He returned to the present, watching his dog gulp down the cut-up slices of apple he had placed inside the animal’s bowl. A chill danced up and down his neck, and he raised a hand to his throat. He could still feel her kiss, the last they’d shared in their home.
The dog was done with his snack in record time, and returned to wipe his slobber on Remy’s leg. “That’s a good boy,” Remy told him, thumping the animal’s side like a drum.
“Good apple,” Marlowe said, then belched loudly.
And suddenly Remy heard the ghostly sound of her laughter drifting throughout the lonely house; a million tiny little things would send them into fits of hysteria—Marlowe’s burps being one of Madeline’s personal favorites.
So many memories, triggered like the fall of dominoes inside his brain. It was if he were caught inside some elaborate trap, his every action springing a recollection that left him emotionally mutilated.
Does it ever get easier? He was certain that it must, but didn’t know how much more he could take. He’d always imagined himself made of sterner stuff.
He made a pot of coffee, even though his desire for the hot beverage seemed to have waned dramatically of late.
Mug in hand, he gestured to Marlowe, lying attentively in the center of the kitchen floor. “Want to come sit with me?” he asked, not waiting for a response as he headed into the dark living room.
He set the steaming cup down on a side table and sat in his chair. He did not put any lights on, preferring the darkness.
Marlowe padded into the room, jumped up onto the sofa, and plopped down with a heavy sigh, snout between his paws.
Remy thought about watching television, or trying to read a few chapters in the book he’d started a few nights ago, but television after all these years bored him to tears, and he couldn’t even remember the title of the book. Sleep was out of the question. Since Madeline’s death, a night’s sleep had become something of a rarity, and because he really didn’t need it, his bed—the bed that he and his wife had shared—remained empty.
So he did what he’d been doing just about every night since Madeline’s death. He sat in the dark, listening to the quiet snoring of his dog, and allowed the memories to wash over him.
Remy was at the office early the next morning. It had been at least two weeks since he’d last been there.
Since narrowly averting the Apocalypse, the world had become a much darker place. He had hoped that humanity, overjoyed by the fact that they had been given a second chance to embrace life, would have tried to make things better, but in fact they didn’t even seem to notice. He was sure that on some level they were aware that something was up, that something had come pretty close to screwing up a lot more than a golf date, or that sixth trip to Disney. But the end of the world didn’t happen, and life continued just as it had before.
But whether they noticed or not, the world had become a little bit darker. The approaching end of the world had churned things up—like the bottom of a deep, dark lake, the slimy silt, mud, and sediments stirred by a powerful storm above.
Things not of this world, which had chosen—in some instances it had been chosen for them—to make the Earth their home, had become aroused by the closeness of the cataclysm, and were greatly disappointed when it had not occurred.
Leave it to Remy to spoil a potentially good time.
He stood in the lobby of the Beacon Street building that housed his agency, trying to get the accumulated mail out of his box. Swearing beneath his breath, he tugged on the wedged catalogues, flyers, and bills, trying not to damage them too badly as he extracted them.
He stuffed the stack beneath his arm and climbed the stairs to his second-floor office, thinking about the angel he and Francis had found last night, and his final words cursing himself and some mysterious others for committing an unforgivable sin.
What that sin was exactly Remy had no idea, and it ate at him, or, more precisely, it gave him something other than his troubles to think about. He would need to ask the Nomad leader when he saw him. The sudden reminder of the meeting dropped around his shoulders like a weighted scarf. Maybe I’ll just forget it, Remy thought. The Nomads will learn of their comrade’s death sooner or later.
The air inside the office was stale and unmoving. Throwing the mail down upon the desktop, he went to the window and opened it to release the stagnant smell. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the once-lovely fern given to him by an appreciative client, now withered and brown. He picked up the pot and studied the plant’s remains, searching for any sign of green, hoping for an indication that the plant could be saved, but there was none.
Remy sighed as he dumped the plant in the wastebasket. He was painfully aware that the once-thriving plant had died because of his neglect, a neglect that could very easily be affecting not only his office plants, but his business, as well as what remained of his personal life.
It was decided just like that. No more bullshit. He would go and see the Nomads. First he’d straighten out the office, return phone calls and e-mails; then he’d try to find Suroth and his flock.
But it was just so damn hard to care about anything anymore.
Madeline had been the primary reason why he lived as a human—she was his anchor to humanity—and with her gone…
His thoughts again started to wander, and he saw her the day he’d revealed his true self to her. It was early morning, as the sun came up over the Atlantic Ocean on Nahant Beach. They had been out dancing, and there wasn’t a soul around. He remembered the expression on her face when he said that he had something he wanted to show her.
Remy smiled sadly with the memory, certain that what he had revealed had never even entered her realm of possibility. How often did the guy you were dating reveal that he was an angel of the host Seraphim? Not often, he imagined. He hated these thoughts of the past, but at the same time embraced them like a long-lost friend.
Or lover.
The sudden banging on his office door removed him from the moment, and his anger surged. He could actually feel his true nature writhe in preparation, as if it expected to be unleashed.
Not good. Not good at all.
“Yeah,” Remy said as the door swung open and one of the subjects of his recent neglect ambled in, bags in hand.
“Look who decided to come to work today,” the gruff homicide detective said as he placed the two bags he was carrying on the corner of Remy’s desk and returned to the door to close it. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
There would be time for the memories later, whether Remy wanted them or not.
“No, it’s good. Sorry I missed you last night.”
Mulvehill started to rummage through one of the bags. “Had a bottle of Glenlivet with our names on it, but since you weren’t around, I had to cross yours off,” he said, removing a large coffee and placing it in front of Remy. “I felt really bad, but I didn’t want it to spoil.”
He removed one for himself and smiled. He lifted the plastic lid and took a sip from the scalding liquid. “Your loss, I guess.”
“My loss,” Remy repeated as he removed the cover from his own coffee.
His friend looked as he always did, tousled black hair, five-o’clock shadow, clothes wrinkled as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and with Steven, that very well could have been the case. He lived the job, not really having much else.
Mulvehill removed his light spring jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door. “So where were you last night? Working a case?”
He pulled out the seat in front of Remy’s desk and sat down, but before he relaxed, he reached for the other bag.
The dying angel appeared within Remy’s brain, the empty eye sockets like twin whirlpools trying to suck him down, further into despair.
“Yeah, pretty much wrapped it up last night.”
“Cheese Danish?” Mulvehill offered, pastry in hand. “I got an apple one in here too.”
“No, thanks,” Remy said. “The coffee is all I want.�
�
Mulvehill shook his head in mock disgust. “And you wonder why I’m not as svelte as I used to be.” He took an enormous bite from the pastry, crumbs raining down onto the front of his shirt and pants. He then wrinkled the top of the wax paper bag closed, and placed it on the floor beside his chair.
“I’ll save the other one for later,” he told his friend, retrieving his coffee cup from the desk. “Playing catch-up?” he asked, motioning with the Danish toward the pile of mail.
“Yeah,” Remy answered, flipping through some of it. “Amazing how quick it piles up.”
The cop nodded, slowly chewing. There was an uneasy silence starting to develop, something completely unfamiliar to their friendship, and Remy had an idea as to where the conversation would be going next.
“How are you doing?” Mulvehill finally asked.
Remy nodded, slowly turning the paper cup on his desktop. “I’m doing all right,” he said, trying to sound convincing.
“Yah think?” Mulvehill responded, shoving the last of the Danish into his mouth, and brushing the crumbs from the front of his shirt onto the floor.
“Yeah, I think,” Remy answered, unable to hide the beginning of annoyance in his tone.
“Haven’t seen you in weeks. Every time I stop by the office or your house you’re not there. I just wouldn’t have a clue if you were doing good or not,” Mulvehill explained, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs.
“I’ve been trying to keep busy,” Remy said.
He could feel the detective’s eyes scrutinizing him, searching for signs that things were not okay at all. Remy doubted that he would need to look all that closely.
“Why don’t you cut the shit and tell me the truth.”
Remy glared at his friend, the power of Heaven writhing at his core. It wanted to be free—it wanted to destroy what offended it.
“Do you want to hear that I’m miserable?” he asked. “That when she died a large piece of myself died with her? Is that what you want to hear?”
“I want to hear the truth,” Mulvehill responded. “Call it a side effect of my job. Since Maddie passed you’re not the same; there’s something not right.”
Remy brought the cup of coffee up toward his mouth. “It’s to be expected,” he said, taking a long drink. It was hot, burning hot. It felt good to feel something other than sadness.
“With most folks, yeah, but with you it’s different. You’re not the same person anymore, and that’s really sad.”
Remy set his cup down. “Who am I, then?” he asked, directing the question as much to himself as to his friend. “Maybe when she died Remy Chandler died with her, and this is the new guy who got left behind.”
Everything grew very quiet, the emotion suddenly so thick that it was almost difficult to breathe.
“Any chance of the old guy coming back?”
“Why, does he owe you money?” Remy joked, trying to lighten the mood.
The scruffy man shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “Just pure selfishness on my part. I’m not ready to say good-bye to him yet.”
“I hear he’s been going through some pretty rough shit,” Remy said as he picked up his cup, looking inside at what remained of the contents. He finished what was left and grimaced at the bitter end.
“Thought I heard something to that effect,” Mulvehill said, moving to the edge of his chair to retrieve the empty bag from the floor. He put his own empty coffee cup inside it. “I hope he swings around again sometime soon so I can tell him that he’s not alone in this, that he has people who give a shit about how he’s feeling, and what he’s going through.”
Remy wheeled his chair closer to the barrel where he’d recently disposed of his plant. “I’m sure he’s aware of that already, but it doesn’t hurt to tell him again.” He threw away his coffee cup.
“Yeah,” Mulvehill said, rising from his seat. “He’s kind of thick like that.”
The detective retrieved the bag containing the apple pastry and crinkled the top tighter. “Sure you don’t want this?” he asked.
Remy shook his head. “I’m good.”
Mulvehill accepted this, walking across the office to the coat rack for his jacket.
“So if you should see him,” he began.
Remy looked up from an electric bill he’d retrieved from the pile, at first confused.
“Our mutual friend, the one we were just discussing?” Mulvehill clarified. “If you should see him, pass on that I wish him only the best.”
He adjusted the collar on the jacket and, satisfied that he was presentable, opened the door to leave.
“And that I really miss her too,” he added as he left, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER THREE
Remy stood before his wife’s grave, as he’d done so many times since she’d left him.
He had managed to make it through all the mail and even returned a few phone calls before deciding not to push his luck. He’d stopped at home to pick up Marlowe, then headed for the cemetery.
A thin, snaking vine clung to the face of the marble grave marker, the delicate purple flowers that grew from the vine embellishing her name.
MADELINE CHANDLER: BELOVED.
It always stunned him how beautiful it was, no matter the season; there were always flowers of various colors and sizes growing on and around the grave, a gift of gratitude from Israfil, the Angel of Death, for Remy’s assistance in keeping the world from ending.
“Hey there, beautiful,” Remy said, kneeling upon the thick green grass. He reached out, letting his fingers brush the engraving of her name.
He knew that she wasn’t there with him, for when she had passed from life, her essence—her soul—had joined with countless others, as had been done since creation, to become part of the very fabric of the universe.
To become part of the Source.
He of all people knew how it worked, but he liked having a place that he could come to—to think, to chat with her as if she were still with him.
From out of the corner of his eye he saw Marlowe zip past, obviously on the hunt.
“Are you going to come over and say hi?” Remy called to the animal that was darting between the headstones, snout pressed to the ground.
“No,” the dog answered. “Finding rabbits.”
Remy turned his attention back to his wife’s grave.
“Things have been kind of crazy,” he said, picking away some of the dead, dry leaves that hung uselessly from the veinwork of vines that covered the front of the marker. “You know, lots of the weird stuff.”
Whenever he was involved in a case outside the walls of normalcy, Madeline had always referred to it as that weird stuff. When your husband was a disenfranchised angel from Heaven, working as a private investigator, the weird stuff just had a tendency to find you. She never liked it, saying that it gave her the creeps, but over time had learned to tolerate it.
“Yeah, yeah, I know; you hate that crap.” He laughed softly, hearing the sound of her complaining as if she were there with him. “But it keeps me busy… keeps me distracted.”
He read her name on the stone over and over again.
“I’m surprised that you didn’t run from me screaming that morning when I showed you,” he said.
When I showed you what I was.
Nahant, Massachusetts, 19??
“What are you doing?” Madeline Dexter asked him, a smile creeping around the corners of her seductive mouth. The warm wind whipped off the water as she picked some stray strands of her tousled hair from her mouth, her beautiful brown eyes riveted to him.
They had been out all night dancing at the Wonderland Ballroom, just one of the hundreds of joyous times they’d shared since she had first come to work as his office manager.
There was something about this woman, something that demanded that she know the truth.
“I have something to show you,” he said to her.
He let her hand go and stepped back. His eyes quickly scanned t
he beach around them, wanting to be certain that they were indeed alone. The sun had just come up, and there wasn’t another soul to be found. At that moment, as far as he was concerned, they were the only two people upon the planet, like Adam and Eve.
He hoped things worked out for him and Madeline better than they did for those two.
Madeline moved her shoes from one hand to the other. “What is this, Remy?” she asked, with a nervous giggle. “What’re you going to do, some sort of magic trick?”
Remy smiled at her warmly. After what he had left behind in Paradise, he had never believed he could trust something so completely. She made him want to belong. For the first time in more than a millennium, he truly felt a part of humanity, not just some imposter going through the motions.
She made him feel human, and he couldn’t bear to hide the truth about himself any longer.
“A magic trick,” he repeated, and laughed.
He tried to recall the last time he had shed his human guise. It was before he’d come to Massachusetts, and maybe even before Massachusetts had been established, for that matter. It had been a long time, and he did not relish the act.
But it had to be if their relationship was to continue down this path.
“You’ve often talked about how honest I am, how I can’t lie to save my life.”
She stared at him intensely. She was starting to look worried, maybe thinking that he was going to reveal that he already had a girlfriend, or perhaps even worse, that he was married.
If only it was that simple.
“But I have been lying, Maddie,” he told her, “lying about what I am.”
She stepped toward him, concern on her face. “You don’t have to do this,” Madeline said. “Whatever it is you’ve been hiding… it’s all right, Remy; we can work it out.”
Madeline was afraid, and if he were to be perfectly honest, so was he.
Remy didn’t want to lose her, and by revealing the truth, he knew that he very well might. But he couldn’t lie anymore, especially to her.
“Don’t ruin this,” she begged.
Dancing On the Head of a Pin rc-2 Page 3