The Lucifer Messiah Read Free

smile still spread across his face. Then, the young man breathed heavily, and passed out again.
    Vince grabbed a pack of Lucky Strikes from the floor, snapped a match and lit his last cigarette. He tossed the empty pack away blindly and reached for the phone on his bureau.
    He paused before picking up the receiver. Partly because he wasn’t sure if he remembered the number, and partly because he wasn’t sure he could make the call even if the digits came to him.
    The phone rang three times on the other end before a lady’s voice answered through a yawn. Vince’s eyes shut for a long moment. He swallowed hard before speaking.
    â€œMaggie? It’s Vince. Get outta bed, I got someone here who needs to see you … don’t ask, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

FOUR
    M IST CLOUDED THE EARLY MORNING, AND THERE WERE few people about on the streets of Lower Manhattan. A hard autumn frost had swept in over the night. Not many souls had chosen to brave the cold in the opening hours of a November day.
    Argus and Arachne moved through the dew-spotted fog slowly. They owned the empty sidewalk, a small frame beside a large one, a tiny hand held in the grasp of one much bigger.
    From the opposite direction, Irene Cahill, a woman of fifty-three years, approached the silent pair. A baker’s wife, she’d risen hours before the sun. For her, as it had been almost every day since her marriage, first light signaled her first break from the ovens.
    Kerchief tied hastily around her hair, and a wool shawl held about her arms, she breathed in the chill and strolled at a leisurely pace. It was quiet, as though the fog had smothered the normal rustles and shuffles of a New York morning.
    The mismatched pair was not at first visible, cloaked by the whitish haze. But soon enough they emerged, and she was able to discern their features.
    Arachne was the taller, still a girl really, with long blond hair that rested over her shoulders. From her unblemished face, silky white with lips of pink, Irene guessed her to be no more than eighteen. Her dress was mostly hidden by a long, black raincoat. To Irene’s eye she was likely married, judging by her companion.
    The boy Argus who bounded along beside her brought an immediate smile to Irene’s face. He was tiny, no more than four or five, a toddler really. But he was dressed in the smartest little suit, a shiny black tie set against an equally small white button-down shirt, all tucked behind an embroidered maroon vest. On his little torso and legs, he wore the most elegant matching pinstriped jacket and slacks. There was a white carnation that looked uncommonly huge pinned to his lapel.
    Just about the cutest thing Irene had ever seen, and she didn’t mind saying so, either.
    â€œWhat an adorable little one you have Miss!” she gushed as soon as she was within a few feet of them. “Why, he’s just like a teensy little doll, he’s so precious.”
    The young girl simply sighed. She did not respond, except to shrug as the baker’s wife knelt down before the youngster.
    â€œWell! Aren’t you just the cutest thing? What’s your name?” Irene asked in her best baby-talk voice.
    Argus, his chubby cheeks red from the cold, did notreply at once. As Irene busied herself fussing gently over his lapels, he trained his eyes directly at hers. Something about them, the uncommon hint of crimson in the pupils, maybe, was distinctly un-childlike.
    â€œI’ll thank you to refrain from fiddling with my jacket,” he said, in a voice colored by a weird, indeterminate accent.
    Irene’s hands dropped from the lapels. Her mouth and eyes widened.
    â€œAs for my name, I doubt whether you’d seriously be interested in learning it were I not presented to you in such an unfortunately juvenile form.”
    Irene stammered. She glanced up at Arachne. A scowl greeted her.
    â€œNow, if you are quite finished admiring my