Mean Streets

by Jim Butcher

  Marlowe thought for a moment. “Pig’s ear,” he said, an excited little tremor in his voice.

  “A pig’s ear?” Remy asked, pretending to be surprised. “That’s just gross.”

  “Pig’s ear good,” the dog answered. His muscular tail continued to wag.

  “Y’think?” Remy wrinkled his nose in an expression of distaste.

  “Yes!” Marlowe barked, stepping back, at full attention now.

  “All right, then.” Remy pushed himself up from the chair. “Let’s go get you a . . .”

  He sensed it at pretty much the same time that Marlowe did, and the promise of a pig’s ear was momentarily forgotten.

  Marlowe started to growl, low and rumbling, the thick black fur around his neck and above his tail rising in caution.

  Remy walked across the porch to the top of the stairs. He looked out at the woods surrounding the property, the cold wind causing the little vegetation that was able to survive the winter to sway and rustle.

  In spite of how it looked, he knew that they were no longer alone.

  There was a disturbance in the air near the driveway and Remy watched as a human figure gradually materialized in a walk toward them.

  The male figure was tall, dressed in a finely tailored gray suit, but wasn’t a man.

  Marlowe was by Remy’s side now, barking crazily.

  “Quiet,” he ordered. “It’s all right.”

  “Greetings, Remiel,” the angel Sariel said with the slightest hint of a bow. The angel was tall, his features pale and perfect, as if sculpted by a master from the finest Italian marble. He adjusted the sleeves of his suit jacket as he looked around him.

  Sariel was the leader of a host of angels called the Grigori, messengers sent by Heaven in the earliest days of humanity to guide God’s latest creations. They had became corrupted by the early decadence of man, and soon found themselves on the receiving end of the Lord’s wrath.

  The Grigori had been robbed of their wings and banished to Earth, there to await the Almighty’s forgiveness before being allowed to once more pass through the gates of Heaven.

  Sariel and his brothers had been waiting for a very long time.

  “What can I do for you?” Remy asked the angel.

  Marlowe continued to growl, his eyes locked upon the immaculately dressed angel standing in the snow-covered pathway leading up to the house.

  “Is this where you’ve come to mourn?” Sariel asked.

  “Excuse me?” Remy felt his anger begin to rise.

  “I heard about your mate’s passing,” the Grigori leader stated flatly. “And I wonder if this is where you’ve come to mourn your loss?”

  The dog was becoming extremely upset, and Remy reached over to place a calming hand atop his head.

  “Shhhhhhhhh, now,” Remy said, hoping to quiet his own growing anger as well.

  “This is a private place,” Remy told the angel. “Which poses the question of how you’ve come to find me here.”

  “Forgive the intrusion,” Sariel said without an ounce of sincerity.

  It was very difficult for Sariel to even pretend to understand what it was like to be human. The Grigori, and many of the other angelic beings that had come to walk the Earth, viewed the human race as just one more example of the myriad animal species that existed upon the surface of the world, refusing to acknowledge how special they truly were.

  Refusing to acknowledge that they had been touched by God.

  Remy was a rarity among heavenly beings, one who actually embraced humanity and strived to be a part of it.

  “I do not wish to intrude upon your bereavement, but a matter of grave importance has arisen since last we saw one another,” Sariel continued.

  Just three weeks ago, the Grigori had helped Remy to avert the Apocalypse. Although their motive was selfish—for their fate if the world should die was uncertain at best—Sariel had gathered his Grigori brothers to help Remy prevent the release of the Four Horsemen.

  “A matter of grave importance,” Remy repeated. “Seems to be quite a bit of that going around these days.”

  Sariel stared, not understanding Remy’s sarcasm.

  “Why are you here, Sariel?” Remy asked, not even trying to hide his exasperation.

  “The old man is dead,” he replied.

  “The old man . . . who . . . what old man?” Remy was confused, but then it dawned on him, the connection with the Grigori.

  The old man.

  “Noah?” Remy asked. “Noah is dead? How?”

  Sariel adjusted his suit jacket, again tugging on his sleeves.

  The cruel winter wind blew again, and with the chilling breeze came a taint of change in the air.

  A taint of something menacing.

  “He was murdered, Remiel,” Sariel said. “The ark builder was murdered.”

  TWO

  BEFORE THE FLOOD

  Unbeknownst to them, Remiel watched as they toiled, building the great wooden craft.

  Day after day he observed the old man, Noah, and his sons work on what gradually took the form of an enormous, roofed ship.

  An ark.

  Remiel had not been on the world of man for long, and he knew there was much still to explore, but he found that he could not leave.

  The angel was fascinated, that fascination becoming even more pronounced when, in the early hours before dawn, he watched the old man approach the enormous vessel and begin to paint the magickal sigils upon its hull.

  Unable to contain his curiosity, Remiel drew closer. He allowed himself to be seen, approaching the old man as he wrote with crimson fingers upon the hull of the great wooden craft.

  “What are you doing?” Remiel asked, studying the marks, feeling the arcane energies radiating from the strange symbols of power.

  “You startled me,” Noah said, and Remiel felt the man’s ancient eyes scrutinizing him, peeling away the deception that he was but a nomad from the desert.

  That he was but a man.

  Noah dropped to his knees, and immediately averted his eyes.

  “Messenger of Heaven, I have done as He has asked of me. All nears readiness,” the old man professed. “As soon as I have completed the symbols, we will be ready to accept the beasts of the land.”

  “You mistake me for someone else, old father,” Remiel said, reaching down to take the man’s hand and pull him to his feet.

  “Are you not one of His winged children?” Noah asked.

  Remiel’s suspicions were correct, the old man could see through his disguise.

  “You can see me?” he asked.

  Noah slowly nodded.

  Truly this human has been touched by God, the angel thought.

  Remiel’s attention returned to the ark and the sigils that the old man was painting on its surface.

  “These are powerful magicks you play with,” he said as he brought his hand close to one, feeling the energy emanating from it. “And did the Almighty bestow this knowledge upon you, as well as the gift of sight?”

  The old man dipped his fingers into the wooden bowl of bloodred paint and began to draw upon the ark again.

  “As your brethren have brought me this most holy mission, they have also delivered unto me the means to achieve this enormous task,” Noah went on, the symbols of power leaving his fingers in strange patterns of scarlet.

  “My brethren,” Remiel repeated thoughtfully. “Why do you do this?” he asked. He walked around to what would be the bow of the great ship. “Why have you built such a craft?”

  “You test me, angel,” the old man said, furiously painting. “A great storm is coming.”

  “A storm?” Remiel asked. He spread his wings, and floated gracefully into the air to inspect the great ship further. The magick had begun to work upon the craft. The angel flew closer to an open passage leading deep into the bowels of the ship. The darkness was limitless—the space within the belly of the ark endless.

  “It is a storm to wash away that which offends Him,” Noah
said as the angel returned to his side.

  “And the ship?” Remiel questioned, folding his powerful wings behind him.

  “It is needed to hold all life that has been deemed worthy to survive,” Noah said. “The beasts of the land, no matter how large or small; it is my task to be certain that they live. As they are the Lord’s children, so are they mine.”

  Remiel was fascinated. Had this old man actually received a message from the Lord of Lords, telling him of an approaching cataclysm? Did the Almighty truly intend to wash away His own creations?

  He had known his Creator as a being of intense emotions. But he questioned the notion that the Almighty could be capable of destroying what He had once been so proud of, what had been the primary reason for the Great War against the forces of the Morningstar.

  Remiel pondered this quandary for many days and nights, all the while watching Noah as he and his family performed the tasks supposedly assigned by God.

  Eventually, the skies grew dark and pregnant with storm.

  Remiel observed the beasts, deemed worthy, herded aboard the great ark. It was the magick that called to them, drawing them to the place that would be their sanctuary against the coming doom. It seemed not to matter how many there were, the belly of Noah’s craft welcomed them all and gave them safety.

  It took seven days for Noah and his sons to complete their miraculous task, and when the last of the animals was finally herded aboard, there was the most awesome of sounds from the sky, a clap of thunder like nothing Remiel had ever heard before.

  A sound that signaled the beginning of the end.

  And then the rains began.

  It was a terrible rain, the water falling so quickly, the wind blowing so fiercely, that it soon began to obscure the land. A great and terrible hand in the form of a storm had descended upon the world, to wipe away its imperfections.

  Remiel stood at the foot of the gangplank used by the beasts to climb to safety aboard Noah’s ark, and looked out into the storm. From the corner of his eye, he thought he’d seen something. Peering intently through the torrential downpour, he scanned what little was left of the land until he found them. Hooded shapes, their skin the color of dusk, standing perfectly still in front of the caves that spotted the hills, as the rain fell around them and the waters rose.

  Within moments they were gone, swallowed up by the deluge.

  Remiel turned to board the craft, and came face-to-face with one of his own.

  The angel Sariel stood with his Grigori brethren. One by one they climbed the ramp to board the ark. Remiel was surprised to see that they had been found worthy.

  Soon only he and the Grigori leader stood upon the gangplank.

  “Did you see them?” Remiel asked above the howling storm.

  Sariel did not answer. Instead he turned and began the climb to board the ark.

  Remiel grabbed hold of the departing Grigori’s arm.

  “I asked you a question,” he said sternly, turning his gaze toward the now-empty hills.

  “His will be done,” Sariel said, pulling his arm away.

  And the rain continued to fall. Ancient teachings said it lasted for forty days and forty nights, but the angel Remiel recalled that it took far less time than that to drown the world.

  THREE

  Remy left the ancient memories behind, returning to the here and now.

  “Murdered?” he asked. “How do you know?”

  “I saw it,” Sariel said, stepping closer to the porch.

  Marlowe started to growl again. The Grigori leader stared at the Labrador with cold, unfeeling eyes.

  “I know murder when I see it.”

  Remy was about to ask more questions, but stopped. No, he told himself. This time I will have nothing to do with their affairs.

  The affairs of angels.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, slowly turning his back and walking toward the door. “C’mon, Marlowe.”

  “Where are you going?” Sariel asked from the foot of the porch steps.

  “I’m going inside,” Remy replied. “To get away from you.”

  “I don’t understand,” the Grigori leader stated.

  “I’m through with this.” Remy stood in front of the door, but turned slightly to address Sariel again. “I’m done with all of it . . . with murder, floods, apocalypses and angels. Just leave me alone.”

  He opened the screen door and then the door behind it, letting Marlowe inside first.

  “You’re not human,” Sariel called out after him. “No matter how hard you try or how much you pretend, you will never be anything more or less than what you are.

  “One of the patriarchs of humanity has been slain,” Sariel continued when Remy didn’t respond. “I thought this is what you do, Remy Chandler,” the Grigori leader taunted. “I thought this is what you play at while living among them.”

  Remy remained silent, stepping into the cottage and closing the door behind him.

  Marlowe waited on the rug just inside the door, square head cocked inquisitively.

  “Okay?” the Labrador asked.

  “Fine,” Remy answered. “Why don’t we see about getting you some supper?”

  The dog bounded toward the kitchen, and Remy chanced a quick look through the sheer curtain over the window in the door.

  Sariel was gone.

  FOUR

  Remy decided that he’d had more than enough distraction.

  Marlowe didn’t mind; it was pretty much all the same to him. As long as he was fed and got his regular walks, he could have been on the surface of the moon for all he cared.

  It didn’t take him long to pack into a shopping bag what little he had brought up with him. Deep down Remy had always known that he wouldn’t be staying long. This was a special place he had shared with Madeline, their place to get away from it all and enjoy each other, and now it only served to remind him that that life was over. Madeline was gone.

  Remy stood in the entry with Marlowe beside him, nose pressed to the front door. He took a long look around. He wasn’t sure when he’d be back, and for a moment he just wanted to savor the memories of her. When he did return, would they still be so strong?

  He could see her washing their dinner dishes at the sink in the kitchen down the hall. He’d often used that time to take the car to the tiny general store five miles down the road to buy ice cream for dessert.

  “Going?” Marlowe interrupted.

  “Yeah, we’re going.” Remy turned away from the memory and opened the door to the winter night.

  The snow had slowed, leaving behind two inches or so of the fluffy stuff.

  Except for the patch of ground where Sariel had been standing.

  Marlowe bounded down the steps, happily frolicking in the snow, snapping at the featherlike flakes that still drifted in the air.

  Remy stood over the barren spot. He reached out, passing his hand through the air above it. There was most certainly a disturbance there, the residual effects of angel magick.

  He started to think of Sariel, and the disturbing news that he had delivered, but quickly pushed it from his mind. This time, he wasn’t going to get involved.

  Continuing on to the car, he called out for Marlowe, who had gone into the woods to relieve himself. “Let’s go,” he said, brushing the snow from his windshield.

  Marlowe came frantically running.

  “Leave me?” the dog asked, standing by the rear driver’s-side door.

  “I’d never leave you,” Remy reassured him as he opened the door, allowing the dog to hop inside.

  “Never leave,” the dog repeated, settling into his place in the backseat.

  The ride back to Boston was uneventful; the snow eventually turned to rain as Marlowe’s snores wafted up from the backseat of the Corolla, and the talk radio hosts, enamored with the sounds of their own voices, rambled on about the topics of the day.

  It was after midnight by the time they returned to Beacon Hill, but the gods of parking had decided to smile on
Remy, blessing him with a parking space near the State House, only a couple of blocks from home.

  “Home?” Marlowe asked, suddenly awake and sitting up, his black nose twitching in the air.

  “Home,” Remy affirmed. He got out of the car and opened the back door for the dog on his way to the trunk.

  “Get on the sidewalk,” Remy ordered, as he removed their one bag.

  The dog trotted over to a light post and lifted his leg.

  Remy waited until he had finished. “Empty?” he asked.

  “Empty,” the dog repeated, joining his master as they began their trek to Remy’s brownstone on Pinckney Street.

  It was quiet on the Hill, the rain and damp cold keeping anyone with an ounce of common sense inside.

  Marlowe darted from lamppost to lamppost, lifting his leg and proving that he was a liar.

  They reached the brownstone and Remy used his key to open the front door. The dog bounded into the foyer, and pressed his nose to the bottom of the inner door. Remy barely managed to get the door open as Marlowe pushed his way inside, nose to the floor, on the trail of a particular scent.

  Remy walked down the small hall to the kitchen and set the bag down atop the counter. He saw that the mail had been left on the table and he wondered when Ashley, Marlowe’s frequent babysitter, had been by.

  “She’s not here,” Remy called out, knowing who Marlowe was searching for. He removed his leather jacket and hung it in the hall closet. “She probably stopped in just long enough to drop off the mail and . . .” He stopped and turned.

  Sariel was sitting in the living room; Marlowe, standing perfectly still and silent before him, had his eyes fixed upon the intruder.

  The angel held one of Remy’s favorite pictures. It was of Madeline when she was a little girl. She sat atop a pony, wearing a cowboy hat, and smiling that same stunning smile he had fallen in love with.

  Her secret weapon, he used to call it.