Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

“Bon appetit,” Scrimshaw muttered, fiddling with something on the back of Deacon’s brace.

A hum began to resonate through the room, growing steadily louder.

“Ahhhhh,” Deacon groaned, eyes partially closed. “These are particularly ripe.”

The humming sound continued as Deacon opened his eyes and turned his attention to his guest.

“You’re probably as curious about me as I am of you,” the old man began. “My condition, as you see it here, is a result of my experimentation with life energies, specifically a test where I tried-and succeeded-in collecting the life force of the thousands slain by the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. Unfortunately, it left my body dramatically altered and it didn’t take me long to realize that I needed the energy of living things to continue my own life.”

Deacon nodded toward the pair standing beside him, steel needles protruding from their bare chests. “This is how I harvest the energy I need to survive,” he explained. “They are an advanced version of golem I have managed to perfect over the years. I bundled both science and sorcery to create artificial beings-vessels, if you will-that can walk among the citizenry, able to collect and store samples of people’s life energies without their notice. Once they are filled, they return here and allow me to dine upon their bounty.”

Deacon leaned his head back against the chair. Although the brace around his neck prevented his body from totally relaxing, the pleasure of feeding was clear on his face. Remy watched him for a moment, then realized that he appeared healthier, his cheeks flushed with a new vitality.

Younger.

“How does all of this explain why you took Ashley?” he asked.

The old man opened his eyes to slits. “With life energies also come residual memories-emotions, tastes, smells.”

The humming of the machine began to quiet, and Scrimshaw was again attentive. He approached the vessels and pulled the needles from their chests.

“About a week ago, there was a street festival in Brattleboro, Vermont,” Deacon continued as Scrimshaw carefully returned the needles and cords back to the housing compartment on the back of Deacon’s brace. “One of my vessels was there, walking among the teeming crowd, gently brushing against those who had come to enjoy the fair. These events are always my particular favorites-so filled with life and happiness. I was eager to sample the energies and dug in, so to speak, as soon as the vessel returned.”

Deacon looked at Remy with calculating eyes.

“Imagine my surprise as I feasted, bombarded by the memories of those whose energies sustained me…and I saw you, Remy Chandler. I saw you with this lovely young lady and received the slightest taste of the residual energy you left behind.”

The old man paused, his stare becoming even more intense.

“I was able to read that energy, Mr. Chandler. And I saw you for what you truly are.”

“You saw that I’m Seraphim.”

“I saw exactly that,” Deacon agreed, nodding slowly. “Through Ashley’s memories I could see the fire that lives inside you…but I also saw you had the potential to be so much more.”

He leaned forward as if to share a special secret with his guest.

“I saw you as a weapon, Remy Chandler,” Deacon said, eyes no longer dulled with age, but twinkling with life.

“An instrument for revenge to be turned on my betrayers.”

Francis no longer carried the special key to Methuselah’s. He’d left it to Remy Chandler while he was vacationing in Hell.

But his current employer, one Lucifer Morningstar, had a unique relationship with the owner of the otherworldly gin mill, so it was never too far from where Francis needed it to be.

Still clutching the towel-wrapped skull beneath his arm, Francis walked across the weed-covered parking lot to what had been the Rubber Ducky Car Wash until the current recession had made people realize that their mileage was just as good with a dirty car. He approached the open concrete bay where filthy cars had had their offending grime washed away and peered inside.

He could feel that this was the right place and walked farther into the bay. Inside the cool space, he found a door, its glass window covered with cardboard. It had probably led to the manager’s office, but Francis sensed that at this particular moment there was something far different on the other side.

He tried the handle and found it locked. He gave it a bit of a jiggle and waited a few seconds before trying it again. The second time was a charm. The door opened with an ear-piercing squeak, and Francis

found himself looking down a long, stone corridor, at the end of which was another heavy wooden door with a red neon sign announcing METHUSELAH’S.

Francis strode down the hallway as the door to the car wash slammed closed behind him and was replaced by a wall of moist-looking rock. But he wasn’t looking at where he had been; he was thinking about where he was going. If there was any place where he could learn more about the creation whose head he carried, it would be Methuselah’s.

Placing a hand on the cold metal handle, he squeezed the latch and pushed the heavy wooden door open into the warmth of the bar. It was dark inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, he found himself looking into the not-so-friendly face of the minotaur bouncer who charged toward him on cloven feet, horned head lowered menacingly.

“Phil, you ugly son of a bitch,” Francis exclaimed, reaching up to slap the creature’s thick skull between his ears and horns. “How the hell have you been?”

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve walking through that door like you own the place,” Phil said, getting so close to Francis’ face that he could have easily reached up to give the gold ring hanging from the beast’s flaring nostrils a good yank.

The minotaur’s dark, animal eyes bored into the fallen Guardian’s, and Francis began to think that maybe he had made a mistake when the bull-man let out a barking laugh and pulled the fallen angel up into his thick, muscular arms.

“We all thought you were dead,” Phil cried, practically squeezing the life from Francis as he spun him around. “Hey, boss,” he called out, dropping Francis and turning toward the wooden bar across the room. “Look who it is.”

Francis watched the large stone man behind the bar drying a beer mug with a filthy rag.

“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Methuselah said. The expression on his stone face changed ever so slightly, but Francis knew he was smiling. “How are you, Francis?”

“I’m good,” the former Guardian said, strolling across the floor to the bar, Phil at his side.

“Didn’t I say he was still alive?” the minotaur said, throwing his powerful arm around Francis’ shoulders. “I said it would take a lot more than Tartarus going ass end over teakettle to put Francis down for the count.”

“You did say that,” Methuselah agreed, still drying the inside of the heavy glass mug.

“Nice to know that somebody’s got a little faith in me,” Francis said as he grabbed a stool and took a seat, placing the towel-wrapped skull atop the bar.

There were some strange-looking folks sitting on either side, and as he made brief eye contact with them, they decided they no longer wanted to sit at the bar and slunk off for the privacy of one of the many tables that littered the floor.

“Great to have you back, Francis.” Phil gave him one last hard slap on the shoulder before returning to his post at the front door.

“I never even knew he liked me,” Francis said to the stone man.

“He just about broke down in tears when he heard the rumors of your untimely demise,” Methuselah said, slinging the dirty towel over a broad shoulder. “What can I get you?”