Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2

by James MacGhil

  Shooting us a satisfied grin while retrieving her paperback, she said, “Did you guys have any more questions?”

  “Just one,” Erin replied. “Can we please enter the MidKnight Jayde?”

  And much to our astonishment, Mack said, “Sure.”

  “Wait, what?” Rooster scoffed. “Just like that?”

  “Yep.”

  “But, why?”

  “She said please. And, she’s not creepy. Gingers creep me out. Sorry, dude.”

  As I made the mental note that the kid had good taste, I watched in certain astonishment as a sizable wooden door began to subtly manifest on the empty concrete slab. And within a quick second, the rest of the obscure dome shaped building followed suit.

  Winking at us like she knew something we didn’t, she said, “Behave yourselves in there. And good luck.”

  “Sure thing, kid,” I muttered. “Keep it real.”

  “Nobody says that anymore, dude.”

  “I do.”

  “That’s because you’re old.”

  Then she buried her face in her novel and promptly proceeded to ignore us again.

  “Nice kid,” I grumbled, as we made our way across the parking lot.

  “Why did she wish us luck?” Doc asked.

  “Probably because the MidKnight Jayde isn’t exactly your run of the mill watering hole,” Rooster replied. “It’s got a bit of a reputation.”

  “I thought you said it was a coffee shop.”

  “I said they served coffee.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “It’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Okay?”

  “Hey, ah, you still have that machete I gave you, right?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “And your guns — they’re both loaded? Fresh mags?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, cool.”

  Wondering what that was all about, I muttered, “What the hell kind of place is this anyway?”

  And as soon as we reached the front door, and I got my first good look at the building, I think I answered my own question.

  Chapter 23

  “Totally not a coffee shop,” Erin said, taking in the massive dome shaped corrugated metal structure covered completely in intricate, slithering patterns of neon otherworldly graffiti and riddled with, what appeared to be, bullet holes, claw marks, and blood spatter.

  “More of a supernatural roadhouse,” Rooster replied, removing his Rambo quality hunting knife from its sheath and concealing it in the sleeve of his bomber jacket. “But, their cinnamon bourbon lattes are the stuff of legend — mainly because your face feels like it’s slowly melting off your skull and you forget your name for a week after drinking one.”

  Standing before the ginormous wooden door that looked suspiciously like it was ripped from a medieval castle, my eyes drifted to a hand carved sign tacked haphazardly to one of the mighty panels. Amidst a very interesting array of sigils and glyphs that blazed bright with hissing white flame was etched ‘The MidKnight Jayde. Karma, Whiskey, and Everything Ever After. All are Welcome and Welcomed are None. Shoes and Shirts Optional. Enter at your Own Peril.’

  The best part of it was that the word ‘Peril’ was crossed out and the word ‘Perdition’ was scratched above it.

  “Catchy slogan,” I grumbled. “Friendly with a touch of horror movie. Something tells me that even Swayze himself wouldn’t step foot in this joint.”

  “Not when he was alive anyway.”

  “Alive? Hold the frigg’n phone. Are you telling me Patrick Swayze is dead? Seriously? When the hell did that happen?”

  “Ah, four or five years ago,” Rooster awkwardly muttered. “Pancreatic cancer.”

  “Well, that just frigg’n blows. Not only do the Red Sox win two World Series during my fourteen year dirt nap — Patrick frigg’n Swayze kicks the bucket. Why the hell didn’t somebody tell me this?”

  “I didn’t realize you were such a big fan,” Doc snickered.

  “For real? Darry. Bodhi. Dalton. Johnny frigg’n Castle. Please. Best roles ever played.”

  “You’ve seen Dirty Dancing?”

  “Once.”

  “Once, huh?”

  “Okay, maybe twice. Definitely not more than six times.”

  “I really could’ve gone the rest of my life without knowing that,” she replied, with a content smirk as she wrapped her hand around the doorknob, which was actually a shrunken skull, and threw the mammoth door open like she owned the joint. “Try not to let anyone put you in the corner, okay, baby?”

  “Alright, let’s do this,” Rooster said, thankfully moving off the topic. “Keep a low profile in there. Try not to draw any attention to yourself. And most importantly — let me do the talking. They know me here.”

  “But, if they know you, aren’t we running the risk of somebody calling in the fly boys?”

  “Or more frigg’n bounty hunters?” I added.

  “Nope. The MidKnight Jayde is sanctuary — neutral ground.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s a safe zone with Vegas rules,” he replied, as we crossed the threshold into the otherworldly roadhouse. “What happens here — stays here. Period.”

  And as my eyes adjusted to the more than obscure scene laid out before me, I about shite myself.

  It was ridiculous.

  Even by my standards.

  Which should really give you pause.

  Just saying.

  At any rate, much like the Quartermaster, the interior of the MidKnight Jayde was a gazillion times bigger than what it appeared to be from the outside. And it was absolutely crammed full of people. Some that looked human. Others, not so much.

  Perhaps the most peculiar aspect of the surreal venue was the fact that since all the available floor space was maxed out, droves of sloshed patrons were literally standing on the surrounding walls and ceiling like the frigg’n law of gravity was on hiatus.

  “Ah, guys,” Doc muttered, evidently as perplexed as I was at the mind boggling feat. “People are standing on the ceiling.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Rooster replied, like it was no big thing.

  Lit by an armada of floating orbs composed of a subtle neon flame that systematically circled the ridiculous warehouse-like structure, the place was loud enough to make your frigg’n ear drums bleed. And despite the cacophonous booms of crowd noise, a mind blowing, live rendition of Back in Black dominated the airwaves like a force of nature.

  Looking for the source of the music, it appeared the hard rock serenade was originating from a twenty-something petite blond bombshell wearing a Vince Neil straw cowboy hat, stylishly torn jeans tucked into snake skin boots, and a vintage Bon Jovi tee shirt that was purposely cut into a low hanging tank top.

  Hovering a few feet above a small stage in the far corner, the Joan Jett’esque dixie chick passionately belted out the iconic eighties anthem with the skill of a rock and roll demigoddess, while ripping her bow across an electric fiddle that glowed a harrowing ghostly blue like it was about to burst into flames.

  And despite the fact that the dreamlike scene was already beyond epic, the floating ensemble of spectral guitars and drums that surrounded the mystical musician while somehow playing themselves in perfect unison with the melody somehow took it to the next level.

  “Holy shit,” I muttered, fixated on the stage. “Who the hell is that?”

  “That’s Harlan Jayde,” Rooster replied.

  “One of the witch—”

  “Vexens,” he interjected.

  “Right. Vexens,” I concurred, making the mental note that I very much valued the ability to pee while standing up.

  “She’s amazing,” Doc added, somewhat mesmerized by the surreal flotilla of disembodied instruments and the entrancing sound pouring out of the blonde, violin wielding Pat Benatar.

  “Yes. Yes, she is,” Rooster said. “Just don’t piss her off. Got a bit of mean streak — as do all vexens. Trust me on that one.�
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  “Noted,” I grumbled. “Where the hell’s Cooper Hood? We need to find this time hippie dude.”

  “Follow me,” Rooster said, making his way toward the massive pentagram shaped bar strategically positioned in the middle of the warehouse floor. A fervent wave of primal cheers rolled through the already amped up crowd as Harlan began to fiddle the intro to Thunderstruck.

  Scoring some semi-open real estate at the peculiar bar which looked like it was made from the monoliths of Stone Henge, Rooster hailed the bartender while Doc and I basically stood there gawking at the collection of unnatural patrons rocking out to the infectious beat that relentlessly pulsed through the air like waves of electricity.

  As I contemplated the fact that literally every frigg’n species of nepher seemed to be intertwined throughout the bizarre crowd, a fully neph’d out varangian wearing leather pants and a bowling shirt slammed into me and subsequently sprayed his extra tall mixed drink all over my face.

  Instantly transitioning to fight mode, I began to will the spatha into being when the seven foot bear beastie looked at me and said, “Shit! My bad, dude. Really sorry about that. Can I buy you a shot or something?”

  “Ah, what?” I awkwardly replied, staring at his massive, fuzzy maw that was curled into a ridiculous frowny face marked of nightmarish teeth dripping with streaks of drool. “Ah, no. Don’t worry about it. All good, buddy.”

  “Serious? That’s super cool, man,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder while breaking into that stupid ass Electric Slide dance. “Just trying to bust a move, you know? When the feeling calls — you gotta answer, right?”

  “Be wrong not to,” I muttered, mainly because I didn’t have a clue what else to say.

  As he happily faded into the crowd like a furry Ricky Martin, I made the mental note that I think I’d rather fight a hundred unnatural bear beasties before seeing another one of them bust a move — or wear leather pants — or call me dude.

  That was some creepy shit.

  “Think you made a friend,” Doc said, with a shit eating grin.

  “Let’s never speak of this,” I muttered.

  “You’ll find most folks that come here aren’t looking for trouble,” said an unusually young bartender, in a surprisingly deep voice, as he tossed me a towel from the behind the bar. “But those that are — usually find it.”

  Wearing a classic white and black ringer tee that accentuated his rather impressive biceps, the suavely handsome teenager boasted a thick mane of dirty blonde surfer hair, intense blue eyes, and a pair of old school Colt revolvers slung low around his waist like something out of a John Wayne movie. Although not exceptionally large, his chiseled features and lean frame of toned muscle made it pretty clear he didn’t miss many workouts.

  And there was just something about his aura that indicated he wasn’t prone to taking shit from anyone — or anything.

  “Take this clown for example,” he jested, nodding at a mammoth bull-necked bald dude with an intricate celtic cross tattooed across his grizzled face who was forcefully pushing his way through the crowd like a bulldozer.

  Pulling up alongside us, the jackass barked, “More whiskey, junior. Make it snappy.”

  To which the witty bartender just smiled and pulled his six shooters like Billy the Kid only to tauntingly place them on the bar.

  “That s’pose to scare me, boyo?” The man mountain chortled.

  “Nope. It’s supposed to distract you.”

  “From what?”

  And before I knew what was happening, the youngster’s shadow jumped off the floor and formed an eight foot, wraithlike silhouette that loomed over him like a spectral attack dog waiting for the command to pounce.

  “From this,” he replied, with a content smirk, as the shadow creature proceeded to reach across the bar and wrap a ghostly hand around the belligerent Irishman’s meaty throat. Lifting his big ass a few feet in the air and shaking him like a rag doll for a solid couple seconds, it then effortlessly slammed him on the floor before melting from existence in a blur of motion.

  As the big dope scampered to his feet and began to sprint toward the door with a look of pure horror plastered across his face, Rooster said, “Guys, meet Jesse Jameson. Jess, meet—”

  “Erin Kelly and Dean Robinson,” he interjected. “I know.”

  “Let me guess, you’re Mack’s brother,” Erin said, as Jesse grabbed his pistolas, twirled them like a seasoned gun fighter, and slid them into their holsters.

  “Yep.”

  “Nice moves, kid,” I said, offering him a fist bump.

  “Thanks,” he replied, totally leaving me hanging. “But, seriously, nobody fist bumps anymore. Just saying.”

  “I do.”

  “That’s because you’re old.”

  “High five?”

  “No way. That’s so nineties.”

  “That’s hurtful, kid.”

  “Let’s not make a big thing of it.”

  “And, for the record, I’m not frigg’n old.”

  “You’re totally on the wrong side of thirty. Own it.”

  “Did your sister tell you to say that?”

  “So,” he grinned, moving off the topic as he studied me with an intent gaze, “You’re really him, eh? The Seventh Deacon of the Seventh line.”

  “I am.”

  “Wow. Okay, weird.”

  “What’s weird?”

  “Well, you’re pretty buff and all — but, from all the stories I’ve heard, I seriously thought you’d be taller. Like … much taller.”

  “Goddamn it,” I muttered, at the thought of being verbally abused by yet another frigg’n teenager.

  Jumping into the conversation, Rooster said, “Maybe you can help us, Jess. We’re looking for—”

  “Cooper Rayfield. Yeah, I know. My aunt will be here any second to take you guys to him.”

  “Your aunt?” I asked. “Is she the other —”

  “Vexen,” Doc interjected, before I said the ‘W’ word.

  “That’s right,” Jesse affirmed. “My Aunt Willa and Miss Harlan run the joint.”

  “Gotcha,” I replied. “Well, how about a drink while we wait? Dying of thirst over here.”

  “Sure thing. Would you like a smoothie — perhaps something with a heavy dose of fiber?”

  “Frigg’n fiber? Wait, was that an old guy joke?”

  As the smug youngster offered nothing but a mischievous chuckle in response, I grumbled, “Nevermind. Beer, please. Several of them.”

  “Sorry, dude. We don’t do beer.”

  “Perfect. What do you do?”

  As he pointed to a chalkboard hovering above the bar, I couldn’t help but smile as I read the words, “Whiskey. Coffee. Both.”

  “And unless you’re feeling brave,” he smirked, “I’d stay away from the coffee if you know what I’m saying.”

  “Whiskey then. Three of them.”

  “Good call. Be right back.”

  “Nice kid,” Rooster said, thoroughly appreciating the brow beating I was being handed by the juvenile wisenheimer.

  And before I had the opportunity to make a snide remark about having a stern talk with his parents at some point down the road, a very energetic female voice called out, in an old school New England accent.

  “Rooster! How are ya?”

  Spinning around just in time to see another blonde bombshell emerge from a crackling cloud of blue smoke that curiously manifested directly behind us, I made the mental note that these vexens were no joke.

  Looking a hell of a lot like Harlan Jayde, what I presumed to be the afore-mentioned Willa Knightly was easily a head taller than her witchly counter-part, and clad in a flowing black sundress replete with several layers of primal necklaces that boasted distinct patterns of arcane runes. Young and vivacious, her skin seemed to radiate a warm, placid glow and her platinum blond hair flowed about her striking features like a steady stream of unseen wind was mildly caressing her entire body.

  Appearing qu
ite jovial in nature, her blazing blue eyes seemed to be filled with brewing thunderstorms that emitted tiny bolts of lightning and sparkled with a palpable intensity.

  “Give me a hug, you!” she declared, wrapping her petite yet powerful arms around Rooster.

  Glancing at me and Doc, she asked, “Is this who I think it is?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. Willa, I’d like to introduce—”

  “Dean Robinson and Erin Kelly,” she said, completing the sentence and giving us both a healthy hug.

  After an awkward embrace, I said, “Nice, ah, to meet you.”

  “Machu Picchu? Wonderful place. Are you going there?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Rooster doesn’t have a big butt! To be honest, it’s actually kind of flat.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Rat! Where?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to shout.”

  “Okay, seriously, are you screwing with me?”

  “You’d like some peppermint tea? Or, do you really have to pee?”

  “Auntie,” Jesse yelled, returning with three snifters of whiskey as he tapped on his ear.

  “Oh! Right!” Willa replied, rubbing one of the runes hanging from her necklace.

  As a small, but noticeable ring of sparkling energy formed around both her ears, she said, “Can you hear me now?”

  “I could hear you the whole frigg’n time,” I grumbled. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yep. Sorry! My hearing hasn’t been the same since the trials. So much for my weekend getaway in Salem!”

  “Salem, eh?” I muttered, making the mental note that even though Willa barely looked old enough to legally drink, she must’ve had a rough go during the Salem witch trials — which, for the record, happened like three hundred years ago.

  “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to Cooper. And as I understand it — you’re in a hurry. So, let’s go, you three!”

  Slamming all three drinks in about two seconds flat, I nodded at Jesse the wisecracking wonder boy bar keep as we followed Willa through the unnatural crowd, toward a secluded alcove in the back of the thumping warehouse. Pulling up to a smaller, more private setting that was laid out like a cozy diner decorated with an impressive series of eighties cult movie posters and vintage arcade games, we found Coop sipping from a stout bottle of booze while he methodically sharpened his arrows.