He glanced up at the large man, noting the surprise on his face.
“Guess I am nice,” Francis said with a grin.
“Huh,” the man said as he hooked a thumb, gesturing for Francis to head inside.
It was dark in the Pelican Club, the room lit by a few bare bulbs on a wire that stretched across the wooden ceiling. It was more crowded than Francis expected, as folks were standing around in small groups and others sipped refreshments from jelly jars at tables positioned in pockets of shadow throughout the room. There was a makeshift bar—three two-by-fours laid across two cracker barrels—and it called to him.
Francis asked the barkeep if he had any gin, and the man just laughed, pouring him a jelly jar of something from a brown jug that he pulled up from the floor.
“This’ll do,” Francis said as he paid for his drink. He returned the man’s smile and brought the glass to his lips, taking a sip. The moonshine burned as it went down, and he let it. He liked the warm feel of the illegal whiskey. If he’d wanted to, he could have shut it all down, canceling out the effects of the alcohol with just a thought.
But where was the fun in that?
Francis leaned on the bar and scanned the room, looking for his target. He saw no one who matched the image the Thrones had placed in his brain, but if they said the target would be here, it would be. All Francis had to do was relax, have himself a drink or two, and wait.
He found an old stool against a wall and sat. It was a strange place for the Thrones to have sent him; there wasn’t a renegade angel or supernatural being to be found, just some poor folks looking to let off a little steam.
Francis finished his drink and slid off his stool to get another.
“Hit me again,” he told the barkeep, handing him the empty jelly jar.
“Still want that gin?” the man asked, pouring more of the whiskey from the jug into the glass.
“What’s gin?” Francis asked.
The barkeep got a big kick out of that, laughing up a storm.
Francis stayed by the bar this time, deciding that he’d like to share the company of the man tending the bar. He looked like a good egg, and good eggs were hard to come by these days.
“Never seen you in here before,” the barkeep commented as he poured a drink for a little old lady who looked as though she could be on her way to church services.
“That’s because I’ve never been here before,” Francis answered.
The barkeep nodded, and then held out his hand. “Name’s Melvin,” he said.
Francis stared at the hand for a moment before taking it firmly in his.
“Francis,” he said as the two shook.
“So, what do you think of the Pelican?” Melvin asked, taking some more jelly jars from a wooden crate and placing them on top of the bar.
“Nice,” Francis said as he took a short sip of the white lightning. “I imagine it helps people forget their problems for a while.”
“It certainly does that,” Melvin said. “And it puts some money in my pocket.”
Francis looked at the barkeep over the rim of his glass. “Is this place yours?”
“It is,” Melvin said. “I pay the man who used to own the general store here a slight fee for the use of his premises, but I maintain the place, keep the jugs full, and bring in the entertainment.”
“Entertainment?” Francis laughed. “You’ve got entertainment here?”
“I sure do,” Melvin said. “Don’t tell me you never heard of the Swamp Angel?” he asked incredulously.
Francis shook his head.
“Then you’re about to now,” Melvin said. “She’s comin’ on as soon as the band is ready.” The barkeep gestured with his chin to an area where a sheet had been strung like a curtain. Francis could see some men and their instruments taking their places on a makeshift stage.
The crowd gradually started to notice as well, clapping as the men sat down on old chairs and stools and began to tune up their musical instruments. There was a very thin fiddle player, a guy who easily could have tipped the scales at three hundred pounds with an old bowler hat on top of his big head and a beat-up guitar in his lap, and a third man at an old piano.
Instruments tuned, the musicians gave one another a look that said they were ready and the place became eerily quiet.
Then from behind the curtain she stepped, a striking woman wearing a simple white dress that smacked of being handmade. She wore no jewelry or makeup. Her skin was like mahogany, and Francis wasn’t sure whether he’d ever seen in the flesh a creature quite so beautiful. She stood on the small stage, looking out over the silent audience, and he was reminded of a scared little animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.
For a moment, he thought she might take off, jumping from the stage and heading out the door in sheer terror, but he watched as she took a couple of deep breaths and looked at the smiles of the three men who were ready to accompany her. Slowly she nodded.
The men began to play, and she began to sing.
Francis had heard the celestial choirs of Heaven, but they couldn’t hold a candle to what he was hearing now. He stood statue still, whiskey in hand, with no urge to drink it. All he wanted to do was listen as the woman—the Swamp Angel—sang from the very depths of her soul and, in turn, touched every single soul in the room.
It was a shame he was going to have to kill her.
Francis left the memory of Louisiana and the sweet, sweet sound of the Swamp Angel’s voice, and returned to Hell.
Louisiana? he questioned as he slowly emerged from the mire of unconsciousness. I’ve never been to fucking Louisiana . . . especially not during the Depression.
But he had. He just hadn’t remembered until the crazy angel that had saved him stuck a knife into his brain.
The former Guardian opened his eyes with a pathetic yelp, recalling the feeling of the glowing blade as it violated his skull.
He was on his back facing the ceiling of the cave, stalagmites—or were they stalactites? He never could remember—hanging down. He tried to move, but couldn’t.
Again he heard the rumbling sounds of Hell changing somewhere off in the distance, and he knew he was still a guest in the Magick Kingdom.
Francis tried to move again, and this time realized that his wrists and ankles were bound by thick leather restraints.
“What the fuck?” he said aloud, his voice sounding weird as it bounced around the confines of the cave.
Fighting a wave of dizziness, he lifted his head for a better view of his surroundings. His stomach flipped, threatening to make him yak up his insides, but he really hadn’t eaten anything since . . . When was the last time he had eaten? How long had he been in Hell? Time moved differently here; it could have been days, or maybe even months.
What I wouldn’t give for a Hot Pocket about now.
Through bleary eyes he saw the angel. His back was to him, and he appeared to be working, standing in front of a slab of black rock that seemed to have grown up out of the floor. And there was somebody else . . . someone who looked to be in even worse shape than Francis lying atop the slab. The Hellion was curled in a tight ball of nastiness at the angel’s feet.
“Hey,” Francis squeaked, his throat tight and dry.
“You’re awake,” the angel commented, continuing to work.
The Hell beast lifted its obscene head and hissed.
“Let me just finish here and I’ll be right with you,” said the angel.
Then he dropped something wet and red. It plopped to the floor of the cave with a spatter, and the Hellion reacted immediately, snatching it up into its awful mouth, chewing eagerly.
“Glad you won’t be needing that anymore,” the angel said with a chuckle to the being laid out before him.
Then he turned to face Francis. The front of the angel’s robes, already filthy with the dirt and soot of Hell, were now spattered with blood. He held his glowing blade in a relaxed hand, and Francis again recalled the agony as it had entered his head.