In the House of the Wicked rc-5

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  He reached out with his mind to his brethren, stirring them to attention. The Grigori turned from their view of the world to stare at him.

  Armaros clutched the wooden box that contained the ashes of his leader and lover to his chest. Their eyes bored into his, and he felt himself touched by their familiar stares. He knew each and every one, for they had endured this world, its pleasures and its torments, together.

  Reaching out to them, to their minds, he told them that it was time.

  And they would be either praised and welcomed back to the bosom of the Lord God Almighty…

  Or they would be damned.

  But, really, they had already been damned once. How much more damned could they be?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Garfial pushed past Remy, grabbing the remote from what looked to be a pile of bones, and turned up the television’s volume.

  The newscasters were still talking, going over again the history of little Angelina Hayward.

  “Okay, this is good,” Garfial stated, staring at the screen. “It hasn’t happened yet… There’s still time.”

  “I need to know what’s going on,” Remy told him, not really sure how much help he would be in his current state.

  The Grigori looked away from the television screen but his eyes kept darting back, afraid that he might be missing something.

  “They had me create a golem in the form of a little girl,” Garfial started to explain.

  “That little girl.” Remy pointed to the TV.

  “Yeah,” Garfial said. “She’s pretty complicated…has no idea what she really is…believes one hundred percent in the history that we created for her.”

  “As does everybody who is hearing about her,” Remy added.

  The fallen angel nodded. “And that’s where the fun begins. How many people do you think are watching this now? How many other channels are picking up on the story about the little girl who came out of a coma, promising a message from God and is now about to deliver?

  “This is probably reaching all over the world… Right this minute, millions of people are waiting to hear little Angelina’s message. And that doesn’t even count the people on the Internet.”

  Remy looked to the television to see that they were showing footage of Angelina when she first awoke from her coma. The little girl was pale and quite sick-looking, an oxygen mask clamped onto her tiny face. She was clutching a pink teddy bear to her chest as her mother stroked her sweaty head.

  “What was she created to do?” Remy asked, not really wanting to know.

  “Think of her as both a transmitter and receiver.”

  “And what is she transmitting and receiving?”

  “Armaros and the other Grigori are going to provide her with the message that will go out to everybody who’s listening,” Garfial said. He seemed to be growing more agitated.

  “As soon as she begins to speak, she will create a psychic rapport with her listeners, and then the Grigori will provide their message to the faithful.”

  Remy stared, waiting. “Which is?” he prodded.

  “They’re going to project all the pain and suffering they’ve endured since being exiled to Earth, and kill everyone who’s listening,” Garfial said.

  Remy felt the world go out from beneath him. It was worse than he suspected.

  “Then the girl will act as a receiver, and the sorcerer-Stearns-will reap the benefit of the megadeaths. She’ll collect all their energies and transmit them to him.”

  “Making him incredibly powerful,” Remy finished.

  Garfial’s eyes had drifted back to the television. They had gone to a commercial break. “I’d say the most powerful magick user on the planet,” he confirmed.

  And that didn’t make sense to Remy. “Why would Armaros want to kill millions and then hand over all that power to somebody like Stearns?”

  The reporters were back, announcing yet again that little Angelina Hayward was close to delivering the message she’d received from God.

  “That’s something you’ll have to ask him about,” Garfial announced. “All I can tell you is that I like it here. Any desire I had to return to…Him”-he pointed to the ceiling-“went away a very long time ago. This can’t be allowed to happen,” he said, indicating the television, then looking at Remy. “You have to stop them.”

  Remy remained silent, knowing Garfial was right, but having no idea how he was going to accomplish it.

  “Hell, you’re part of the reason this is happening in the first place,” Garfial added with a disturbed laugh.

  The news program was showing the little girl and her family as they were assisted from their home to a waiting van. Throngs of onlookers waving signs and holding banners lined the street.

  As soon as Angelina was safely inside the van, the cameras cut to a live shot on the plaza in front of the Hermes Building in the Back Bay, where reporters began to explain how Algernon Stearns, multimillionaire philanthropist, had been so touched by the little girl’s amazing story…

  “I need to get in there,” Remy said, pointing to a splendid aerial shot of the skyscraper and the Boston skyline.

  The Grigori nodded. “Uh-huh. And then what?”

  Remy didn’t have an answer.

  “Look at you,” Garfial said. “Here I am sneaking around the city, trying to find you, and when I do, you’re nothing but a shadow of yourself.

  “This is going to happen,” he said, a look of resignation on his pale features. “Millions will die, and we’ll be responsible.”

  “Can you get me inside?” Remy asked, ignoring the Grigori.

  “Sure,” Garfial said with a nod. “But Armaros will smell the Seraphim on you like…”

  Remy slowly shook his head. “Maybe not.”

  It was Garfial’s turn to be silent.

  “You said it,” Remy continued. “I’m a shadow of myself. If I can get in there and do some damage before the broadcast…”

  Garfial was gnawing on a fingernail like it was his last meal.

  “We’re going to have to leave, like, right now,” he said, a spark of hope now burning in eyes that moments ago were filled with dread.

  On the television, a large black van turned from Boylston Street into the parking garage beneath the Hermes Building.

  “I need to make a call first,” Remy said, taking his cell phone from his pocket. He didn’t mention that he also had to force Stearns into getting him back to the shadow realm so he could find Ashley and bring her home.

  “Make it quick,” the fallen angel said nervously.

  Remy punched in the number and waited.

  “Yeah,” the Guardian angel answered on the first ring.

  “It’s worse than we thought.”

  There was a slight pause, and then Francis’ voice.

  “Isn’t it always?”

  As she ran for her life through the twisted house, all Ashley could think of was The Wizard of Oz.

  She would have preferred to be thinking of how to escape the monsters chasing her and how to survive, but the favorite film from her childhood had decided to take up residence in the forefront of her brain.

  Maybe it had to do with the story: young girl swept up from her home to awaken in a strange place filled with incredible sights. Or maybe it was the question of whether or not Dorothy was dreaming, for Ashley wanted so desperately to wake and find that this was really a horrible nightmare.

  The floor beneath her feet suddenly heaved upward, followed by the moan and snapping of wood, and she was pitched to one side, bouncing off a wall and falling to her knees. She stayed there for a moment, stunned, as the walls and the floor around her faded in and out of focus.

  At first she thought that maybe she had hit her head, but then she realized that everything around her-a vase on the table at the end of the hall, a painting hanging crookedly on the wall-seemed to be vibrating, becoming blurry. And then she felt the tingling in her body and looked down at her hands to find that they too were becoming ha
zy, prickling as if she were receiving a mild electric shock.

  What’s happening now? she asked herself, wishing there was a wizard who could give her the answer.

  The vibrations through the corridor were growing more and more powerful-more intense-and she watched as jagged cracks appeared on the walls. Until the thumping sound of running feet and the grunts of a little boy more animal than child spurred her to move.

  “I’m off to see the Wizard…,” she began to sing aloud, holding back a near-hysterical giggle, afraid that if she allowed it out, she might never be able to stop.

  She started to run again, imagining the awful, pale-faced man with the black, spiraling tattoos all over his face and the wild boy looming up behind her.

  “The wonderful Wizard of Oz…” Ashley muttered and sang beneath her breath, squinting into the oncoming darkness in the hallway ahead.

  “Ashley!” bellowed a voice from behind her, and she partially turned, dreading to see how close her pursuers actually were. “You don’t want to get lost in this house, Ashley!”

  He was right: She didn’t want to get lost in this house. But she didn’t want to end up with him or the boy, Teddy, either, so she kept running, focusing on her song.

  “I hear he is a whiz of a wiz if ever there was a wiz…”

  Something lurched up from the darkness before her and she wasn’t quick enough to avoid it, colliding full force and sending both of them to the ground. She got back on her feet as the figure she’d hit also rose with a grunt.

  The shadow’s head was partially covered by a hood, but his eyes-yellow eyes-the way they looked at her, it was almost as if he knew her.

  “I thought I brought you back to the motel.” the figure growled, reaching up to pull the hood from his oddly shaped head.

  And that was when Ashley realized that this wasn’t a guy at all, but all she could think of was a twisted mash-up of a munchkin and a flying monkey.

  That laugh was upon her again, creeping up from the back of her throat, and this time there was no way she could keep it in. Her sanity began to crumble.

  And it was the craziest sound she’d ever heard in her life.

  Squire had been drawn to the old house as if his goblin body had been caught in some powerful current.

  Whatever was going on there wasn’t good.

  Cloaked in shadow, he had watched the sprawling estate vibrate and blur, like he was looking through a pair of unfocused binoculars.

  Nope, this wasn’t good at all.

  Squire moved closer, and the closer he got, the worse he felt. Whatever was going on there was affecting the whole environment of the shadow realm.

  He’d repositioned the golf bag of weapons on his shoulder and searched out a particularly deep path of shadow that would lead him inside the mansion. It had taken him three tries-some of the paths actually collapsed and dispersed-but he’d eventually found one that worked and entered the house.

  To find the girl.

  What the fuck’s up with this? the goblin thought as he got back on his feet. He could see a look that he’d grown familiar with over the years beginning to appear in her eyes. It was the look of someone about to go over the deep end, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

  She started to laugh hysterically, and Squire, feeling bad for her, decided to throw her a line.

  “What’s your name, kid?” he asked in his friendliest tone.

  Her body did a little twitch then, eyes temporarily blinking back the madness.

  “Ashley,” she said.

  A voice cried out from somewhere down the hall, and Squire could hear the sounds of footsteps approaching. Ashley looked over her shoulder, fear creeping back into her gaze.

  “Hey, Ashley,” Squire said, emerging fully from the darkness. “Do you need some help?”

  “Who are you?” she asked. The fear was still there, but now it seemed to be tempered with curiosity.

  “Someone who can get you out of here, if you want,” he told her. The footsteps were closer now, and the structure began to shake and fade again.

  She looked at the darkness of the hallway behind her and then back to him. “How-how do I kn-know that…?” she stammered.

  “That you can trust me? Just look at this face.” Squire pointed to his goblin mug. “It’s got trustworthy written all over it.” He held out his hand, sensing that their time was running out. “C’mon, take my hand. I’ll get us both out of here.”

  Ashley hesitated as the pale-skinned man and a kid running on all fours came upon them. Squire was familiar with the tattooed dude; he’d tried to kill him a few times out on the paths.

  “What do we have here?” the man asked, sizing up the situation. The little kid simply growled.

  A gun appeared in the man’s hand, and Squire decided that it was time to go.

  He reached out and grabbed Ashley’s hand. “This is gonna feel a little weird,” he said to her; then he yanked her toward a shadow passage that had been opened by whatever was going on in the house. Ashley’s surprised squeal was cut off as Squire pushed her through the opening and into the passage.

  The tattooed man immediately began to fire, bullets punching deep holes into the plaster walls as Squire dove to join Ashley in the open path.

  He found her frozen in the total darkness.

  “Crawl!” he yelled, pushing her forward. “There should be an opening up ahead.”

  Squire turned to close the passage behind him, but the shadows in this place had gone wild and would not obey him. The rules were breaking down, and he suddenly realized how dangerous the situation truly was.

  “I see you,” said the tattooed man, his white skin practically glowing as he held up a lighter, illuminating the confined space just inside the passage. He extended his arm and fired the gun.

  Deacon was bending the world to his whim.

  He stood in the open foyer of his home, calling on ancient spells that until now were too powerful for him to manipulate.

  Sparks of fire leapt from his outstretched hands, sizzling on the marble floor, providing the only sustained light as the chandelier and the supernaturally powered bulbs in the wall sconces flickered in and out, the greenish glow growing fainter by the seconds.

  “Do you see?” Deacon asked the golem staff that watched him from a safe distance. “Do you see what I can do?”

  He was also addressing his wife. Even though her body had burned with the dining room, he knew that she was still with him.

  Expecting him to fail.

  But he was beyond failure now, or would be as soon as he had his revenge.

  The shadow realm was fighting him, not wanting to give up the stately home that had been part of its inky environment for so many years.

  How dared it think that it could keep him there?

  Deacon again flexed magickal muscles that grew stronger and stronger every time he exerted them. The home around him began to violently vibrate, straining against the reality of the shadow place, as he attempted to take it from here to there.

  In his mind he pictured it as it was, the Catskill Mountains, where his family had used their substantial wealth to build what was to be their castle, a place were American royalty went to escape the day-to-day stresses of the world. Deacon saw the home as it had been: a vast section of barren woods followed by the wooden skeletal structure that would soon grow its epidermis of wood, plaster, stone, and glass.

  He felt a sense of calm pass through his energized form, recalling the joy he’d experienced in the home and what he yearned for again.

  Going home to hide.

  He heard the voice and whirled around, distracted.

  “Veronica?” he called out, half expecting to see her burning form behind him, but there was nothing except the entrance to the parlor. He was about to resume his casting when he heard her again.

  At least Stearns will know where to find you.

  “What are you going on about?” Deacon demanded, spinning again, his body throwing off sparks of di
vine fire. He looked to his staff to see if they were hearing it, as well.

  “Where is she?” he asked them.

  They did not respond, probably fearing that they might anger him.

  “I will bring the estate back,” he called out to Veronica. “And then I will deal with Stearns.”

  Veronica chuckled, and Deacon felt his anger growing. It was not a healthy thing to anger one with the power of the Seraphim coursing through his veins.

  “Did I say something humorous, my love?” he asked as he strode across the marble floor.

  The golems scattered, revealing nothing. She was nowhere to be found.

  Stearns will sense your return, and he will come for you.

  Deacon was about to object, but knew that there was some truth to his wife’s taunting words. Since that morning in 1945 when he and the cabal were transformed by the death energies of Hiroshima, he could sense the others, as if they had somehow been joined-connected-by their experience.

  Even in the shadow realm, he could feel them…

  And if he could feel them, then they… Stearns…was indeed aware of him.

  Sense you…find you…take what is yours…

  “Never again,” Deacon growled, his anger stirring the power of an angel.

  You need to…

  “Go to him,” Deacon finished.

  Before he can…

  “Try to take what is mine.”

  Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

  Deacon closed his eyes, wiping his mind clear, and focusing on another thing entirely. He reached out across the veil of darkness to find the one who had taken so much from him. He found Heath right away, but only lingering traces of the others, clinging to one powerful scent.

  Stearns.

  Deacon smiled. Won’t it be something, he thought as he fixed a new location inside his head, killing all those birds with one very large stone?

  “I’m coming for you, Algernon,” he said, flexing his magickal muscles once again, feeling the fabric of the shadow realm stretching tighter against his onslaught.

  And then it began to tear, the darkness ready to escape from one realm to fill another.