The Lucifer Messiah (8 page)

A shriek echoed from inside as they stopped.

“It's begun,” the dark-cloaked African said as they hurried into the shelter of the cathedral.

Inside was a scene of the macabre.

Nearly a dozen people were gathered on the broken-down altar at the rear of the place, each holding a candle that made for the only light in the musty hall. They were encircled, and chanting in an ancient, labyrinthine dialect. The long shadows from their tapers danced upon the walls in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

In the middle of their ritual circle something writhed on the sooty ground.

And it screamed.

Argus and his aides rushed to the altar. The inhuman
howling reaching a fever pitch as they neared.

“When did it start?” he asked.

“Not more than three hours ago. I had the local hospitals under our watch, as per your orders. An ambulance brought this one in from off the street. No one knew what to do with her. Our people spirited her out and brought her here,” Charybdis answered.

“Do we know who it is?” Arachne asked.

“Not yet. She was already in the midst of it when we rescued her. She has not come out yet,” the dark-skinned woman replied.

“Is this the first?” Arachne asked.

“That we know of, at least. It's still early, but it means the time is rapidly approaching. Within days the condition will afflict all of us,” Charybdis answered.

Argus, though the smallest of the gathered folk, moved through the circle with a wave of his palm. Then he saw firsthand the source of the awful screams.

It was spread out on the floor, covered in a bluish slime and flapping a series of appendages against each other like a deformed seal. The bulk of it, approximately six feet in length, was vaguely serpentine, but with limbs, or the remains of limbs, jutting out from every side. There was no head, but something that resembled a human chin and mouth struggled in pain at one end. It was there that Argus knelt, his tiny hand on the slippery skin of the thing.

“It hurts. I know. But you are safe now. Do not fight it. Just let it happen, my child. Let the change overcome you,” he assured it.

“The end stage,” Charybdis said, from her vantage a few paces back.

Arachne was beside her. The blonde tugged at the sleeve of the African's silk suit, a strange look clear on her face.

Charybdis knew what it meant.

“You have seen her? My lost beloved?” the black lady questioned.

“I am fairly certain. The Keeper has had a young Latino thug following a man named Sicario for the last day. My contacts indicate it is your once-betrothed, Scylla.”

Charybdis breathed heavily. Arachne noticed a slight quiver in her long torso. She almost looked frightened.

“It's been so long. I was beginning to think I'd never see Scylla again. This complicates matters.”

“What will you do?” Arachne whispered back. “If the Morrigan learns that you two have broken her command, she'll see you both dead.”

“I have only one choice then, haven't I?” Charybdis answered.

The chanting continuing at his back, Argus stroked the fishlike exterior. He watched with an expression that was something like pride as the chin and mouth pushed forth from the snakelike body. With them came the beginnings
of a face, a young man's face, and then a head as well.

“There, the pain is going away, isn't it? You're almost through it,” Argus continued as a neck followed the head. Then two human arms broke free from the fluttering quasi-limbs.

In a few more minutes the chanting ceased, and the gathered circle lowered to their knees. Their candles they held forward, to shed light on the naked form of a young man who sat, quivering, next to Argus. A steaming, slimy husk of
something
lay discarded beneath him.

“Welcome back to the fold, Galanthis. It has been a while, hasn't it?” the boy-master said.

“Argus?” the young man replied as a blanket was wrapped about him.

The child-who-wasn't nodded.

“It has been a while. You're looking very young these days, aren't you?”

S
OMETIMES A LITTLE FRESH AIR DID A MAN GOOD.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much of that in Manhattan, so Sam Calabrese had to make due with the occasional breeze off the river. Every so often, if he walked around long enough, the wind would clear out the stench of garbage, bus fumes, and human waste.

But not nearly as much as he liked.

Still, it was better than the staid confines of his abode, where Indian Joe kept the strictest of security in place at all hours. He was doing exactly what he was supposed to do, of course, ever the vigilant protector, but even the master needed a break from time to time.

So he walked. As always of late, he walked under guard. The man called simply the Vig was on his left, a crew-cut giant who had earned his name for a savant-like ability to calculate interest. On his other flank was Gino Tonetti, the pug-faced former associate of Rocco Gallucci, who had reportedly left the neighborhood for a long vacation. A permanent vacation, some whispered.

Calabrese ordered his men to stop when he caught sight of a Spanish youth nearing from the opposite side of the street. They were in front of a newsstand. Sam directed his men to dismiss the elderly proprietor. Then he took up residence inside the booth. When the Spanish man arrived, he was welcomed inside as well.

“What do you have for me, loyal Scylla?” he said, without looking at the rat-faced man.

“Very little, I'm afraid,” the other answered, reluctantly, it seemed.

“We haven't much time. You know that. Tell me what you have learned.”

The Spanish man yet seemed hesitant, and he paused. He took a quick look at the Vig and Gino, guarding them outside the booth. He recognized them. They were not like him. They were human.

“Would it not be better to converse alone, master?” he said, motioning toward the two loyal enforcers.

Calabrese shook his head.

“Alors, en français?
” he questioned, quietly, but with a flawless Parisian accent.

“Fear not. Those men owe their loyalty to me alone. You may speak in their presence without fear,” Calabrese answered.

“Very well, master. At Lycaon's request, I have spent the past day's time on the trail of a man named Vincent Sicario. He was asking questions at the club early yesterday morning, only a few hours after the incident.”

“And?”

“As of yet, nothing. He's a hard man to follow. When I have been able to check on him, I've watched him visit a police station, a drug store and several bars, but I haven't seen him do anything that would lead us to the one we seek.”

“Very well, check with Lycaon, but that route may have proven a dead end. If so, we'll have need of your skills elsewhere.”

“It may not be that simple.”

“Why is that?”

“There are others following him as well.”

“Others? Of our kind?”

“I do not yet know. It is possible. Since the War ended our folk have been scattered. The Havens in Leningrad, Paris, Hong Kong, and Prague were all destroyed. If it is one of us, it could be someone from there.”

“Prague. Argus's followers. They are gathering here, that I do know. Your beloved
is
among them, if you were wondering,” Calabrese replied.

It was almost a taunt.

“Of that I was unaware, master. By your command, as always.”

“She has been by the ancient one's side since he came to this place, and remains there as we speak.”

The rat-faced man stayed silent. His beady eyes grew even more sullen, and his mustache hid a sharp frown.

“I know I need not remind you of my decree, Scylla,” Calabrese pointed his fat finger directly into the Spanish's man's face, his voice nearly fallen to a whisper. “I have permitted you to join us here to share in the festival season,
and to allow you one final chance to atone for your past failure. Until that is done, you are to have no contact whatsoever with Charybdis.”

“I am thankful for the opportunity,” he answered.

“Do not defy me,” Calabrese answered, with a tone that was all too clearly menacing.

The rat-looking man called Scylla nodded, almost bowed.

“Very well. You will use your skills to keep watch on both Mr. Sicario and these others who are seeing after him. If they are indeed followers of Argus, I must know immediately,” Calabrese said.

“Do you suspect the ancient one of treachery?” Scylla asked.

“I suspect everyone,” Calabrese replied. “But I fear him the most. If Lucifer were to fall under Argus's influence, then I have no doubt that he would move against me.”

The Vig was a whiz with numbers, but in every other respect, he was a certifiable imbecile. Nobody was better at breaking legs, or arms, or anything else that needed breaking, though, which was why he was one of the most trusted men in what had been Little Frankie Pentone's side of the Calabrese operation. Trusted, but not well regarded for his brains.

When he came into the Sunset with a worried look on his face, Paulie Tonsils perked up immediately. The Vig
was too stupid to be worried.

“What's up Vig?” he asked, from his usual seat along the far wall, espresso in hand.

“I just heard something you might be interested in, boss.”

“Ok, quiet down kid. Why don't you have a seat? Talk about it.”

The Vig did as he was told, and Paulie smiled when he sat down. The big man never really looked comfortable doing anything but hurting people.

“You know that Rat guy, right?” he asked, in the manner that a child might ask his father if he knows the President.

“The new guy, yeah, the Spanish kid.”

“Well, I was walkin' with Mr. Calabrese this morning, and the two of them met up and talked.”

Paulie laughed. Not too much, though. He knew the kid meant well.

“So?”

“They talked about Vinny Sicario. That Rat guy's been tailin' him since yesterday.”

Now Paulie was interested.

“Sicario, huh? Did they say why?”

“I couldn't follow, but I think it has to do with the guy that got killed the other night.”

“Damn.”

“What's up boss? I don't get it,” the Vig said. His face was the picture of bewilderment.

“That night, who was you lookin' for?” Paulie asked.

The Vig paused and considered for a moment. Most
Irish names sounded more or less the same to him.
O-this, Mc-that.
But this one wasn't any of those. It was different.

“Some mick. I think his name was Moe? Or maybe longer, like Moe-kay-he or somethin'.”

“Mulcahy?” Paulie asked.

“Yeah, that's it. Rocco and Gino were with me. We lost the guy. Why, you know him?”

“No, but I know Sicario. Guy grew up in the middle of the biggest Irish slum in the city. Get a hold of Gino, I think we need to pay our old buddy Vince a visit.”

T
HE RAT-FACED MAN WAS ON HIS TAIL AGAIN.
V
INCE
caught sight of him just after he picked up his morning paper. He got his coffee as though nothing were out of the ordinary. This time, he decided, it was his turn.