by Jim Butcher
But this morning, the inevitable was that Francis was going to have waffles.
They were seated at a table by the window, overlooking the lower end of Newbury Street, and while the hostess went off to get coffee for Remy and tea for Francis, they quietly perused the menu.
Remy really didn’t have to eat, although he often did so to maintain his guise of humanity. This morning, however, he realized he had no desire for food. Francis had already closed his menu and placed it on the table beside him, so Remy did the same.
“First off, how are you doing?” the former Guardian asked, as he straightened his silverware. Francis had always been fascinated by Remy’s relationship with Madeline, observing the many facets of their marriage like a scientist watching some new kind of germ beneath a microscope.
“I’m doing,” Remy replied, concerned by the bizarre visions he’d been having, but not yet ready to share. Francis already thought he was nuts to live the way he did.
“And the mutt?”
“He’s doing, too.”
Francis accepted that with a pause and a nod.
“So what seems to be the problem?” he asked, changing the subject.
The waitress appeared then, bringing Remy a carafe of coffee and Francis a metal pot of hot water and a small wooden box filled with flavored teas. She took their order: bagel with cream cheese for Remy, and waffles topped with strawberries and whipped cream for Francis.
“So?” Francis prodded, after she’d gone. He was dunking an English Breakfast tea bag in a cup of hot water he’d just poured.
Remy took a long drink from his coffee cup before replying. “It’s getting weird again.”
“Again?” Francis questioned with a laugh. He removed the tea bag and placed it on the side of his saucer. Then he added two heaping teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk. “Has it ever stopped? Especially since the whole Apocalypse business, the crazy train has been running flat-out.”
Remy didn’t like to hear that. He had hoped that once they’d driven back the Four Horsemen, the world would have settled back into some semblance of normalcy, but it really hadn’t. He wondered how much that had to do with his current dilemma.
“First off, Noah’s dead,” he began.
Francis was stirring his tea. He removed the spoon and set it down on the white tablecloth, where it left a brownish stain.
The former Guardian took a slurping sip from the rim of his cup as he digested Remy’s statement. “Why am I already guessing that he didn’t die peacefully in his sleep?”
“He was murdered,” Remy confirmed, remembering what he had seen aboard the oil rig, the horrible condition of the old man’s body, as if he’d been beaten to death.
“Color me surprised,” Francis said sarcastically.
Remy drank his coffee, allowing the caffeine to work its magic upon him.
“Sariel was the one who showed me,” Remy continued.
“That one is such a creep,” the former Guardian said with a nod. “But he does have some damn fine scotch.”
“It seems that Noah was trying to make contact with a species called the Chimerian . . . the Lord’s first attempt at creating man that were supposed to be wiped out during the Great Flood, but somehow weren’t.”
Francis was silent as their breakfasts were delivered.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” the waitress asked.
Remy shook his head with a smile.
“Just some syrup and I’ll be good to go,” Francis said.
She quickly darted away and returned with the syrup, placing it on the table in front of Francis. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she offered as she moved on to her other tables.
“There was a first attempt at humanity?” Francis asked as he poured syrup on the waffles, careful not to get any on the whipped cream.
“That’s what Sariel said.” Remy was relieved to know that he wasn’t the only one unaware of the early prototype. “Think I might’ve caught a glimpse of one on Noah’s oil rig.”
“So that’s true, then?” Francis asked, breaking off a piece of waffle with his fork. “I’d heard he was living alone in the middle of the ocean.”
The former Guardian took a bite of his breakfast.
“So these . . . ,” he began with a mouthful.
“Chimerian.”
“Chimerian. You think they offed the old man?” Francis asked.
Remy paused to think about the question, and realized, at this stage of the game, he didn’t really know. “Possibly,” he answered.
“No wonder our fair-haired boy sounded like he was in such a tizzy,” Francis commented, eating more of his breakfast.
Remy set his bagel down and wiped at his mouth, wanting to be sure he wasn’t mistaken about what he’d just heard.
“Who, Sariel? You talked with him?”
Francis nodded as he chewed. “Called about ten minutes before you did, said he was going to need my skills for a matter of grave importance.”
“Did you already know what I just told you?”
Francis shook his head. “No, when I asked him what was up, he said it was a hunting expedition.”
“And you agreed to this?”
He shrugged. “Business has been sort of slow, and there are these Bavarian Warhammers coming onto the market that I’m really jonesing for. . . .”
Francis had a thing for weaponry. He collected it obsessively, like a nerdy kid and comic books.
“You agreed to this,” Remy repeated, resigning himself from question to statement.
“Yeah,” Francis said, breaking off another piece of waffle and shoveling it into his mouth.
“Do you understand what he wants you to do?” Remy asked. “He wants you to help them kill these creatures . . . these survivors.”
“He said that you were on board, too,” Francis told him, reaching for his teacup.
“Of course he did.” Remy had picked up the other half of his bagel, but placed it back on his plate. He couldn’t even pretend to be hungry anymore. “I just can’t wrap my brain around the idea of wiping them out,” he said.
“Think of it this way: they’re murderers,” Francis said flatly. “And they shouldn’t even be alive. The flood should’ve erased them from the world.”
Remy poured himself another cup of coffee, not buying the Guardian’s justification.
“Think of it as tidying up,” Francis stressed. “We’d be setting things right.”
“We’d be committing murder.”
“Is it murder when you put a rabid animal down?” Francis asked. “These things are likely dangerous. Can we take a risk on them maybe breeding and getting around?”
Remy knew that his friend’s points were accurate, but something nagged at him, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“We don’t know anything about them, other than what Sariel has told us.”
“And?” Francis asked.
“When have we ever trusted anything Sariel has said?”
“Good point.” Francis took a sip of his tea.
“I’m not comfortable with this,” Remy said, removing the cloth napkin from his lap and placing it on the table.
“So does that mean you’re not in?” Francis asked.
Remy fished fifty dollars out of his wallet and put it on the table.
“I don’t know what it means.”
“Do you want a lift?” Francis asked. “Let me finish here and—”
“Think I’ll walk,” Remy told him. “It’ll give me a chance to think this through. I’ll call you later.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Francis said, as he continued to eat. “And thanks for breakfast.”
“Everything all right?” the hostess asked as Remy passed her on his way out.
He smiled, tempted to tell her the truth.
No, things weren’t all right.
Not in the least.
It was a nice day, not that Remy noticed at all.
He walk
ed across Arlington Street and through the Public Garden, heading toward the Boston Common. People were just starting to hit the streets on their way to work, flowing up from the Park Street T Station and trickling down from the many small streets that made up Beacon Hill.
Remy wandered against the tide heading to Downtown Crossing, the financial district and Government Center, making his own way home up through the Common to Joy Street.
As he walked, the same thoughts bounced around inside his head. He didn’t want to be like them . . . like the Grigori, and even Francis. He would have been perfectly content to live like those bustling along to work around him.
Ignorant to the matters of the preternatural.
But he wasn’t, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t ignore what he knew.
Especially when lives—human as well as angelic—might be at risk.
To say that Marlowe was happy to see him was an understatement. But that was one of the most glorious things about dogs, they were always happy to see you.
The black Lab met Remy at the door, panting like a freight train, tail wagging so fast that Remy thought he was going to take off for sure.
“Remy!” the dog barked. “Remy! Remy! Remy!”
“Hello, hello,” Remy said with a laugh, pushing the dog aside so that he could get in and close the door.
“Thought gone,” the dog said, eagerly licking Remy’s hand.
“Yep, I was gone but now I’m back,” he reassured the animal.
Remy walked down the hallway, excited dog by his side.
“Did Ashley stop by to feed you?” he asked, already knowing that she had.
“No,” the dog said, standing at attention in the kitchen.
The dog’s answer took him by surprise.
“No?” he asked.
“No feed,” he growled. “Hungry.”
Remy glanced around the room, noticing the empty food bowl and the full water dish. He also saw the note on the counter near the coffeepot and Ashley’s unmistakable scrawl telling him that Marlowe had been fed and taken out. She’d even drawn a smiley face at the bottom of the note.
“Then what’s this?” Remy asked, picking up the note and showing the dog.
“Paper,” the dog answered, tail wagging. “Rip?”
“No, you can’t rip it. It’s a note from Ashley telling me that you already ate,” Remy said. “You’ve been nabbed, good sir.”
“Nabbed, good sir,” Marlowe repeated sadly.
Remy laughed. The Lab had a bottomless pit for a stomach and often tried this trick to get an extra meal. It had worked a few times with Madeline, but never with Remy.
His wife had been too trusting.
He flashed back to the last vision he’d had of her aboard the rig, the sensation of warmth on his hand as it was placed upon her stomach.
“A gift of our union,” she had said.
What does it mean? he wondered. At first he’d believed it all part of the process of grieving, but now he was beginning to suspect otherwise. There was some kind of connection between the visions and Noah’s murder, but what, he hadn’t a clue.
And that was what he was going to have to find out.
He’d planned on returning home, cleaning up a bit, and heading to the office to catch up on paperwork.
But not now.
There was little chance of turning this boat around. He might as well throw himself head-on into the madness. The quicker he dealt with this business, the quicker he could return to the life he’d worked so hard to build, but now that seemed to be crumbling at the foundation.
Noah’s office would be the place to start. It had been in a shambles, and he hadn’t had a chance to really go through it. There might be something still lying about waiting to be uncovered.
“Shit,” he muttered beneath his breath.
That meant returning to the rig, and the only way he would be able to do that would be with the help of certain skills that he had used far too freely lately. He knew that there wasn’t much of a choice, but it still pissed him off.
He walked into the living room to explain to the dog that he was leaving again. Marlowe lay in the middle of the floor, Sphinx-like, tail thumping. Remy knew what that particular look meant and felt bad.
“Sorry, buddy,” he said. “But I can’t take you for a walk right now. I have to go to work for a while.”
The dog looked as though he’d just been told that he was going to the pound. Guilt almost got the best of Remy, but then he remembered something that was even better than a walk to the park.
“Would you like a pig’s ear instead?” he asked.
Marlowe jumped to his feet and bolted toward the kitchen. By the time Remy caught up to him, he was standing in front of a lower cabinet door, staring intensely as his tail wagged in anticipation.
“I guess that’s a yes,” Remy said as he pulled open the cabinet and reached for the bag that contained the disgusting treats. “You work on this and I’ll take you for a walk when I get back,” he told the dog, who wasn’t even listening. Marlowe’s dark brown gaze was transfixed on the bag.
Remy removed one of the greasy treats and held it out. Marlowe carefully plucked it from his hand, then darted from the kitchen to his room—his lair, as Madeline used to call it—to consume his prize.
That taken care of, Remy walked into the living room and stood on the spot where Sariel had used his unique skills to take him from his home. He closed his eyes. Carefully he stirred the angelic essence lying inside him. It didn’t take more than a gentle prod to awaken it.
The divine power surged through him, coursing through his blood. His senses at once awakened, coming alive with a vengeance. His hearing became preternaturally acute, and the voices of millions in prayer assaulted his ears, as though they were all in this very room with him. And the smell.
The smell was strong, nauseating—the smell of magick.
Opening his eyes, he looked down at the spot where the passage had opened. He could see the residue of Sariel’s traveling spell, wafting up from the rug on his living room floor.
Rolling his shoulder blades, he allowed his wings to emerge. He could feel the appendages moving beneath his flesh, growing in size as they worked their way toward the surface. There was a brief flash of pain, and then enormous relief as his golden wings unfurled. Gently he fanned the air as he prepared for his journey.
Now is as good a time as any, Remy thought as he pulled his wings about him, wrapping himself within the tight embrace of the golden feathers. The scent of Sariel’s magick was still fresh in his nostrils, and by closing his eyes he could see the path he would need to travel.
He thought of his destination, and then he was gone.
TEN
Like electricity moving through a wire, he was there.
The heavy smell of salt in the air was the first thing he became aware of. Remy opened his wings and exposed himself to the new environment.
He had appeared exactly where Sariel’s magick had dropped them before. The weather this time was far more hospitable, although the wind still whipped across the broad expanse of concrete, trying desperately to catch his golden wings.
It was pitch black on the ocean, but security lights drove back the darkness of night from the vast deck of the oil rig.
Remy pulled his wings back, then headed for the metal staircase, head bowed against the humid breeze. Once inside, it didn’t take him long to find Noah’s quarters.
The slide projector still hummed from the desk, but the bulb had burnt out, and the room was immersed in shadow. Allowing his eyes a moment to adjust, Remy carefully approached the desk, mapping out in his mind where he remembered most of the mess to be, as well as the old man’s body.
He recalled a banker’s lamp, and leaned over across the desktop until his fingers found the dangling chain and pulled it, dispelling the darkness.
The office was still in chaos, but Noah’s body was gone.
Remy moved around the desk to stud
y the spot where the body had lain; telltale spatters of dried blood proved that it had been there. He recalled the vague image of the pale-skinned thing, skittering back into the darkness of the warehouse, and wondered if that had anything to do with the body’s disappearance.
Turning his attention to the desk, Remy pulled out the chair, rolling it over stray pieces of paper and slides that covered the floor.
“Where do I start?” he asked himself, staring at the disheveled surface of the desktop. Deciding that the journey of a million miles begins with the first step, Remy dove right in, selecting the first random piece of paper and giving it a once-over. It was nothing special, a bill for food supplies for the months of January and February.
There were more bills and receipts, and an amazing number of charitable mailers, all of them from animal organizations, many of which Remy had never heard of.
He found a recent fax from a shipping company confirming the pickup of four transport containers from the rig in two days’ time. What in the world would an old man, alone in the middle of the ocean, have been shipping? Remy made a mental note to find them before leaving.
As the surface of the desk became organized, the paperwork he found beneath became more interesting. It appeared that Noah Driscoll had been looking into real estate in the Boston area, and had found something he liked by the looks of a recent purchase and sale agreement. The property was in Lynn, north of the city. Remy jotted down the address to check out later.
Transport containers, purchased property—the old man had certainly been up to something before his untimely demise.
Remy left the office, heading back outside to find the transport containers. He could not help but be impressed by the view from the rig, undulating gray waters in every direction as far as the eye could see. If one wanted peace and quiet, total isolation, this was certainly the place.
But if that was the case, why had Noah bought property in a North Shore city?
Curiouser, and curiouser, Remy thought.
He found the transport containers at the back of the rig, stacked one on top of the other and secured to the deck by woven steel cords. These babies aren’t going anywhere, Remy observed as he approached one of the powder blue steel containers.