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.
