In the House of the Wicked (29 page)

There was no denying what he truly was: an artificial life molded from clay infused with magick in his master’s lab, sculpted to look human for the sole purpose of carrying out his master’s wishes no matter what they would be. He should have been just like all the other golems that populated the Deacon estate, but from the first day he’d come to life, he knew that he was different.

He yearned for an identity, something to set him apart from all the others. His master was amused by this odd, independent thought, and encouraged him to grow, even allowing him the unique tattoos that he’d etched upon the pale, artificial skin of his face that had become his namesake.

Scrimshaw.

He hungered not only for the life he would create for himself, but for the lives of others—looking upon their life experiences like multifaceted jewels, bounty for the taking.

Selecting a few of the driver’s licenses and a pretty red bow he had claimed from a child on her sixth birthday, Scrimshaw placed the cover back on the box and slid it beneath his cot. Then he put his prizes into the top front pocket of the heavy denim shirt he wore, close to where his artificial heart pulsed with magickal life.

He remembered how he had acquired each of them on his occasional visits back to the earthly realm to check up on the golem vessels that Mr. Deacon had sent out to collect the life energies he needed for his continued survival. As Mr. Deacon needed those energies, so did Scrimshaw grow hungry for the life experiences of others. Life experiences that he took as his own. Images of murder flashed in his mind, but he was not bothered by them.

Killing was all part of the process, the final step to claiming what he needed to be his.

Scrimshaw looked forward to acquiring even more keepsakes, knowing that being back on Earth permanently would make his access to the thriving populace even more bountiful.

Standing up beside his bed, he felt the house begin to shake. It was a strange sensation but not unfamiliar, recalling when the Deacon estate had first been transported from the Catskills to the world of shadows.

His master was already at work, manipulating the magicks necessary to transport the entire estate back to where it had originated. Scrimshaw hadn’t a moment to spare. He left his room in search of the master’s son. Mr. Deacon wanted the boy prepared for the journey they were about to undertake.

Scrimshaw walked the tilted hallway to the wing where Teddy kept his room. The house shook again, the lights in the wall sconces flickering to darkness, before illuminating again, but this time at only half their brilliance. The passage was deep with black shadows now, and Scrimshaw grew cautious, taking a knife from his pocket.

Just in case.

Something moved in the deep darkness ahead of him, and Scrimshaw stopped, squinting his eyes to try to pierce the shadows. The sound of grunts and gurgles reached his ears as bounding feet drew closer.

Scrimshaw tensed the muscles in his legs, preparing to lunge and gut whatever it was that was about to pounce. It was almost upon him, and he brought his arm back, ready to drive the point of his blade up into the torso of his attacker, when he saw that it was Teddy.

The feral child scampered from the dark, dragging the angel’s little girlfriend on a leash behind him.

“That’s a good way to get yourself killed,” Scrimshaw grumbled, dropping the blade to his side.

Teddy grunted, rubbing his running nose with the back of his hand. He looked behind him and gave the leash a violent tug, causing the girl to stumble forward, tripping over her own feet and falling to the floor.

Having gotten more from the angel than they’d even anticipated, the girl was really no longer needed and had obviously been forgotten by his master. Scrimshaw stared at the young woman, who struggled to keep from crying as she slowly climbed to her feet on the uneven floor. He wondered about her life and what had made her so strong. He couldn’t imagine that an average girl of her age, taken from the world and brought to this place, wouldn’t have lost her mind.

Scrimshaw admired her and wished that there was time to speak with her about her life and its defining moments. He would have loved to have them as his own.

“Your father is taking us home,” Scrimshaw told the wild child.

Teddy just looked at him, head cocked, and then gestured to all around him.

“Yes,” Scrimshaw said. “All of it. He’s going to use his new power to take us back.”

Scrimshaw caught something from the corner of his eye and looked to the girl. One of her hands had shot to her neck and appeared to be undoing the leather collar.

“Don’t you…,” he began, but before he could get the remainder of his warning out, she was gone, running off in the opposite direction.

Scrimshaw couldn’t help but smile. Sure, he was frustrated, he didn’t have time for such things, but then again, this might give him the opportunity that he’d been hoping for.

A chance to spend a little quality time with a girl named Ashley.

Algernon Stearns entered the darkened television studio where history was about to take place.

He flipped on the lights, taking in all the sights that he had grown accustomed to over the past year as the place where little Angelina Hayward’s special message would be broadcast to an eager faithful.

And, in so doing, satisfy his hunger for ultimate power.

The center of the studio had been set up like a little girl’s bedroom: a fancy pink bed with fancy pink bedding, stuffed animals, and baby dolls yearning for a child’s attention. Everything that his little messenger would need to feel comfortable.

He still found it hard to believe that Armaros—a supposed creature of Heaven—had come to him, helping him to formulate this plan, helping him to refine his ideas for the largest yield. It had been the angel who had come up with the idea of a sick little girl with a message from Heaven. All Stearns had to do was assist in her creation and provide the means for distributing the message.

He quietly thanked any and all who had suggested he invest heavily in television during its golden years, and, more recently, the Internet. He could not have asked for better delivery systems.

Stearns’ thoughts started to wander to unknown territories again. He had no real idea why the angels were so keen on helping him achieve such a level of sorcerous power, although they had indicated that they were somehow attempting to reconnect humanity with its God.

Personally, he felt the killing of millions to be a bit dramatic, but, then again, he was dealing with a species that thought nothing of flooding the world in order to make a point about sin.

And besides, who was he to judge? Stearns was about to become one of the most powerful beings on the planet. He wondered, as he wandered about the empty studio, if having that much magickal power might put him at odds with his angelic comrades. It would be something he’d have to consider once he had his power. He might have to do some extensive research on the best way to kill angels.

Stearns’ phone beeped, interrupting his thoughts, and he snatched it from his pocket.

“Speak,” he commanded.

“She’s here,” said one of his golem security officers.

“Excellent.” Stearns was unable to keep the smile from twisting his features. “Bring her right up to the studio…. I’m sure she’s eager to get started.”

Armaros remembered that the party had gone on for days.

Even though they were sorry for all the sins that the Grigori had committed in embracing the ways of humanity, it did not stop them from committing more.

It was like a sickness. The more they tried to distance themselves from the decadent ways of the human animals, the more they were drawn to them, eager to participate.

Armaros had tried to be good, but it never seemed to be enough. The longer they were here in exile, the harder it was to remain pure.

The party at one of the isolated French villas that the Grigori had acquired throughout the centuries was moving into its third day; every conceivable vice concocted by mortal man and woman was on display, and the fallen angels were more than happy to indulge.

Armaros, high on multiple drugs and alcohol, had become lucid enough to realize that Sariel was nowhere to be found; in fact, Armaros could not remember the last time that he had seen his leader. Shaking off the effects of the party, he had gone in search of Sariel, curious if perhaps their leader had found a vice so special that he did not wish to share.

He’d left the party, descending into the deeper levels of the villa, toward where he remembered seeing an ancient, secret chapel. As he had journeyed deeper into the winding stone passages tunneling beneath the estate, he’d heard the sound of a plaintive voice. At first he did not recognize it, but as he stepped from the passage into the chapel, he found Sariel slumped upon the altar before a great stone cross.

And the leader of the Grigori was crying.

Armaros was stunned, any residual effects of the party’s concoctions now completely gone from his body as he stood there watching.

His leader continued to kneel, raising his head to speak aloud in the tongue of the messenger—the language of the angels.

Sariel was praying, begging God to listen to him.

“Sariel?” Armaros had called out, moving farther into the church.

The leader of the Grigori had risen suddenly, an expression of surprise on his tear-streaked face.

“What are you doing here?” Armaros had asked as he approached him, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. “Alone.”

Sariel moved his face from the comforting hand, turning his gaze to the cross. “Sometimes I come down here to listen.”

Armaros did not understand. “Listen?” he asked.

Sariel looked at him again. “The prayers of the faithful and those who have lost their way and have nowhere else to turn.”

Armaros was quiet for a moment, listening, but heard nothing.

“I don’t…”

“Listen,” Sariel commanded forcefully.

Armaros tried again, this time his acute senses reaching out beyond the confines of the underground church to the festivities above. He was about to confess that he still did not hear them when he heard the first fragment of prayer.

“I hear them,” he had told his master, focusing on the prayer and hearing all the more in a cacophony of sound. “I hear them all.”

“No matter the time, there is always someone calling out to Him, begging for His help…for His guidance.”

Sariel looked back to the cross.

“When I entered the church…it sounded as though
you
were praying,” Armaros said to his leader, a part of him hoping he had been mistaken.

It looked as though Sariel was about to object. “I was listening to the prayers of the faithful and those who had lost their way with nowhere else to turn,” he began, then paused. “Listening, but also praying, hoping that maybe if He was listening to them, He might be listening to me,” he finished.

Armaros could hear the pain in his leader’s voice—see it in his eyes.

“We’re lost, Armaros,” Sariel told him. “For what we have done to this world, we are damned…no matter how much penance we do or how loudly we beg—”

There was a quiver in Sariel’s voice, a moment of weakness that Armaros had never seen. And it chilled him.

“We are lost,” Sariel finished, the sadness in his tone suddenly replaced with anger.

And with those words, the fallen angel sprang atop the stone altar, grabbing hold of the cross, and with a show of inhuman strength, tore it from its perch, allowing it to tumble forward and smash upon the ground.

Sariel and Armaros stood together, staring at the rubble that had once been humanity’s symbol of their faith.

Of their God.

And then, after some time, Sariel spoke.

“Do you still hear it, Armaros?” the leader of the Grigori asked, brushing the dust of many years past from his silk shirt.

“The prayers?”

“Oh, dear no,” Sariel scoffed. “Upstairs…in the villa.”

And Sariel put his arm lovingly around Armaros, leading him from the church and into the labyrinth.

“We’re missing the party.”

Was that when our leader truly died?
Armaros mused, leaving the memory of that day in the hidden church.

His eyes focused out the window again, but instead of the same Boston he and his brethren had pondered over for years, he saw something entirely new.

Armaros saw a world on the cusp of change.

He closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind, searching for the ones he was sure would come; the fallen Guardian and the Seraphim who wished so much to be human. The Guardian he had sensed earlier, sniffing around what was to be ground zero.

It was the sign he had been waiting for.

Now was the time to begin things anew, to awaken the world and show God that they were still here.

The Almighty may have turned a deaf ear to Sariel’s prayers, but that would no longer be the case once their message was broadcast through the golem child.

As the Grigori and all angels had the power to hear the world’s prayers, so did they have the ability to respond.

And that was what the Grigori intended to do.

When the time was right, the child would speak to the faithful, and she would deliver a message.

Their message.

That the Lord of lords was unhappy with humanity and was about to show His displeasure.

And those who heard would be struck down by death, but their passing would not be in vain, for it would show the unbelievers—the sinners—that the divine
did
exist.

And was watching.

The sacrifice of the faithful would lead to the conversion of an even greater number. Like a prescribed fire in a forest, the burning of trees and vegetation so that it may grow back all the stronger.

He thought about his love again—the leader no longer beside him—and felt his anger grow. Sariel should have been here. But, then, would they have gone this far if he had still been alive?

Sariel’s death had been the fire that burned what they used to be away, allowing what they were now to grow.

Making them stronger, as the human species would soon be.