In the House of the Wicked

CHAPTER TEN

“Get out,” the tattooed man ordered, bringing the vintage car to a stop in front of the steps of the elaborate home.

Remy gave him a quick glance before doing as he was told. He had barely closed the door again before the limousine sped off around the side of house, leaving him at the bottom of the stairs, bathed in the green glow of the house lights. He briefly stared off into the pitch darkness of the shadows beyond, imagining what nightmares waited there.

The sound of someone clearing his throat startled Remy, and he turned quickly to see a shape standing in the entryway to the house.

Remy began to climb the stairs as the figure beckoned for him to enter, and then came to realize that it wasn’t a someone who had cleared his throat, but a something.

It was dressed in the classic tuxedo of a butler, but the creature appeared anything but human; in fact, it seemed to be crudely sculpted from clay. It was featureless except for the most rudimentary details-deep, shadow-filled indentations for eyes, two holes in the flat of its face for nostrils, and a crooked slash for a mouth.

Remy carefully watched the clay figure for any sign of hostility, but it remained perfectly still as he passed it and stepped inside the house.

He stopped and gazed about the foyer in amazement. Everywhere there could possibly be a source of illumination, there it was: electric lights, candelabra, candlesticks dripping thick trails of wax on just about every flat surface. The floor itself was strangely uneven, the large windows were askew in their frames, and a nearby staircase canted upward at an odd angle. It was as if the home had been disassembled and put back together by someone who had had one too many cocktails.

The door closed behind him, and Remy turned to see the clay butler standing there, waiting. The creature motioned toward a nearby corridor, and Remy followed it from the foyer, doing as the creature did-bracing one hand against the wall to navigate the strangely slanted floor.

They reached the doors at the end of the hall and the butler pushed them open to reveal an elaborate library inside. It too appeared to have suffered the strange, distorting effects that plagued the rest of the house: books piled on the floor in multiple stacks, unable to sit on the slanted shelves.

The butler started to leave.

“I guess I’m supposed to wait?” Remy asked.

The butler paused briefly, nodding its great clay head as it pulled the heavy wooden doors of the library closed behind it.

“Great,” Remy said, struggling with the urge to leave the library, clad in the armor of war, to tear apart the estate as he searched for Ashley. That was what the Seraphim would do, but in this particular instance, Remy believed that a cooler head would prevail.

Everything had to be right with this one. No risks taken unless necessary. He could not allow Ashley to be harmed in any way. He could not give in to the Seraphim’s penchant for violence.

He had to find out more-about Ashley’s captor and about what he wanted from Remy. He had to bring Ashley home safe and sound.

The door opened, and the tattooed man entered.

“Mr. Deacon is getting dressed for dinner. He’ll join us shortly,” the man said. He crossed the library to a large decorative wooden globe suspended within the framework of a stand.

“Drink?” he asked, opening the globe to reveal crystal decanters of liquor sequestered inside.

“No, thanks,” Remy said. “I’m not feeling all that social at the moment.”

The man chuckled, taking a tumbler for himself. “Don’t tell me you’re still upset that one of Mr. Deacon’s vessels tried to kill you.”

“That and the abduction of one of my friends. Yeah, I guess you could say I’m still upset.”

The pale man poured what looked to be some good Scotch into the glass and returned the decanter to the globe, closing the lid. “That was all a mistake,” he said, taking a sip of his drink as he strolled about the room.

“A mistake,” Remy repeated with a nod. “Sure, it was. Who are you again?”

“Me? Let’s just say I’m Mr. Deacon’s right hand.”

“Deacon,” Remy repeated the name thoughtfully. “Wasn’t that the name of the family that owned the farm where that little mistake occurred?”

The man sat down in a leather chair and crossed his legs. “Yes, it was,” he said. “The farm belonged to the Deacon family for a very long time. As a matter of fact, my master was born there.”

“Your master?” Remy asked, surprised at the moniker. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No, not really. He created me from nothing and gave me life. I really should be calling him my god.”

Remy started to look at the figure in a different light.

“Created you?”

The man had some more to drink. “He certainly did, just as he created that monkey-suited slab of clay that showed you in, and all the others.”

“You’re one of those…vessels?”

“Same basic design, but different function,” the man explained. “I’m not sent out for collection.”

“And what do these vessels collect?” Remy asked, recalling his experience with the creatures. “Energy? Life forces?”

The tattooed man smiled, the dark lines on his pale face taking on an entirely new configuration. “Aren’t you the smart one? You must be a detective.”

Remy felt the urge to wipe the smile from the artificial life-form’s face. “So how about filling me in on the rest?” he suggested instead. “Start with why these energies are being collected.”

The creature was about to answer when there came the tinkling of a bell. “That would be for us,” he said, draining his glass and leaving it on the tilted surface of a table beside his chair as he stood.

“So you’re not going to answer my question?” Remy asked, following him to the door.

“I’m sure Mr. Deacon will be more than happy to answer your questions,” the man said, letting Remy step out into the tilting hall. “But right now, dinner is served.”

The dining room was elaborate and sloped to one side, although the dining table had been modified so that it sat level on the uneven floor.

Remy saw that he wasn’t the first to arrive. A female figure sat alone at the end of the table. He was just about to introduce himself when he realized that she was dead-long dead, from the looks of her mummified flesh.

He turned to the tattooed man for explanation.

“The master’s wife,” he said. “He doesn’t have the heart to put her in the ground.”

The woman’s body was propped stiffly in the chair. She was wearing a powder blue dress, and the shriveled flesh about her neck was adorned with fine pearls. Her hair was freshly set.

A huge, crystal chandelier hung above the table, making the fine dinnerware sparkle in its green-tinted light. Remy counted the place settings: five.

A faint, high-pitched whine filled the air outside the dining room, growing louder as it slowly approached. Eventually an elaborate electric wheelchair appeared in the doorway, the clay butler walking stiffly behind it. The chair carried the hunched and shriveled body of an old man, his formal tuxedo hanging from his skeletal frame.

The chair stopped just inside the double doors, and slowly the old man gripped the arms of the wheelchair and stood with a grunt and the hum of machinery. It was then that Remy noticed the man wore some kind of body brace, an exoskeleton clamped around his withered limbs to aid him in his movement.

The old man briefly teetered, and the tattooed man was quickly beside him.

“I’ve got this, Scrimshaw,” the man snapped, and Remy recognized the voice from his cell phone.

Scrimshaw, Remy thought upon hearing the artificial man’s name. It fits.

Scrimshaw stepped back obediently as the old man gained his balance and proceeded toward the table, the motors on his elaborate brace whining with each step.

He stopped next to the chair at the head of the table, motioning for the butler to take away the wheelchair, before nodding toward his wife. “My dear,” he said.

Then he turned his deep, sunken eyes on Remy.

Remy was silent as he stared at the man who had dared to take his friend.

“Remy Chandler,” the old man said, looking him up and down. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Remy replied. “Maybe you’d like to see my wings?”

The old man grunted. Remy thought that it might have been a laugh.

“I am Konrad Deacon,” the man said, watching Remy carefully, searching for a sign of recognition on Remy’s face, but finding none.

“A name lost to the ages, I’m afraid.”

There was activity at the door again, and the old man turned with a mechanical whir. “Ah, the rest of our dinner guests.”

Remy stiffened at the sight of Ashley Berg in a fancy dinner dress being led into the dining room by a little boy holding a leash attached to a collar about her throat.

“This is my son, Teddy. And you of course know his playmate.”

It took all of Remy’s strength not to unleash the full fury of the Seraphim.

But he managed to behave, telling himself that this was all for Ashley’s safety.

“Please be seated.” Deacon motioned Remy toward the chair on his left as he lowered himself into the chair that Scrimshaw held out for him at the head of the table.

Ashley and the young boy sat across the table. She made eye contact with Remy as she sat.

“Are you all right?” he asked, pulling his chair in closer to the table.

His heart sank as she looked away, staring blankly at the reflective surface of her china plate.

“Of course she’s all right,” Deacon answered for her. “A minor spell of obedience and some laudanum to calm her has transformed her into the perfect houseguest.”

“She was a little wild when she first got here, but she’s adjusted quite nicely,” Scrimshaw agreed, standing attentively against the wall.

Remy looked at her again, seeing the dullness in eyes that usually twinkled with vitality. It was as if she weren’t even there, which was probably a good thing.

He turned his attention squarely on Deacon and leaned in close to the old man. “If you’ve harmed her in any way,” he said calmly, quietly, “there will be a tremendous price to pay.”

Scrimshaw moved closer to the table, but Deacon gestured him away. “I assure you, Mr. Chandler, Miss Berg has been treated with the utmost care, and will continue to be treated so as long as she remains with us.”

“As long as I decide to play along,” Remy stated.

Deacon smiled as he reached for a silver bell to the right of his plate. “Exactly.”

He rang the bell, and the doors into the dining room swiftly opened. Servants of clay filed into the room, pushing various carts that Remy guessed were carrying dinner.

Deacon’s son stood up in his seat, watching with wild eyes as the clay servant placed a silver-lidded tray in the center of the table. The boy began to grunt and howl.

There was something not quite right about this child.

“Sit, Teddy,” Deacon commanded, and the child squatted atop his seat, eyes still fixed on the covered tray.

A tureen of soup was placed on the table next, followed by smaller trays of what Remy thought might be steaming vegetables. He’d never seen anything quite like them before.

“Harvested on the land outside the estate,” Deacon commented. “My recollection is that they taste a bit like mushrooms, but it has been quite some time since solid food has entered my system.”

One of the clay servants reached across the table, removing the silver cover over the main course. Remy had no idea what he was looking at. It resembled a turkey, but he’d never seen any form of fowl that sported six limbs.

“Also from the property surrounding the estate?” he asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“Shot it myself,” Scrimshaw said proudly. “One of the few critters here that I can kill with a single shot.”

Teddy sprang up and lunged across the table, tearing off one of the animal’s limbs and jamming it into his mouth.

“Manners, Teddy. Manners,” Deacon reminded.

A servant began cutting away slices of the strange gray meat and placing them on a serving tray.

“Help yourself, Mr. Chandler,” Deacon offered.

“I’m afraid I’m not very hungry at the moment, Mr. Deacon.” Remy looked from the meal to his host. “I believe we have business to discuss.”

Deacon continued to watch as the slices of meat were cut from the beast.

“Give the young lady a slice, Godfrey,” Deacon instructed the clay man.

Godfrey used the knife and a large fork to place a slice of the meat upon Ashley’s plate. Remy was surprised to see her pick up her knife and fork and begin to eat. She’d recently forgone most meat in favor of a predominantly vegetarian diet. His concern for her was growing.

The doors swung open again, and two normal-looking people, a man and a woman, came into the room. There was nothing odd about them at first, but Remy was quickly reminded of the five that had attacked him at the farm.

“I do not partake of solid foods, although I do still require sustenance,” Deacon explained as the two people stood beside him. “Do you mind?”

“Go right ahead,” Remy said, curious as to what would follow.

The pair began to unbutton their shirts. Scrimshaw moved up behind his master’s chair and reached down to the back of the exoskeleton, pulling up two long, black cords, each with a very long, very sharp-looking needle attached. Without any hesitation, he turned and plunged one of the needles into the man’s chest; the other into the woman’s.

“Bon appetit,” Scrimshaw muttered, fiddling with something on the back of Deacon’s brace.

A hum began to resonate through the room, growing steadily louder.

“Ahhhhh,” Deacon groaned, eyes partially closed. “These are particularly ripe.”

The humming sound continued as Deacon opened his eyes and turned his attention to his guest.

“You’re probably as curious about me as I am of you,” the old man began. “My condition, as you see it here, is a result of my experimentation with life energies, specifically a test where I tried-and succeeded-in collecting the life force of the thousands slain by the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. Unfortunately, it left my body dramatically altered and it didn’t take me long to realize that I needed the energy of living things to continue my own life.”

Deacon nodded toward the pair standing beside him, steel needles protruding from their bare chests. “This is how I harvest the energy I need to survive,” he explained. “They are an advanced version of golem I have managed to perfect over the years. I bundled both science and sorcery to create artificial beings-vessels, if you will-that can walk among the citizenry, able to collect and store samples of people’s life energies without their notice. Once they are filled, they return here and allow me to dine upon their bounty.”

Deacon leaned his head back against the chair. Although the brace around his neck prevented his body from totally relaxing, the pleasure of feeding was clear on his face. Remy watched him for a moment, then realized that he appeared healthier, his cheeks flushed with a new vitality.

Younger.

“How does all of this explain why you took Ashley?” he asked.

The old man opened his eyes to slits. “With life energies also come residual memories-emotions, tastes, smells.”

The humming of the machine began to quiet, and Scrimshaw was again attentive. He approached the vessels and pulled the needles from their chests.

“About a week ago, there was a street festival in Brattleboro, Vermont,” Deacon continued as Scrimshaw carefully returned the needles and cords back to the housing compartment on the back of Deacon’s brace. “One of my vessels was there, walking among the teeming crowd, gently brushing against those who had come to enjoy the fair. These events are always my particular favorites-so filled with life and happiness. I was eager to sample the energies and dug in, so to speak, as soon as the vessel returned.”

Deacon looked at Remy with calculating eyes.

“Imagine my surprise as I feasted, bombarded by the memories of those whose energies sustained me…and I saw you, Remy Chandler. I saw you with this lovely young lady and received the slightest taste of the residual energy you left behind.”

The old man paused, his stare becoming even more intense.

“I was able to read that energy, Mr. Chandler. And I saw you for what you truly are.”

“You saw that I’m Seraphim.”

“I saw exactly that,” Deacon agreed, nodding slowly. “Through Ashley’s memories I could see the fire that lives inside you…but I also saw you had the potential to be so much more.”

He leaned forward as if to share a special secret with his guest.

“I saw you as a weapon, Remy Chandler,” Deacon said, eyes no longer dulled with age, but twinkling with life.

“An instrument for revenge to be turned on my betrayers.”