Fossil, the smell of his raw, seeping flesh, as always, making the demon dog’s stomach rumble hungrily.
“That was good,” the dog said. “Might even buy us twenty-four hours or so before they come back with the same fucking questions.”
“I’m well aware of that,” the Fossil said.
“So?”
“So, I think it’s time for me to get acquainted with our new old friend.”
The old man rolled up one of his loose-fitting sleeves and began to pick at the fresh batch of scabs that had formed on his arm.
“Maybe I can help him remember.”
• • •
Methuselah’s had some back rooms that were rented out for private parties and sensitive business deals.
Phil escorted Francis to one such room. He told him that Methuselah knew nothing of the minotaur’s little side business and wouldn’t appreciate it much if he did. When Francis agreed to keep the info on the down low, Phil left, saying he’d send someone by as soon as possible.
Francis sat at a large round wooden table and looked about the room as he waited impatiently. There was a certain vibe about the place, as if the off-white walls and dark wood floors had somehow absorbed some of the nastiness that had been agreed to there, but also some of the fun times as well. It was a strange, conflicting mood that seemed to flow about the room, and Francis didn’t know whether to plot somebody’s murder or dance on the table with his pants around his ankles.
He didn’t care to have his emotions toyed with, especially now, when they were already raw. He thought of his dying friend back at the Beacon Hill brownstone, and suddenly intense sadness blossomed into full-fledged rage.
But just as quickly as it hit, the fury was defused by the presence of another.
The cloaked figure had simply appeared in the chair across the table from him, his face hidden within the darkness of his hood.
“Oh, somebody’s angry,” the figure spoke, his pale, boney hands moving in circles upon the tabletop in front of him. “I like that. . . . We can work with that.”
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Francis said, studying the visitor.
“They never do,” said the man, and then he laughed.
“Your group is that good?”
“You know the answer to that, or you would never have attempted to contact us.”
“Maybe this is a test.”
“A test?”
Francis said nothing, only shifted in his seat to cross his legs. And then became immediately aware that they were even less alone now. Four more shapes seemed to flow out from the corners of the room.
“If this is a test, then let’s get on with it,” the man said, leaning back in his chair, pulling the hood away to reveal the bald head and gaunt face of an old Bone Master. “I don’t like to waste time.”
The pause that followed was filled with an increasing tension, the string of a longbow being slowly pulled back before the arrow releases.
“I think you guys passed with flying colors,” Francis said finally, forcing a smile.
The Bone Master appeared annoyed. “Will there be any more games, or can we get down to business?”
“Business sounds good,” Francis agreed.
“Very well, then.” The Bone Master leaned forward again, placing his spidery white hands flat upon the table. “Who would you like us to kill?”
Again, Francis didn’t answer right away. He didn’t take his eyes from the Bone Master in front of him but could sense others near him, one not too far from the back of his chair.
“Now, that’s a little tricky,” he said slowly, running a fingertip over the grooves in the tabletop. “I believe you’ve already been hired to kill the person I’m interested in talking about.”
The Bone Master cocked his head strangely; it reminded Francis of some great carrion bird, watching—waiting—for its prey to finally die so that it could feast.
“If we have been hired, then the one that you’re interested in has already been dealt with.”
“That’s the thing, though: He hasn’t—and I’d like to keep it that way.”
Francis looked square into the dark eyes of the assassin broker. He did not attempt to hide what he was then, confirming that he, too, was a force to be reckoned with. That he, too, had done his fair share of killing.
The change in the Bone Master’s expression confirmed that the former Guardian’s message was received.
“Ah, I understand now,” the broker said. “You come in support of the Seraphim. The one called Remiel.”
“That’s the one,” Francis acknowledged. “I’d like you to leave him alone.”
The assassin smiled—at least that’s