Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

“The usual would be nice.”

“Your buddy was in here not too long ago,” the bar’s owner said as he picked up a glass tumbler from beneath the bar and turned to a display of dusty old bottles behind him.

“Chandler?” Francis asked. “Yeah, he’s still got my key.”

“You don’t need a key.” Methuselah shook his head as he poured a drink for Francis. “You’ve got the all-access pass now.”

“And Phil loves me.”

“And Phil loves you,” Methuselah agreed, placing the drink in front of him. “Think that gets you a free appetizer once a month or something.”

“Sweet.” Francis took a large swig of the ancient Scotch. “Remind me of that the next time I’m in.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

They were silent then, the sounds of the bar-multiple voices conversing softly in myriad languages, forked tongues lapping eagerly at libations, the ghost of Roy Orbison singing from the vintage Wurlitzer jukebox at the far end of the establishment-reminding Francis that he’d been away for a while.

And how good it was to be back.

“More?” Methuselah held up the old bottle.

“You twisted my arm,” Francis said, pushing the tumbler toward him.

“So, you on the clock?” Methuselah asked, tipping the bottle’s golden contents into the empty glass.

“Not right now.”

“Looking for work? I got a few freelance gigs that could provide you with some nice shekels for one or two of those medieval playthings you like to collect,” the stone man said as he placed the glass stopper back into the bottle and passed the tumbler to Francis.

“Actually, I’m poking around for Chandler,” Francis said. “Got something I want to show you.”

“A free appetizer doesn’t make us that intimate,” Methuselah joked.

Francis smirked, sliding the wrapped skull toward the bartender. “I thought you might be able to tell me something about this.”

“What’s the Seraphim gotten himself involved with this time?” Methuselah asked, unwrapping the towel with thick stone fingers. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed, staring at the skull.

“Were my suspicions right?” Francis asked, taking a drink.

Methuselah picked up the skull and carefully ran his fingers over its rough surface. “Whoever’s responsible does exceptional work,” the barkeep said, his stone eyes scrutinizing the object in his great hands. “I’d love to see the rest of it.”

“Yeah, too bad it was destroyed in a fire of divine reckoning.”

“Hate when that happens,” Methuselah said, setting the skull down on the bar, gaze still riveted to it. “Where did you say it came from?”

“I didn’t,” Francis replied. “When it was whole, it and a few others attacked Chandler, but that’s pretty much all I know. It’s got something to do with a case he’s working on.”

“Doesn’t it always?”

“From your mouth to my ears.” Francis held up his glass in a toast. “From what I was told, it looked completely human.”

“You don’t say,” the stone man said. “If I had known this level of golem quality was out there somewhere, I’d have seriously been thinking of an upgrade.”

Methuselah was one of the oldest original human beings on the planet, but far too many years of wear and tear had caused his body to break down. Wanting to continue with the long-lived existence he’d grown accustomed to, the old man had decided to transplant his life force into the body of a golem.

He was the first person Francis had thought of upon seeing the stone skull Remy found.

“So it is a golem?” Francis asked.

“It’s a golem, all right,” Methuselah confirmed. “But it’s top-of-the-line.”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea who might be responsible for this little creation.”

Methuselah’s head and neck made a harsh grinding sound as he shook it. “I’d love to meet him, though,” he said. “Having my soul transferred into something like this would be like going from an Edsel to a Ferrari.”

“Know anybody who might be able to tell me more?” Francis asked. He swiveled on the barstool, looking out over the tables. “Anybody in here, maybe?”

“Nah, just the usual bunch of reprobates right now, I’m afraid,” Methuselah said as he wiped down the bar with his towel. Then he stopped, as if he’d suddenly gotten an idea. “Wait a minute. Give me a second, will ya?”

“Sure,” Francis said, continuing to enjoy his Scotch as the stone man lumbered off through a set of double doors near the bar.

It wasn’t long before he was back, a fat guy wearing a stained apron and a paper hat in tow.

“This is Angus, my cook,” Methuselah told Francis. “Makes an excellent meat loaf, but he also knows a few things about magick.”

Angus pushed past his boss, his rounded belly leading the way as he approached the bar. He was carrying a large glass of ice water and was about to take a drink when the motion stopped.

His eyes were transfixed by the golem skull.

“Look familiar to you?” Francis asked, closely watching the big man.

Angus finally took his drink, and Francis noticed a slight tremble in his hand, one that he didn’t think was there before.

“Nope,” Angus said, turning quickly toward his boss. “That it?”

“Nothing?” Methuselah asked.

“Nope, it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before,” Angus answered. “I gotta get back to the kitchen… Tonight’s haggis special isn’t gonna make itself.”

Methuselah waved the man past, and Francis watched him head quickly back through the double doors, sure the cook knew more than he was letting on.

“Sorry about that.” The stone man shrugged. “Thought he might’ve been able to help you.” He reached for the bottle of Scotch. “Hit you again?”

“No, I’m good,” Francis said, although he was sorely tempted.

He climbed off the stool, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

“No worries,” Methuselah said, shaking his stone hand in front of Francis as he retrieved the empty tumbler with the other. “Your boss has an open line of credit here.”

“But this isn’t my boss’s case,” Francis told him.

The stone man laughed, dunking the dirty glass into a sink of soapy water beneath the bar.

“It always starts off that way, doesn’t it?” Methuselah said as he started to rinse the glasses from the sink.

“Be seeing you, Francis. Nice to know that the rumors of your demise were greatly exaggerated.”

Francis knew that it was only a matter of time before Methuselah’s cook would step out back for a smoke. His fingernails, stained brown with nicotine, had been the dead giveaway.

He had been waiting in the shadows for more than an hour, the golem skull on the ground at his feet, observing the comings and goings of the strange, insectlike creatures that were Methuselah’s busboys as they took their breaks. He was fascinated by the odd game they played, similar to dice but with two small, hairless rodents that screamed like the dickens when they were rolled.

The screen door opened again with a creak, and this time Angus the cook finally stepped out. He was already lighting up as the screen door slammed closed behind him.

Francis noticed that he’d removed his paper cap and was no longer wearing his filthy apron. It looked as though the cook’s shift was finished. How opportune; now Francis could have him all to himself.

Angus took a long, deep pull on the cigarette. And Francis took the opportunity to kick the golem skull toward him. It rolled awkwardly across the pavement and stopped directly in front of the cook, staring at his feet.

Francis couldn’t have asked for a better kick.

Angus was so startled that he leapt backward, dropping his cigarette and muttering something beneath his breath. In a matter of seconds, his fingers were crackling with a spell of defense.