Thomas Sniegoski: In the House of the Wicked

“Let me see how late it is once Steven and I get finished.”

“No pressure,” Linda said. “Just thought it would be nice to see you.”

“And Marlowe?”

“And Marlowe.” She laughed. “I’ve been missing him, too.”

“I’ll give you a call when I leave Steven’s, okay?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

Remy put his phone back in his pocket and looked around, surprised to see how far he’d wandered while chatting. The prison was off in the distance now, practically hidden by the thickening fog.

Far enough away that he was able to resist the temptation to go back.

The Catskill Mountains

The Deacon Estate

February 1945

Deacon’s hands trembled as he tried to knot the silk bow tie about his throat.

He admitted to himself that he was indeed nervous about the night to come, but the tremor through his once-surgeon-steady hands and the painful ache deep in his joints were what made this evening crucial.

“Damn it,” he hissed, ripping the failed attempt from about his white-collared throat.

He gazed at the angry image of himself in the mirror on the armoire door, seeing a man much older than his forty years. The skin around his eyes had begun to dry and wrinkle; lines and age spots showed on his once-smooth brow. Hair that had been jet-black, like a raven’s feathers, was now streaked with gray, and his hairline was starting to recede.

The magick had done this to him; every time he called on the dark arts, it took a little bit more of his life.

It was a fair price to pay for immortality, but was there enough currency remaining to achieve such lofty goals? Deacon was not sure, which was why he had called for the gathering this fateful evening.

He placed the black silk around his neck again, willing his fingers to do as he instructed, but the stiffness…

“Here, let me,” Veronica said, coming up behind him.

His wife took control of the tie, as he watched their reflection in the mirror.

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask me to do this,” she said, the smell of alcohol on her breath. “You’ve never been able to manage one of these.”

Deacon’s reflection smiled. “Still not used to having you here, I guess.”

Veronica’s face grew sour as she continued to manipulate the silk around his throat, transforming it into a perfect bow tie. She started to move away, but he turned and grabbed her arm in one of his aching hands.

“Don’t be mad at me,” he said.

She stared glacially at him, pulling her arm from his grasp.

“I didn’t want to come here,” she said, returning to the table where she’d left her latest drink. “I told you that, but still you insisted that Teddy and I come.”

“You’re my family,” Deacon said. “Of course I want you here.”

“But we don’t want to be here,” Veronica said, her words dripping with scorn.

“This is my home,” Deacon said forcefully. “And I want it to be yours and Teddy’s, as well.”

“But we already had a home,” she told him.

“Without me.”

“You made your choice.” The ice tinkled merrily as she brought the glass to her mouth and drained its contents.

“What can I do to make you understand?” Deacon asked. “Everything I’ve been working toward is for you and Teddy.”

Veronica smiled with little warmth or humor. Then she turned away and walked to the portable bar in the corner of the room.

“All for Teddy and me,” she repeated, dropping some ice cubes in her glass before filling it to the brim with bourbon. “And here I thought it was all about your little playmates joining us this evening.”

She leaned her hip against the cart, waiting for his response.

“They’re important to the future…our future,” he tried to explain.

“They’re monsters,” she snarled. “I would say they’d sell their souls for some arcane piece of knowledge that would put them a step above their fellow man, but I’m guessing they already did that some time ago.”

She took a long pull from her drink.

“The members of the cabal are extremely powerful individually, but together, I doubt there’s anything they couldn’t do,” Deacon stated. All had come from vast family fortunes that they had used to become masters of industry, as well as masters of the dark arts.

And joined together, they had the power to shape the world.

“But they hate each other,” Veronica retorted. “None of them trust each other. You’ve told me as much.”

And therein lay the rub. The mistrust the members had for one another was monumental, hindering any greatness their powerful gathering could muster.

“It is the nature of powerful men and magick users,” Deacon excused with a shrug.

“And you still hunger for their acceptance.”

“Only for our benefit. If I can get them to come together, to join our powers…”

Veronica only laughed and shook her head. “The great Konrad Deacon will change them,” she scoffed.

“If I can convince Algernon Stearns, the others will follow suit,” he told her. “If he believes in what I have to show them…”

“They’ll give you a special place in their club,” she finished scornfully.

Deacon couldn’t stand it anymore. He charged across the room, slapping the drink from her hand, and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “Listen to me,” he roared, trying to hold back the violence he wished to unleash upon her. “I’m doing this for you and the boy!”

“You’re doing it for power,” she spat, squirming to escape his grasp, but he held her arms tightly in spite of the agony he felt in his hands.

“Yes, I’m doing it for the power…the power to keep you safe…the power I need to fight. Germany? Japan? They’re just the tip of the iceberg waiting on the horizon.”

Veronica closed her eyes, refusing to look at him…refusing to see what he was trying to do.

“There are dark times approaching,” Deacon hissed, squeezing his wife’s arms all the tighter, hurting her so that she might listen. “And the world will need men like me…like Stearns and the other members of the cabal…those who can lead the world from the shadows that will threaten to overtake it.”

The door to the bedroom swung open, and Deacon immediately released his grip on his wife. Both of them looked to the doorway as their son entered, holding the hand of one of Deacon’s magickal creations.

“Hello, Daddy… Hello, Mommy,” Teddy greeted them, a hint of a British accent in his speech, an accent that Deacon was sure would fade now that the boy was in his proper home.

“Hello there, Teddy,” Deacon said, shaking off the terrible mood his drunken wife had put him in. He opened his arms, inviting the boy to run to him.

Teddy released the hand of the large and powerful golem and jumped into his father’s arms.

“What are you still doing awake? You were supposed to be tucked in and fast asleep hours ago.”

Deacon looked to the golem for answers, admiring his handiwork. What he had done with the information from the rabbi at Dachau was quite impressive, and he had perfected the magick with magick of his own.

“The child summoned me to his room,” the pale-skinned being explained. His stark faux flesh was adorned with black tattoos, making the name that the artificial life-form had given himself-Scrimshaw-fabulously appropriate.

“Is that so?” Deacon asked the boy.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Teddy said. “I heard cars coming up the drive. I didn’t know we were having company.”

“In fact, we are,” Deacon said, holding his son close as he turned to his wife. Veronica rubbed the reddened places on her arms where bruises would surely form. “Some very important friends of your daddy will be here this evening.”