The Lucifer Messiah (27 page)

“Very little. He's not entirely coherent. I think he
believes Lucifer has run off with his wife,” she replied, with a wry smile.

“Don't dismiss him too quickly, Charybdis. Perhaps there is something to that,” Argus said.

“What do you wish to do?”

“Lucifer has called my bluff. That leaves only one option. You'll need to make contact with the Morrigan. I had hoped to avoid a repeat of the events in Venice, but now it seems we are left with no other choice.”

“What have you in mind?” Charybdis asked.

“Go to the Morrigan. Tell her of my betrayal. Tell her that you once thought me wise, but that you have now seen the error of my course,” Argus said.

“But master, I can't …” she answered.

“You must. Doubtless she now realizes that I am aligned against her. This is the only way. You must regain her trust. Despite our young trickster's belief, the Morrigan will not stop her pursuit until one of them is dead.

“I suspect that she has plans in the works as we speak. You must learn what they are, insinuate yourself into them and protect Lucifer from harm. If we can show Sean Mulcahy the folly of disregarding the Morrigan, we may have one last chance to use him for our ends.”

T
HE
“T
HRONE OF THE
K
EEPER” WAS A FIGURATIVE
seat. There had not been a literal, honorary chair as such since the true throne had been lost amid the chaos of the early Holy Roman Empire.

Yet as the day dawned across Manhattan, the Morrigan presided like a dark queen, perched upon a seat that was of her own crafting. It was a high-backed chair of bronze and iron, sunbursts carved beside the headrest, with white Chinese silk sewn over the cushions. Coated in gold from the cache of a Sultan, studded with gems from the vault of a Tsar, it was a testament to the many lives she had led among the human world, and a statement to those
others
who were her subjects. She was their lord. Both king and queen, emperor and empress, powerful, watchful, and above all, beautiful.

With eyes that were flame-red and gleaming, she regarded the festival beneath. Her thin, lithe frame draped in a silken mantle, the being who had now shed the bloated form of Salvatore Calabrese rested atop a broad platform at the far end of the warehouse, which itself had been
utterly transformed.

The empty ruin was now a raging, bacchanalian paradise.

Joyous mayhem reigned through a haze of hashish smoke and squeals of deep delight, the blissful chaos the Morrigan so loved. Hedonistic excess spilled out in every direction. Figures both beautiful and hideous cavorted in orgiastic glee, spread among the many gatherings scattered throughout the cavernous expanse.

At the center of it all, a brood of naked celebrants slithered amongst one another, their skin oiled and slick. Limbs and fingers, legs and tails intertwined in fluid entanglements, dreamily captive to the rhythm of a hypnotic dance. Their every lascivious gesture called out cheers from their fellows, as the pace of their waltz ebbed and flowed to the notes of a twisted orchestra.

Stationed at the base of the Keeper's stage, they were the strangest collection of musical talent ever assembled. A pair of headless violinists joined their melodies with the notes from a trio of faceless cellists. A woman with four arms and four hands played two string instruments in unison, producing delicately interwoven sounds the likes of which no human ear had ever heard. A green-skinned woman who had no hands played the flute together with a yellow-skinned man who had no mouth. At their lead was a leonine creature who fiercely plucked the strings of a lyre with his spotted tail.

A snarl from the left broke the mood of the party, however, alerting the Keeper to a sudden disturbance. A
moment later it came again, more like a howl the second time, a familiar sound to the glowing Morrigan. It was the growl of Lycaon, and it was not a pleasant sound.

The wolf-faced aide appeared amid the crowd, having just passed through the dark gates wherein the fearsome Daughters of Cerberus stood endless watch. The Morrigan took note of him at once, even before he reared on his thick hindquarters and bounded to the pinnacle of the Keeper's platform in three great leaps.

It was only then, as Lycaon came to rest on one knee before the black-haired regent, that the Morrigan saw he was not alone. Clutched among his hairy forelimbs were two unconscious figures. On his right he clung to the bloodied, half-molted form of Arachne. Her body, while partially covered in hardening self-secreted slime, looked to have already been ravaged.

His left arm held Scylla, free from the cocoon and clearly a woman of surpassing features. She was unclothed, her skin bronze and flawless, her pose elegant even braced limply in the arms of the beast.

For all the beauty of her thin frame and her soft face, however, those were not her most striking attributes. What garnered the Keeper's attention were her arms, all six of them, arrayed from her shoulders like a Hindu goddess.

A swatch of blood-soaked linen was tied hastily over the wound in her middle.

The Morrigan arose from her seat with a start. She recognized Scylla at once, for though she had last seen her only a few days earlier, it had been years since she'd seen
the changeling's true form.

“Scylla, lovely Scylla. What has befallen you?” she said, though only Lycaon could hear her.

“She is not dead. But I fear her time may be short,” the wolf-thing answered as he set her down.

A wave of his clawed hand brought forward a cadre of the white-robed adherents from the foot of the Keeper's platform. The forms of the Maenads, however hideous or lovely, were all hidden by their heavy woolen shrouds. In a silent march they took up a circle around Lycaon and the Morrigan, turning their backs and shutting out all view of the Keeper, her trusted aide, and the two fallen women.

When the Morrigan placed her graceful hand over her face, a warm light illuminated her features. Scylla's opal eyes opened slowly.

“My apologies, master,” she began. “I have failed you again.”

“Unnecessary, but accepted nonetheless. Can you tell us how this terrible thing befell you?” the Morrigan asked.

“Lucifer … I have sought Lucifer …” she answered, delirious. Her midsection was swathed in Lycaon's poorly wrapped bandages. The blood loss had rendered her senseless.

“I believe Argus is to blame,” Lycaon said.

“Argus?” the Keeper inquired.

“You sought proof of his treachery, now we have it. The ancient one has betrayed us,” Lycaon said. “When I came to her, this other one, Arachne was attempting to kill her. A younger member of our fold, she was Argus's most recent aide and guard.”

Their attention turned for a moment to the body of the motionless blonde.

“Do we know of the ancient one's location?” the Morrigan asked, her hand stroking Scylla's brow gently as she fell out of consciousness.

“He is not at the Bleecker Street Haven, and appears to have been gone from there for some time. We still have no idea where he has set his lair within the city. We do not know where he hides, or how many of his followers hide with him.”

“And Charybdis?”

“I have no information about her, only that she has been with Argus since he arrived here. Of her part in this plot I cannot say, though I have my suspicions.”

“Indeed, we must locate her now.”

“And of this one?” Lycaon asked. He was itching to sink his claws into Arachne's flesh. “I would take it as a personal honor if you allowed me to kill her myself.”

“No,” came the quiet reply.

“My queen!”

“Take some pause, loyal servant,” the Morrigan said, the light faded from her touch, as the life continued to ebb from Scylla's wounded belly. “This one will suffer, of that you need not worry. But her agony will be for my gain. If she is Argus's trusted aide, she may prove useful to me. Even if she doesn't know it just yet.”

M
AGGIE'S DOORBELL RANG, AND SHE JUMPED.

Vince was in the bedroom packing a suitcase. He appeared in the foyer a moment later. His gun was already drawn from his shoulder holster. He cocked it slowly, with minimal sound.

They did not speak. Both knew, of course, that few killers were in the habit of ringing the doorbells of their prospective victims. But it was prudent to be cautious. With a nod, he eased her behind him. She receded toward the hallway that led to the bathroom.

Vince cleared his throat with as little noise as he could, and he stepped up to the door. He did not unlatch it.

“Who's there?” he began.

The voice on the other side seemed to recognize him.

“Vince? It's me, Paddie. Let me in, we need to talk.”

“Paddie?” he responded, suggesting he'd never heard the name before.

Maggie kept watching, wondering what Vince was doing. She hadn't seen Pat Flanagan for years, but even she remembered his gravely, two-pack-a-day voice.

“Paddie? What is this? Very funny, Vince. Detective Flanagan, maybe? How'd you like that? What did you go soft in the head since I seen you last?”

Vince did not answer. Instead he looked back at Maggie. She nodded, though she couldn't imagine why Vince was seeking
her permission_to
let
his
ex-partner into the apartment.

Finally, he unfastened the deadbolt, leaving the chain in place. Then he slowly opened the door as far as it would go. Pat's ruddy Irish face was peering in.

“See? It's me old pal. Just me.”

Vince exhaled deeply, closed the door enough to undo the chain and allowed the man to enter.

“Sorry. But we can't be too careful these days,” he said, closing the door behind Pat only a moment after he stepped inside.

“You're tellin' me? As bad as it is now, it looks like things are about to get a whole lot worse. It ain't safe for you and Maggie here anymore.”

The door closed and relocked, Vince stepped past the others and sat down in an armchair near the window. As Maggie offered the detective a seat on the couch, he kept one eye on Pat and the other on the street beyond.

“That's what I've been trying to tell her. We need to get outta here,” Vince agreed, the silvery steel of his revolver still displayed prominently in his hands.

“Mind if I smoke?” Pat asked.

Maggie shook her head.

“Vince, you want one?” he offered.

Vince lifted his head away from the street below, took a glance at the open pack of Parliaments his ex-partner was holding in his direction and nodded. He took out a cigarette and let Pat light it for him.

“Has something happened?” Maggie asked.

“Somethin' is always happenin' around here, Maggie,” Pat answered, after a long first drag. “This is different. Some of my guys went by the Sunset Club this morning. Place was deserted. Sam mentioned somethin' about making some changes last time I saw him, but the joint is closed down completely now. No sign of anyone from the Calabrese crew.”

“Isn't that good news? If they're all gone, I mean,” Maggie asked.

“Not necessarily,” Vince said.

“Especially if you two are mixed up with them somehow. Whoever's after them might be lookin' for you too.”

“I thought this was about Sean,” Maggie said, her words clearly directed toward Vince. The ex-cop said nothing.

“And Sean would be that friend you keep
not talkin'
about, Vince?” Pat chided.

Again, Vince said nothing. Pat turned back toward Maggie.

“Whatever's goin' on, we know this. It's bigger than any one person. Calabrese's people have been disappearin' for months now,” he continued. “Little Frankie Pentone was the first to go, rumor is Rocco Gallucci ain't comin' back anytime soon either. Then we got this mutilated, still unidentified corpse from a few days ago, plus Paulie, Gino,
and the Vig—all dead outside your place, Vince.

“And here's somethin' else that's funny. I talked to the Medical Examiner this morning. He says he don't even know what killed Paulie Tonsils. Can't pinpoint a cause of death. Says the guy just stopped breathing, all his organs just shut down at once. Like somebody sucked the life right out of him. Any idea how that happened, old buddy?”

Vince continued to sit quietly. His expression remained as stoic as always.

“Must've been havin' a really bad day,” he answered, almost smiling.

“Right, you can say that again. Anyway, we gotta get you two outta here, ASAP.”

He pronounced the abbreviation as though it were an actual word.

“What did you have in mind?” Maggie asked.

“We got a safe-house up north of Rockland, ‘bout an hour, hour-and-a-half from the city. DA uses it from time to time to keep witnesses under wraps before big trials. Sometimes we use it too, bring guys up there for a little, off the record interrogation. Right, Vince?”

“Sure. I'm always up for a little sight-seeing,” he joked, getting up from the chair and walking back into the bedroom.

“How soon can we leave?” Maggie asked, ignoring Vince's sarcasm as he left the room.

“I'll set it up down at the station. We can be on the road by late tonight,” he replied.

“Fine. I'll let Vince know, but he's been anxious to
leave. I'm sure he'll be ready,” she said.

“Okay, I'll make the arrangements,” Pat said, getting up to head for the door. He stopped just before exiting. “If you don't mind me sayin' Maggie, I can't remember the last time Vince even tried sayin' anything funny.”

“So what?” she replied.

“Nothin', I guess. He just don't really seem like himself tonight, that's all.”