City of Night

Chapter 1
     
    Having come to life in a thunderstorm, touched by some strange lightning that animated rather than incinerated, Deucalion had been born on a night of violence.
    A Bedlam symphony of his anguished cries, his maker’s shrieks of triumph, the burr and buzz and crackle of arcane machinery echoed off the cold stone walls of the laboratory in the old windmill.
    When he woke to the world, Deucalion had been shackled to a table. This was the first indication that he had been created as a slave.
    Unlike God, Victor Frankenstein saw no value in giving his creations free will. Like all utopians, he preferred obedience to independent thought.
    That night, over two hundred years in the past, had set a theme of madness and violence that characterized Deucalion’s life for years thereafter. Despair had fostered rage. In his rages, he had killed, and savagely.
    These many decades later, he had learned self-control. His pain and loneliness had taught him pity, whereafter he learned compassion. He had found his way to hope.
    Yet still, on certain nights, without immediate cause, anger overcomes him. For no rational reason, the anger swells into a tidal rage that threatens to sweep him beyond prudence, beyond discretion.
    This night in New Orleans, Deucalion walked an alleyway on the perimeter of the French Quarter, in a mood to murder. Shades of gray, of blue, of black were enlivened only by the crimson of his thoughts.
    The air was warm, humid, and alive with muffled jazz that the walls of the famous clubs could not entirely contain.
    In public, he stayed in shadows and used back streets, because his formidable size made him an object of interest. As did his face.
    From the darkness beside a Dumpster, a wrinkled rum-soaked raisin of a man stepped forth. “Peace in Jesus, brother.”
    Although that greeting didn’t suggest a mugger on the prowl, Deucalion turned toward the voice with the hope that the stranger would have a knife, a gun. Even in his rage, he needed justification for violence.
    The panhandler brandished nothing more dangerous than a dirty upturned palm and searing halitosis. “One dollar’s all I need.”
    “You can’t get anything for a dollar,” Deucalion said.
    “Bless you if you’re generous, but a dollar’s all I ask.”
    Deucalion resisted the urge to seize the extended hand and snap it off at the wrist as though it were a dry stick.
    Instead, he turned away, and did not look back even when the panhandler cursed him.
    As he was passing the kitchen entrance to a restaurant, that door opened. Two Hispanic men in white pants and T-shirts stepped outside, one offering an open pack of cigarettes to the other.
    Deucalion was revealed by the security lamp above the door and by another directly across the alley from the first.
    Both men froze at the sight of him. One half of his face appeared normal, even handsome, but an intricate tattoo decorated the other half.
    The pattern had been designed and applied by a Tibetan monk skillful with needles. Yet it gave Deucalion a fierce and almost demonic aspect.
    This tattoo was in effect a mask meant to distract the eye from consideration of the broken structures under it, damage done by his creator in the distant past.
    Caught in the crosslight, Deucalion was sufficiently revealed for the two men to detect, if not understand, the radical geometry under the tattoo. They regarded him less with fear than with solemn respect, as they might stand witness to a spiritual visitation.
    He traded light for shadow, that alley for another, his rage escalating to fury.
    His huge hands shook, spasmed as if with the need to throttle. He fisted them, jammed them in his coat pockets.
    Even on this summer night, in the cloying bayou air, he wore a long black coat. Neither heat nor bitter cold affected him. Nor pain, nor fear.
    When he quickened his pace, the commodious coat billowed as if it were a cloak. With a hood, he might have passed for Death himself.
    Perhaps murderous compulsion was woven through his very fiber. His flesh was the flesh of numerous criminals, their bodies having been stolen from a prison graveyard immediately following interment.
    Of his two hearts, one came from a mad arsonist who burned churches. The other had belonged to a child molester.
    Even in a God-made man, the heart can be deceitful and wicked. The heart sometimes rebels against everything that the mind knows and believes.
    If the hands of a priest can do sinful work, then what can be