The Devil's Beat (The Devil's Mark) (2 page)

I should have stayed in New York.

Max considered his options. From the outside, it didn't look like the house was habitable. Just thinking about the amount of money and effort it would take to restore the old building made him feel tired, but he didn't have anywhere else to go. Everything he had ever wanted was gone—irretrievably. I deserve this, he reminded himself. The jury had acquitted Max, but Max hadn't. No amount of contrition would expiate his sins. He tried to flush out his frustration with a deep, slow breath. Might as well take a closer look. Maybe the inside won't be so bad.

Max hopped from the car onto the gravel ring-drive. Immediately, thick heat and eau-de-swamp assaulted him. Even through the high haze, the sun glared down at him mercilessly. Sweat broke out all over his body, and he was quickly as waterlogged as the old house. It didn't seem possible to Max that you could have a drought in a state where the air carried so much water. Yet, Max had heard it was the worst in a hundred years. Of course, the northeast was in the process of being drowned, and new floods were anticipated as the water made its way south through the Mississippi basin.

Ignoring the kudzu-laden fountain behind him, he faced the towering house while ineffectively swatting at the bobbing and weaving swarm of mosquitoes courting him. Up close, the house didn't look quite square, and its siding was trying to escape.

The loneliness of the setting struck a chord within him, specifically C diminished 7. He started humming it and then followed the music where it wanted to go. It started out sad and isolated and then turned sinister with a bass… He caught himself, stopped, and shook his head. That was all behind him now.

He eyed the distant porch roof and the questionable wooden columns supporting it and tried to decide if there was a danger of it falling on top of him. He reminded himself that he didn't care, and walked up to the massive front door, eying the roof nervously. Just because he officially didn't care if he died, didn't mean that the thought of massive amounts of pain wasn't daunting.

The ornately carved front door didn't budge when he pushed on it. He went to the large window to his left and peered inside. The dirt covering the glass, the darkness inside, and the glare of the sun defeated his attempts to see into the building. One of the bottommost panes, losing the battle with entropy, was extensively cracked. With no hesitation, Max pulled a branch from one of the copious piles of debris and used it to shatter the remaining glass and clear out the broken shards.

Breaking the pane was cathartic. Not for the first time, he wondered how to capture it in a song. He caught and discarded the thought and briefly considered breaking more. Filling the air with the delicious crashing, tinkling sound was extremely tempting. He curbed his impulse. It would just be more work for himself, in the unlikely event that he decided to keep the house and stay here. Max put his hands on the window frame and poked his head into the dark hole. A sharp pain in his left hand caused him to jerk back and smack his head on the top of the frame. He yelled, fell back, and slapped his hands to his head. Immediately, a new pain pierced through both his hand and his scalp as he drove a tenacious shard of glass deeper into both.

A hurried examination showed him that bright red blood covered his palm and oozed out around the small glass shard embedded there. His touch on the glass sent shooting pains up his arm.

Life just kept dicking with him. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Max spun around, jumping and stomping his feet.

He kicked the house. “Ow! Jesus fucking...” The stomach-churning pain that only a stubbed toe can give gleefully had it's way with him.

He tried to grab his injured foot with his good hand, and he fell onto his butt and then onto his side. He pushed himself back to a sitting position, and doing so, buried the silicon dagger a little deeper into his palm. He jerked his hand back and fell over sideways again.

Anger provided a temporary anesthetic as Max went after the offending shard. After several attempts and loud curses, he managed to pull it out of his hand and threw it away. Both his hands were now sticky with blood. His face twisted in a snarl. He grabbed the stick lying next to him on the hot, dusty ground, leapt to his feet, and proceeded to break every pane of glass left in the window. It felt good to let the anger have its way. It burned pure and strong, driving away the gray with its short-lived flare.

A flying shard of glass hit his face. He reflexively dropped his branch and brought his hand to the cut. It stung and his hand came away sporting more fresh blood. Just a little higher and it would have been his eye. Max forced himself to back off and took a deep breath, then two, then three.

He stood up and inspected his various wounds. Between them, his head was the bloodiest, his hand the deepest, and his foot hurt the worst. When he was done, Max grimaced with disgust at the mixture of blood and dirt on his hands. Without thinking, he wiped his hands off on his shirt. His shirt got nasty without cleaning his hands.

When he saw what he had done to his ten-thousand-dollar UNICEF T-shirt (from his benefit concert), his whole world turned red. “God fucking damn it!”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” came a rich and mocking baritone from close behind him.

Max jumped and whirled in fright. Somewhere around the halfway point in his pirouette, he recognized the voice and came down scowling.

His ex-partner, mentor, and onetime friend stood smirking three feet away from him. Lucian looked as immaculate as always. His perfect, slicked-back, black hair allowed Lucian's Roman nose unchallenged dominance over his features. His tailored black suit complemented his crisp edges perfectly with no stray sags or wrinkles.

Max now had focus for his anger. “Jesus Christ! I told you, I never wanted to see you again!”

“Isn't that so delicious?” purred Lucian. If scorn could drip, it would have formed a puddle around his neon-orange sneakers. “He makes you the gift of redemption, He lets you nail his son to a cross, and you throw His name out like some piece of trash.”

Max's shoulders slumped. “Fuck you. Go back to hell, Lucian, or should I just call you Lucifer?”

Lucian smiled widely. “Now, now, I'm not ready to end this tale just yet. Be careful of that hostility. It could get you in trouble with someone less reasonable than I. Besides, my young protégé, I'm here to help you.”

“I don't want your help. I don't need your help. Just go away!”

Lucian's eyebrows rose as he slipped on an ironic mask of angelic innocence. “I couldn't help but notice that you seemed to be in a bit of a pickle. Just look at the mess you've made of yourself. Your burgaling skills are woefully underdeveloped, so I brought you a gift.” He frowned. Looking pensive, he paused, tapping his chin with a long, manicured finger. “Or is that burglarizing, or perhaps burgling?” Lucian shook his head as if despairing of ever understanding the English language, and then, with a flourish and a smile, he presented Max with a massive set of keys.

Obviously, Lucian was just playing with him. He'd been an idiot to come here. Of course, the whole thing had been a setup. “I'm leaving,” said Max, ignoring the keys as he turned to walk away.

He almost ran into Lucian, standing in front of him again.

Lucian curled his lips in disdain. “Careful. If you get so much as a smudge on my suit, I shall become quite vexed.”

“Get out of my way.”

“Certainly,” purred Lucian, all anger gone in an instant. “Just take your keys, check out your house, and I will be on my merry way.”

The more Lucian wanted him here, the less he wanted to be here. “I don't want the keys, and I don't want this trash heap of a house.” Max tried to walk around the shorter man.

Lucian smiled delightedly. “Oh yes, you do... You see, the house is in your name, so whatever is in it, and whatever happens in it, are your responsibility. It just wouldn't do to have someone else find your surprise.”

Max paled as he considered what might lie in that house. “What did you do?”

Lucian laughed with innocent surprise at the accusation. “Moi? Tu me fais tort. Je n'ai fait rien, mais je t'ai donnér un cadeau.”

Max didn't speak French but nonetheless understood Lucian's protestations of innocence.

“What did you do, damn it?”

Lucian's eyebrows rose with delight. “That is for me to know and you to find out. I would recommend you go and find your present before it rots.”

Max looked back at the mansion—now evil and forbidding rather than just pathetic and rundown. What was in there? A jangle of metal behind him caused him to turn back to Lucian, and his question died before he uttered it. He was standing alone. The ring of keys lay on the ground where Lucian had been standing.

He contemplated the keys and, with a grimace, leaned down to retrieve them from the parched ground.

Max felt as if he were being laughed at as he fumbled through at least fifteen keys. It was difficult to do with only one unencumbered hand. After an unsuccessful search through the pile of dirty clothes in his trunk for a bandage, he'd wrapped his damaged hand in a makeshift Armani T-shirt bandage—expensive and effective but bulky and awkward. He yanked out the last key in disgust. While he was fumbling for the next one, the door clicked and creaked open an inch. He tensed and waited to see if something was going to come out. When nothing did, he tentatively tried to push it open. It slammed shut, making Max jump back and drop the keys.

Max retrieved his keys and angled towards the door, trying to make sure he could run at a moment’s notice. He gave it a tentative push. It didn't budge.

“Hello?” No answer was forthcoming. “Hello, is anyone there?”

Only silence greeted him. Max glared at the door and then at the keys. He'd lost his place on the key ring. Muttering imprecations, he started again, pushing, twiddling, and pulling each key.

The eighth key jammed. It wouldn't turn, and nothing he did would free it. Max slapped the door in frustration and pulled his foot back to give it a kick. He stopped short and gingerly set it back down on the ground. Instead, he shouted, “Piss on you, Lucian! Do you hear me?”

The keys fell out of the lock and the door clicked open.

Max ground out an “arrrrgh” between clenched teeth as he bent down to grab the keys one more time. The door slammed shut and caught the top of his head. He jumped back, slapped both hands on his head, and fairly danced in pain and rage.

The door opened a crack again. As soon as Max calmed down enough to notice, it slammed shut hard enough to rattle the nearby windows. A light dusting of plaster or something dribbled down upon Max's head.

Max looked up at the porch roof just in time to dodge out of the way as a fist-sized piece of the exterior molding fell right where he had been standing.

He stared at the chunk of plaster, and his rage broke from its chains. It flowed through him like sweet, molten freedom. He looked up to the sky (though maybe he should have looked down) and shook his fist. “I'm not gonna play this game Lucian! I'll burn this place down! I'll take a flamethrower to it! I don't give a—”

The door swung open with a spooky groan.

Max glared suspiciously into the dark hole thus revealed. When the door didn't immediately slam shut, his anger drained away. He crept forward, trying to keep his eyes simultaneously on the door and the distant porch roof. Nothing happened. He retrieved another stick from the yard and gingerly wedged it under the door. When he felt it was safe, he stuck his head in.

From the doorway, a suspicious Max squinted into the darkness to examine the immense front hall. It had an ornate but dilapidated grand staircase curving up from the right to an open balcony on the second story. The smell hit him like a punch in the nose. Hot, stale air flowed past him and out the carved and weathered door. Mold, stagnant water, rot, and age all proclaimed their presence with joyous abandon. The nostril assault alone was enough to stop him, but fear also had a part in his hesitation. Without stepping into the house, he nervously leaned in and looked around.

The insides were done in early Gothic vampire cliché. Every wall sported dark wood paneling that was intricately carved with grotesque reliefs of leering, distorted faces. That, combined with blood-red curtains and dirty windows, made the thick gloom of the place almost touchable.

Under the two-foot waterline, he sourly noted mold growing on faded, warped wood. It would probably give him black lung disease or something. He wondered if that was a bad way to die. Probably.

More black dirt coated the floor, and a rotting sofa nestled into the alcove created by the curving of the stairs. Above the reach of the water, things seemed more intact. The builder of this house had obviously been wealthy and had spared no expense in its construction. Above it all hung a crystal chandelier made with ornate flourishes of brass. It had been originally crafted for candles but now sported electric bulbs. Throughout the room, blackened brass fittings were used on every corner, rail, and picture frame.

The ragged opulence gave Max an odd feeling of kinship with this old house. It was glamour and extravagance brought low, then covered with mud and rot. Like him, she felt brooding—angry at her fall.

There was no light switch near the door, so he stood and weighed his options. Stay or Go were the only two he could think of. Childhood terrors of the dark, and dozens of cheesy haunted house films swam to the fore of his mind and clamored for option two. Pride, dignity, and practicality weighed-in just about equally on the side of option one. It was his kindling feelings of kinship with the building that finally tipped the scales.

Max forced himself to walk into the dark house, paying close attention to the creaking of the floor. Now that he had faced down his fantasy fears, he had to deal with the more pragmatic one of falling through rotted floorboards. He stamped his undamaged foot a few times to test the dirt-encrusted, water-damaged boards, ready to spring back at the first sign of the floor giving way. They seemed solid, so he took a couple of steps. When nothing happened, he started to relax and walked into the room.