Francis caught the translucent waitress’s eye and motioned for another round.
“So I’m guessing you do know who made this,” Francis said, finishing his own libation.
Angus nodded, his round face glistening with perspiration in the feeble light of the candle. “Knew him, and believed myself partially responsible for his death.” He picked up his empty glass and tipped it back, as if hoping for one last drop. “Myself and the cabal.
“But this,” he said, eyeing the golem skull again, “tells me that he still lives.”
“Let’s start with who,” Francis prodded. “Who’s still alive?”
“Konrad Deacon,” Angus answered. “He was a member of a sorcerous cabal that included me and four others.”
See-through Sally returned to the table with their drinks, and Angus eagerly grabbed at his.
“Why don’t you drink that one a little slower,” Francis suggested. “I don’t want you forgetting anything important.”
The sorcerer glared, but did sip at his drink.
“There ya go,” Francis said. “Lasts longer that way, anyhow. So, tell me about this Deacon.”
“He was the youngest, and the last to be accepted into our exclusive club,” Angus recalled. “He had a gift for creating artificial life… Golems were his specialty. In fact, he gave us the knowledge to create our own. We all used them. They were great for walking the dog, doing yard work, taking out nosy reporters doing a tell-all story on one’s family.”
Francis placed his hand atop the clay skull and turned it to face him. “And you can tell that this is one of his?”
Angus nodded. “He had quite a knack. Nobody I’ve encountered since has been able to make them so realistic…so human.”
“And this somehow led to his supposed death?”
Angus paused for a moment, his drink partway to his mouth again. “In a way, perhaps,” he finally stated. “He showed great promise as a leader…until Stearns decided that he was too dangerous to live.”
“Stearns?”
“Algernon Stearns. Newspaper family. Very influential politically; has branched off into electronic media, television, and Internet. He’s extremely reclusive.”
“Oh yeah,” Francis said, vaguely familiar with the name. He remembered that one of Boston’s newer skyscrapers was owned by the family.
“At that point, Stearns was the leader of the cabal.”
“Ah,” Francis said. “Should have figured that one out.”
“Stearns convinced us that Deacon was dangerous, that he would try to usurp our power, so we did to him what we believed he would do to us: We attacked first, taking his magickal knowledge to split up among us.”
“But Deacon didn’t die.”
“We thought he had. In fact, the rest of us barely escaped with our lives that night.” Angus was staring wide-eyed into the darkness, reliving the moment. “Deacon unleashed a terrible spell. His entire home seemed to collapse in on itself and was sucked into the unholy abyss of nothingness.”
“This Deacon sounds like one powerful magick user,” Francis commented.
“We all were…and we owed it to Deacon. He showed us how to tap into the power of life…how we could use the universal force of existence to make us the most powerful magick wielders upon the planet.”
“And you tried to kill him for it,” Francis said.
“We thought we’d succeeded, but now…” Angus gazed at the skull. “The cabal eventually disbanded; petty squabbling caused us to go our separate ways…and we lost track of one another.”
Angus’ eyes shifted uneasily to Francis.
“But then I heard murmurings in the magickal community that members of the old cabal…our cabal…were turning up dead. I decided to make myself scarce, just in case.”
“Which explains why you’re cooking at Methuselah’s.”
Angus shrugged. “I’ve always liked to cook, and I needed something to do with my spare time.”
“So, you think Deacon is still alive and is hunting for you?”
“I wasn’t sure at first, but now…seeing this.” Angus gestured toward the skull with his chin, the thick wattle around his throat vibrating. “I’m convinced it’s him.”
“So I’m thinking you haven’t a clue as to where I can find this Deacon?”
Angus raised what remained of his drink. “If I knew that, he’d already be dead.” Then he downed the last of his Scotch.
Francis stood. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
Angus was eyeing the Scotch left in Francis’s glass, so he slid it across the table to him.
“Help yourself. And thanks for the information.”
As Francis started for the door, Translucent Tricia moved to intercept him with the bill.
“Put it on my tab,” he said. “And be sure to give yourself a good tip.”
Angus Heath, fortified with twenty-five-year-old Scotch, ventured out into the night, weaving a shroud of enchantment to distort his appearance and warn him of magickal attack.
He had no desire to end up like the others, whatever their fates may have been.
Passing through the heavy wooden door at the end of the path from Methuselah’s, he entered a maintenance closet in one of New Orleans’ finest restaurants. The smells of the place made him remember what it was like to eat. He breathed in the delicious aroma of gumbo and shrimp remoulade, a specialty of the house. But no matter how much he wanted to indulge, he dared not.
His body craved a different sustenance.
He had been sorely tempted by the life energy emanating from the fallen angel and had almost reached out to sample his tainted divinity. But something had stopped him, telling him it wouldn’t be wise. He remembered the scalpel of light and how easily the angel had wielded it, as if it were an extension of his body. No, he was glad he had shown restraint.
He left the restaurant and began wandering the nearly vacant, rain-swept streets of the French Quarter. His home was located on Royal Street. A big, old, three-story American town house he’d converted to his needs over the many years he’d lived there. To the average eye, the place appeared unlived-in, but looks could be deceiving. Angus couldn’t count the number of times he’d glanced out the window of his second-floor bedroom to see people crossing themselves as they passed.
Angus climbed the steps to his front door, waved a hand before the lock, and listened as the mechanisms within changed their configuration and slowly the door swung open to grant him entrance.
It was dark inside, so he clapped his hands together, igniting the lamps that hung from the walls-lamps that contained the nearly developed souls of the aborted. It was surprising how much light they could generate.
That special hunger was gnawing at him now and he could think of nothing other than sustenance. He hauled his bulk up the stairs to his second-floor living quarters, but he did not stop there, continuing on to the third level, where he stored his food.
The hunger grew with the exertion of the climb, and he was nearly beyond insatiable as he let himself into his larder. He liked to keep it full, receiving frequent shipments of teenage boys and girls from a special supplier. The cost was outrageous, but on nights such as this, when the hunger was like a thing alive inside him, screaming to be satisfied, it was worth double the price.
He rushed inside the room and froze.
Nothing could have prepared him for this.
They were all dead, his beautiful young adults, strewn haphazardly about the room, their life forces silenced, leaving behind nothing but empty husks.
Something moved, and Angus immediately began to summon a spell of combat. But then a familiar voice called out to him.
“Angus. Is that you?”
“Algernon?” Angus lowered his guard. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’ve been looking for you,” the onetime leader of the cabal stated. “To warn you…”
“It’s Deacon,” Angus said excitedly. “Konrad Deacon is alive and seeking revenge.”
“Deacon, you say?”
