In the House of the Wicked rc-5

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  For a brief moment he heard a million voices raised in a scream of terror as their lives were stolen away.

  “I have no idea,” he said, opening the door. “But I’m sure it will be something wonderful,” he added as he closed it behind him.

  Stearns turned from the room to view the child’s immediate family standing there in the hallway, waiting for him.

  “Was she happy to see you?” the child’s mother asked, wiping her hands on her apron. Her husband smiled, uneasy in Stearns’ presence, which he had every right to be.

  Stearns was not used to being questioned by beings such as this; they were normally created only to carry out orders, but there was a charade to maintain.

  A story to be played out.

  Again, the Watchers had outdone themselves.

  “As happy as I was to see her,” Stearns told the golem family. It all felt like a game to him, and he did not have the time or the patience for games. But if this plan, conceived in part by the fallen Grigori, was to succeed, he had to partake of this fiction.

  The parents of little Angelina Hayward must fully believe in their humanity, just as completely as the little girl must believe that she was chosen by God.

  If the life forces of millions were to be his.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was the closest thing the fallen Guardian angel had to dreaming.

  Remembering.

  Francis remembered how scared he had been…how weak he had felt in the presence of God.

  Where was the big, bad warrior then? he thought. Where was the angel that had chosen to fight on the side of Lucifer, just to help the Son of the Morning make his point to the Creator?

  He had been but an insignificant bug kneeling before a force that had shaped the universe from nothing, and even though he had known it would help him naught, he had begged for the Almighty’s forgiveness, honestly believing he had learned the error of his ways.

  And he’d waited for what seemed like an eternity for his punishment to come, but it never happened.

  Instead, the Lord had given him a penance to perform, and that was where he had learned the art of dealing death.

  Killing in the name of Heaven.

  When he remembered like this, he saw their faces, all those who had somehow offended God or posed some sort of threat to the Golden City.

  He saw their faces as they were before they died-before he killed them.

  He saw them all now, but this time the expressions they wore were different. No longer did they appear surprised or angry or scared.

  They seemed amused.

  Smiling as if they knew something that he did not.

  Francis opened his eyes.

  “Now, that sucked,” he said with a grunt, rolling onto his side and attempting to stand.

  The motel room where he’d last met with Remy Chandler was completely dark, and he used the side of the small wooden desk to steady himself as he searched the shadows for his companion, worried that he might have gotten lost along the way.

  A toilet flushed noisily, and the bathroom door opened, illuminating the room in fluorescent harshness.

  “Oh, good. You’re awake.” Angus stumbled back into the room, looking like death warmed over. “For a minute there I thought I might’ve killed you.”

  “You thought you might have killed me?” Francis asked. The room seemed to be moving beneath his feet, and he pulled out the desk chair to sit down and ride out the storm.

  Angus dropped down on the room’s double bed, mattress coils screaming out in protest. “I would have died if I hadn’t fed,” the sorcerer explained. “But I took only enough to keep on living.”

  “So I’m guessing you’re not talking about room service or a quick jaunt to the burger joint down the street,” Francis said, not the least bit happy about where he knew this was going as he realized how weak he was feeling.

  The sorcerer shrugged.

  “You’re like the asshole that almost killed us in New Orleans,” Francis said, his voice becoming louder.

  Angus nodded. “Like Stearns…yes.”

  “You fed off me,” Francis stated, the words dripping with fury.

  “Only a little,” Angus defended himself. “Stearns took so much from me that I would have died if I hadn’t-”

  Francis was up with his gun drawn in a blink.

  “If you hadn’t had taken a few nibbles from the Francis snack bar,” he finished, aiming the pistol at Angus’ fat, flushed face.

  Angus raised his hands in surrender. “I would have asked if you had been conscious, but I had no idea when you were going to wake up. And this way at least one of us would be able to alert someone to Stearns’ plans.”

  Stearns’ plans.

  Even though he wanted to perforate the sorcerer’s round face, Francis lowered his gun and returned it to the bottomless pocket inside his suit coat.

  “Tell me about this Stearns character,” he said, sitting on the desk chair before he fell down. “I thought the problem was with somebody named Deacon.”

  Angus lay on the bed, legs splayed, head back against the headboard. “It appears that I was mistaken. It’s not the betrayed reaching out to kill us from beyond the grave at all… It’s one of our own.”

  “And the mouths on his hands?” Francis asked, holding up his own as examples. “What the fuck’s up with that?”

  “I told you before: The cabal was part of an experiment to use the life force of living things as an energy source, and it achieved everything we had hoped. But there was a price to pay, one that we didn’t realize at first.”

  “It gave you nasty little mouths on your hands,” Francis said. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a crumpled pack of cigarettes. If there was ever a time for a smoke, it was now. He offered the pack to Angus.

  “Thanks,” the sorcerer said, grabbing a cigarette and leaning forward so Francis could light it. “The magick obviously changed some of us more dramatically than others,” he continued to explain. “It appears, though, that we all must feed on the life energies of living things in order to survive, but I certainly haven’t grown mouths on my hands to do so.”

  Francis wasn’t sure that he wanted to ask the next question, but he did, anyway. “So how do you feed?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.

  Angus pointed a chubby finger to his mouth. “This works just fine.”

  “You put that on me?” Francis felt his ire begin to climb again.

  “Just a gentle peck on your cheek,” Angus said.

  Francis could see that the fat sorcerer was struggling not to laugh. Maybe he would shoot him after all.

  “What an interesting existence you’ve led, Fraciel.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Francis warned.

  “Aren’t you going to ask how I know about you?” the sorcerer teased.

  Francis just puffed on his smoke, knowing that Angus would answer his own question.

  “When we feed on your energies, we get a good taste of what you are…who you are…where you’ve been, what you’ve been up to…Your experiences become ours… We live them as you lived them,” Angus explained.

  Francis glared across the room.

  “No worries,” Angus assured him. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

  “You said something about Stearns being up to something.” Francis pinched the still-burning end of the cigarette to extinguish it and dropped the remains into the barrel beside the desk.

  “As he fed on me, I tried to feed on him…and I saw that he is very hungry.”

  “Thinking an all-you-can-eat-buffet hungry?” Francis asked to help him gauge the level of importance.

  “Hungry for the power that only the deaths of countless people would satisfy.” Angus finished his own cigarette, grinding it out on the bedside table and leaving it there.

  Francis felt a sudden dip in the temperature of the room and knew it wasn’t a chill from Angus’ statement. The Pitiless pistol was in his grip once again as he
stood, his every sense on full alert.

  “What is it?” Angus asked nervously, throwing his tree trunk-sized legs over the side of the bed, ready to flee.

  “It feels different in here.” Francis carefully stepped away from the desk, attempting to home in on the cause of the disturbance.

  “I feel it, too,” Angus said. He extended his arms, fingertips wiggling. “It’s as if something is pulling the energy from the room-”

  The fluorescents in the bathroom went dark with a hum, plunging the room into darkness.

  “Don’t move,” Francis ordered, blinking to adjust to the sudden loss of light.

  The room was awash in shadow, but for some reason he could not take his eyes from the covering of shadow that had appeared on the closet door. There was something about it, blacker than all the other shadows in the room. He moved closer to it, holding out his free hand, and felt an exhalation of cold.

  “Got it,” he said, raising his gun to the shadow just as a short, stocky, hooded figure began to emerge. He almost began to fire, but quickly removed his finger from the delicate trigger of the Pitiless pistol when he noticed the form of a teenage girl slung over the creature’s shoulder, and the body of a man he was dragging from the darkness behind him.

  Francis’ aim never wavered as the ugly creature let the girl’s still body drop to the floor, then turned to haul the man from the passage of shadow into the room. He would have liked to say that he was surprised to see the unconscious form of Remy Chandler lying on the floor before him, but when it came to his Seraphim friend, nothing surprised Francis anymore.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” he ordered, aiming at a line of particularly thick wrinkles on the ugly wretch’s forehead.

  The small creature slowly raised his eyes, as if realizing for the very first time that he wasn’t alone.

  “Why don’t you put down that gun before I forget I’m on a mission of mercy and shove it up your ass?”

  Squire glared at the man still holding the pistol on him.

  “Okay, how about this: Why don’t you put down that gun before I forget I’m on a mission of mercy and shove it up your ass, please?”

  “Well, since you said please,” the one with the gun replied, losing the weapon inside his suit jacket. He knelt down beside the man that Squire had dragged from the Shadow Paths. “Is he all right?”

  Squire could tell right away that the two shared a special bond, something stronger than mere friendship. He guessed that this one was one of the good guys, too, but he could also sense another vibe from him, one that suggested he could go either way. He was well acquainted with those types, as well, and had put many in the grave for choosing the wrong side.

  “Got knocked around pretty good, but he seems to be durable.” Squire pointed to the girl. “She’s probably going to need some attention.”

  A fat guy that reeked of magick knelt with a grunt beside the injured girl.

  “Wouldn’t do anything that might harm her, if I were you,” the goblin warned the magick user. “In fact, I’d do everything in my power to see that she makes it. This one seems pretty darn attached,” he said, pointing to the still-unconscious Remy. “And something tells me you wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.”

  The one that had held the gun on him lifted the man from the floor. “This one’s a pussycat,” he said, carrying him to the bed and letting his body fall limply to the mattress.

  The magick user carefully picked up the girl and laid her beside the man on the double bed.

  “Now, why don’t you explain who you are and what you know about these two?” the man with the gun said, coming around the bed toward Squire.

  “Nothing much to tell,” Squire said. His preternatural senses had already started to fan out, feeling this world for what it was. It wasn’t as far along as many of the others he had discovered off the paths that he’d wandered through the years, but he could still sense the potential for disaster.

  This world seemed to have a much longer fuse than some of the others, but he imagined it would eventually end up as they had. The hobgoblin suddenly couldn’t stand to be there anymore; the temptation to stay was too great.

  “My job is done,” he said, pulling his hood up over his blocky head and pointed ears. “Make sure they’re well taken care of.” He nodded toward the two on the bed. “I get a sense they’re special, and you don’t want to lose special.”

  “Who are you?” the friend asked the goblin.

  “Nobody, really,” Squire responded. He wanted to dive into the darkness, to be gone, to return to the Shadow Paths, but something held him there, savoring a world very much like his own.

  A world he missed.

  “I used to be a lot like you, living in a place a lot like this, but then things got out of hand…”

  “And?”

  “Let’s just say it didn’t end well. Take care of this place,” the hobgoblin said as he waded into the passage of darkness. “You never really know how much longer it’s going to be around.”

  Even when he’d had the combined life forces of 166,000 Japanese coursing through his body, Konrad Deacon had never felt anything quite like this.

  “It’s magnificent, Teddy,” he told his son, who cowered in a corner of the master bedroom, eyes reflecting the living fire that trailed from Deacon’s hand as he waved it in the air before him. “It’s like no other power I’ve ever experienced… It’s as if it’s alive inside me.”

  The fire rippled across the smooth muscles of Deacon’s newly invigorated flesh like solar flares on the surface of the sun. He admired himself in the reflective surfaces of the room, finding it difficult to tear his gaze away.

  “Look at me,” he proclaimed to his frightened child. “If I had known it would take the life energies of only one angel to feel this way, I would have hunted one down years ago.”

  He had always known that the world was a secret place, its many dark corners and angles filled with mysteries not for the common man to fathom, but now-as his mind filled with the knowledge of an angel-a divine light had been shined upon the darkness.

  And Konrad Deacon knew so much more.

  The world was a far more dangerous place than he had ever thought, and he realized that with this level of power within him, he now had the means to do something about it.

  He now had the means to make it safe.

  But to be successful, he knew that he must transcend his humanity, giving up all mortal frailties and embracing what he would become.

  Deacon smiled, imagining wings of fire erupting from his shoulder blades.

  And they did.

  “I could become a god,” he told his child, whose eyes were wide and wild at the sight of the appendages of flame that gently fanned the stagnant air of the bedroom.

  Deacon began to laugh, gently at first, but growing to near hysteria. He was laughing so hard that he was losing control of the divine fire, and burning feathers dropped from his wings, setting the floor and some of the furniture ablaze.

  Teddy jumped up with a frightened yelp, running to the closed door, fumbling with the doorknob in an attempt to escape.

  “Don’t be afraid, son,” Deacon called to his child. “It just takes some time to get used to.”

  He was trying to absorb the holy fire back into his new form, but succeeded only in making it worse. The flames burned furiously, reducing objects in the room to blackened ash in a matter of seconds. Deacon imagined the fire being used on the flesh of his enemies and wondered if there was a way to slow it down.

  To prolong the agony.

  That would be a wonderful thing.

  The bedroom door flew open, slamming against the plaster wall already cracked by the passage of the home from earth to the shadowy realm. There was no talking to the boy in his current state, and Deacon allowed him to scamper off. There were far more important things to concern himself with at the moment.

  He had to start thinking about his future and the future of the w
orld. Not the world outside his window, but the world he had fled to escape his betrayers.

  Deacon made his body glow like the sun, casting his holy light from the dingy windows to chase away the darkness-and anything that might be hiding within it.

  Someone cleared his throat behind him, and Deacon slowly turned toward the sound.

  Scrimshaw stood just inside the doorway.

  “Scrimshaw,” Deacon said, and thrust out his arms for the golem to admire. “What do you think?”

  “Quite impressive, sir,” the artificial man said. “I wanted to let you know that we’ve boarded up just about all of the broken windows, and reset the alarms. I’m waiting for a work crew to let me know how long it will be before the fence is-”

  “Don’t bother,” Deacon interrupted his faithful servant.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “I said, don’t bother,” Deacon repeated. He slowly turned back to the bedroom window, allowing the fire that radiated from his body to grow all the brighter. “We’re not staying here.”

  “Sir?” Scrimshaw questioned.

  “You heard me,” Deacon said testily, crimping his annoyance, realizing that he must be above such emotions if he were to attain his new stature. “We’re leaving this place.”

  “Leaving?”

  Deacon looked to his servant. “How am I to attain godhood and save humanity from the hidden horrors of the supernatural if I remain in this desolate place?” he asked.

  Scrimshaw, smart enough to know that it wasn’t a true question, didn’t answer.

  “And besides,” Deacon added with a sly smile. “Now that I have all of this power, I can finally take my revenge on those who wronged me.”

  “Shall I pack your bags, sir?” Scrimshaw asked, ever the faithful servant.

  Deacon began to laugh again, amused by his servant’s naivete.

  “No need for that,” he said, turning his attention back to the window and the fleeting darkness outside.

  “I brought it all here, and I intend to take it all back.”

  Angus Heath could not sleep, and was tired of hearing about the little miracle girl who was waiting to deliver a message from God to the world.