with exceptional aptitude.”
“Incorrect,” Simeon countered. “I needed a sorcerer with far more than exceptional aptitude. I needed somebody with a taste for darkness who would have no problem spitting in the eye of the Creator.”
He watched Malatesta’s reaction. The former Keeper agent of the Vatican trembled briefly—violently—as if somebody had just electrocuted him. Simeon knew that the holy man had again attempted to assert control over the demon Larva that had possessed him since childhood.
But to no avail.
“Then it’s a good thing you found me,” Malatesta said, his voice sounding more demon than human.
There was a flash of supernatural power, followed by the smell of burning ozone, and Malatesta pushed back his chair, admiring the ornate bullet casing he had fabricated. “Isn’t she lovely?”
Simeon reached for it, but the sorcerer pulled it away.
“There is only one,” the former holy man taunted. “Screw it up, and there won’t be any more.”
Simeon silently extended his hand, the expression on his face brooking no argument. And without another moment’s hesitation, Malatesta gently placed the .45 casing into the palm of his master’s hand.
Simeon studied the shell, feeling the magick fused to the molecular structure of the metal. He smiled as he turned it around in his hand. “Yes, this should do nicely.” He imagined its purpose fulfilled and felt a surge of pleasure very close to ecstasy.
“We finish it,” he said curtly, crimping down the intensity of his pleasure, preferring to feel nothing until what had become his purpose was fulfilled. He handed the shell back to Malatesta.
“And now the tricky part,” the possessed man said, a twinkle of evil dancing in his eye.
“And now the tricky part,” Simeon repeated, watching as the man crossed the underground chamber and approached a table where the metal container, filled with the power of creation, waited.
Waited to be shaped into something of amazing power.
Something that would lay a God low.
• • •
Steven Mulvehill moved carefully, not wanting to make his back hurt any more than it already did.
“I’m going to be a fucking cripple if I sit here for much longer.”
He and Squire sat on the wooden steps, halfway up to the bedroom where two very brave women and a dog were attempting to save his best friend’s life.
Squire munched on some oyster crackers from a package he’d miraculously produced from his pants pocket.
“How do you even have those?” Mulvehill asked.
Squire gazed up at him midcracker. “Have what?”
“Those. The crackers.”
Squire popped one into his large mouth and began to chew. “I think I had chowder recently.”
“And you saved the crackers?”
The goblin thought for a moment. “No, I probably ate them. I love these things in chowder.”
“So we’re back to the beginning, then.”
Squire looked at him as he dug another round cracker from the cellophane bag and shrugged.
Exasperated, Mulvehill changed the subject, craning his neck to see the doorway to the bedroom. “How do you think they’re doing?”
“How the fuck do I know?” Squire answered, with a mouthful of crackers.
“I would think you would know is all.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know, because you’re, like . . . part of this shit?”
“Part of what shit?” Squire finished the crackers, noisily crinkling the cellophane package and sticking it in the front pocket of his shirt.
“This,” Mulvehill said, making a sweeping gesture with his hands. “All this bizarre shit.”
“This bizarre shit’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Yeah, but you’re part of it. . . . You know what I mean.”
Squire scoffed, shaking his large head. “You’re all the fucking same, whether it’s this reality or another.”
“So what, I’ve hurt your feelings now?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been made a little prickly by humanity always pointing fingers at something that doesn’t fit with their idea of the normal. If it isn’t normal, it must be the problem. If I had a dollar—”
“Or an oyster cracker,” Mulvehill interrupted.
“Fuck you,” Squire spat. “If I had a dollar for every time I’d been pointed out as being the problem, just after I’d saved humanity from some world-ending, supernatural event, I’d be living the life of fucking Riley.”
There was a beat of silence before . . .
“Who is fucking Riley anyway?” Mulvehill asked.
Squire glared, and then his grotesque features softened. “I haven’t a clue, but I bet he’d appreciate somebody like me being around to save him from the fucking end of the world.”
“I appreciate you,” Mulvehill said, shifting his position again. “But my back doesn’t appreciate these steps.”
“Then we should go down to the kitchen,” Squire said. “I’m getting hungry anyway.”
Mulvehill looked at him.