The Devil's Beat (The Devil's Mark) Page 2

  When he saw what he had done to his ten-thousand-dollar UNICEF T-shirt (from his benefit concert), his whole world turned red. “God fucking damn it!”

  “Out of the mouths of babes,” came a rich and mocking baritone from close behind him.

  Max jumped and whirled in fright. Somewhere around the halfway point in his pirouette, he recognized the voice and came down scowling.

  His ex-partner, mentor, and onetime friend stood smirking three feet away from him. Lucian looked as immaculate as always. His perfect, slicked-back, black hair allowed Lucian's Roman nose unchallenged dominance over his features. His tailored black suit complemented his crisp edges perfectly with no stray sags or wrinkles.

  Max now had focus for his anger. “Jesus Christ! I told you, I never wanted to see you again!”

  “Isn't that so delicious?” purred Lucian. If scorn could drip, it would have formed a puddle around his neon-orange sneakers. “He makes you the gift of redemption, He lets you nail his son to a cross, and you throw His name out like some piece of trash.”

  Max's shoulders slumped. “Fuck you. Go back to hell, Lucian, or should I just call you Lucifer?”

  Lucian smiled widely. “Now, now, I'm not ready to end this tale just yet. Be careful of that hostility. It could get you in trouble with someone less reasonable than I. Besides, my young protégé, I'm here to help you.”

  “I don't want your help. I don't need your help. Just go away!”

  Lucian's eyebrows rose as he slipped on an ironic mask of angelic innocence. “I couldn't help but notice that you seemed to be in a bit of a pickle. Just look at the mess you've made of yourself. Your burgaling skills are woefully underdeveloped, so I brought you a gift.” He frowned. Looking pensive, he paused, tapping his chin with a long, manicured finger. “Or is that burglarizing, or perhaps burgling?” Lucian shook his head as if despairing of ever understanding the English language, and then, with a flourish and a smile, he presented Max with a massive set of keys.

  Obviously, Lucian was just playing with him. He'd been an idiot to come here. Of course, the whole thing had been a setup. “I'm leaving,” said Max, ignoring the keys as he turned to walk away.

  He almost ran into Lucian, standing in front of him again.

  Lucian curled his lips in disdain. “Careful. If you get so much as a smudge on my suit, I shall become quite vexed.”

  “Get out of my way.”

  “Certainly,” purred Lucian, all anger gone in an instant. “Just take your keys, check out your house, and I will be on my merry way.”

  The more Lucian wanted him here, the less he wanted to be here. “I don't want the keys, and I don't want this trash heap of a house.” Max tried to walk around the shorter man.

  Lucian smiled delightedly. “Oh yes, you do... You see, the house is in your name, so whatever is in it, and whatever happens in it, are your responsibility. It just wouldn't do to have someone else find your surprise.”

  Max paled as he considered what might lie in that house. “What did you do?”

  Lucian laughed with innocent surprise at the accusation. “Moi? Tu me fais tort. Je n'ai fait rien, mais je t'ai donnér un cadeau.”

  Max didn't speak French but nonetheless understood Lucian's protestations of innocence.

  “What did you do, damn it?”

  Lucian's eyebrows rose with delight. “That is for me to know and you to find out. I would recommend you go and find your present before it rots.”

  Max looked back at the mansion—now evil and forbidding rather than just pathetic and rundown. What was in there? A jangle of metal behind him caused him to turn back to Lucian, and his question died before he uttered it. He was standing alone. The ring of keys lay on the ground where Lucian had been standing.

  He contemplated the keys and, with a grimace, leaned down to retrieve them from the parched ground.

  Thriller

  Max felt as if he were being laughed at as he fumbled through at least fifteen keys. It was difficult to do with only one unencumbered hand. After an unsuccessful search through the pile of dirty clothes in his trunk for a bandage, he'd wrapped his damaged hand in a makeshift Armani T-shirt bandage—expensive and effective but bulky and awkward. He yanked out the last key in disgust. While he was fumbling for the next one, the door clicked and creaked open an inch. He tensed and waited to see if something was going to come out. When nothing did, he tentatively tried to push it open. It slammed shut, making Max jump back and drop the keys.

  Max retrieved his keys and angled towards the door, trying to make sure he could run at a moment’s notice. He gave it a tentative push. It didn't budge.

  “Hello?” No answer was forthcoming. “Hello, is anyone there?”

  Only silence greeted him. Max glared at the door and then at the keys. He'd lost his place on the key ring. Muttering imprecations, he started again, pushing, twiddling, and pulling each key.

  The eighth key jammed. It wouldn't turn, and nothing he did would free it. Max slapped the door in frustration and pulled his foot back to give it a kick. He stopped short and gingerly set it back down on the ground. Instead, he shouted, “Piss on you, Lucian! Do you hear me?”

  The keys fell out of the lock and the door clicked open.

  Max ground out an “arrrrgh” between clenched teeth as he bent down to grab the keys one more time. The door slammed shut and caught the top of his head. He jumped back, slapped both hands on his head, and fairly danced in pain and rage.

  The door opened a crack again. As soon as Max calmed down enough to notice, it slammed shut hard enough to rattle the nearby windows. A light dusting of plaster or something dribbled down upon Max's head.

  Max looked up at the porch roof just in time to dodge out of the way as a fist-sized piece of the exterior molding fell right where he had been standing.

  He stared at the chunk of plaster, and his rage broke from its chains. It flowed through him like sweet, molten freedom. He looked up to the sky (though maybe he should have looked down) and shook his fist. “I'm not gonna play this game Lucian! I'll burn this place down! I'll take a flamethrower to it! I don't give a—”

  The door swung open with a spooky groan.

  Max glared suspiciously into the dark hole thus revealed. When the door didn't immediately slam shut, his anger drained away. He crept forward, trying to keep his eyes simultaneously on the door and the distant porch roof. Nothing happened. He retrieved another stick from the yard and gingerly wedged it under the door. When he felt it was safe, he stuck his head in.

  From the doorway, a suspicious Max squinted into the darkness to examine the immense front hall. It had an ornate but dilapidated grand staircase curving up from the right to an open balcony on the second story. The smell hit him like a punch in the nose. Hot, stale air flowed past him and out the carved and weathered door. Mold, stagnant water, rot, and age all proclaimed their presence with joyous abandon. The nostril assault alone was enough to stop him, but fear also had a part in his hesitation. Without stepping into the house, he nervously leaned in and looked around.

  The insides were done in early Gothic vampire cliché. Every wall sported dark wood paneling that was intricately carved with grotesque reliefs of leering, distorted faces. That, combined with blood-red curtains and dirty windows, made the thick gloom of the place almost touchable.

  Under the two-foot waterline, he sourly noted mold growing on faded, warped wood. It would probably give him black lung disease or something. He wondered if that was a bad way to die. Probably.

  More black dirt coated the floor, and a rotting sofa nestled into the alcove created by the curving of the stairs. Above the reach of the water, things seemed more intact. The builder of this house had obviously been wealthy and had spared no expense in its construction. Above it all hung a crystal chandelier made with ornate flourishes of brass. It had been originally crafted for candles but now sported electric bulbs. Throughout the room, blackened brass fittings were used on every corner, rail, and picture frame.r />
  The ragged opulence gave Max an odd feeling of kinship with this old house. It was glamour and extravagance brought low, then covered with mud and rot. Like him, she felt brooding—angry at her fall.

  There was no light switch near the door, so he stood and weighed his options. Stay or Go were the only two he could think of. Childhood terrors of the dark, and dozens of cheesy haunted house films swam to the fore of his mind and clamored for option two. Pride, dignity, and practicality weighed-in just about equally on the side of option one. It was his kindling feelings of kinship with the building that finally tipped the scales.

  Max forced himself to walk into the dark house, paying close attention to the creaking of the floor. Now that he had faced down his fantasy fears, he had to deal with the more pragmatic one of falling through rotted floorboards. He stamped his undamaged foot a few times to test the dirt-encrusted, water-damaged boards, ready to spring back at the first sign of the floor giving way. They seemed solid, so he took a couple of steps. When nothing happened, he started to relax and walked into the room.

  With his undamaged hand, Max pulled out a large flashlight which doubled as a handy steel club. Its circle of bright blue light pushed back the dark while its heft made him feel armed and less vulnerable. He walked further into the stale darkness, silence, and heat. At random, he headed into the first room on his left.

  At first flash, it appeared to be an old-fashioned and ornate sitting room. He stopped a few steps in. A strange sight near the top of the ten-foot ceiling snagged his eyeballs. The walls sported faux columns at regular intervals, capped with ornate capitals and carved plaster or stone statues.

  The statues, gargoyles or some other sort of grotesque creatures, looked balefully down into the room. All had raised arms that appeared to hold up the ceiling. Max took a couple more steps into the room, then shuddered.

  Who would voluntarily design a room like this? He could practically feel the malevolence in the gaze of the statues.

  A quick sweep of the edges of the room with the light revealed dark shadows of moldering chairs and sofas. The once-rich red fabric was torn, rotted, and stained by the flood waters.

  His beam flashed across the floor and momentarily illuminated two bodies, both fish-belly white and dead, lying intertwined bonelessly on the floor.

  The sight speared through his brain, causing shock waves that smacked into his adrenals and squeezed them dry. He squeaked, jumped, and swept the beam back to horrible sight.

  The light revealed that the bodies were actually just cushions, draperies, and sheets piled up in a heap.

  Max's heart thudded in his chest. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” He tried to catch his breath, momentarily closed his eyes to give his over stimulated brain a break, and stepped back.

  A terrible crash shattered the silence.

  He screamed, jumped about two feet, twisted around desperately, and tried to take out his unseen foe with the flashlight. His makeshift club swept unimpeded through the air. Only with a heroic effort did he stay on his feet. In a panic, he brought the light to bear on the floor, where it illuminated the former pile of old beer cans scattered by his backward step. He put his hand to his heart to help his ribcage hold it in place and quickly checked to make sure none of the gargoyles had jumped off their pedestals while his back was turned. With every thrumping beat, a red tinge speared in from the edges of his vision, then subsided. He tried to hold the flashlight steady against the shaking of his muscles and tried to calm his breathing. Between breaths, he told himself, “Hold it together, Faust. Stop freaking out. Just a house. Just beer cans.”

  When he felt less likely to keel over dead, he flashed the light around the floor surrounding him. It was darkly stained and littered with beer cans, fast food bags, and cups. There were dozens of partially burned candles and something that looked suspiciously like a bong. Random wax-covered dishware spread around the central pile.

  He muttered in disgust, “Just a teenage party hangout...” With irritation, he also realized that if a bunch of teens were getting in, there must be an open window or door, probably around back. He had never even considered going around to check. That would have saved him several cuts, a new window, and probably a tetanus shot.

  Sensing movement from the upper corner of his eye, he pinned down the closest statue with the light. Its short, squat body, mismatched bulbous eyes, and long dangling tongue evoked thoughts of a drugged-out, saw-toothed frog. He unsuccessfully tried to hold his flashlight steady with shaking muscles. He held it there long enough to convince himself that the statue truly wasn't moving, that the jiggling of its belly was just the result of his jittery light and its shadows.

  When it seemed the statue was not going to drop on him and eat his face, he forced himself to sweep the rest of the room with the light. His beam illuminated two dark shapes at the back of the room. One, he recognized quickly as the silhouette of a grand piano. The other looked like some sort of golden column with odd bits poking out.

  The thought of an antique piano perked him up. He deliberately sucked back his residual fear, ignored his shaking muscles, and walked toward the back. He made an effort to avoid the cans and puddly candles while focusing his attention on the odd golden column, trying to make out what it was. It looked like some sort of medieval torture device.

  The Sound of Music

  From a few feet away, the golden column resolved itself into the ragged front piece of a full-sized harp. From this distance, he could see that its golden color came from peeling gold paint. Once, the harp had been an ornate, elegant, visual, and aural sculpture, but now most of its strings were missing, and the peeling paint revealed a rust brown undercoat. Max’s interest in an old, ragged harp couldn’t compare to his love of the piano, so he went there.

  The ancient, badly beaten piano stood at a tilt on warped and water damaged legs and it sported intricate relief carvings along the side. The finish on the piano had cracked and pealed over the years, but it couldn’t hide the beauty of its lines or the quality of the craftsmanship. The trespassers had used the piano as a base for their candles and large puddles of candle wax spread across the top and dribbled down the side to make a small wax stalagmite on the floor.

  Max’s earlier anger came back with a vengeance. The treatment of this beautiful instrument was practically sacrilegious. He grit his teeth and moved around to the front of the piano.

  There, right above the keys was a faded and barely legible manufacturers name, but Max recognized it. It was a Playel. This was the same piano Chopin had played and composed on, and it looked to be from that same era. It had been treated like a piece of trash.

  Max’s hands clenched and unclenched at his side. He wanted to hit something, but there was no one there to take his anger out on. He took a couple of shuddering breaths, got his temper under control, and examined its condition.

  It was missing several keys, with four or five cracked or broken. Inside, many missing or snapped strings and a cracked soundboard rounded out the damage. He prayed he might be able to salvage it. In its prime, this piano had been a work of art, but now he feared it was just junk. Unable to stop himself, he tapped middle ‘C’. He winced when sound it made was more of a thonk than a note.

  He'd always promised himself, he would buy a piano someday. They were less practical and versatile than a keyboard, but they were beautiful and elegant. His first musical love was the piano, and that had set the course for the rest of his life.

  He ran his fingers lightly over the battered keys and said, “Beautiful lady, I will do everything in my power to bring you back to life. You deserve far better than you have received.”

  Unable to look at it any more, he turned his back on the piano, and the harp caught his attention again. He wondered if it was as old as the piano. Max gave the harp a closer look. The gold paint made it look shoddier than it actually was. The ornately decorated column and frame looked solid, and when Max rocked it a bit, it proved so. His hand came away covered wi
th flakes of gold paint. He thoughtlessly tried to brush the glitter off with his bandaged hand and winced at the pain. It transferred the flakes instead of knocking them off. A quick wipe on his already stained pants didn't help, either.

  He sighed and just decided to ignore it. He'd had enough of the harp anyway. Absentmindedly, he plucked one of the remaining strings. It sang a deep, pure tone.

  “A,” muttered Max to himself. He turned back toward the front of the room, but stopped when he realized that the note wasn't decaying.

  Curious, he turned to look at the instrument again. The note was actually increasing in volume. Max had never seen anything like it. He focused the light on the vibrating string.

  The note got louder.

  He put his finger on the string to silence it.

  It had no effect. The note continued to gain in strength. He grabbed the string with his hand.

  It continued to vibrate. In fact, it got louder. The vibration started to sting his hand so he pulled it away.

  “What the hell?” Max put his foot on the sound board to see if that would slow it down.

  It didn't. It just got louder. Now the tone was loud enough to hurt Max's ears. The “A” note visibly shook the instrument.

  If Max hadn't still been angry about the piano, he might just have left, but as it was, the misbehavior of the harp just pissed him off. He grabbed the harp and shook it. The vibrations traveled down his arms and started rattling his teeth. He released it with another curse.

  The “A” note blasted through the small space and the gold flakes covering the frame of the harp now formed a cloud of sparkly gold dust around the harp.

  Max snapped. He'd been cut, bruised, and covered in dirt. Now his ears were being assaulted. He screamed and smashed the harp with his light. The flashlight truly was a decent club and left a sizable dent in the neck of the harp. Thus encouraged, he hit it again... and again... and again and, ignoring the pain in his hand, he added the strength of his second arm to the light, bringing it down on the defenseless, shrieking harp. The neck cracked. This encouraged him to redouble his efforts while he continuously screamed in rage. Suddenly, he wasn't just beating at the harp, he was beating on Lucian, he was beating on the press, he was beating on the lawyers, he was beating on himself.