Marlowe, on the other hand, was sitting before the demon’s table, looking as pretty as could be, tail wagging happily—the perfect example of a good dog who deserved a piece, or two, or three, of somebody’s onion appetizer. It was obvious that Marlowe really wasn’t picking up on the hostility.
“Marlowe, no,” Remy commanded.
The Labrador looked his way with that perfectly simple look, drool trailing from the sides of his grinning maw.
“You know it’s not polite to beg,” Remy scolded.
“
Pointed spines had begun to emerge from the demon’s pale flesh, their tips, dangerously sharp, dripping with moisture.
“There’s no need for that,” Remy said to the demon, his voice booming.
Methuselah’s became deathly quiet as all eyes turned to Remy and conversation stopped. Obviously they’d had no idea there would be entertainment this night.
The demon cocked its head strangely, studying Remy. It had no nose, but Remy could see some form of a sensory organ, pulsing beneath the wet skin that was pulled tight across the angular skull of its horrible face.
“You should pay better attention to your pet,” the demon said. Its voice sounded as pleasant as fingernails being dragged down a blackboard.
“I know; I’m sorry about that,” Remy said with as much honesty as he could muster.
The Seraphim was still awake, and it rose to the situation.
“Sometimes his belly gets the better of him,” Remy said goodnaturedly. “We’re sorry to have disturbed your meal.”
He was about to call Marlowe away again, but the demon had other things in mind.
“This cur invaded my personal space,” it screeched, turning its attention back to Marlowe, who had remained sitting, still staring at the untouched fried onion in the middle of the table. “I am within my rights to harm it.”
And then the demon did a very bad thing. It extended its long, bony index finger, one of the dripping poison quills pointed directly at Marlowe’s face.
And for that, the Seraphim emerged.
Remy’s body erupted in light, the human flesh that he wore on the verge of being shed. Remy could barely restrain the divine power that had bubbled to the surface of his humanity, ready to cast it aside and lay waste to this loathsome being.
“Stay your hand, wretch,” the angel Remiel ordered, the power of his words and the radiance of his presence causing the demon to cry out in pain. It dropped to the floor of the tavern, averting its sensitive eyes from the light of Heaven.
In the light cast by his angelic frame, Remy could see the reaction that his actions had caused. The patrons of Methuselah’s looked upon him with expressions of fear and awe, the glory of his form forcing the shadows from every nook and cranny, and filling them with the Almighty’s resplendent light.
And then he saw something that didn’t seem to belong in a place such as this; in a far corner, now cleansed of concealing shadow, two fearsome angels of Heaven—of the Retriever host— tensed for conflict.
They were clad in the awesome armor of their class, and all Remy could think of was a stealth bomber, ready to lay waste to an enemy and its territories. Their eyes were cold, and their exposed flesh resembled the surface of glacial ice.
These were the personification of God’s intensity, His desire to reclaim any and all that had been taken from Him.
Sensing the potential for escalating violence, Remy pulled back upon his holy essence, tucking it fitfully away before matters could get out of hand.
His flesh tingled like the aftereffects of a severe sunburn, but his humanity remained intact.
As his divine light was extinguished, the darkness wasted no time in rushing back to flood the secret corners, swallowing up the mysteries that had momentarily been exposed.
He’d worn out his welcome at Methuselah’s.
The patrons continued to watch him with equal parts fear and hostility. Marlowe, on the other hand, sat, completely unfazed by the activity around him, his eyes still fixed on the prize on the table.
“You know dogs can’t have onions,” Remy said, grabbing his collar and pulling him away.
The demon cowered on the floor, a foul-smelling fluid leaking from its moist, almost luminescent flesh.
“Never threaten a man’s dog,” Remy said to the trembling thing. Then, holding on to Marlowe’s collar, Remy escorted the Labrador back to the bar where Methuselah watched.
“Sorry about that,” Remy said, but the golem remained quiet. “What do I owe you for the Scotch?” Remy asked, using his free hand to fish his wallet from his back pocket.
Methuselah held up his blocky hand. “It’s on the house,” he said with a rumble of stone against stone.
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Remy said. He pulled a business card from his wallet and laid it on top of the superclean wooden bar.
The golem reached for it, delicately picking it up.
“If you should hear anything or think of anything about those marks I mentioned, give me a call.”
Sliding the card inside his vest pocket, Methuselah nodded. “Will do.”
Marlowe in tow, Remy started for the door, still feeling the eyes of the tavern upon him.
The minotaur stood up from its chair by the door, giving Remy the hairy eyeball as it opened the door for them.
“Sorry for the commotion,” Remy said again, loud enough for Methuselah and the remaining patrons to hear.
And the minotaur slammed closed the heavy tavern door behind Remy and Marlowe with a good-riddance-to-bad-rubbish kind of grunt.
CHAPTER NINE
Delilah was exhausted from her travels, but she would not rest until the object was finally in her possession.
And if she could not rest, neither would those who served her.
Clifton Poole had been set up in his own room and given everything he could possibly need in order to lead them to her prize.
So far his attempts at divining its location had not borne the kind of results she had hoped for, and she prayed this morning would be different.
She strolled down the corridor of her new Boston home, high heels clicking upon the meticulously cared-for hardwood floors. She knew she was being followed and deliberately slowed her pace, then turned to confront a woman in a navy blue suit.
“Who are you?” she asked in a powerful voice that reverberated down the sprawling corridor.
“I’m so sorry for disturbing you,” the woman said, cowering beneath Delilah’s gaze. “I’m Ms. Burnett. . Janice Burnett. . I. . I brought you to this house.”
Delilah smiled. “Of course, Ms. Burnett.”
She looked up and down the corridor, at the beautiful religious murals painted on the walls. The estate, once owned by the Archdiocese of Boston, had been put on the market to help pay restitution to the victims of the recent clerical sex abuse scandals.
Their loss was her gain.
“You’ve served me well,” Delilah said to the young woman.
Ms. Burnett looked as though the weight of the planet had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. “Oh, thank you,” she said, tears beginning to flow from her eyes. “You don’t know what that means to me.”
But Delilah knew exactly what it meant; how special it was to serve her. All it had taken was one conversation with the Boston real estate agent for her to realize how much she had wanted to please Delilah.
Ms. Burnett rushed down the corridor and dropped to her knees in front of Delilah. “I. . I didn’t know if you were happy. . if I had pleased you,” she said, reaching for Delilah’s ring-covered hand, lovingly kissing it.
Delilah pulled her hand away, startling the woman.
“I’m pleased,” she said. “For now.”
Burnett stared up at her with wide, desperate eyes.
“What else can I do for you?” she begged. “Ask me anything. . I’ll do anything to. .”
“Go,” Delilah said with a wave of her hand. “I have other concerns that demand my fullest attention.” She turned her back on the groveling woman and continued on down the hall to Poole’s room.
She rapped loudly on his door with one of her rings. “Mr. Poole,” she called out, pulling a key from the pocket of her slacks.
She opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was dark, and it stank of stale sweat and bodily waste.
Delilah fumbled on the wall to the right of the door, searching for the light switch. Finding it, she flipped it up, and a chandelier brilliantly illuminated the room.
Poole screamed, his naked body appearing pale and malnourished in the light as he hunched over his work upon the floor.
Had she given him permission to eat? Delilah couldn’t remember, but that was the least of her concerns at the moment.
The Hound dipped his fingers into a bucket of his own waste and drew feverishly upon the hardwood floor.
She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Mr. Poole,” she announced, trying not to breathe in the foul aroma.
“I’m trying,” he screamed.
His work was elaborate; a map, covering a good eighty percent of the floor inside the nearly barren room, and she was certain it would soon encompass even more than that.
“But when I get close. .”
He started to scream, his body thrashing upon the floor as if electricity were being pumped through him. Then just as suddenly, he seemed to recover, crab walking across the floor to a stack of atlases and maps piled in the corner.
The metal child vessel, which had once contained the object of her desire, sat there as well, arms outstretched.
“Do you have anything, Mr. Poole?” she asked, fearing his answer.
He ignored her, scratching at his filthy genitalia, before snatching a road map from the floor and unfolding it to its fullest. He practically lay upon it, pressing his face to the elaborate cartography, as he muttered unintelligibly.
He reached out and dragged the empty vessel closer, holding it in his arms, as he studied the map, licking the metal container’s head with a thickly coated tongue.
