After a noticeably awkward pause, Erin forced out a, “Wow,” quickly followed by a “Holy shit, really?”
“What happened with her and Lew?”
“Never did get the whole story. Always figured it had to do with my father’s legendary philanderous exploits with any creature in possession of a pair of breasts and the ability to walk upright.”
“Right,” I grumbled, instantly regretting I asked. “Think I just threw up a little.”
“Welcome to my world. So — who’s pumped to meet my mom?”
“I think we should go right now before we change our minds,” Erin offered, only half joking.
“Seriously,” I chimed in. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
“It’s only been a few hundred years. I’m about due for a visit.”
Looking around for an exit, Erin asked, “How do we get out of here?”
“And I’m really hoping it doesn’t involve another shitter,” I tossed in.
“Shitter,” Rooster scoffed. “Do I look like Roy freaking MacCawill?”
“Not at all. He’s much taller. Broader shoulders. Wears one of those cow-boy coats like Kurt Russell in Tombstone. And the dude has a metal arm. Not to mention he carries around a grenade launcher and has a kegbot. How frigg’n cool is that?”
As his eyes flashed a blazing red for a split second and he grumbled something of an unpleasant nature under his breath, I made the mental note to lay off the MacCawill jabs.
“Just kidding, buddy,” I said. “You actually look a lot like MaCawill — minus all the cool parts.”
After that one, of course.
“Are you finished?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Then stand back. I’m about to Rooster tech the shit of this door,” he muttered, stepping toward the janitor closet. “Since we can’t dial up Skyphos and have her zip us down a portal, we’ll have to go old school. Prepare to be amazed.”
Digging around in the pockets of his signature leather bomber jacket, a smug grin curled across his face as he whipped out a pad of bright yellow sticky notes.
“Oh good, you brought sticky notes. We’re saved. Awesome.”
Without so much as another word, he then produced a vintage, red fountain pen from another pocket and concentrated for a quick second before delicately dabbing the tip of the pen on his tongue.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Completely ignoring me, he began to scribble an indecipherable string of sigils and glyphs on the first note before forcefully ripping it free of the pad and holding it triumphantly in the air.
“Okay, all set. It’s closing in on noon. We need to haul ass. You guys ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“To get out of here.”
“Is the sticky note going to help with that?”
“It’s not a sticky note. It’s Rooster tech.”
“And does it do anything else besides remind us to pick up a frigg’n gallon of milk?”
“You tell me,” he said, forcefully planting the Roosterized sticky note on the door and murmuring a few words in Enochian.
And before I had the opportunity to offer a witty comeback, the door to the frigg’n janitor closet morphed into swirling radiance of spectral blue light indicating the presence of an otherworldly portal.
“Rooster tech, eh?”
“Yeppers. That, my skeptical friend, will take us straight to Lilith.”
“Damn, that’s a pretty impressive sticky note.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Okay, boys, are we doing this or what?” Doc asked rather impatiently.
“Ladies first,” Rooster said, offering her a cliche’d bow.
“Just so you know, you two are a total pain in the ass,” she grunted, stepping through the portal and melting from sight.
Figuring Doc probably had a pretty valid point, I followed her through the arcane gateway that Rooster nonchalantly conjured from a mundane office accoutrement and couldn’t shake the feeling that things were beginning to look up.
Or conversely, the shit was about to hit the fan.
Either way, I think I was more concerned about seeing Rooster’s mom naked.
Seriously, that’s just frigg’n awkward.
You know I’m right.
Chapter 17
“I think you got the coordinates wrong,” I grumbled at Rooster as we quickly emerged from the otherworldly sticky pad portal into the vast foyer of some highfalutin, futuristic looking museum. “We might be in Manhattan, but this sure as shit ain’t a frigg’n street corner.”
“We’re in the right place. Be right back,” he replied, making his way to the directory in the middle of the majestic, kidney shaped lobby of towering, scaffolded walls set against a stunningly obscure backdrop of polished granite floors, lustrous metal catwalks, and pristine white accents.
“Yeah, okay,” I muttered, as some metrosexual looking artsy hipster in a slick sport coat, super nice khakis, and sassy wing tips inadvertently barreled into me and dropped a stack of pamphlets on the floor.
“Pardon me, sir,” he blurted out, trying to wrap his head around how I essentially materialized out of thin air right in front of him as the disapproval of my sullied jeans, tee shirt, and jungle boot motif was pretty apparent on his face. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Don’t worry about it, handsome. Not your fault.”
As he stood there gawking at me in silence, I asked, “You work here?”
“Ah, yes, sir. I’m a docent,” he replied, extending his hand. “My name is Charles.”
Giving his hand a healthy shake, I said, “Dean. Nice to meet you, Chuck.”
“It’s Charles, actually.”
“Got it, Chaz. Quite the place you got here.”
“Yes it is,” he muttered, clearly not appreciating being Chaz’d. “And thank you for coming out today to support the museum’s ‘Stand Against Terror.’ I know it can’t be easy given the current status of things. I’m afraid we’re all in a bit of shock after what’s transpired.”
“Stand against terror,” Erin said, joining the conversation. “Is that why the museum’s open? I would’ve thought it closed in a time like this.”
Handing her a pamphlet, he said, “It’s times like these when people need places like this the most. Despite what’s happening outside these hallowed walls, our precious collections and exhibits will continue to remain open to the public in hopes of reminding people of better times.”
“So, let me get this straight,” I chuckled. “The world is literally going to shit, and you guys are fighting back by keeping your frigg’n museum open? Did I get that right?”
“So, I take it you’re not here to ‘Stand Against Terror?’”
“Actually,” I grumbled, taking note of the irony, “I guess we kind of are.”
“How wonderful,” he replied, perking up and handing me a pamphlet. “If you’d like to make a donation, please feel free to stop by our reception desk—”
“Don’t push it, Chachi. I think Tommy Hilfiger, Ralph Lauren, and the cute little Izod alligator are looking for you. They all want their clothes back. Move it along now. Go docent some stuff. Good talk. We should do it again. But seriously, let’s not.”
Awkwardly nodding, he quickly retrieved his scattered belongings from the floor and scurried off into the surrounding crowd of folks coming and going in a noticeable haze.
Glaring at me, Erin said, “Was that really necessary?”
“What?”
“Being a total dick to Charles. He’s just trying to do his job.”
“Exactly. Frigg’n moron,” I grumbled. “The world is upside down. Why the hell Chuck and the rest of these people are acting like it’s a normal Saturday afternoon is beyond me.”
“And what would you like them to do? Throw their hands up in defeat? Riot in the streets? Cower in fear? Crawl into bunkers and put their heads between their legs?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Just fee
ls — wrong.”
“That’s why we need to stop this from going any further. This isn’t their fight. It’s ours.”
“It’s mine.”
“Regardless — we need to finish it.”
“We’ll see about that, Doc,” I muttered, as my eyes drifted upward and I began to take in the surrounding, mind blowing architecture which was actually more reminiscent of an intergalactic hippodrome than a museum.
The eclectic, space age’esque edifice boasted several stories of accordion-like floors that seemingly wrapped around the lobby and jutted several hundred feet in the air to eventually meld with the paned, domed ceiling looming high above. As a series of peculiar glass elevators, artfully nestled into the tiered floor configuration smoothly ushered patrons up and down the breathtaking construct, I actually started to wonder if we were still on Earth.
“Do you seriously not know where we are?” Erin asked me, in a manner that made me realize that I probably should.
“What? Of course I know where we are. We’re at Chaz’s museum.”
“You don’t have a freaking clue, do you?”
“No. Not so much.”
After a pronounced sigh, she said, “How many weekends did you spend in New York City when you were at West Point?”
“Hell, I don’t know. A lot.”
“And you really don’t know what’s on the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 89th Street?”
“The Upper East Side was always a little too ritzy for my taste. Lower Manhattan was more my style. If it’s any consolation, I could probably name every dive bar in Greenwich Village. You’d really be surprised at how many there are. I mean, shit, Bleecker Street alone has like—”
“We’re at the Guggenheim, you dope,” she grumbled. “As in, the Guggenheim. It’s kind of a famous land mark. You know, like the Statue of Liberty.”
“Is that in New York City too?” I replied, with a detectable hint of sarcasm. “Who knew?”
“Let’s go,” Rooster said, finally rejoining us. “Lilith is on the fourth floor.”
“She works here?” Erin asked, as we quickly moved toward the elevator.
“No. It’s more of a residency.”
“Are you saying she lives here?”
“Sort of,” he muttered, as the elevator door conveniently opened upon our approach and we hopped in. “Hard to explain. It’s easier to just show you.”
“Alright,” she replied, pushing the button for the fourth floor, “So what’s the plan?”
“Well, the first step will be getting her attention — which is sometimes a bit more challenging than not.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, but okay. And then?”
“Then, I’m going to tell her the truth about what’s going on and appeal to her good nature.”
“Good frigg’n nature?” I scoffed. “I thought you said she was bat shit crazy.”
“Easy there. That’s my mother you’re talking about.”
“Who stormed out of the Garden of Eden and eloped with Lucifer.”
“Is it too late to make a case that I was adopted?”
Luckily, we didn’t have to answer that question as a rather pleasant dinging sound accompanied by the sliding open of the elevator doors indicated we’d reached our destination.
Awkwardly stepping out onto a really cool catwalk thing, we maneuvered through an excited crowd of eclectic, artisan hipster-type folks snapping pictures with their phones while casually trading the latest rumors and hear-say about the global ‘giant man’ catastrophe. Still baffled as to why they felt compelled to visit a frigg’n art museum at a time like this versus hunkering down in a fallout shelter with spam and bullets, I figured to each his own and followed Rooster around the rotunda to a slick looking alcove which housed a gallery of sizable paintings.
Approaching the portrait of a rather stunning woman hung prominently on a perfect white wall and dead center of the other works, he stopped and slid his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket. After fishing around for a few seconds, he produced one of those analog cooking timers from the bowels of his coat, wound it a few times, and carefully placed it on the floor.
“Before you ask,” he muttered as Erin and I pulled up alongside him. “That’s not an egg timer. It’s Rooster tech.”
Offering him nothing in response but a pair of blank stares, he said, “If you must know — It’s a warding device. Makes everyone in the near vicinity instantly want to go somewhere else.”
“By turning their muscle into bone and making them machine gun shit themselves?”
“What? No. By sending out a mild, yet highly suggestive, feeling of dread compliments of some nifty magus mojo.”
“And why do we need that?” Erin asked, curiously.
“Trust me. It’ll be better for all parties involved if nobody’s around when my mother makes an appearance. Her entrances are usually a bit — traumatic. She’s kind of a diva. Actually, she’s more like the original diva. Just trust me.”
“Uh huh,” Doc muttered as the surrounding patrons abruptly stopped whatever they were doing and un-assed the immediate area with great haste.
Quickly finding ourselves completely alone in the cozy gallery, Rooster let out a deep breath and focused all of his attention on the incredibly lifelike portrait of the nubile enchantress hanging on the wall before us.
“Always did like Collier’s work,” he said.
“Who’s that?”
“The Honorable John Collier,” Doc replied, reading a blurb from a fancy pewter plaque hanging on the wall. “Amongst other things, he was a rather famous eighteenth century English artist who specialized in Pre-Raphaelite style portraits. This is evidently a collection of some of his more renowned pieces.”
“That’s really swell,” I grumbled, taking a closer look at the risqué painting Rooster was ogling. “Not that I don’t enjoy looking at really big pictures of scantily clad women, but I thought we were here to find—”
“Lilith,” Erin murmured, motioning at the name plate under the portrait.
“Wait, what?” I grumbled, as I was instantly mesmerized by the haunting depiction of a pale, yet voluptuous nude femme fatale standing seductively deep within a dark woodland.
With a face of dominating beauty, her head was erotically tilted to the side allowing her ravishing red hair to flow down her back and clear past her thighs. Showing absolutely no attempt at modesty, her arms alluringly cradled her torso allowing a rather brazen display of her impressive bare breasts. In fact, the only thing preventing her from being butt-ass naked, was the ginormous snake appropriately, or totally not appropriately, positioned around her waist and curled around her legs. With her eyes closed and the ever so faint glimmer of a sultry smile on her pursed lips, she seemed to nestle the sizable head of the serpent under her chin.
Actually, the longer I looked at it — the more disturbing the whole thing became.
“Ah, Rooster,” I managed to force out after an impossibly long thirty seconds. “Why did you bring us here to stare at an oil painting centerfold of your mom?”
“Actually, Dean,” Erin grumbled, “I think you’re the only one staring.”
“Am not.”
“Right. And that’s not drool on your scruffy chin either.”
“I have allergies.”
“Quiet,” Rooster scolded, “I’m trying to get her attention.”
“Her?” Erin asked, befuddled. “That’s just a painting, John.”
“I think she’d disagree with you,” Rooster replied, as the young seductress in the portrait open her eyes and looked straight at us.
“Holy fuck,” I blurted out, taking a step backward and doing everything within my power not to will the cloak into being.
Straightening her head and carefully releasing the big ass snake to happily slither along the forest floor of the painting, the now stark naked Old Testament exhibitionist smiled a cunning smile and casually stepped out of the portrait and into real life.
&nbs
p; So, just to be clear, she literally stepped out of the frigg’n portrait, leaving behind a noticeable void on the canvas in the shape of her silhouette, and was standing right in front of us — large as life.
And, of course, she was naked.
In the buff.
In the raw.
Topless.
Bottomless.
Full frigg’n monty.
Wearing nothing but a smile.
Rooster’s mom.
Nakie!
Letting out an eccentric yet highly spirited, “My darling, Eóin! My dearest baby boy! How I’ve missed you,” she then proceeded to wrap herself around Rooster in some kind of really creepy, full body hug. The exceptionally creepy part was that she looked easily five years younger than him.
Making the mental note that I was going to need some serious, serious therapy when this was over, I turned to Doc and grumbled, “Damn, did not see that coming.”
“Wipe the drool off your face. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Right, sorry.”
“Hello, mother,” Rooster awkwardly mumbled, trying his best to wrestle free of the maternal mixed martial arts leg lock maneuver. “Sorry it’s been so long since my last visit. Work’s been crazy. You know how Abernethy is.”
“Unfortunately, I do not,” she replied in an alluring, nasally accent that was something in between Michelle Pfeiffer’s Catwoman, Marilyn Monroe, and any one of the Spice Girls. “Not from lack of trying either, darling. Such a rugged, beastly man. That kilt — simply delicious. Just imaging what lurks beneath it makes me all—”
“Okay, thanks for that,” Rooster interjected, looking like he was about to blow chunks. “And now we’re switching topics … You, ah, maybe want to put some clothes on?”
“And why would I do such a thing, dearest?”
“Because I want you to meet some friends of mine. And it’d be really awesome if you weren’t completely freaking naked.”
“Friends?” She purred, turning her vampish gaze on me and Doc. “Yum.”
“No, no, no,” he blurted out, waving his hands frantically. “Not yum.”
“Are they not those kinds of friends, darling?”
“Ah, no. No, they’re not.”
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 15
