Dancing On the Head of a Pin rc-2

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “Careful,” Remy called after him.

  “See Francis,” the dog woofed. “Get cheese.”

  Isn’t it just like a Labrador, Remy thought, holding on to the banister as he walked down the steps. Only excited to see you if there’s a promise of food somewhere in the equation.

  Marlowe had already disappeared through a doorway at the end of the stairway, and Remy expected to hear Francis respond to the dog’s appearance, but he heard nothing.

  Remy entered the apartment. The place was simple in its furnishings, an old leather couch by the wall, a recliner not too far from the ancient furnace that squatted like a monster in the center of the living room area. Gray metal heating ducts snaked from its squat body across the ceiling, exiting up to the multiple residences above. A blocky armoire across from the recliner hid the big-screen TV. A framed movie poster from The Wild Bunch hid a door to a closet where Remy knew his friend kept a large majority of the weapons he used during his freelance work.

  The coffee table was covered with Sudoku books and sundry other puzzle magazines. Most angels loved puzzles, but Remy couldn’t stand the things. His wife had been the puzzle person in their household. He felt that sad feeling in the pit of his belly again, remembering how she’d spend what seemed like hours at the grocery store magazine racks searching for just the right puzzle magazine.

  Marlowe barked from one of the back hallways.

  “Did you find Francis?” Remy asked as he maneuvered around the coffee table.

  The Labrador stood before another door, his body rigid, tail wagging. This door was weathered, the paint peeling as if it had been exposed to the constant changes of New England weather.

  “In there,” Marlowe said, body rigid, head bent to sniff at the crack at the bottom of the door.

  “You might want to get away from there,” Remy suggested.

  The door began to tremble in its frame, shaking so hard, so violently, that pieces of peeling paint started to flake to the floor. Remy reached out to grab Marlowe’s collar, pulling him back, the door suddenly opened, giving them both a glimpse of the infernal realm.

  From what Remy could see, it hadn’t changed a bit.

  If Heaven was a place of awesome beauty and wonder, then Hell was its polar opposite.

  Marlowe yelped in fear as a warm wind tinged with the scent of hopelessness wafted from the realm beyond the open door.

  “Go,” Remy told the frightened animal, who had lost control of his bladder, leaving a puddle of urine on the wood floor in front of the door.

  Marlowe ran off as Remy stared out across a bridge made from the bodies of the most unrepentant of the fallen angels. Their moans and cries for mercy made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and the Seraphim nature crave to be unleashed so that it could end the suffering of its brethren.

  He would have preferred to turn his back on the sights before him, but the realm of Hell demanded to be looked upon, to be feared and respected.

  Geysers of molten lava exploded up from the blighted land far below, the intense glow from the liquid rock illuminating the nightmarish landscape. It was said that there lived bands of fallen angels, those who chose not to complete their penance upon the Earth, preferring to live out the remainder of their contrition upon the wastelands of Hell.

  Remy couldn’t imagine how they survived.

  Turning his attention from the fearsome landscape to what loomed at the end of the bridge, he had to wonder, which was actually worse: the wilds of Hell…

  Or Tartarus?

  The prison glistened before him, and though surrounded by the scorched, molten landscape, it remained frigidly cold. Tartarus grew up from the barrens of the nether regions, so cold in its growth that not even the fires of Hell could melt it. It was wide at its base, rising to a jagged, gradual point like a pyramid of ice crafted by a long-extinct polar civilization.

  Remy’s head was suddenly filled with a quote from a poem by Robert Frost, “Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.”

  It wasn’t the end of the world—Remy had already been close enough to see what that would look like—but as a sight to steal away any sense of hope, it ran a close second.

  The screams and moans from the bridge made of the fallen grew suddenly louder, their bodies writhing in horrible discomfort, causing the fleshy structure to undulate.

  And Remy then saw the reason for the fallens’ distress, an orange light, like the pulsing of a star, had appeared from behind the wall of ice at the front of the frozen prison. The light grew brighter, and brighter still, an opening—an exit—melting in the face of Tartarus.

  Remy stumbled back a bit, bumping into the wall behind him as two Sentries emerged. They were fearsome creations, angels whose sole purpose it was to watch over the magnitude of Tartarus’ prisoners, none more deadly than Lucifer Morningstar.

  He could not see their faces, for their entire bodies were adorned with ornate armor forged from the stuff of Heaven, making them impervious to the malignancy of this damnable place. Their wings were armored as well, each and every feather coated in the same Heavenly metal that dressed their bodies.

  Remy could feel their eyes on him, assessing whether or not he was a threat to them. They must have deemed him harmless because they turned back toward the cavernous opening, standing on either side as two more figures emerged from within the chilling blackness.

  Francis escorted a naked man from the icy prison, holding on to his scrawny arm as they passed under the gaze of the Sentries, whose helmeted heads slowly turned to watch them as they passed.

  Francis appeared as he often did, unfazed and perhaps even a little bit bored by the whole thing. He was wearing his gray suit, with a coral-colored dress shirt and red-and-black striped tie. Remy wasn’t entirely sure that the colors matched, but for some reason, it worked for the former Guardian.

  The naked angel looked a wreck, his emaciated body caked with the filth of confinement in Tartarus. His eyes bulged from his skull, obviously in a state of shock. They walked across the bridge of misbegotten flesh, the screams and moans of those whose bodies they walked upon agitated all the more by the fallen’s passing. They knew that he was leaving and were jealous of him.

  Just before reaching the doorway to the earthly plain, the Sentries turned and walked back into the ice prison. At their passing, the frozen wall began to re-form, and soon there was no trace that a door had ever been there at all.

  “Hey,” Francis said with a friendly nod as he caught sight of Remy in the doorway.

  Remy gave a wave.

  The former Guardian was about to step over the threshold with his charge when he came to a sudden stop.

  “Who the hell pissed on my floor?”

  The parolee from Hell sat in the chair, wrapped in a towel, and shivered. Remy wasn’t sure if it was from cold or from having the residue of Tartarus scoured from his lean frame by Francis.

  Francis handed him a steaming cup of coffee. “Here, drink this. It’ll warm up your guts.”

  He took it, his eyes filled with emotion. It was probably the first act of kindness he had been shown in God only knew how long.

  Remy watched the fallen bring the mug slowly to his mouth, a look of euphoria spreading across his haggard features as he took the hot liquid into his system. In Tartarus, they were denied any physical sensation at all, except for pain.

  The toaster popped, and Francis took two slices of bread from the machine and slathered them with butter.

  “You’re going to give the guy a heart attack,” Remy said as his friend brought the plate over to the towel-draped figure. With a shaking hand he set his coffee down and took the offered plate. With a ravenous glee, he began to devour the toasted bread.

  “He needs some meat on his bones,” Francis said.

  Marlowe’s wagging tail thumped the floor as he covetously watched the man eat.

  “Where mine?” he asked.

  “You’re not getting anything; you pissed on my floor
,” Francis said to him.

  Marlowe lowered his head, ears flat in shame. “Scared,” the dog whined sadly. “Marlowe scared.”

  Remy reached down and patted the big dog’s side. “That’s all right, buddy. We cleaned it up. It’s all good.”

  Before the toast was completely devoured, Francis reached down to the man’s plate, grabbing one of the pieces and tearing away a section of crust.

  “As long as you’re sorry,” he said, tossing it to the dog.

  Marlowe snapped it out of the air, swallowing the bread with a minimum of chewing. “Very sorry,” the Labrador said. “Pee outside only.”

  “Yeah, well, you be sure and remember that next time.”

  “You’re such a hard-ass,” Remy said, petting his dog’s head.

  “Damn straight,” Francis agreed. “Got to keep up my reputation.”

  He turned his attention back to the man sitting wrapped in a towel, eating toast and drinking coffee.

  “How are you doing?” Francis asked him. “Do you know where you are?”

  The fallen looked around the room. He seemed to be in shock, which would be perfectly understandable, considering where he’d just come from. He opened his mouth to speak, but could only manage a dry croak. Remy gestured for him to drink some more of the coffee.

  He did and once again attempted to answer Francis’ question.

  “Limbus,” he managed.

  The earthly plain was looked upon by the fallen angels as a kind of Limbo—or Limbus, as they called it—a sort of waiting period they would have to endure before it was determined whether or not they would be allowed to return to God.

  “Bingo,” Francis said, gripping his shoulder. “So you probably know what’s up for you now, but in case you don’t, I’ll be brief. This is the next phase of your penance for crimes against the Lord God Almighty.”

  Francis left the man’s side, going to a wooden cabinet in the corner of the kitchen area. He opened the door and removed folded clothing, a towel, and some toiletries.

  All the parolees from Tartarus were given the same things.

  He handed the stack to the man, who tentatively took it.

  “Although not as torturous as the time spent in Hell’s prison, your stay here on the world of God’s man will provide you with many challenges.”

  The man seemed distracted, running his hands over the smoothness of the clothing, reveling in the pleasant sensation, nearly overwhelmed by something other than sheer agony and suffering.

  “What’s your name?” Francis asked, snapping his fingers in front of the man’s face to distract him.

  “Silas,” he said after some thought.

  “You will live here in this building, Silas, until you become acclimated to this city, and to the world,” Francis explained.

  “I… I will live here?” Sirus stammered.

  “Exactly. You will live here with others of your ilk—others who have begun the next phase in their rehabilitation.”

  “How… how long must I…,” the fallen began.

  Francis reached down to grab the man beneath the arm, pulling him up from his seat. “Haven’t a clue,” he explained. “When the Big Man decides that you paid enough for your betrayal of His holy trust, I guess He’ll allow you to return to Heaven… but then again, maybe He won’t. God’s funny like that; you never know what He’s going to do.”

  Still holding his arm, Francis guided the fallen toward the door. “My suggestion is to live a good life, keep your nose clean, and you never know what good might come of it. You’re on the second floor, first door on your right—number 213; I left it open. Go up, get settled, and if you have any questions, don’t be afraid to come find me.”

  Silas started up the stairs, looking as though he really wasn’t quite sure what was happening. It would take him some time to get used to his new, less agonizing setting, but it would happen eventually, Remy thought as he watched the man go.

  “I didn’t think he’d ever leave,” Francis said, closing the door behind him, heading into the kitchen on a course to the coffee machine.

  “What do you think?” Remy asked. Marlowe was lying on his side, sound asleep, looking as though he’d been shot. “Think he’ll stay clean, or will he be seduced by the dark side?”

  “I hate it when you make Star Wars references,” Francis sneered, taking a sip from his own cup of coffee.

  “Would you prefer Trek? You’re so old-fashioned that way.”

  Remy joined his friend in the kitchen. Marlowe suddenly sat up, probably afraid he would miss some food.

  “Where?” the dog asked groggily.

  “Just getting some coffee, pal,” he told the animal. “Go back to sleep. Don’t worry, I’ll wake you up if something good is going on.”

  He found a mug in the drainer by the sink and poured himself a cup.

  “So what do you think? Will Silas return to Paradise?” Remy leaned against the counter, sipping from his cup.

  Francis shrugged on his way into the living room. “Not my job,” he said. “I’m just supposed to get them here, and then that whole free will business that the Big Guy is so famous for kicks in. Personally I don’t think it lives up to the hype.”

  He groaned as he slowly lowered himself into a beat-up old recliner. “If it wasn’t for free will, none of us would be in this situation.”

  Marlowe had moved closer to the Guardian, dropping down on the area rug beside his chair.

  Remy pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and took a seat on the couch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “No free will, no Lucifer deciding that he wanted to be the boss, no war in Heaven, and I just keep moving along doing what I was created to do.” He had some more of his drink.

  “And what about me? If the war never happened, I’d never have left Heaven, come to Earth, loved Madeline…”

  “Exactly,” Francis interrupted. “There’d have been a whole lot less pain for the both of us.”

  There was a tiny part of Remy that agreed with the fallen Guardian, a tiny part that wanted to be stronger, but he refused to allow it to grow. Even with all the pain he’d suffered these past few months, he wouldn’t have given up what he’d experienced with his wife. She had helped to define him, shaping him into the man he was today.

  Yes, the man.

  The Seraphim inside came awake in the darkness, far stronger than it had been in centuries. It knew that the power that had once suppressed it was gone, that a chance existed that it might one day regain control, and that knowledge made it content.

  Patient to wait.

  “Did you just stop by to cheer me up, or did you want something?” Francis suddenly asked, interrupting the uncomfortable silence that now filled the former Guardian’s dwelling.

  Remy motioned to the file he’d left on the corner of the coffee table.

  “What’s this?” Francis asked, snatching it up. “Case you’re working on?”

  The angel started to flip through the pages. “Nice,” he said, nodding at the weaponry. “This is the Karnighan business, right?”

  Remy watched him carefully, looking for a specific reaction.

  “Hey there, good-lookin’,” Francis suddenly said, eyes fixated on a specific item.

  “Let me guess,” Remy said. “It’s either a medieval battle-axe, a Japanese katana, two daggers, or an old Colt 45.”

  “It’s the Colt,” Francis said, holding up the picture. “But now you’ve made me curious about the other three.” He searched the stack, finding them.

  “What do you think?” Remy asked.

  Francis adjusted his dark-framed glasses. “They’re all gorgeous, real collectors’ pieces, but these particular items are fucking golden.”

  “I don’t know shit about this stuff, and those same items gave me a similar reaction. Why do you think that?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe some of my exquisite taste in tools of death and destruction has finally started to rub off on you,” Francis said, co
ntinuing to ogle the pictures.

  “So you’ve got nothing for me?”

  “Nothing other than these things giving me a hard-on,” Francis said. “What I wouldn’t give to have just one of these in my collection.”

  He picked one of the pictures from the stack and stared at it. Remy could see that it was the Japanese sword.

  “Thought you’d like that one,” he said.

  Francis looked up from the picture. “There’s a legend that says that just before he died, Asamiya forged his masterpiece, a sword that would make its wielder invincible in battle.”

  Remy leaned forward on the couch. “Do you think that’s it?”

  “That would be so fucking cool,” Francis said, coveting the ancient weapon. “There’re stories like that about all kinds of weapons,” he explained. “Supposedly every weapons smith has made a piece so perfectly that it stands far above any of its predecessors. Together these weapons they were called the Pitiless.”

  “Pitiless?” Remy asked, not quite getting the reasoning behind the name.

  “Supposedly these particular weapons were favored by Death and blessed with its power; no enemy could escape their intent.”

  “Special,” Remy said.

  Francis smiled, slowly nodding in agreement.

  “And if they existed, worth a fucking mint.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Remy wanted to call Karnighan right there and then but realized that it was a bit too late for business.

  In the morning for certain.

  Leaving Francis’ brownstone, he’d driven home, his head buzzing with questions. Was it possible? Had Karnighan somehow managed to find these priceless, legendary weapons? And since he’d failed to mention what these weapons actually were, was there anything else that he’d neglected to share?

  Questions, with a heaping portion of questions on top of those.

  There wasn’t a parking space to be found anywhere on the Hill, forcing him to park down on Cambridge Street. He locked up the vehicle, and he and Marlowe walked up the rather steep incline of Irving Street, turning right onto Myrtle.