Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

“I’m sure Mr. Deacon will be more than happy to answer your questions,” the man said, letting Remy step out into the tilting hall. “But right now, dinner is served.”

The dining room was elaborate and sloped to one side, although the dining table had been modified so that it sat level on the uneven floor.

Remy saw that he wasn’t the first to arrive. A female figure sat alone at the end of the table. He was just about to introduce himself when he realized that she was dead-long dead, from the looks of her mummified flesh.

He turned to the tattooed man for explanation.

“The master’s wife,” he said. “He doesn’t have the heart to put her in the ground.”

The woman’s body was propped stiffly in the chair. She was wearing a powder blue dress, and the shriveled flesh about her neck was adorned with fine pearls. Her hair was freshly set.

A huge, crystal chandelier hung above the table, making the fine dinnerware sparkle in its green-tinted light. Remy counted the place settings: five.

A faint, high-pitched whine filled the air outside the dining room, growing louder as it slowly approached. Eventually an elaborate electric wheelchair appeared in the doorway, the clay butler walking stiffly behind it. The chair carried the hunched and shriveled body of an old man, his formal tuxedo hanging from his skeletal frame.

The chair stopped just inside the double doors, and slowly the old man gripped the arms of the wheelchair and stood with a grunt and the hum of machinery. It was then that Remy noticed the man wore some kind of body brace, an exoskeleton clamped around his withered limbs to aid him in his movement.

The old man briefly teetered, and the tattooed man was quickly beside him.

“I’ve got this, Scrimshaw,” the man snapped, and Remy recognized the voice from his cell phone.

Scrimshaw, Remy thought upon hearing the artificial man’s name. It fits.

Scrimshaw stepped back obediently as the old man gained his balance and proceeded toward the table, the motors on his elaborate brace whining with each step.

He stopped next to the chair at the head of the table, motioning for the butler to take away the wheelchair, before nodding toward his wife. “My dear,” he said.

Then he turned his deep, sunken eyes on Remy.

Remy was silent as he stared at the man who had dared to take his friend.

“Remy Chandler,” the old man said, looking him up and down. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Remy replied. “Maybe you’d like to see my wings?”

The old man grunted. Remy thought that it might have been a laugh.

“I am Konrad Deacon,” the man said, watching Remy carefully, searching for a sign of recognition on Remy’s face, but finding none.

“A name lost to the ages, I’m afraid.”

There was activity at the door again, and the old man turned with a mechanical whir. “Ah, the rest of our dinner guests.”

Remy stiffened at the sight of Ashley Berg in a fancy dinner dress being led into the dining room by a little boy holding a leash attached to a collar about her throat.

“This is my son, Teddy. And you of course know his playmate.”

It took all of Remy’s strength not to unleash the full fury of the Seraphim.

But he managed to behave, telling himself that this was all for Ashley’s safety.

“Please be seated.” Deacon motioned Remy toward the chair on his left as he lowered himself into the chair that Scrimshaw held out for him at the head of the table.

Ashley and the young boy sat across the table. She made eye contact with Remy as she sat.

“Are you all right?” he asked, pulling his chair in closer to the table.

His heart sank as she looked away, staring blankly at the reflective surface of her china plate.

“Of course she’s all right,” Deacon answered for her. “A minor spell of obedience and some laudanum to calm her has transformed her into the perfect houseguest.”

“She was a little wild when she first got here, but she’s adjusted quite nicely,” Scrimshaw agreed, standing attentively against the wall.

Remy looked at her again, seeing the dullness in eyes that usually twinkled with vitality. It was as if she weren’t even there, which was probably a good thing.

He turned his attention squarely on Deacon and leaned in close to the old man. “If you’ve harmed her in any way,” he said calmly, quietly, “there will be a tremendous price to pay.”

Scrimshaw moved closer to the table, but Deacon gestured him away. “I assure you, Mr. Chandler, Miss Berg has been treated with the utmost care, and will continue to be treated so as long as she remains with us.”

“As long as I decide to play along,” Remy stated.

Deacon smiled as he reached for a silver bell to the right of his plate. “Exactly.”

He rang the bell, and the doors into the dining room swiftly opened. Servants of clay filed into the room, pushing various carts that Remy guessed were carrying dinner.

Deacon’s son stood up in his seat, watching with wild eyes as the clay servant placed a silver-lidded tray in the center of the table. The boy began to grunt and howl.

There was something not quite right about this child.

“Sit, Teddy,” Deacon commanded, and the child squatted atop his seat, eyes still fixed on the covered tray.

A tureen of soup was placed on the table next, followed by smaller trays of what Remy thought might be steaming vegetables. He’d never seen anything quite like them before.

“Harvested on the land outside the estate,” Deacon commented. “My recollection is that they taste a bit like mushrooms, but it has been quite some time since solid food has entered my system.”

One of the clay servants reached across the table, removing the silver cover over the main course. Remy had no idea what he was looking at. It resembled a turkey, but he’d never seen any form of fowl that sported six limbs.

“Also from the property surrounding the estate?” he asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“Shot it myself,” Scrimshaw said proudly. “One of the few critters here that I can kill with a single shot.”

Teddy sprang up and lunged across the table, tearing off one of the animal’s limbs and jamming it into his mouth.

“Manners, Teddy. Manners,” Deacon reminded.

A servant began cutting away slices of the strange gray meat and placing them on a serving tray.

“Help yourself, Mr. Chandler,” Deacon offered.

“I’m afraid I’m not very hungry at the moment, Mr. Deacon.” Remy looked from the meal to his host. “I believe we have business to discuss.”

Deacon continued to watch as the slices of meat were cut from the beast.

“Give the young lady a slice, Godfrey,” Deacon instructed the clay man.

Godfrey used the knife and a large fork to place a slice of the meat upon Ashley’s plate. Remy was surprised to see her pick up her knife and fork and begin to eat. She’d recently forgone most meat in favor of a predominantly vegetarian diet. His concern for her was growing.

The doors swung open again, and two normal-looking people, a man and a woman, came into the room. There was nothing odd about them at first, but Remy was quickly reminded of the five that had attacked him at the farm.

“I do not partake of solid foods, although I do still require sustenance,” Deacon explained as the two people stood beside him. “Do you mind?”

“Go right ahead,” Remy said, curious as to what would follow.

The pair began to unbutton their shirts. Scrimshaw moved up behind his master’s chair and reached down to the back of the exoskeleton, pulling up two long, black cords, each with a very long, very sharp-looking needle attached. Without any hesitation, he turned and plunged one of the needles into the man’s chest; the other into the woman’s.