. The doors closed behind—this time without protest.

  “Honored Argus. It has been too long,” replied a smooth, mellifluous voice.

&n
bsp; Argus recognized the speaker, as did most of the others milling about the Gothic study. A collective shudder came over them, the once serene ambience suddenly made anxious.

  She was nothing less than a goddess, a presence of terrible, powerful beauty. Long black hair cascaded around her face, falling about her shoulders like the hood of a crow. The deep red gloss of her lips captured a sparkle in her eyes, a shimmer like the reflection of blood. Her porcelain features lurked in half-shadow beneath the locks, soft and delicate and somehow menacing for all their innocence.

  She wore a cloak of shimmering fabric that was several colors at once, midnight black, Roman purple and deep scarlet in succession.

  “Morrigan. It has truly been a long time,” Argus said. “Even by our standards.”

  “It warms my heart to see so many of our kind gathered here, under your capable aegis, and that of our other Haven masters,” the glimmering figure replied as she slipped like a feather through the Oriental-styled foyer and toward the stately Baroque confines of the library.

  Her words sounded more like music than a human voice.

  “We have been hard at work, seeking out and protecting all those of our ilk we have been able to find since the War’s end,” Cygnus answered in squawking fashion from beside Argus, a little uneasy at the Keeper’s sight, but composed.

  Hints of stolen candlelight sparkled about the Phantom Queen, captured and cast off in her wake.

  “The human conflicts have ravaged our ranks. Terrible, terrible times we have seen. Some among my own circle wondered if we’d lost your followers entirely when your Haven was destroyed,” the Morrigan answered.

  “We were very nearly finished, I am afraid. Little was salvaged from the Nazi occupation of Paris,” Cygnus replied.

  “Too many of our kind were lost,” Argus added. “As it was in my own city.”

  “So I was told. Will you return there? Can you?” the Morrigan asked.

  Her voice sang in softly melodious tones, so hypnotic that many of the gathered found themselves drawn to her sight. Most were soon unable, or unwilling, to pull their eyes from her shadow-glittering figure.

  “The remains of my Haven have re-formed here. Though we are only a handful. Your former associate Charybdis is among us, as you may have heard. I think that Prague may be beyond our reach now,” Argus said.

  He was aware of the trance into which many of the others had fallen, but he ignored it, focusing his attentions completely upon the Keeper.

  “Tragic, for it was beautiful,” the Morrigan replied.

  Her ivory hands slipped across the carved sandstone of the fireplace, a flawless reproduction of Tsar Nicholas II’s heraldic-crowned Bremen masterpiece. She moved through the smoky chamber like a sun shimmer at dusk, glistening a harsh red on the embossed bindings of the shelved tomes and sparkling like dour rain on the crystal chandelier.

  “So it was,” Argus said.

  The Morrigan glided to the center of the room. The candles all went out when she raised her hands. For an instant, darkness fell upon the hall. But the blindness reigned only a moment.

  Light cast outward from the Keeper’s strange cloak lit the whole of the sitting room. Cygnus had to step backward, and shield her sight.

  Argus, his eyes so very more capable than those of the others, was able to look upon the Morrigan. The war goddess was no more.

  Born anew from the ephemeral darkness, the menacing, deathly aspect of her had faded from sight. The Morrigan yet stood in the center of the chamber, suddenly timid and shrinking beneath her fantastic shroud. Yet recognizable, she seemed more phantom now than queen, as though malice had flown away with the shadows, leaving nothing more threatening than a beautiful, gentle girl.

  She spoke with the same voice, however, as though nothing about her had changed.

  “Very well. So we are here, many gathered for the celebration. Let me welcome you all then, to New York and to the Festival of the Molting. I have arranged our place of celebration. Pier 33 along the Hudson waterfront, there I have purchased numerous warehouses for our use. The location is private, and secure. My servants have been working day and night. They have set our stage within the largest of the buildings.”

  Argus nodded. The Keeper gestured to him with a discreet wave.

  “For those who have yet to enter the change, there is ample space for cocoons, and for quiet slumber. For all the rest, however, those who have passed into their natural forms, this shall be the greatest of all our grand feasts.

  “Everything has been provided for your pleasure, Chinese opium, fine tobacco, hashish, all manner of alcohol, even that rare and increasingly hard to obtain treat, absinthe. Come, indulge your fantasies. Let loose the demons that lurk within you all.

  “This is your time. Time to put aside the worries and the sorrows that plague you. Time to forget the cruelty and the horrors of humanity. Under my protection, you can be carefree again.”

  Those assembled cheered. Argus was forced to smile with them, all the while fuming under his strange skin.

  The Morrigan was beside him a moment later. She extended a hand toward the secluded corner of the study. He knew to follow without a word. Then the two spoke apart from the rest.

  “No doubt you have heard the rumors,” she began.

  Argus considered his response, but not for too long. Anything out of the ordinary could provoke suspicion in the Keeper.

  “I have heard that Sean Mulcahy is present in this city,” Argus answered.

  He settled himself into a leather chair as he spoke. When he looked back over to the Keeper, also seating herself, the lovely young girl was gone. He now conversed with an old crone. He did not let the change startle him. The Morrigan appeared in many aspects.

  “The one some have dubbed Lucifer evaded my hands once, and he is now on the run. I will find him soon,” she said, her voice yet unchanged, though it now issued from the lips of a withered hunchback.

  “Of that I have little doubt. I know Charybdis is especially anxious for an end to the trickster’s flight, having not seen her beloved all these many years,” Argus replied.

  “Nothing would please me more than to see Scylla and Charybdis returned to my side,” the Morrigan said.

  The mention of Charybdis spurred a slow tilt of her head. It was a gentle move. Argus guessed that she really did mean what she said.

  “What is it that you wish, my queen? Why do you come to me about this?” Argus asked.

  He did not know what, if anything the Morrigan knew of his plotting. Until he could learn more, he would have to play his hand close to the vest. It was possible that the Keeper already had cause to suspect him, and she was now fishing for confirmation. But fifteen hundred years worth of small talk had prepared him well.

  “I seek your counsel, as the oldest and wisest of us all. I know that many among my flock have sought guidance from you, and that most have inquired about the prophecy. I am merely the Keeper of our lore, you are the most knowledgeable in the writings of the ancients,” she said.

  The flattery was wasted on the six-eyed figure, but he pretended that it wasn’t. He acknowledged the wrinkled old woman’s comment with a polite smile.

  “What I can offer you is only this. The words in Nestor’s book were written ages ago, and they are nothing if not vague. The prophecy does not mention a specific place, time or person. Some do believe that Mulcahy is the light bringer reborn, but in the end, that may not matter,” Argus said.

  “Why is that?”

  “Prophecy is a strange art, some would say it is no art at all, but we can leave that discussion to the philosophers. The only really true thing that can be said about any prophecy is that it is never evaluated with foresight. Only in hindsight does anyone ever remark about it having been accurate.

  “So I would counsel you that the truth of whether our fugitive Mulcahy is indeed Lucifer depends less upon what is written, and more upon whether you prevail in your search for him,” Argus said.

  Th
e Morrigan nodded.

  “If he overthrows me, then the people will accept him without question. But if I kill him, then he could not have been Lucifer,” she answered.

  “That is, in any event, what the great masses of our folk will believe,” Argus said.

  The Morrigan gazed up and away toward the ceiling. There was not a hint of cruelty in her eyes or her voice. She seemed oddly serene.

  “So that is what I must do,” she said, as though she had not even considered the decision until just that moment.

  While the shriveled Morrigan spoke with a sad confidence, Argus sighed. He did not seem convinced.

  “Must you?” he asked.

  The Morrigan turned. She knew what Argus was alluding to. They’d been having the same conversation for three centuries, off and on.

  “They are not ready for us. Not yet,” she answered.

  “But the superstitions we feared for so long are mostly dead. No one burns witches anymore. No one looks to demons to explain the noises brimming in the dark of the night.” Argus was more animated, almost passionate in his plea. “Science rules their minds now. Maybe they would want to study us, learn from us.”

  “Maybe they wouldn’t kill us, you mean.”

  “In so many words,” Argus answered.

  The Morrigan nodded. Her face told Argus that she was truly considering his reasoning. For the first time in many decades, the Keeper was not merely dismissing his argument out of hand. But her tired, haggard visage spoke more of regret than anything.

  “I wish for the same thing, old friend. Secrecy is a burden our people have endured for far too long. But now is not the time to lower that veil. The outside world is not ready for us. Not yet.”

  Argus’s crimson-boiling eyes opened wide with a surge of feeling, all six charged with life in their own, eerie way.

  “But they’ve come so far,” he said.

  “They have. Even in the space of my own lifetime, the flowering of the Renaissance, the works of the Enlightenment. The Rights of Man. But they’re not far enough yet.