In the House of the Wicked (28 page)

Remy had started to walk around the lab, only half listening as the Grigori continued to speak, until he noticed a large pile of damp-looking clay on a nearby table, and something clicked into place.

“Artificial life,” Remy said aloud, looking at him.

“You’re gonna have to keep up with me,” Garfial chided.

“You showed them how to make golems.”

“I did at that.” Garfial nodded. “And they got pretty good at it, too…. Not as good as me, but still not so bad. Many human magick users put their own spin on these creatures.”

“Life-energy collectors,” Remy stated flatly.

Garfial smiled. “Now you’re catching up. So here the Grigori are, living among the humanity they corrupted, trying to make amends for what they did so they could someday go home.”

Remy would have smiled at the perversion of the facts, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“We were doing everything we could to get Heaven to notice us again, trying to make things right,” Garfial went on. “Sariel promised us that one day God would see us and how sorry we were, and welcome us back through the pearly gates with open arms.”

Remy couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“You guys worked with widows and orphans, right? Helped the homeless and unwed mothers? You make it sound like you were all playing on Mother Teresa’s team. I’ve seen some of the parties you guys threw.”

Garfial chuckled. “They were pretty intense, weren’t they?” He smiled at the memory. “Some of us really did believe that we were going to be forgiven…. Personally, I like it here and couldn’t care less if I ever see the Golden City again. The Golden Banana on Route One was just as good to me, if you know what I mean.”

Sadly enough, Remy did. Living among humanity had done pretty much the same thing to him, minus the perversity and decadence.

“But like I said,” Garfial continued. “Some of us were actually working toward going home, but all that got thrown into the wood chipper when Sariel was killed.”

“He murdered Noah,” Remy said.

“Yeah, I know,” Garfial said. “But he was still our leader, and without him, many of us were lost.”

The fallen angel grew quiet, starting to move beakers of strangely colored fluid around, seemingly neatening up the space.

“After Sariel’s death, I kind of lost track of you guys,” Remy said.

“We became lost,” the fallen said. “More lost than we had ever been. You thought the parties we had before were wild…. Days blended into weeks, into months…. Without Sariel, we lost our purpose…our direction.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t last,” Remy said.

“No, it didn’t,” Garfial agreed. “A new leader rose in our ranks, and his name was Armaros…Sariel’s lover.”

Remy sighed, crossing his arms as he leaned against a table.

“And let me guess: He wants revenge.”

Garfial brushed off his table with the side of his hand. “You killed our shining star…our guiding light…”

“He was a murderer,” Remy stated.

“And Armaros loved him.”

“So now he wants the world to suffer for what I did?”

“Armaros wouldn’t admit that, but I’m sure it’s there, writhing beneath the surface,” Garfial said. “What he’s telling us is that he wants to make God notice the Grigori again…to really recognize how sorry we are.”

“And how does he intend to do that?” Remy asked.

Garfial’s eyes drifted to the television in the corner of the room, distracted by the frantic movement of what appeared to be
The Price Is Right
.

“I love this show,” the fallen angel said dreamily.

Remy waved a hand in the air. “Hello? World on the brink of something disastrous?”

“Sorry,” Garfial apologized, collecting his thoughts once more. “Sariel always believed that humanity was in such a state because of the path we led them down, and Armaros shared that belief.”

Remy waited for all the pieces to present themselves, forming an image he could understand.

“He believes that most of humanity has become godless, forgetting who’s responsible for their very existence. Armaros has concocted a plan to make humanity remember God…to fear Him as we know He should be feared.”

Tension started to form across Remy’s brow and at the back of his neck; a sign that he was about to learn something that wasn’t going to make him the least bit happy.

“This is where I come in to the picture,” Garfial said. “Even though I gave them the knowledge, it was the human magick users that perfected the artificial-life process, nudging and tweaking their creations to a whole new level.”

Remy waited silently for the head butt he was sure was coming.

“Armaros wanted me to join with one of these sorcerers, the most powerful of them all, to design and create a flawless piece of work—a tool to drive the faithless back into the Lord God’s arms.”

“A tool,” Remy repeated, confused.

Garfial snatched up a leather-bound journal, opening it and holding it out toward Remy. He saw exquisite drawings of two human figures, older women, and recognized them as the knitter and Clara.

“Golems.”

“Tools,” Garfial corrected. “Like the ladies upstairs who protect my workshop from prying eyes. Tools with a specific purpose and function.”

Remy felt the band of tension across his forehead grow so tight that he imagined his skull imploding.

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with Algernon Stearns?” Remy asked, a piece of the puzzle looking to be placed.

“Very good, Remy,” Garfial applauded. “You must be a detective.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

Remy had a terrible feeling that he knew exactly where this was going. Francis and Angus had both talked about Stearns’ plans that could harm millions, and Remy dreaded this connection.

“This golem…this special tool,” Remy fished. “What was it created to do?”

Garfial grabbed the notebook and flipped to another page. He was about to show it to Remy when the fallen angel froze, his eyes on the television again. “Oh, shit,” the Grigori said.

“What?” Remy asked, turning around to see that
The Price Is Right
had been replaced by a special news report.

The anchors seemed to be very serious as they talked, the image of a smiling little girl projected behind them. A little girl that Remy recognized as Angelina Hayward.

Confused, he looked back to Garfial. “What’s going on?”

“You wanted to know what the special golem was created for?” Garfial asked. “I think the world is about to find out.”

“Who does this car belong to again?” Angus, sitting beside Francis in the front seat of the pristine 1960 Lincoln Continental, asked.

“A friend,” Francis answered, cruising along Boylston Street, searching for a place to park.

“It smells like blood,” the sorcerer said, moving his large bulk uneasily in the passenger’s seat as he tried to get comfortable.

“Yeah, I know,” Francis said casually. “But beggars can’t be choosers. My friend Richard agreed to do us a solid as long as we didn’t take her out of the city. Right, girl?”

Angus could have sworn that the vehicle responded, the low murmur of a talk show on the radio suddenly changing to a syrupy pop song from the seventies.

“That a girl,” Francis said, still looking for the perfect space as he reached a hand out and rubbed the black leather dashboard affectionately.

Angus could not get comfortable. The tangy, metallic odor of the car and the warm, almost fleshlike feeling of the leather beneath his ass made him feel as though he were inside the mouth of some large predatory beast.

“There’s something wrong about this vehicle,” Angus flatly stated.

“You might want to keep your opinions to yourself,” Francis warned. “You don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“Then you admit this ride is…different?”

“She’s different, all right,” the former Guardian agreed.

The steering wheel suddenly jerked roughly to the right, startling Francis as the car pulled itself into a space just vacated by a UPS truck.

“Good one,” he said. “I would have driven right past it. Thanks, Leona.”

“Is that its name?” Angus asked.

“That’s
her
name,” Francis quickly corrected as the engine turned off without his hand being anywhere near the crowded key chain that dangled from the ignition. “Relax. She has this kinda effect on a lot of people,” Francis explained. “Actually, you should be honored that she’s letting you ride inside her.”

“I feel like Jonah in the belly of the whale,” Angus stated, every instinct that he had on full alert.

“Look, we needed a ride to check out Stearns’ headquarters, and my business associate was nice enough to allow Leona to take us,” Francis said. “So, let’s do what we came here to do.”

Francis got out of the car.

Angus pulled on the door handle, but the door would not open. He was about to motion to Francis for assistance when the handle suddenly functioned again and the door swung wide.

For a moment he could have sworn that he heard a sinister chuckling over the car’s speakers, but he decided that it was likely only the pinging sounds made by the car’s engine as it started to cool.

“Will this be all right here?” Angus asked Francis.

“She’ll be fine,” Francis said crossing Boylston Street. “Richard fed her just before we called.”

Angus followed the fallen angel to the small plaza and the eighty-story skyscraper that he recognized from his contact with Algernon Stearns. A large sign read HERMES TELEVISION NETWORK.

Angus stared up at the impressive building of smoked glass and polished steel, feeling a queasy uneasiness pass over him. He turned to speak to his partner, but the angel was gone. Looking around the crowded street, he found Francis at a food truck.

“What are you doing?” Angus asked, walking over.

“Getting a bite. Want something?”

“No, I do not want something. We need to report back to—”

“They have American chop suey.”

“They do?”

“Two American chop sueys,” Francis told the man behind the counter.

“The building is quite fortified against the likes of us,” Angus said, looking back to the front entrance.

“Figured as much,” Francis answered, going through his wallet. “Gonna need to come up with a way of getting inside without making too much of a ruckus.”

“I’m sure the magickal barriers are only the first line of defense,” Angus stated, watching the building. He caught sight of multiple security officers, and from the vibe they were giving off, he doubted very much that they were human.

“Here,” Francis said, handing Angus a heaping Styrofoam container. “What do you want to drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

“Two waters,” Francis added, as the counter person brought the remainder of his order and he paid.

“Let’s sit over here,” Francis said, leading Angus to the short concrete wall that bordered the plaza.

It was lunchtime in Back Bay on a beautiful fall day, and the area was humming with activity.
A perfect time to go unnoticed,
Angus thought as he enjoyed his meal.

“So, what do you think?” Angus asked after awhile.

Francis had eaten in silence, staring at the formidable skyscraper before him, as if committing every detail to memory.

“I think we have a problem,” the angel assassin said. “There are wards scrawled everywhere. Every brick fifty feet or less from the main entrance has been scrawled with some mystical hoodoo to keep the likes of us from passing through the front doors.”

He took a bite of chop suey and slowly chewed.

“I hate it when somebody tries to keep me out,” Francis stated. “It makes me feel so unloved.”

“There will be even less in the world to love you if Stearns succeeds,” Angus reminded the angel. “And by feeding on that level of death energy, I hate to think how powerful he might become.”

They had finished their lunches and stood to throw away their trash in a nearby barrel when there was a flurry of activity from the building. Security guards—large, powerful-looking men that probably weren’t men at all—spilled from the building and took up positions around the entrance.

“Something is happening,” Angus said, as they made their way back to the waiting Leona.

“I’m guessing somebody caught wind of our visit,” Francis said.

“Or whatever it is that Stearns is up to,” Angus added, “is about to begin.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Scrimshaw squatted down beside his threadbare bed, going through the wooden chest that he had hidden beneath it.

Mr. Deacon wanted them to be ready for what was about to happen; now infused with the power of the Seraphim, his master was about to attempt something that Scrimshaw had never believed possible.

Mr. Deacon was going to attempt to bring them home.

His pale hands rummaged through the contents of the chest, old yellowed photographs, Social Security cards, driver’s licenses—anything that could define someone as who they were.

Scrimshaw hungered for such an identity, and if he could not have one of his own, then he would covet the lives of others.

He was afraid that something might happen to his treasures and decided that he would carry some of them with him, just in case. A photo of a family picnic; three smiling children standing before a man and woman. He could see such love in their eyes, so much life that had already been lived and so much to come.