“As long as I decide to play along,” Remy stated.
Deacon smiled as he reached for a silver bell to the right of his plate. “Exactly.”
He rang the bell, and the doors into the dining room swiftly opened. Servants of clay filed into the room, pushing various carts that Remy guessed were carrying dinner.
Deacon’s son stood up in his seat, watching with wild eyes as the clay servant placed a silver-lidded tray in the center of the table. The boy began to grunt and howl.
There was something not quite right about this child.
“Sit, Teddy,” Deacon commanded, and the child squatted atop his seat, eyes still fixed on the covered tray.
A tureen of soup was placed on the table next, followed by smaller trays of what Remy thought might be steaming vegetables. He’d never seen anything quite like them before.
“Harvested on the land outside the estate,” Deacon commented. “My recollection is that they taste a bit like mushrooms, but it has been quite some time since solid food has entered my system.”
One of the clay servants reached across the table, removing the silver cover over the main course. Remy had no idea what he was looking at. It resembled a turkey, but he’d never seen any form of fowl that sported six limbs.
“Also from the property surrounding the estate?” he asked, knowing what the answer would be.
“Shot it myself,” Scrimshaw said proudly. “One of the few critters here that I can kill with a single shot.”
Teddy sprang up and lunged across the table, tearing off one of the animal’s limbs and jamming it into his mouth.
“Manners, Teddy. Manners,” Deacon reminded.
A servant began cutting away slices of the strange gray meat and placing them on a serving tray.
“Help yourself, Mr. Chandler,” Deacon offered.
“I’m afraid I’m not very hungry at the moment, Mr. Deacon.” Remy looked from the meal to his host. “I believe we have business to discuss.”
Deacon continued to watch as the slices of meat were cut from the beast.
“Give the young lady a slice, Godfrey,” Deacon instructed the clay man.
Godfrey used the knife and a large fork to place a slice of the meat upon Ashley’s plate. Remy was surprised to see her pick up her knife and fork and begin to eat. She’d recently forgone most meat in favor of a predominantly vegetarian diet. His concern for her was growing.
The doors swung open again, and two normal-looking people, a man and a woman, came into the room. There was nothing odd about them at first, but Remy was quickly reminded of the five that had attacked him at the farm.
“I do not partake of solid foods, although I do still require sustenance,” Deacon explained as the two people stood beside him. “Do you mind?”
“Go right ahead,” Remy said, curious as to what would follow.
The pair began to unbutton their shirts. Scrimshaw moved up behind his master’s chair and reached down to the back of the exoskeleton, pulling up two long, black cords, each with a very long, very sharp-looking needle attached. Without any hesitation, he turned and plunged one of the needles into the man’s chest; the other into the woman’s.
“Bon appetit,” Scrimshaw muttered, fiddling with something on the back of Deacon’s brace.
A hum began to resonate through the room, growing steadily louder.
“Ahhhhh,” Deacon groaned, eyes partially closed. “These are particularly ripe.”
The humming sound continued as Deacon opened his eyes and turned his attention to his guest.
“You’re probably as curious about me as I am of you,” the old man began. “My condition, as you see it here, is a result of my experimentation with life energies, specifically a test where I tried-and succeeded-in collecting the life force of the thousands slain by the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. Unfortunately, it left my body dramatically altered and it didn’t take me long to realize that I needed the energy of living things to continue my own life.”
Deacon nodded toward the pair standing beside him, steel needles protruding from their bare chests. “This is how I harvest the energy I need to survive,” he explained. “They are an advanced version of golem I have managed to perfect over the years. I bundled both science and sorcery to create artificial beings-vessels, if you will-that can walk among the citizenry, able to collect and store samples of people’s life energies without their notice. Once they are filled, they return here and allow me to dine upon their bounty.”
Deacon leaned his head back against the chair. Although the brace around his neck prevented his body from totally relaxing, the pleasure of feeding was clear on his face. Remy watched him for a moment, then realized that he appeared healthier, his cheeks flushed with a new vitality.
Younger.
“How does all of this explain why you took Ashley?” he asked.
The old man opened his eyes to slits. “With life energies also come residual memories-emotions, tastes, smells.”
The humming of the machine began to quiet, and Scrimshaw was again attentive. He approached the vessels and pulled the needles from their chests.
“About a week ago, there was a street festival in Brattleboro, Vermont,” Deacon continued as Scrimshaw carefully returned the needles and cords back to the housing compartment on the back of Deacon’s brace. “One of my vessels was there, walking among the teeming crowd, gently brushing against those who had come to enjoy the fair. These events are always my particular favorites-so filled with life and happiness. I was eager to sample the energies and dug in, so to speak, as soon as the vessel returned.”
Deacon looked at Remy with calculating eyes.
“Imagine my surprise as I feasted, bombarded by the memories of those whose energies sustained me…and I saw you, Remy Chandler. I saw you with this lovely young lady and received the slightest taste of the residual energy you left behind.”
The old man paused, his stare becoming even more intense.
“I was able to read that energy, Mr. Chandler. And I saw you for what you truly are.”
“You saw that I’m Seraphim.”
“I saw exactly that,” Deacon agreed, nodding slowly. “Through Ashley’s memories I could see the fire that lives inside you…but I also saw you had the potential to be so much more.”
He leaned forward as if to share a special secret with his guest.
“I saw you as a weapon, Remy Chandler,” Deacon said, eyes no longer dulled with age, but twinkling with life.
“An instrument for revenge to be turned on my betrayers.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Francis no longer carried the special key to Methuselah’s. He’d left it to Remy Chandler while he was vacationing in Hell.
But his current employer, one Lucifer Morningstar, had a unique relationship with the owner of the otherworldly gin mill, so it was never too far from where Francis needed it to be.
Still clutching the towel-wrapped skull beneath his arm, Francis walked across the weed-covered parking lot to what had been the Rubber Ducky Car Wash until the current recession had made people realize that their mileage was just as good with a dirty car. He approached the open concrete bay where filthy cars had had their offending grime washed away and peered inside.
He could feel that this was the right place and walked farther into the bay. Inside the cool space, he found a door, its glass window covered with cardboard. It had probably led to the manager’s office, but Francis sensed that at this particular moment there was something far different on the other side.
He tried the handle and found it locked. He gave it a bit of a jiggle and waited a few seconds before trying it again. The second time was a charm. The door opened with an ear-piercing squeak, and Francis
found himself looking down a long, stone corridor, at the end of which was another heavy wooden door with a red neon sign announcing METHUSELAH’S.
Francis strode down the hallway as the door to the car wash slammed closed behind him and was replaced by a wall of moist-looking rock. But he wasn’t looking at where he had been; he was thinking about where he was going. If there was any place where he could learn more about the creation whose head he carried, it would be Methuselah’s.