“I’m sure that—”
“I don’t think you do,” the disguised sorcerer said, stepping in close to the animated dead man.
“Sir, we must have the proper verification of all guests before—”
“He is Remiel, of the host Seraphim,” Malatesta spoke in his most booming voice. “One of Heaven’s finest warriors, who fought by my side during the Great War with the Morningstar.”
The zombie looked away from the general to fix Remy in a milky stare.
“I don’t like to brag,” Remy said with a smile and a shrug of modesty.
“I believe that is all you really need to know,” Malatesta said.
The zombie looked as though he might continue the argument, but thought better of it.
“That’s more than sufficient,” the zombie said, with a nod to the general. “Enjoy your evening, General.”
He turned his dead gaze to Remy.
“And you as well, sir.”
The doorman then looked away from both of them, before something else could arise, and began to speak with those who were lined up behind them.
“Are we going in?” Malatesta asked of him.
“I guess we are,” Remy said, following the form of the angel general through the doorway and into the building.
Remy could feel it immediately, his location shifting from the Prometheus Arms building to someplace else completely.
“Did you feel that?” Malatesta asked quietly.
“I certainly did,” Remy replied.
They were suddenly standing in front of two enormous double doors, intricately carved with depictions of various sexual acts, vases of flowers, and fruit.
“Tasteful,” Remy said.
Malatesta’s eyes seemed transfixed as they moved over the surface of the dark wood.
Remy reached for the door handles and immediately felt the pulsing beat of blaring music from the other side tickling the flesh of his hands.
“This should be good,” he said, moving the handles down, and pushing the doors open to allow them inside.
It was like a sensory attack, the music loud, with voices raised in conversation and laughter heard over throbbing dance tunes. The air was thick with the smell of cigar and cigarette smoke, as well as anything else that could be rolled and puffed upon. And there was also the smell of hundreds of sweating bodies, eager to do—or continue to do—what they came to this sinful place for.
The lights were turned down low, casting just about everything in thick, liquid shadow as Remy and Malatesta moved from the doorway and into the writhing crowd.
The room was cavernous with small alcoves in the walls, where people, and things not of the earth, were enjoying themselves in as many ways as one could, or could not conceive.
A woman holding a silver tray of drinks approached who she believed to be General Aszrus and with a sly smile handed him a golden goblet of something. Malatesta accepted the offering, and Remy watched as the woman stood upon her toes to kiss the angel’s cheek. A faint glimpse of her tongue showed as she quickly licked the side of his face, before continuing on with her tray of drinks.
Malatesta casually looked in Remy’s direction, goblet in hand, and raised it.
There was a brief pause in the music, before a new tune that sounded pretty much like what had already been playing began. Remy made his way through the lingering crowds, many of whom were locked in what appeared to be heated conversations. Every form of life that he had ever encountered in his long existence was represented here: angels and devils, beast-men, and vampires. There were things that he’d previously only glimpsed from the corners of his eyes, and had wondered whether they were even real.
And they were here, and partying hardy at the Rapture.
Remy became aware of a presence staring at him close by, and turned to look into the face of a very attractive woman. She, too, was holding a serving tray.
“Drink?” she asked him.
“What do you have?”
“What do you like?”
“How about a scotch on the rocks,” Remy said, leaning in close so that she would hear him over the racket disguised as music.
She lowered the tray and moved her hand over a glass filled with ice. There was a crackle of white energy and the glass was filled with what he had asked for.
Remy was impressed, but didn’t want to let on.
She handed him his drink with a lingering look and a grin, and angled her way back into the crowd, on to her next customer.
The scotch was good, really good, he noticed as he stopped for a sip while searching the sea of faces and bodies for a sign of Malatesta.
Remy saw that he was standing within one of the sunken alcoves locked in what appeared to be a rather intimate conversation with a woman clad in a black leather jumpsuit, its zipper pulled down past her navel.
Navigating the crowd, Remy made his way toward them, catching Malatesta’s eye as he approached.
“Ah, here he is now,” Remy heard the sorcerer say.
The woman looked in his direction and smiled predatorily.
“Hello there,” she said. He was surprised that she wasn’t licking her lips as she gave him the once- over.
“Hi,” Remy said.
“This is Morgan,” Malatesta said. “She and I enjoy each other’s company.”
“Oh you do?” Remy said. “Is she one of the ones you were telling me about?” He sipped his drink, gazing over the rim of his glass at the woman, who covered her mouth demurely as she laughed.
“It’s not polite to talk to your friends about our personal business,” Morgan said to Malatesta, wagging a scarlet-nailed finger.
He chuckled, sipping from his goblet. Remy wondered what the golden cup contained, and whether it was healthy for the sorcerer to be drinking.
“He didn’t tell me much,” Remy interjected, causing the woman to turn her attention to him. “Only the juicy parts.”
He imagined Linda hearing him speak like that, and the beating that would have followed.
Morgan laughed, gliding closer to him.
“And how did he describe my juicy parts?” the woman asked without even cracking a smile. He was amazed that she had the ability to say something like that and not start laughing.
“Spectacularly?” Remy suggested, taking a long sip from his drink.
“Sounds about right,” Morgan said, and entwined her arm with his, leading him from the alcove. “Why don’t we go someplace where you can judge for yourself?”
Remy turned to see that Malatesta had been approached by yet another employee of Rapture. It appeared that the general was quite familiar with, and popular among, the staff of the charnel house.
“Don’t worry about him,” Morgan said, squeezing his arm. “She’s almost as good as I am.”
And as they walked, the crowds moved aside, like Charlton Heston as Moses, parting the Red Sea, leading his people to salvation.
Remy doubted that there would be anything even slightly reminiscent of salvation to be found at the end of this journey.
“I swear he’s gotten heavier,” Montagin said with exertion, holding on to Aszrus’ shoulders as they maneuvered the angel general’s corpse through the opening Francis had slit in reality from his basement
