He wanted to be the greatest of them all, as did his weapon. They would be legendary in the annals of their demon sect. Their number of kills would be in the multitudes, and they would remember each and every one, each death a step in achieving the greatness for which they had been born.
But the Bone Master was getting ahead of himself; there were still many kills in his future, and his journey would continue with this latest.
There was movement from the dwelling, and the Master quickly changed his position, weapon at the ready.
The female stepped out from behind the door, the four-legged pet on a leash, tail wagging excitedly as they headed out on another walk.
The Bone Master’s eyes were following the pair, when the animal suddenly stopped, turning his snout to the air and beginning to sniff. It growled and barked, trying to pull the female across the street toward the tree where the assassin waited, concealed.
The Bone Master tensed, his weapon vibrating with the potential to deliver death. He reached up to his mouth, gripped one of his pointed teeth, and with a vicious twist and pull, removed the ammunition. He did this, again and again, loading the weapon. Finally he slid the last tooth into the weapon, and feeling its acceptance, waited to see whether its use would be necessary.
The woman spoke harshly to the animal, yanking him back to the other side of the street and reining him in. They then continued down the street, the dog trying to turn back, until they rounded the corner and were gone.
The weapon’s disappointment buzzed in his mind, and he reassured it that the chance to inflict death would be awarded soon enough.
It was just a matter of time, and patience.
And to achieve the greatness that was to be their destiny, they would have to have plenty of both.
Remy moved farther away from the car so he could have some privacy.
“I don’t have a clue. Maybe he saw something in the tree?” Remy suggested into the phone. He was speaking to Linda, who was complaining about Marlowe’s bad behavior on their walk.
“Well, tell him that you’re going to bring him to the pound if he gives you any more trouble,” Remy told her jokingly. “And tell him that I told you to do it.”
Remy chuckled as he heard her do just that, and then heard the sound of Marlowe barking wildly in protest.
His eyes wandered around his surroundings, and he felt his momentary lightheartedness quickly dispelled by the grim pall that seemed to hang over the dilapidated factory structure.
Linda then told him that Marlowe was mad, laughing as she did this. And then came the inevitable question of when he was coming home. Remy wanted to be there with her and Marlowe right then, would have loved to say fuck it to the whole current situation, but he knew that he could do no such thing.
A timer was ticking away, and it was attached to something akin to an atomic bomb, only worse. At least an atomic bomb would be quick.
“I’m really not sure,” he told her, glancing over to the car, and at Malatesta, who was leaning against it, watching the building with an unwavering eye, waiting for something to happen.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise.”
Suddenly they weren’t alone. More cars approached, headlights blazing as they carefully made their way down the severely damaged stretch of road that would bring them to the factory.
Malatesta had turned, and was looking toward him. It must have been time.
“Listen, I have to go,” Remy told Linda.
She told him to be safe, and not to worry about them, that they were doing just fine.
He then joked about what might have been hiding in that tree. They had a good laugh, and she told him that his dog was likely insane.
“All right, I gotta go,” he said, not wanting to, but knowing that he must. His only consolation was that the quicker he figured out who was responsible for killing the general, the faster that he could get back to her.
They both ended the call with “I love you,” and Remy tucked those feelings away for when he could appreciate them. For love would be seriously out of place where he and Malatesta were going.
“Everything all right?” Malatesta asked, standing beside the car.
Remy opened the passenger door of the Ferrari and placed his phone in the glove compartment. He doubted that he would need it where they were going, and didn’t want to lose yet another phone.
They had parked in a deep patch of shadow, away from the fence that had been erected around the abandoned factory grounds.
A quick Google search back in Rhode Island had shown that Prometheus Arms in Bridgeport, Connecticut, had been one of the biggest producers of guns on the East Coast for at least twenty-five years before eventually shutting down in the early eighties.
The place had a history of safety violations that spanned most of its existence. The old place had seen a lot of death and pain in its day.
It was no wonder that it was the chosen location for the charnel house to appear.
“It seems that we are not the only ones to use this particular entrance,” Malatesta said.
They watched from the shadows as figures left their vehicles, walking toward the fence that surrounded the abandoned building.
“We might want to get ready,” Remy said, watching as the first of the individuals reached the padlocked, chained gate. Within moments, the rusted chain had fallen with a loose jingle to the ground, and the gate had swung wide to allow all of them access.
Malatesta had closed his eyes, and was mumbling something entirely alien sounding beneath his breath. Remy took notice of the fact that the flesh of his face had begun to tremble violently, so violently that the movement created a kind of blurry aura that began to spread from his neck, to his shoulders, and downward.
Within minutes the Vatican sorcerer had transformed himself into the angel, Aszrus.
“Impressive,” Remy said, walking around the sorcerer to see the entire package. “It would fool me.”
“Let’s just hope that it’s good enough to get us inside,” Malatesta answered, straightening his suit coat, and adjusting his tie.
“We’ll never know until we try,” Remy said, gesturing for the magick user to proceed.
The two of them walked toward the doors of Prometheus Arms, and into the arms of the unknown.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Prosper could barely recall what he had once been, and was the happier for it.
He vaguely recalled Heaven in faded fragments, visions that would come to him in tattered images when he had imbibed to excess.
But what followed Heaven were the memories that proved more distinct—the tortures of Tartarus, the prison where angels who had sided with the Morningstar were incarcerated, forced to relive their sins against God until deemed worthy of release. But once freed, Heaven was still denied those angels; instead they were forced to continue their penance on the world of God’s favorite pets, humanity.
He had found the world of man to be cruel and decadent, but he’d managed to build a life for himself far away from the fragmented memories of Heaven. Prosper had built his own paradise in the hundreds of years he’d been exiled, and gladly let the recollections of God’s kingdom slip away.
It was the vices that he learned to exploit, the twisted pleasures enjoyed not only by man, but the other supernatural beings that had found themselves upon the Earth. His places of forbidden pleasures—his dens of inequity—were the bane of his rivals. None could offer what he did, and the human, as well as the unearthly,
