over the tables. “Anybody in here, maybe?”
“Nah, just the usual bunch of reprobates right now, I’m afraid,” Methuselah said as he wiped down the bar with his towel. Then he stopped, as if he’d suddenly gotten an idea. “Wait a minute. Give me a second, will ya?”
“Sure,” Francis said, continuing to enjoy his Scotch as the stone man lumbered off through a set of double doors near the bar.
It wasn’t long before he was back, a fat guy wearing a stained apron and a paper hat in tow.
“This is Angus, my cook,” Methuselah told Francis. “Makes an excellent meat loaf, but he also knows a few things about magick.”
Angus pushed past his boss, his rounded belly leading the way as he approached the bar. He was carrying a large glass of ice water and was about to take a drink when the motion stopped.
His eyes were transfixed by the golem skull.
“Look familiar to you?” Francis asked, closely watching the big man.
Angus finally took his drink, and Francis noticed a slight tremble in his hand, one that he didn’t think was there before.
“Nope,” Angus said, turning quickly toward his boss. “That it?”
“Nothing?” Methuselah asked.
“Nope, it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before,” Angus answered. “I gotta get back to the kitchen… Tonight’s haggis special isn’t gonna make itself.”
Methuselah waved the man past, and Francis watched him head quickly back through the double doors, sure the cook knew more than he was letting on.
“Sorry about that.” The stone man shrugged. “Thought he might’ve been able to help you.” He reached for the bottle of Scotch. “Hit you again?”
“No, I’m good,” Francis said, although he was sorely tempted.
He climbed off the stool, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.
“No worries,” Methuselah said, shaking his stone hand in front of Francis as he retrieved the empty tumbler with the other. “Your boss has an open line of credit here.”
“But this isn’t my boss’s case,” Francis told him.
The stone man laughed, dunking the dirty glass into a sink of soapy water beneath the bar.
“It always starts off that way, doesn’t it?” Methuselah said as he started to rinse the glasses from the sink.
“Be seeing you, Francis. Nice to know that the rumors of your demise were greatly exaggerated.”
Francis knew that it was only a matter of time before Methuselah’s cook would step out back for a smoke. His fingernails, stained brown with nicotine, had been the dead giveaway.
He had been waiting in the shadows for more than an hour, the golem skull on the ground at his feet, observing the comings and goings of the strange, insectlike creatures that were Methuselah’s busboys as they took their breaks. He was fascinated by the odd game they played, similar to dice but with two small, hairless rodents that screamed like the dickens when they were rolled.
The screen door opened again with a creak, and this time Angus the cook finally stepped out. He was already lighting up as the screen door slammed closed behind him.
Francis noticed that he’d removed his paper cap and was no longer wearing his filthy apron. It looked as though the cook’s shift was finished. How opportune; now Francis could have him all to himself.
Angus took a long, deep pull on the cigarette. And Francis took the opportunity to kick the golem skull toward him. It rolled awkwardly across the pavement and stopped directly in front of the cook, staring at his feet.
Francis couldn’t have asked for a better kick.
Angus was so startled that he leapt backward, dropping his cigarette and muttering something beneath his breath. In a matter of seconds, his fingers were crackling with a spell of defense.
Methuselah had been right about the large man’s magickal background.
“See, this is why I decided to hang around,” Francis said as he stepped from the shadows. He lit up his own smoke, casually puffing away as the cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. “That reaction to the golem skull tells me you do know something about it.”
Angus unleashed a blast of supernatural energy that arced through the air like lightning. Francis ducked, and the destructive magick struck an overflowing Dumpster, flipping it over and sending foul-smelling refuse across the alley.
The cook was gearing up to let loose another volley, but Francis was already on the move, darting across the alley to place the blade of the divine scalpel beneath the fat man’s throat.
“I don’t think we need any more spells. Do you?”
“What do you want from me?” Angus asked, eyes wide as the blade dimpled the flabby flesh beneath his chin.
“I want to know the truth about that skull,” Francis said.
Angus squeezed his eyes shut. “I told you I don’t know anything about-”
“And I’m telling you that you’re lying,” Francis interrupted coolly, pushing ever so slightly on the scalpel so that its tip entered the flesh no more than a millimeter.
Angus hissed, pulling away, but Francis and his blade followed.
“Look, I used to be an angel of the Heavenly host Guardian, and we can totally tell when somebody is lying, which you are.”
Some of the insect busboys had come outside for another round of their game. They caught sight of Francis and Angus and immediately crouched lower to the ground, clicking and buzzing, watching with their segmented eyes.
“Everything’s fine here,” Francis announced. “Go on and play your game. And watch out for that one.” He nodded toward the bug standing closest to the building. “I think he’s cheating.”
The insects reacted, as the accused bug attempted to defend himself.
“Let’s go someplace less crowded and talk,” Francis said quietly to Angus. He withdrew the blade and placed it inside the pocket of his suit coat.
Angus stumbled back with a gasp, the fat fingers of his right hand wiping at the bead of blood that seeped from the wound in his chin, while the left started to radiate with excess magickal energy.
Francis just stood there, staring at the man with unblinking eyes.
“You’re…you’re not going to kill me?” Angus wheezed.
What remained of his cigarette still dangled at the corner of his mouth, and Francis let it drop to the ground. “No, as long as you take that glowing hand you’re sporting and stick it in your pocket.”
Angus seemed to think about that for a moment, then brought the hand shining with destructive potential to his mouth and blew on it, snuffing out the power.
Francis nodded.
“I didn’t know that about Guardians,” Angus said.
Francis wasn’t sure what the man was talking about, and his confusion must have shown on his face.
“That you could tell when somebody is lying,” Angus elaborated.
Francis laughed.
“We can’t,” he said, turning to leave Methuselah’s back lot. “I lied.”
Francis marched Angus into Methuselah’s, taking a table in the far back of the tavern, the single candle in the table’s center barely keeping the encroaching shadows at bay.
A waitress with skin so pale that Francis could actually see her entire circulatory system brought them drinks. Both were having Scotch, neat. No surprise there. What else would a guy named Angus drink?
“So tell me about it,” Francis said, puffing on another cigarette.
Angus was holding the skull in his chubby, nicotine-stained fingers, staring into the dark recesses of its eye sockets.
“There’s no doubting the craftsmanship,” he replied, turning the skull around. “I didn’t want it to be so, but it all makes a twisted kind of sense now.”
He set the skull on the table and grabbed his drink, pouring it down his gullet in one gulp. Then he smacked his lips and breathed heavily, his massive chest heaving up and down.
