He turned on the bed and grabbed the object wrapped in his coat.
“The last time the guy called, he told me go out to an abandoned farm for a meeting,” Remy said as he carefully unwrapped the clay skull.
“What’ve you got there?” Francis finished his smoke, and, not finding an ashtray, pinched the tip and dropped the remains on the carpeted floor.
“I was attacked by these artificial beings,” Remy explained as he showed the skull to his friend. “They appeared to be human, but when they got their hands on me, they began to siphon off my life energies.”
“And this head belongs to one of them?”
“Yeah. Most of them left after nearly draining me dry. This one stayed behind to finish me off.”
“So you were set up,” Francis commented, taking the skull from Remy for a closer look.
“Looks like it.”
“So how do you know that Ashley is still alive?”
“Don’t even think that,” Remy snapped.
“I know it’s tough to hear, but you’ve got to think of this from all the angles. If one of this guy’s creature flunkies tried to kill you-or drain you dry, or whatever the fuck it was doing-then your contact could already have gotten rid of her.”
“No. He wants something from me,” Remy said firmly.
“Then why try to off you?”
“I don’t get it, either. But there was something he said in our last conversation about needing to know that I was actually what he thought I was. Why the need to verify if he just wanted me dead?”
Francis was still holding the skull, but stared at Remy. “You know you’re clutching at straws.”
“It’s all I’ve got right now, which is why I gave you a call. Any idea what that thing is?” Remy nodded toward the skull.
“Some kind of artificial life-form-a homunculus or golem-likely created by a pretty powerful magick user, but that’s all I’ve got to contribute.” Francis hefted the skull. “What the fuck is it made out of, anyway?”
“I think it’s clay.”
“Wonder if it has a brain, or something that functions like one,” Francis mused.
“I have no idea,” Remy answered. “Why would you…”
Francis reached into his jacket pocket to remove what looked to be a glowing scalpel, its blade seemingly made from light.
“Did you get that from…,” Remy began.
“Yeah, took it from Malachi,” Francis said casually. “Right after I put a bullet in his head.”
Malachi had been one of the first angels created by the Lord God and had helped the Creator design many of the forms of life that had first appeared on the earth. The blade was his most prized tool.
“What are you going to do with it?” Remy asked Francis.
“If there’s a brain, or something like it, inside this skull, I’m going to use the scalpel to see what I can find out. You’d be amazed at what an all-purpose tool this is. I can see any memories stored inside there, and, if I want to, I can cut them out. You watch: All the kids will be screaming for one of these this Christmas.”
Francis plunged the blade down into the hardened clay of the cranium and closed his eyes as he took a deep breath. “Oh yeah,” he said. “No brain, per se, but there is information stored here.”
The jaw of the skull suddenly sprang open, and Francis pulled back the scalpel, dropping the skull to the floor.
“Shit,” he exclaimed, as a thick, black smoke billowed from the mouth.
Remy quickly stood, but the smoke didn’t spread. Instead, it formed a writhing cloud in the air before them.
“That’s different,” Francis said.
Remy saw that his friend had put away the scalpel and had now drawn a gun from inside his jacket, a gun that Remy had seen before-a gun that had once belonged to the Morningstar.
“Remy Chandler,” said the gravelly voice that he recognized as the one he had heard over his cell phone.
“I’m here,” Remy said, looking from his friend to the undulating mass of gray.
“If you wish to see the girl alive…”
“One of your…things already tried to kill me,” Remy interrupted. “Why should I trust anything you have to say now?”
“An unplanned misfortune,” the voice explained. “My creations sometimes have strong attachments to memories that do not belong to them, which in turn cause problems with their function. That was the case in your situation, and I apologize.”
Remy glanced at Francis to find him staring at the cloud, his finger twitching on the trigger of the gun that was once named the Pitiless.
“In any case, you will do as I instruct, or the girl-beautiful, vivacious Ashley-will meet a fate that I wouldn’t wish on your dog.”
Remy was taken aback by the acknowledgment of Marlowe.
“Get on with it,” he snarled, angered that the voice knew so much, and he so little.
“You will come when you are called,” the voice said. “And you will come alone.”
Remy waited for more, but there was nothing. The roiling smoke collapsed in on itself, gradually receding back into the open mouth of the skull like some enormously long tongue.
“I guess it told you,” Francis said, putting the gun away.
“It did, at that.” Remy’s eyes were still on the skull as Francis bent to retrieve it.
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I really don’t have a choice,” Remy replied. “I wait until I’m called.”
“Figured that’d be your answer.” Francis pushed past him into the bathroom, returning with a towel in which he wrapped the skull.
“And what are you going to do with that?” Remy asked.
“I’m gonna to take it to somebody who knows about these things,” Francis answered. “I doubt that making something like this is easy. Maybe someone in the know might be able to narrow down the playing field.”
Remy nodded, liking what he was hearing. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, thought you would.” Francis put the towel-wrapped skull under his arm. “Even though it’s probably a waste of time.”
“Don’t say it,” Remy said firmly.
“Hey, you know me,” Francis said. “Always the voice of reason. Guys that can do shit like this usually play by their own rules.”
“So I’ll play by his rules until…,” Remy said.
“Until?”
“Until it’s time to play by mine.”
Francis nodded slowly as he turned his back on Remy. A section of air in front of him started to shimmer, like the reflective surface of a pond caressed by the wind. “I’ll give you a call if I learn anything,” he shot over his shoulder. Then he reached out with his free hand to tear away the vibrating section of air, ripping a hole in the very fabric of reality.
Remy could only stare as his friend entered the passage he’d summoned, and the wound in time and space quickly healed behind him.
Francis had never been able to do that before.
Remy was aware of the passage of time by the movement of the shadows beneath the drawn window shades. He watched the shadows grow stronger, bolder, pooling in patches around the room, growing in strength as the daylight surrendered its supremacy once again to the inevitable night.
He had switched off the lamp after Francis had departed, preferring the solitude of darkness. Carol Berg had called repeatedly, but he did not pick up. He couldn’t bear to speak with her now.
He couldn’t let her know that this was all because of him. All he could do now was sit and wait.
And do everything in his power to make things right.
Remy’s eyes fell on a deepening stain of black on the closet door. There was something about the shadow and the swiftness with which it seemed to move across the wooden surface, blotting out the slats as it flowed down to the floor like dripping ink.
Remy stood and cautiously approached the door, feeling the cold radiating from the area. This is it, he thought as he reached out for the door, not surprised to feel nothing beneath his fingertips but cool air. A passage had been opened for him, and he did as he was expected to do, stepping into the blackness.
The entrance gradually constricted and closed behind him, leaving him standing alone in a world composed entirely of shades of darkness. He turned slowly, attempting to get his bearings. Every one of his senses was alive, searching for something, anything, to take hold of. The place smelled of cool dampness, like an old basement, and that strange hollow sound he had heard over the phone was carried in the air.