Authors: Nancy A. Collins
Chapter Ten
“My-my—what a mess you’ve made of yourself!” The stranger said, clucking his tongue. “This world was not made for the likes of you, I fear.”
Joth frowned and stared at the red-haired deathling seated beside it. As the angel focused its attention, the halo surrounding the stranger leapt into bold relief. It was blacker than the Void and arranged in elaborately jagged strokes that resembled a ritual head-dress.
“You are a Machinist!” Joth gasped.
“Well, we can’t
all
be perfect,
can
we?” the daemon sniffed. “Allow me to introduce myself—I am Meresin. We have a friend in common, I believe— Lucy Bender.”
Joth blinked. “Lucy?”
“Indeed! She’s very worried as to your whereabouts.”
“Worried?”
“Yes, indeed. Dear Lucy is concerned for your well-being. She knows that deathlings are
very
treacherous creatures, Joth! Their mortality makes them prone to madness. Because of that, they can never be fully trusted.”
The angel’s brow creased in unaccustomed thought. “But—
Lucy
is a deathling.”
“Yes, well—like I said—we cannot
all
be perfect.”
“I want to talk to Lucy.”
“Then you are in luck!” Meresin smiled. “I’m meeting her for drinks!”
Joth frowned. “You are going to drink Lucy?”
“Merely an expression, my fine feathered friend. As it so happens, I was on my way to keep my rendezvous with the delightful Ms. Bender when I happened to spy you on the street. She will be
most
pleased to see you!”
“But you are a Machinist—”
“One of the sephiroth, to be exact—the counterpart of your seraphim,” Meresin interjected.
“Why should you help me?”
Meresin smiled, showing more teeth than was physically possible for a human skull to hold. “That’s a
very
good question! One I will be more than happy to answer once we arrive at the club!”
Lucy paced the floor of her apartment, anxiously wringing the hem of her T-shirt. “What do we do now?” she groaned aloud. “He could be
anywhere!”
“Calm down, Lucy,” Ez said. “We’ll find him.”
“Stupid-stupid-stupid! This is all
my
fault!” Lucy said, striking herself repeatedly on the forehead with the heel of her palm. “If I hadn’t fallen asleep,
none
of this would have happened! How could I have been so damn
stupid?”
“It’s
not
your fault.” Ez unzipped the gym bag he’d brought with him and began rooting around in it. “You have to sleep. Joth doesn’t. There’s no point in beating yourself up for being human.”
“Why should I stop now?” she sighed. “I can’t
help
but worry about the poor bugger, even though he—I mean, it--has been
nothing
but a major pain in the
tuchis
since I found him! Still, I can’t hold it against Joth. He—I mean, it--may not be the brightest button on the shirt, but it honestly doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in its body—assuming it
has
bones! And now Joth’s wandering around loose in New York City without a chaperone! I feel responsible for what happens to the guy, you know what I mean?” Lucy halted her pacing to frown down at Ezrael. “What
are
you looking for in there?”
Ez gave a shout of triumph and held up a polished crystal the size and shape of a goose egg. “A
-ha!
Found it!”
“Great! Wonderful! Splendid! What the hell is it?”
“It’s a scrying device.” He replied, polishing it on the front of his shirt like he would an apple. “It will show us where our angelic friend has gotten off to.” As Ezrael held the scrying device up to the light, Lucy glimpsed a faint blue-white glow at its center.
“You mean it’s a crystal ball?”
“Crudely speaking, yes. Hand me Joth’s feather, please.” Ezrael took the angel’s feather from Lucy and brushed it lightly over the surface of the scrying device while chanting under his breath in a language she didn’t recognize, then exhaled three times in rapid succession until its surface clouded, then held the crystal egg back up to the light. The bluish glimmer at the heart of the crystal trembled and then rapidly intensified, filling it like a miniature sun. “This should do it,” he said. “I’ll be able to get a fix on Joth’s location now.”
“Can you see him in there?” Lucy asked nervously, craning her head so as to try and glimpse what might be transpiring within the depths of the crystal. “Is he okay?”
“Yes—I see Joth—I—
uh-oh
!”
The scrying device flared nova-white and with an audible
pop!
went dark. Ezrael lowered the crystal egg and held it out for Lucy to inspect. It lay there smoking in his hand, blacker than a burnt-out light bulb.
The club was located in the Meat Packing District on the far west side of Greenwich Village, within a few blocks of the Hudson. During the day the neighborhood was busy and blue collar, with trucks rumbling in and out, dropping off and picking up carcasses. After sundown, the selling and inspection of meat continued—although along guidelines far removed from those approved by the Food & Drug Administration.
Meresin’s limo pulled up before a converted storefront with black mirrored windows that boasted the numeral ‘7’ within a elliptical circle. Blocking access to the door was a hulking giant outfitted in a pair of black leather chaps, a leather jockstrap and a leather vest. The bouncer stood with arms folded, features set in an intimidating scowl. Outside of its utter hairlessness and the slightly scaly appearance to its skin, there was little to hint that the bouncer was not human, save for the lack of eyelashes and the tip of a fang poking out from under its upper lip.
As Meresin climbed from the back of the limo, the bouncer quickly snapped to and opened the door to the club. But as Joth emerged from the car, the bouncer quickly moved to block the entrance, its throat sac filling with venom. Meresin quickly held up a hand to stay the bouncer’s attack.
“It's okay, Spitter! The angel’s with me!”
Although the hulking daemon’s
throat sac rapidly deflated as it moved out of the elohim’s way, it continued to glower at the angel with open hostility.
“Don’t mind him,” Meresin stage-whispered to Joth. “He takes his responsibility as gatekeeper
very
seriously. After all, the Seventh Circle is one of Manhattan’s most
exclusive
clubs.”
The building’s interior was cavernous, and the black walls and floor made it seem even larger still. The ceiling was festooned with heavy wine-colored velvet drapes and an elaborate crystal chandelier dangled over the
whipping posts
,
stocks, racks and
Catherine wheels
arranged across what would have been, in other clubs, the dance floor. To one side of the huge central room was an antique walnut bar with ornately carved nymphs and satyrs that boasted a solid gold foot-rail. Behind it was hung a huge, gold-veined mirror that reflected the faces, human and otherwise, of those there to drink and dance.
Although the evening was still extremely early, house music thumped in the background like the heart of some great beast, and several patrons— human and daemon alike—were clustered at the rail. Many of the Machinists
had shed their mortal guises upon entering the club, while those that were still in masquerade were easy enough to spot, their auras crackling above their heads like summer thunderclouds. Yet even the most casual survey made it clear that no one in the Seventh Circle boasted a halo as imposing as Meresin’s.
Upon sighting Joth, the assembled Machinists became visibly alarmed and began muttering amongst themselves. Meresin quickly turned to glower in the direction of the hissing gossips. As the sephirah fixed his gaze on them, the lesser daemon
s
lowered their eyes in ritual surrender, acknowledging his superiority.
Satisfied that he had asserted his dominance properly, Meresin turned to share his amusement with his guest. “My, aren’t
you
causing a stir!” he chuckled. “Come along, Joth. I have a table here—Joth?”
Meresin turned to see Joth standing in the middle of the dance floor, oblivious to its surroundings, staring up at the chandelier directly over its head. Colored baby spots shone through the hundreds of dangling pendants, fracturing the light so that tiny rainbows chased one another over the walls and floor. Joth lifted its hands to catch the swirling lights, like a child trying to snatch fireflies out of the air. Meresin sighed and stepped forward, taking the
elohim
gently yet firmly by the hand and leading it to a booth at the farthest corner of the club.
“Here you go, my friend,” the daemon
said. “The best seat in the house.”
Joth looked around. “You said Lucy would be here.”
“She’ll be here soon,” Meresin assured the angel. “There is one thing immortals must learn in this world, Joth—and that is patience when it comes to waiting for a lady!”
Joth tilted its head to one side, uncertain as to the meaning behind Meresin’s laughter, but did as it was told. As Meresin moved to join his guest, he heard his name being called from across the dance floor. The sephirah
smiled at the two lesser daemons hurrying towards him. One was an oni with grayish-blue skin, horns, long black hair that hung down its back like a horse’s mane, and had three eyes; the other was an imp
with fluorescent black skin, bat wings and long, monkey-like arms.
“Gaki! Nybbas! How
good
to see you both! Please—have a seat! After all, this
is
your club, is it not?”
The daemons exchanged anxious glances before dragging a couple of chairs over from a nearby table. The infernal partners sat side-by-side, doing their best to avoid getting too close to Joth. Meresin seemed to take a perverse pleasure in their ill ease, his smile growing wider as he watched them squirm.
“I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine—his name is Joth. Whom I trust we will seeing
much
more of in the future.”
While the oni’s
double-row of razor-sharp teeth were displayed in an obsequious smile, its forehead eye rolled in consternation. “Meresin—you do us
great
honor in gracing our premises, as always—
however—”
“However
what,
Gaki?”
“Sephiroth
or not—have you lost your
mind
?” snapped the
imp,
bat-wings flexing like a nervous fist. “Having an angel on the premises is bad enough—but you
know
what you risk bringing it here!”
“You doubt the wisdom of my tactics, Nybbas?”
The imp glanced at its business partner for support, but all three of the
oni’s
eyes were looking elsewhere. Nybbas drummed his taloned fingers on the table-top nervously, his wing membranes trembling like sails in a rough wind.
“It’s not
that,
Meresin—it’s just, should the
seraphim
come, this place will be contaminated for a decade or more—probably longer! We’ll lose our business—!”
“And we just got the liquor license straightened out!”
“What is more important—your liquor license or serving the Machine?”
Gaki and Nybbas exchanged a nervous glance.
“Well?”
Meresin asked again, black energy crackling from the tips of his fingers.
“
Serving the Machine, of course!” Gaki said hurriedly.
“I am glad to hear it,” Meresin said icily as he fished a platinum cigarette case from the breast pocket of his Savile Row suit. “I appreciate your concerns, but you both know the rules. ‘Whenever a daemon locates a downed elohim, it is that daemon’s responsibility to bring said angel to the nearest gathering of its fellows for Harrowing.’ The rules must be observed, below as above. There can be no variation, there
is
no variation. The angel
must
be Harrowed, and it shall be done
here
. Have I made myself understood?”
“Yes,” Nybbas and Gaki muttered in glum unison.
“Good,” the sephirah said, selecting a thin black cigarette from the case and tamping it against the table top. “I
do
hate having otherwise useful subordinates destroyed.” Meresin turned to smile at Joth. “How about you? Are you having a good time, my friend?”
“Where is Lucy? You said—”
Meresin held up a hand, his smile stretching his lips so far it looked as if the corners would meet behind his ears.
“All
in good time, my angel! All in good time!” The daemon slid out of the booth, motioning for Joth to follow. “Come with me. First, I would introduce you to my kin.”
“Ez! Hold your horses!” Lucy shouted as the muse charged down the stairwell. She was a landing behind him, struggling with one of her Airwalks. “At least wait until I’ve got my shoes on—!”
“There’s no time for shoes!”
Ezrael’s voice echoed up from somewhere between the third and second floor.
“The Mechanists have Joth!”
Lucy tucked her shoe under her arm and headed after Ezrael, taking the stairs two at a time until she caught up with the Muse in the lobby. “Where are we going?” she gasped. “Do you even
know
where he is?”
“The scrying device held out long enough for me to get a fix on him,” Ezrael explained. “They’re at a Machinist speakeasy called the Seventh Circle.”
Lucy’s jaw dropped. “The Seventh Circle? Are you
serious
? I’ve heard of that place—! It’s a membership-only S&M club over in the West Village! It’s supposed to be pretty exclusive...”
“More than you realize,” Ezrael grunted. “Come on, let’s go!”
“But, my shoe—!”
“Your shoe can wait!” Ezrael grabbed Lucy’s elbow and dragged her out of the lobby and onto the street. He jumped off the curb into the avenue, waving his arms frantically.
“Taxi! Taxi!”
It was a bad time of the evening to hail a taxi on Houston. There were dozens of yellow cabs speeding up and down the avenue, but it seemed they were all either going in the wrong direction or already carrying fares. More than one empty cab sped past the wildly gesticulating Muse and the disheveled woman hopping on one foot while waving a shoe, only to stop a few hundred feet down the block to pick up passengers.