The Lucifer Messiah (22 page)

“That is, in any event, what the great masses of our folk will believe,” Argus said.

The Morrigan gazed up and away toward the ceiling. There was not a hint of cruelty in her eyes or her voice. She seemed oddly serene.

“So that is what I must do,” she said, as though she had not even considered the decision until just that moment.

While the shriveled Morrigan spoke with a sad confidence, Argus sighed. He did not seem convinced.

“Must you?” he asked.

The Morrigan turned. She knew what Argus was alluding to. They'd been having the same conversation for three centuries, off and on.

“They are not ready for us. Not yet,” she answered.

“But the superstitions we feared for so long are mostly dead. No one burns witches anymore. No one looks to demons to explain the noises brimming in the dark of the night.” Argus was more animated, almost passionate in his plea. “Science rules their minds now. Maybe they would want to study us, learn from us.”

“Maybe they wouldn't kill us, you mean.”

“In so many words,” Argus answered.

The Morrigan nodded. Her face told Argus that she was truly considering his reasoning. For the first time in many decades, the Keeper was not merely dismissing his argument out of hand. But her tired, haggard visage spoke more of regret than anything.

“I wish for the same thing, old friend. Secrecy is a burden our people have endured for far too long. But now
is not the time to lower that veil. The outside world is not ready for us. Not yet.”

Argus's crimson-boiling eyes opened wide with a surge of feeling, all six charged with life in their own, eerie way.

“But they've come so far,” he said.

“They have. Even in the space of my own lifetime, the flowering of the Renaissance, the works of the Enlightenment. The Rights of Man. But they're not far enough yet.

“For proof of that we need only look back a year. They're still slaughtering each other
en masse.
Tens of millions of them lay rotting in fresh graves.

“No. They're not ready for the likes of us yet. Attitudes take generations to change, ideas sometimes require longer. Someday, maybe by the end of this century even, their actions might finally converge with their ideals. Then it will be our time.”

“And if we emerge before?”

“Then I have no doubt that our kind will vanish forever. I intend to make certain that never happens. Prophecy or not, my duty is to protect the Children of Nestor. Everything I do is to that end.”

“Even if that requires the death of Lucifer, the death of the prophecy that gives us all hope?”

The Morrigan nodded.

“Even that.”

Now Argus was certain. The Keeper's intentions were clear, and so then was the course that he would have to take. The old one did not answer.

The Morrigan smiled. She offered a hand to her
ancient friend. It was a congenial gesture, but Argus had been acquainted with her long enough to know that everything the Morrigan did, even the smallest motion, could be threatening. Her smile was no exception.

“Thank you, my old companion. Your counsel has been a great help to me, as always,” the Morrigan said, leaving the pale, thin figure to wonder if he had somehow just revealed himself.

G
IANNI'S
T
RATTORIA
C
AMPAGNA
WAS CLOSED.
T
HE SIGN
in the storefront window said so.
CLOSED
in big red
sans serif
letters. It was dark too, and the doors were locked. Sean didn't seem to care.

“We're going here?” Maggie asked.

He didn't answer.

“Do you know the owner?”

Again, there was no answer.

Sean rummaged around in his coat pockets, and finally produced a set of keys. He played with them, trying each one in succession in the lock, until he found the right one.

The doors opened.

“Did you steal the keys to this place?” Maggie whispered as they entered.

“I most certainly did not,” he replied, feigning indignation.

“Then how did you … ?”

“The manager gave them to me, if you must know.”

“But why would he?”

“I suppose you could say he mistook me for someone
else,” Sean replied.

A slightly impish grin curled his mouth as they stepped into the darkened, steam-warmed place.

“I don't understand; how could he do that?” she asked.

Sean was no longer beside her by the time she finished her question.

She was alone for only an instant before the house lights flashed like a series of Broadway spotlights. The restaurant was cozy, long, and narrow, with replica frescoes of Pompeii and Herculaneum painted on the walls. Freshly polished hardwood lay underfoot. A liquor-lined bar with a pair of cappuccino makers occupied the far left corner. Dozens of tables, almost too many for so small a space, covered the area, chairs turned upside down on top of them. All but one, and it was that one which drew her attention.

In the very middle of the floor a single table was prepared, two chairs turned down with a rather stereotypical red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. The gleaming silverware of two place settings rested beneath a glass vase crowned with a single white rose.

Music played, yet another scratchy old record, and another familiar old song. But she didn't have a moment to think about it. Suddenly Sean was behind her again, though she had not heard him approach. Without a further word, he led her over to the table like a
maitre d'.

“A lovely flower for a lovely lady,” he said, presenting her with the seat.

“Roses of Picardy” was the tune, another John McCormack recording. The music was haunting, all the more
so because she knew every word.

Roses are shining in Picardy

In the hush of the silvery dew

Roses are flowering in Picardy

But there's never a flower like you.

Having seated her, Sean moved to his own chair. He wasted no time lifting a bottle of prewar Pinot Grigio from a bucket of ice and pouring it.

“Where did you?”

“Questions, questions, just relax. You said you always wanted to see Italy, right? Well this isn't quite Italy, but it's as close as I could get on short notice.”

Once both glasses were filled, he raised his own for a toast.

“To old friends, and more.
Salute,”
he said.

Even though she wasn't exactly sure what he meant, Maggie lifted her glass, clanged it against his and sipped the wine.

“I used to hate this song,” he said. “Do you remember? But you loved it so much. I could never quite figure out why, but it grew on me after a while.”

“I remember.”

“That one time when I talked you into going to the Hippodrome with me. Must've been the summer of '16. We snuck in through the service entrance and saw that band with the white hats and bowties. They were playing this just as we got inside.”

She knew exactly what he was talking about. That humid, sweltering August night had been the first time
they'd kissed. It had also been the last time.

And the roses will die with the summertime

And our roads may be far apart

But there's one rose that dies not in Picardy

'Tis the rose that I keep in my heart

“I hate to spoil your hospitality Sean, but don't we have a few things we need to talk about?”

“I should think that we do,” he answered, leaning in across the table as though he meant to repeat the seminal event of that long ago evening.

Her response was not what he had hoped. Instead she pulled herself back and put down her glass.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“It's Vince,” she answered, momentarily relieved to have changed the subject.

“He intrudes upon us again,” Sean sighed.

He drained the contents of his glass before putting it down.

Maggie grabbed her bag and sorted through some things. She produced the parchment envelope with the broken wax seal.

“There was a note on my door this afternoon.”

“From who?”

“No signature. Here, take it. It doesn't make much sense, not to me, anyway,” she said, handing it to him. “It says your
old friend
has Vince in his care. If you don't return to church soon, Vince will never come back.”

T
HE SKY ABOVE
M
ANHATTAN WAS
B
LACK.
S
TORM CLOUDS
gathered, blotting out the stars in the west and battling with the moon. Cold mist loitered over the city. Frost crystallized on windows and exposed steel. Snow threatened.

From the north, a brood of crows split the fog in a ghostly descent of black feathers.

There were ten, then twelve, or perhaps only nine. The dim made it hard to discern. Whatever the number, the flock turned and dove when they came close upon the broken cross that crowned the spire of an old church. All moved as one, and all landed in unison upon the iron and brick steeple—the highest point in the area.

Though no one was looking, and no one would have seen the change, the birds waited in silence. Until a bank of clouds swept briefly over the moon, robbing what little light there had been from the city.

When the clouds passed, and a scattering of moon-glows once more lit the steeple, the birds were gone. Sean Mulcahy rested there, naked but for a tattered black overcoat. His bare skin was drained of color, bone white and
stark against the night.

Like the ghost of a failed saint, he clung perched atop the fractured church spire, haunting a domain he had long ago rejected. Though his form was nearly normal in other respects, his face was still. His eyes gazed forth in emptiness, sunken deep into an alabaster visage that was only vaguely human.

Fingers that stretched absurdly long wrapped themselves like twine about the rusted iron base. His beaten coat flapped in the wind, a dark and ersatz flag over a dark and grim neighborhood.

What little remained of the cross that had once presided over the cathedral heights cracked and fell away when his unnatural grip loosed. His skin, his limbs, and his face all shrunk and grew paler until the whole of him seemed almost transparent. Then, like glacier ice melting into the dark of the sea, his feigned humanity dissolved into pure liquid. In a matter of moments, the stuff of Sean Mulcahy ran in streams down the side of the steeple and over the church roof like rain.

Once it had seeped through the ashen-cracks in the ceiling timber, all which remained upon the spire was the once-elegant overcoat. Snagged upon the jagged metal, it continued to flap in the wintry air.

Argus rested upon the chair he had built from the remnants of a confessional booth. The frame was oak, but the
lacquer had been singed during the fire of '41, leaving the legs and arms pockmarked and charred. The violet cushions had rather amazingly survived the fire intact, and their stitched velvet was still quite comfortable.

He was alone. Beyond his “room” where the altar had once been, on the other side of the tapestries and veils, the cathedral was already half-empty. Word had spread of the Morrigan's announcement at the Bleecker Street Haven. Most had left to follow the call of the Keeper. Argus had been forced to repose, and to consider his next move.

How much did the Morrigan know? Had she somehow learned of their plot? Most importantly, had the Queen already dealt with Lucifer?

Resting like a Buddha statue, hands lifted upward in the lotus position, the eyes of his face and navel were gently closed. Those on his palms, however, gleamed bright red. They reflected the candle-glows as they peered upward, knowingly.

When the white, luminous liquid fell from the rafters like rain, his hands saw it. They knew not to be alarmed. Argus merely waited in silence as the strange fluid pooled upon the chalky floor, churned within itself, and arose into a human-looking form. Then he opened the rest of his eyes. And he spoke. His final question now had an answer.

“Lucifer. I have been awaiting your return. Interesting choice for an entrance. But given your exit, I expected no less,” the ancient shape-shifter began.

Sean waited to respond as the remainder of the liquid around his naked form swirled, and replicated clothing.
Soon he stood before the six-eyed being fully “dressed” in black. Only his overcoat and fedora were missing.

“Where is Vince?”

“You have nothing to fear, Lucifer. Your friend is confused, understandably. But he remains as we found him. We merely needed to bring you back into the fold. We wish to harm no one,” Argus said.

His voice was silky and whispering, all the better to match his ghastly visage.

“I want to see him. Then we'll talk,” Sean replied.

“Very well. There is no need for hostility,” the changeling hissed.