Page 18

Chapter eighteen

E ugene played with the digital dashboard in the Lexus while Bartholomew drove down I-30. Unlike most men who had strict rules about people playing with their radios, Bartholomew couldn't care less. He was pretty amused by how excited Eugene was with the car.

“She is a beauty,” Eugene told him for the fifth time.

“How is it possible after all these years I didn’t know you were a car guy?”

“Isn’t everyone?” Eugene told him with a smug expression.

“No,” Bartholomew replied. “It makes very little difference to me.”

“Yet, you now own a work of art sports car.” Eugene rubbed the red-and-black leather interior of the Lexus. “For a non-car kind of guy, this is a hell of a ride.”

“In a house of car people, you can’t be driving a Pinto.”

“Hey, I kind of like that car,” Eugene complained. “It’s like a muscle car.”

“Right, only if you were a suburban mom and that was your idea of a muscle car.” Bartholomew cut between two eighteen- wheelers who were racing each other on the road. “Why don’t you just get a new company car?”

“Are you kidding me?” Eugene adjusted the AC vents again. “Lose the hearse? That would be uncivilized.”

“What was I thinking?” Bartholomew nodded, not sure what was wrong with Pestilence’s interns. “I’m assuming it’s for the same reason you always build your labs underneath chicken plants.”

“Exactly, it’s a tradition.” Eugene wiggled in his seat and gasped.

“What?”

“Did you know these seats come with a massage function? For the Gods, this is amazing.” The young man lounged on the seat and relaxed. “This is the way to travel.”

Bartholomew chuckled. “You are really enjoying the car. Why don’t you get one yourself? It’s not like you all don’t make a fortune?”

“And put it where? Next to the undercover entrance. The rest of the guys would laugh at me.”

“You can always leave it at Reapers and use it on the weekends when you come over.” Bartholomew found their exit, the one to TexAmerica and pulled off the interstate.

He glanced to the side and found Eugene staring at him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you serious?”

“About?”

“Letting me keep a car at Reapers?” Eugene leaned in, holding his breath.

“Yes, why not?” Bartholomew maneuvered between the large trucks parked on the access road and headed towards their destination. “Constantine has a Camaro that he can’t even drive. Why wouldn’t we keep your car? We can get you a Lexus.”

“Forget that!” Eugene shouted. “I’m getting the Jag F-Type R75 coupe in a candy-apple-red convertible, of course.”

“For a guy who couldn’t get a car, you are super specific on the one you want,” Bartholomew pointed out.

“Listen, the option hadn’t been on the table because of the Mistress, but now that I can, I’m getting my dream one.”

Bartholomew was amazed Pestilence still made her interns called her Mistress. Even after the many lectures she received from Death. Some things would never change, like that horseman not being an evil one.

“Let me transfer you the money, since I can’t technically order it myself,” Eugene continued.

“Transfer what money?”

“For the Jag, of course.” Eugene faced his friend.

“I said we were going to get you one, not that you were going to pay for it.” Bartholomew crossed the intersection and drove cautiously into the Red River industrial park.

“What? Have you lost your mind? The base model for that car, and I don’t want just the base model in case you were wondering, starts at least at one hundred fifteen thousand dollars. There is no way I can let you pay for that.”

Bartholomew turned to face his friend. “Why not?”

“Because that’s a ridiculous amount of money.”

Bartholomew parked in front of an old deserted army barracks. Two other sport cars were already there.

“Eugene, you can’t be serious.” Bartholomew adjusted his Cuban shirt. “I’m Death’s son, and Constantine’s heir, who has more money than most organized religions in the world put together. Do you realize how much I’m worth?” Bartholomew took another long breath, his features going solemn. “Constantine and I will have an eternity to continue to accumulate more money, but I will only get a few dozen years with the people I love before they move on. Why wouldn’t I spend the money?”

Eugene’s eyes widened and he struggled to find words.

“Besides,” Bartholomew continued in a more cheerful voice. “Compared to the number of state-of-the-art trucks we have bought that have gone up in flames, one Jag is nothing.”

“Well, in that case, don’t forget to get the red rims that go with it and the sound system.”

Bartholomew laughed and pointed to the building in front of them. “Got it. We are here.”

“Why do they keep picking locations that could get us arrested for their secret entrance?” Eugene scanned the parking lot for any federal officers to rush from the Army Depot to tackle them to the ground.

“Because it’s the devil,” Bartholomew reminded him. “If you are willing to go into his club, you should take the risk of going to jail in this world.”

“Bob is right. You can’t trust Jake.”

“I hope you weren’t planning to trust Lucifer, Eugene?” Bartholomew stared at his friend.

“He is always so smooth.”

“I’m telling Isis you need an intervention.” Bartholomew pointed a finger at him.

“Please.” Eugene rubbed his hair down one last time before opening his door. “Pestilence owns my ass and soul. He would be damned if he even tried to make me an offer. My master is a very jealous one.”

Bartholomew couldn’t argue with that fact. He followed Eugene out of the car and headed towards the front of the old two-story barracks. They looked like extras on the set of Miami Vice or Bad Boys. Bartholomew wasn’t sure which was worse.

There wasn’t a soul in sight, but out of thin air, Adam, Jake’s main bouncer, stepped in front of the door.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” purred Adam.

Adam was wearing a Dior Homme light-blue wool tuxedo with matching Dior shoes, that Bartholomew was sure cost at least seven grand for the ensemble. If Jake could pass for a model, his squad of demons and the rest of his crew were the epitome of perfection. Even Michelangelo’s David would be jealous of this lot. Thank God Bartholomew understood the price they paid. Damnation for all eternity was not worth looking that good. Not that Death hadn’t taken care of his looks as well.

“Good evening, Adam,” replied Eugene, handing the bouncer their invitations.

“Business or pleasure?” asked Adam, as he inspected both of the envelopes.

“Have any of the horsemen’s interns ever come here on pleasure?” Bartholomew replied.

Adam merely chuckled. “Good point, my young Reaper. We have a little change in theme for the night.”

“What?” Eugene gasped, running his hands over his shirt. “I picked this specific for tropical night.”

“You should be fine,” Adam replied. “We are doing ballroom dancing. Have a few special guests that requested the theme.”

“Can you do that?” Bartholomew asked.

“Only if you have enough money or souls to give to the boss,” Adam explained. “This group had both.”

“This can’t be good,” Bartholomew added. “Maybe we should come back another time.”

“It will be fine,” Eugene told him. “We have one question for the big-guy. It will be quick.”

“Enter at your own peril,” Adam told them, pulling the red-velvet curtain back.

Bartholomew analyzed the fabric, sure that thing was not there when they first arrived. “If we die, Constantine is going to be pissed.”

“Then make sure not to die,” said Adam.

Eugene pulled him inside, and Adam closed the curtain behind them.

The Cave was not a traditional club. For starters, it was owned and run by the Devil, so that alone made it hard to replicate. It also wasn’t located in any specific location. It was more like a pocket dimension you entered from anywhere in the world, by invitation only. Only those who knew where to find it could enter. Unlike most clubs, not only the theme changed but also the entire decor of the place.

Adam wasn’t just a bouncer, but his approval was crucial to proceed to the party. If the man, Bartholomew was sure he was a man but he couldn’t confirm it, did not like your outfit, you were not entering. It didn’t matter how powerful or rich you thought you were. But who was going to complain? It wasn’t like the Devil filed his club with the Better Business Bureau.

“Do you think Adam is like the first Adam?” Bartholomew whispered as he descended the velvety stairs.

“I wondered the same thing, but haven’t dared to ask,” Eugene replied over his shoulder.

“It’s probably safer if we don’t,” Bartholomew added.

“I agree.”

They reached the bottom, which was at least four flights down, and stood in front of another set of velvet curtains.

“Is there any reason Jake doesn’t install an elevator here?” Bartholomew complained. “I mean, he has doors scattered all over the world and we have to climb to the pits just to get in.”

“I figured he just wants to build up the anticipation,” explained Eugene.

“Or he is hoping a few of the clients die from the exercise and he avoids paying us the delivery fee,” Bartholomew joked, and Eugene chuckled.

“That would be something the Devil would do.” Eugene reached for the curtains and asked, “Are you ready?”

“Been ready. Let’s get this over with.”

As Eugene pulled the curtains to one side, Bartholomew held his breath. The place resembled an enormous cathedral, like the Sistine Chapel. The ceiling was massively decorated with cherubs and other angels.

“Do you think God would strike him down for those murals?” Bartholomew asked, barely moving his lips.

“I would not be surprised, but who is going to tell him?” Eugene replied in the same fashion. “I’m not even looking up, so I’m not used as a witness.”

“Good idea.”

They stepped through the threshold, and magic washed over them. Instead of tropical Cuban shirts and slacks, their clothes transformed into tuxedos, tails, and all.

“Nice,” said Eugene.

“Nobody can ever blame the devil for not having style,” stated Bartholomew.

As they admired the drastically different clothes, a body dropped from the air in front of them and kept on falling. Bartholomew’s head snapped in front and froze. The dance floor of the cathedral was floating. Each set of tiles, the size of a large coffee table, moved up and down with the beat of the music. Couples jumped up and down between tiles as they waltzed their way around.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Bartholomew stared at the scene, dumbfounded. “Where is Jake?”

“In the center.” Eugene pointed to the middle of the floor where a stationary bar stood, with the devil sipping his drink, watching the mess.

“Who in their right mind requested this fiasco?”

“Elves?” Eugene pointed at a pair of elves dancing their way across the room, almost floating from tile to tile.

“It figures,” Bartholomew mumbled. “Remind me to tell Isis that her boyfriend’s people are a bunch of assholes.”

“I’m sure she already knows that. But what are we waiting for?”

On cue, several large blades spun in the air from both the ceiling and the floor around the bar area. A couple of the dancers screamed as the blades sliced their skin.

“That!” Bartholomew finally answered. “Jake would not make it easy to reach him. While he entertained the change in theme, he would make the rich fools pay for his attention.”

“Because the floating dance floor wasn’t bad enough.” Eugene leaned over to peer over the edge of the floor. “I don’t see a ground down there.”

“I would bet you lunch it ends in hell,” Bartholomew wagered. “Let’s avoid falling.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“When do we start?” Bartholomew couldn’t figure out how to jump onto the floor.

“Let’s wait for this song to end.” Eugene moved closer to the edge.

“What are you doing?” Bartholomew followed.

“It would be very impolite to cut in while the song is playing,” Eugene explained. “I have a feeling we need to treat this like a ballroom competition and wait our turn.”

“Eugene, I have never competed.” Bartholomew rubbed his hands down his pants. Dying in a dance off was not how he wanted to go. That would be more embarrassing than he cared to admit.

“Relax. Keep your eyes open for flying blades and follow my lead.”

“Says the king of ballroom.”

Eugene never had time to reply as the music changed to a Latin Salsa.

“Perfect,” Eugene announced. “You can dance to this alone. Keep both feet and hands moving to the beat.”

“Jesus, take the wheel, or my feet.” Bartholomew prayed to himself and laughed. He was praying to Jesus while dancing across a deadly floor to speak with the devil. There was something insane about all of it.

The moment Eugene started dancing, the tile in front of him floated. He did a quick turn and jumped on it. Bartholomew stopped his rational mind from thinking and began the eight-count dance that made up the basic salsa steps. As he moved front and back, the tile to his left moved. Following Eugene’s lead, he stepped onto his own tile.

The dance floor was the strangest obstacle course Bartholomew had ever encountered. It was as if the Mario brothers merged with Tetris and had Dance Revolution in the background. You had to keep dancing your way to the edge of the tile, because if you stopped, the tile turned on its side and dropped you off. Once you reached the edge, you took a leap, while in step, to the next tile to get closer to the target. On several occasions, Bartholomew landed on tiles occupied by single dancers. Ignoring the new partner was not an option or you would both be knocked off.

“We need to hurry,” Eugene screamed from three tiles over.

“What?”

“If we don’t make it before the song is over, we will need to start all over.”

“Damn it.” Bartholomew spun his new partner around twice before waving away and jumping to a passing tile. “It’s never easy with the devil.”

Swallowing his fear of looking foolish on the dance floor, he picked up his pace. Eugene was floating across the floor, four tiles ahead. He was a natural. Bartholomew was not too far behind. He had forced Isis to give him dancing lessons just for this type of situation. Floating dance floors was not something they practiced. As he made his way to the next tile, a body jumped behind him on his tile.

Bartholomew saw the figure from the corner of his eye. It took Bart only a second to register what was happening. The figure was dancing his way towards him with a blade. Spinning around on three counts, Bartholomew pulled out his scythe and blocked the blade.

“Hey!” he shouted, but the dancer was dead.

Well, not totally dead. More of a well-dressed zombie with great dancing skills.

“There is no way I get out danced by a zombie,” Bartholomew told the walking-dead, as they salsa their way around the tile swinging blows at each other.

“Stop playing!” Eugene shouted. “Song is almost over. Get over here.”

Bartholomew spun around to find Eugene at the bar next to Jake. The devil waved at the young Reaper, who ducked in time to avoid the zombie’s blade. Eugene was right, and the salsa was picking up speed as it reached the end of the crescendo. Bartholomew was running out of time. Instead of ducking the attack, he rushed at the zombie and grabbed him by the waist. Spinning them both around, he leaped off his tile.

In mid-air, he dropped the zombie and flew to the next one. Picking up his speed, he danced his way across three other tiles, using his scythe as a pole and adding some very interesting moves to the routine. As the song ended, he landed next to Eugene by the bar.

“What was that?” Eugene asked, pointing at the dance floor.

“Pole dancing is a thing,” Bartholomew explained.

“Yes, but not with Salsa.” Eugene crossed his arms, offended.

“Well, it is now.” Bartholomew walked around his friend and chugged the drink that was on the bar.

“I thought we should drink nothing we were given here?” Eugene changed topic and rushed to Bartholomew's side.

“Humans and the living should drink nothing from the Cave.” Bartholomew asked the bartender for two more. “I’m a Reaper.”

Letting out a long breath, Bartholomew leaned against the bar and watched the dancers engaged in a very competitive tango.

“This is too much work for just a talk,” said Bartholomew. “I’m ordering me a Vakra when I get home.”

“What’s that?” asked Eugene, crouching in front of the drinks that were set in front of them.

“A curved blade from the Zombie Tools company, because it seems you never know when you could run into a zombie.” Bartholomew pointed over his shoulder.

“Why do you have zombies on the floor?” Eugene leaned back and asked the devil.

Jake smiled as he watched the dancers fight for their lives with the undead. His hair was dark for the evening, in perfect spikes that glittered when he moved. He wore dark Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses that matched the same brand suit.

“Maybe the devil does wear Prada,” said Bartholomew from behind.

“Prada, Dolce, and Gucci, my friend,” said Jake. “I’m a brand-ho. I love them all. Now, back to the zombies.” Jake pointed with his cup. “The elves want to pretend to be all holy and special but come to the Cave to engage their primitive nature. I have no issues taking their money and time but won’t sacrifice my kids for their fancy.”

“So, you bring zombies to battle with them?” Eugene recapped.

“Not just zombies. Their dead.” Jake smirked and both Bartholomew and Eugene slowly turned to face the floor. “Let’s see how easy it is to kill your own, even if they are dead.”

“That is some twisted shit,” said Bartholomew. “Reason two hundred and thirty-seven, why messing with the devil would end badly for you.”

“So true,” said Jake. “Speaking of deals, why are you two here?”

“You said I had an open invitation,” Eugene stated.

“You do.” Jake took another sip from his drink. “But interns only visit when they want something. I never get random courtesy calls.”

“That’s because Isis said we can’t come and play,” Eugene admitted.

“She is smart for such a young girl.” Jake replied.

“Don’t tell her that,” Bartholomew told him.

Jake laughed, and the best set of white teeth sparkled in the light. Bartholomew chugged another drink as Eugene continued to analyze his.

“Well, back to business,” said Bartholomew.

“Let me hear it,” Jake told him with a hint of a smile on his face.

“Are any of your cults doing sexual sacrifices in Haven for Halloween?”

Jake stopped drinking and lowered his sunglasses. “Are you kidding me?”

“I didn’t dance my way through that to joke.” Bartholomew tapped the bar.

“My people are busy, but not in that capacity, at least in Haven,” Jake answered once he realized Bartholomew wasn’t joking.

“Are any of your people involved?” Bartholomew pushed the subject. “You like to give them free rein to do crazy things.”

“After the little fiasco they made a few years ago,” said Jake, standing up straighter. “Nobody gets to do anything without my permission.”

“Did you find your traitor?” Eugene asked as he smelled the drink.

“I rule Hell. Everyone is a traitor if you are not careful.” Jake put his glasses back on and turned his attention to the floor. “Unlike the witches, I don’t search for traitors. I just wipe out all potential oppositions. Takes less time.”

“A lot more efficient,” Eugene agreed.

Bartholomew slapped his friend on the shoulder, making Eugene stop analyzing his drink.

“Basically, you have nothing to do with deaths in haven?” Bartholomew summarized for them.

“Not this time.” Jake shook his head. “Why do I get the blame for everything?”

“Because you are the devil,” Eugene reminded him. “You and your people are pretty busy causing mayhem.”

“We are good at that, but I can’t take credit for it.” Jake gave them a small shrug. “But once you find them, please make sure to deliver them to me personally.”

“How do you know they are coming to you?” Eugene asked.

“All humans have about the same concept of right and wrong, even if their moral compass is twisted.” Jake took his drink again. “Killing each other automatically gives them a one-way ticket to my realm. Can’t wait to meet this new soul.”

“You and Death can handle those details,” Bartholomew informed him. He was glad it was not his responsibility to deliver the souls. “Now, how do we get out?”

“You don’t want to dance your way out?” Jake pointed to the floor.

“I’d rather skip the hypocritical elves,” confessed Bartholomew.

“Me, too,” Jake agreed, pretty impressed. “Just for that, I’ll let you use my exit. Cain, would you let these gentlemen out, please?”

“Yes, sir,” the bartender replied, as he wiped his hands with a towel.

“Do come and visit again, maybe next time for pleasure.” Jake waved at them and turned around to face the dance floor and the battles going on.

Bartholomew pulled Eugene by the sleeves behind the bar. Cain waited patiently. Underneath the countertop, a small door was open that led downstairs.

“We are going to get back up, going down?” asked Eugene, but Bartholomew pushed him through.

“Thanks, my man,” Bartholomew told him, placing a gold coin in his hand.

“Thank you, sir, come back anytime,” said Cain, as he placed the coin in his mouth to test the consistency of the gold.

The door closed behind them, leaving them in darkness. Bartholomew pulled out his phone. There was no service, but at least the flashlight worked.

“I think he is trying to get rid of us and send us to hell,” Eugene whined.

“Considering everyone knows we are here, I doubt it,” replied Bartholomew. “Just keep walking and see where this leads.”

Five steps later, Eugene stopped in front of a door. Bartholomew looked over his shoulder and frowned.

“Now what?” asked Eugene.

“Well, we can’t stay here and I’m not going back, so open the door.” Bartholomew pushed him forward.

“Pestilence protect us,” Eugene prayed, and Bartholomew slapped his face.

Before Eugene had time to think, Bartholomew shoved him out the door and followed quickly behind. They were standing ten feet away from the ground entrance to the old barracks. Bartholomew scanned the parking lot and Lexi was still parked exactly where he left her.

“Really?” Eugene asked. “We climbed four flights of stairs to get there and took five steps down and here we are. What kind of madness is this?”

“No idea, but we can ponder it on our way home.” Bartholomew marched to his car without looking back.

“The devil is really not my favorite,” said Eugene as he joined Bartholomew next to Lexi.

“Well, that’s a blessing.”

Bartholomew climbed into his vehicle, annoyed at the waste of time the evening had been. It also meant they had no leads, three dead bodies, and one day before Halloween. The odds were just getting worse.