“Jesus,” Dion said, staring down from the elevator now zooming up towards their floor. “It’s a ghost town.”

They looked across the horizon. What was supposed to be a bustling metropolis now seemed to be nothing more than a shadow, an undercurrent of an already ruined city. It had been two weeks after Junior’s death and approximately ten days after the closing of the casino. No staff was left, they had either quit, had been laid off, or were now waiting nervously for the future of their workplace, the casino El Rey.

All because of the two murders. The disappearance of a young woman. The strange happenings.

The exodus and destruction of the casino had started five floors a time, when Salome decreed that no staff and no one, in general, could approach the topmost five levels. It started like that and over the course of three days, had gone all the way down until no floor (not the main floor, not even the parking lot, not even a square mile around the casino) was accessible to anyone save for the family. And even that! Even that was only a fickle guarantee.

For the family was split, and certain allegiances had been made in the shadows. Such that, no one family member (or Vicar) had all access to all floors.

The Vicars had found this out by mistake when they tried to use their cards in the elevator only to find it halt midway on the fiftieth floor. They heard it was the same for the rest of Wolfe's. There were floor-restrictions, as it was, placed on everyone's cards. This was a decision made without the consent of everyone, in such a passive-aggressive manner, that it had left everyone sour. And tenuous...to say the least.

The Wolfe's hadn't spoken to each other, Aenea had told them. No dinner was hosted. No greetings. Nothing. There was radio silence across the casino. But they were all here, all of them. She had them that too.

But they could do nothing. And so it was that these two worked, even with these restrictions, tallying up evidence and struggling with the Wolfe family who now made significant efforts to dodge and avoid them.

It felt like they were preparing for something.

"It’s the shadow of a ghost, honestly." Apollo stepped out to their preliminary stop by the ballroom. The elevator stopped with a loud creak. The elevator panel flashed in red and blaring words, 'Access Denied'. They’d have to take the stairs. “And if those two murders didn’t kill the casino, then Salome surely did. Gossip, social anxiety. It didn’t long for the corpse to rot. The staff left, the heart died, and here we are. In the rotting corpse of a skyscraper, host to a family of parasites.”

“Parasites?” Dion asked.

“What else can I call them? Those who take advantage of the stupid and poor and their habits can be called nothing more than parasites. Cancer growths. I’m glad this place is dying.” He took a cigarette out. “It’s a shame the city is going to die with it.”

“Why’s the city going to die? A little over dramatic, don’t you think?”

“The city will die because the attraction keeping it alive is gone. All the hotels, restaurants, tourist spots, all live as supplements to this thing.” He pointed to the windows and the floor and the ceiling. “It’s funny in a way. They put their whole hand on this place and now it’s flipped. Bad bet, if you ask me.”

“They’ll survive. More importantly, what are we going to do?” Dion asked. “We’ve got two bodies on our hands.”

"Hmm? What? What's changed, Dion?" Apollo asked. "Junior isn't our problem. And if he's of any interest to us, it's only in his relation to the death of the father. "

"What about the family? They’re…acting funny.”

“They’re witches. What do you think they’re up to?”

“I don’t know, god Damnit Apollo, I don’t know what’s going on at all.”

“They’re witches. And they're bound to a devil. It’s an inheritance of a mistake their great great great grandfather made a long time ago. What do you think happens next?”

“I’m asking you that. Stop spinning it back to me.”

Dion’s eyes water from the cigarette smoke. Behind it, the veil of white, the bud of cigarette burns and glows red. Apollo’s face is haggard, he has not slept, perhaps for days. And Dion stared at his tired eyes, for they don’t even seem to blink.

“I’ve heard a case like this. Out in Rhode Island, a family by the name of the Culvers. Real old shit, World War I old shit.” The smoke came into him, second hand, from Apollo’s cracked lips, having passed by his tired throat. “I call them family in the loosest sense. They were a group of worshippers of Belial. Had a whole gated community, even fooled the government into subsidizing their property after fiddling with the law. It turns out you can get away with a tax break if you're willing to register your cult as a religion. As a 'church'. Anyway, this family also made a deal with a demon. And it too was something of a filial affair. I’ll cut the boring shit out. But the family ended up tearing itself apart, kin killing kin. All of them eager and selfish to inherit Belial, or at least, their false belief that they would inherit Belial.”

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“How’d that happen? How does something like that start?” Dion asked.

“Easy, the son killed the father. Then he moved on to the mother, raped his sisters, then kill them too. The neighbors, the other cultists, eventually offed themselves too. The only survivor, funnily enough, ended up being the son. He’s in prison right now, in Soloman’s Keep.”

“This happened during World War I? Shouldn’t he be a hundred years old by now?”

“I’m guessing Belial really did give him something. Something worth slaughtering his father over.” Apollo said. “Funny thing, power. Goes straight to peoples head.”

“Why wasn’t this in the news?”

“The Vatican put a chokehold on the government and subsequently, the media,” Apollo asked. “I’d blame the media, there’s no shortage of spineless journalists after all, but it’s not like the masses gave a shit either. People tend to forget and tend to ignore that which wanders near their stratosphere. And the closer something that horrible is (I mean, who would have thought it’d happen on the rich soils of Rhode Island? A cult?) the easier it becomes to ignore. Maybe people forget bad news because it’s the only way they can get through the day. Or maybe the repetitiveness of tragedy just becomes dulling. White noise.”

"That was Belial. This is Mammon. The prince of possessions, of wealth and greed. They’re different, aren’t they?" Dion asked.

“The demons? Sure. The people? No. They’re fucking Häxans. Same shit, all the time. Nothing changes, really.”

They had entered the stairway somewhere along their conversation, up a few flights, and towards the fifty-fifth floor, where most of the main bedrooms of the family were. Out in the center, they saw the strange growth of marble left by Floyd, shadowing them. The lights were dim.

“The Culvers were cultists though, amateur mages at best.” Apollo pointed to the marble growth. “We’re dealing with the real thing now though. I can’t imagine how bad things will get. This fight is going to be such a fucking mess.”

"Fight?"

"What else do you think is going to happen? Here’s my detective guess about the intention of Junior’s killer. Something tells me he figured, hoped, that with Junior dead, the family would be forced to fight.”

“But why?”

“To decide who earns Mammon’s love. It can only go to one and it sure as hell doesn’t seem like they’ve all agreed to a successor. So they’ll hash it out, the only way they know how. Which means…”

"We’ll have to defend Aenea," Dion said. “She’s as much a part of the Wolfe’s as any of them.”

“You mean, I will,” Apollo said with strained breath, the stairs were getting to him, and his limp seemed to worsen with each step. His health hadn’t returned. His sass, certainly. But even that seemed a shield, an arrogant pessimistic shield against the reality of his status as a warrior.

“We will,” Dion said, helping Apollo up. Apollo leaned away. “I’ve gotten better at shotting. I can fire all six shots now.”

“But can you hit anything?”

“We'll find out.” Dion said.

"Great. That's exactly what I want to hear." Apollo laughed with the kind of aggressive sarcasm that was just perfectly hot enough to boil Dion's blood. "Here's another good question. Are you gonna be able to put a bullet in Salome's head? Or Richter's? When the time comes, of course."

Dion said nothing. Apollo opened a door towards their floor of residence.

"I'll find a way."

"Right. You ain't no stranger to murder, after all."

Dion's eyes looked downcast as the light of the hall glared against them and as they approached their room and the low glow of the wall lamp near it.

“You better learn how to clear your head then." Apollo said. "Meditate or masturbate, pick your poison. Just make sure you've got your head straight for the fight. And it's coming, I promise you that. I'm beginning to resign the idea of ever figuring out who the murderer was. And when that happens, there'll be only one mode of conversation left between us and the Wolfe's."

“Why are you telling me this? You’re the one who can’t stop hallucinating. How about you clear your mind.”

Apollo stood standoffish against Dion. His face, wraped to a frown. He managed to turn it though, after a while, turn into a grim smile. He moved along, to the door, a crippled gait. Then Dion followed towards their room, and towards the wall lamps that flickered and dozed into darkness.

Dion coughed. Nervously.

“Who do you think is going to attack first? If you’re right about…all of this.” He blurted into the awkward silence.

Apollo hunched over the door and worked the key, which appeared stuck. There was no beep of the verification device hanging by the door.

“Beats me. It could be anyone.”

Apollo removed the key card, frustrated. He smacked the doorknob, heard something break and instead simply…opened the door. And Dion stared, confused that there was no resistance from the steel doorknob. Even stranger, in his observation, was that the paint on the door hinges was ruined with stains. That the wooden frame was chipped and a few scratches and prints decorated the walls near the hinges.

Apollo took a step in. Dion grabbed him by the shoulder. He looked tired, glared back at Dion, tired.

"What?” Apollo asked.

He put one finger on his lips and nodded his head, with closed eyes. When he opened them again, they were crimson. And Apollo found out then and there, what deadliness waited for him behind the door. His smile remained on his face, superimposed through stifled and scared muscles. He reached his hand into his coat, both of them did. Dion shaking, Apollo stiff with a kind of paralyzing excitement. They looked liked explosives. Bombs filled with different recipes and magnitudes of emotions, but explosives - both of them - none the less.

Apollo sensed it then and there. His eyes widened. Though he hadn’t seen it or heard it or felt it.

He knew it. The monster behind the door.