Dancing on the Head of a Pin (12 page)

“To fly,” Remy said, instinctively looking up into the sky as a plane flew overhead on its descent to Logan.

“Can’t remember that far back,” Francis said. Remy noticed a twitch at the corner of the Guardian’s eye that told him he was lying. “Can’t miss what you don’t remember.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Francis started up again.

“Did you remember lunch?” he asked, looking at Remy’s empty hands.

Remy moved around to the passenger-side door of his car. “Stopped off at Primos before I got on the road,” he said. “Two large: one with extra cheese, the other pepperoni.” He opened the door and carefully removed the two stacked pizza boxes.

“That should do it,” Francis said. He started across the parking lot toward the front entrance of the self-storage building.

Remy followed, pizzas in hand. He’d seen this building from the road for years, never imagining that it contained anything more than promised.

“So he has a storage bin here or something?” he asked.

“Rents at least one of the floors,” Francis said as he ambled up a handicapped-accessible ramp to the front door. “Has places all over the city, I guess. Mason’s the guy to come to when you need something that nobody else has.”

Standing in front of the door, Francis pulled out his cell and dialed a number. “We’re here,” he said into the phone, listening for a second before hanging up.

“They’ll be right down,” he said, closing the phone and slipping it back inside his coat pocket.

“Been here before?” Remy asked, inhaling the enticing aroma of baked cheese and pepperoni. He hadn’t thought he was hungry, but his mouth started to water.

“No,” Francis answered with a head shake. “Been to his space in Lynn and another smaller one in Chelsea.”

“The man’s got lots of stuff,” Remy said, noticing two figures approaching the door from the inside.

A big guy with thick black hair, dressed in a navy blue windbreaker, pushed open the door for Francis to enter, his eyes darting around, looking for anything that might’ve seemed out of place.

“You bring lunch?” he asked, his South Boston accent thick.

“That was his job,” Francis said, hooking a finger over his shoulder at Remy.

Remy lifted the boxes to show the man as he followed his friend.

“Where’d you get those?” he asked as Remy came into the building.

“Place called Primos on Myrtle Street.”

“Fucking garbage,” the man muttered beneath his breath, pushing past them to lumber toward the elevator at the back.

The second man stood back, silently watching with icy blue eyes. He was thin, clothes likely the smallest adult size that could be bought hanging loosely off his skeletal frame. His skin was sickly pale, and his blond hair was dry, like straw. Remy noticed the multicolored aura around his head out of the corner of his eye, immediately recognizing him for what he was.

The man smiled simply, following Southie, who was holding the elevator doors open for them.

“Any fuckin’ day now,” the big man complained with a roll of his eyes and shake of his head.

They all crammed inside, the pizzas filling the cab with their intoxicating aroma as they rode silently up to the sixth floor.

The doors slowly parted, Southie stomping out first to go about his business, the other stopping just outside to wait for Remy and Francis.

The elevator had opened on what looked to be office space, the surrounding walls having multiple sets of metal sliding doors. Southie had ended up inside one of the open units, and appeared to be counting up cartons of cigarettes, which he pulled from inside large boxes stacked along the inside wall of the unit.

“Those all fell off the backs of trucks,” Francis said, leaning over to speak in Remy’s ear.

Other unit doors were open as well, the spaces containing everything from patio furniture and stereo components to plasma televisions. Some of the units remained closed, but that didn’t prevent Remy from picking up some strange vibes from whatever was contained inside.

“What’s inside them?” Remy asked Francis, gesturing with his chin toward the closed units.

“That’s the shit that didn’t fall out of the backs of trucks,” Francis said, taking Remy’s elbow and leading him away from the elevator and into the main area.

In the far corner there was a makeshift desk made from a door and some cinderblocks, its surface covered with computer monitors, modems, and hard drives. Remy could hear a methodical clicking sound as someone typed on a keyboard behind the multiple computer screens.

“Give me just a sec,” said a voice, the words slightly slurred.

The thin man seemed to drift into the room, and Remy was again distracted by the multicolored halo that pulsed around his head.

The man was an Offspring, the child of a Denizen and a mortal. It was frowned upon by the higher powers, but it didn’t stop it from occasionally happening.

He remembered how sad Madeline had been when she realized they would never have children together. He’d tried his best to explain it, that there was usually something wrong with the babies—that they could even be dangerous. His wife had understood, but it did little to take away the hurt of what their love was denied.

Offspring were often mentally handicapped, but prone to exhibit paranormal talents associated with those of an angelic nature.

The man turned to look at Remy, that same simple smile again forming on his face.
“Do you know the tongue of the Messengers?”
he deftly asked, speaking in a language fashioned before the inception of humanity.

Remy was taken aback by the fluent use of the angel-speak, remaining silent until another sound filled the room, the whining sound of a motor, followed by a voice he’d heard briefly only minutes ago.

“Neal is such a show-off,” the obese figure confined to the electric wheelchair said as he carefully maneuvered around the computer table and rolled toward them. His words were slightly distorted, and Remy could see the reason. He held a long stick in his mouth, likely what the man used to punch the keys of his computer keyboard. The stick dropped from his mouth into his lap, and a tiny monkey balanced on his shoulder obediently dropped down to snatch up the tool. It then leapt down to the floor, scampering off to place the stick on a small tray with a brush, handheld mirror, toothbrush, and toothpaste, before returning to its master’s shoulder.

“How’s it rolling, Mason?” Francis asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Blow me, Francis,” the man said with disgust. “I don’t even want to talk to you; it’s your friend that I like.” Mason brought his wheelchair closer, staring at Remy with round, watery eyes. “Magnificent.”

Remy had heard stories about Mason Aronoff, born with spinal muscular atrophy, a neuromuscular disease that caused the degeneration of the motor neurons in the spinal cord, which relay signals from the brain to the muscle cells. When these neurons fail to function, the muscles deteriorate, leaving the afflicted nearly paralyzed. The man had been this way since childhood and had attempted to take his own life on more than one occasion to escape his suffering. These near-death experiences—these multiple glimpses of an afterlife—had somehow served to give the handicapped man a special kind of sight.

Mason could see things in the world that no one else could; he could see the unearthly beings that walked hidden amongst them. The handicapped man could see beneath the masks.

And he could see Remy for what he actually was.

“Why on earth would you want to look the way you do now,” Mason said in a whisper, “when you actually look like
that.
”

Remy could feel his Seraphim nature stir, eager to emerge to greet the man, but he wouldn’t be having any of that.

It was silent in the storage facility except for the sound of Southie, muttering from one of the bins, as he continued to unload cartons of cigarettes.

“Do you know how hard it is to buy shirts with a sixty-foot wingspan?” Remy asked, finally breaking the silence with a joke. He then held up the pizza boxes.

“Anybody interested in lunch?”

They’d opened the boxes of pizza and laid them on the end of the computer table.

Remy had just finished a slice and was considering another as he stood watching the man in the electric wheelchair and his simian helper.

The capuchin monkey stood up on the man’s expansive lap, holding the slice of pepperoni pizza up to Mason’s slack, but hungry, mouth. It was a fascinating process to watch. The monkey would give the man a bite, set the piece of pizza down, use a napkin to wipe the grease off the man’s mouth, and then begin again.

“She’s something, isn’t she, Remy? I can call you Remy, can’t I?” Mason asked, noticing that he was staring.

“Sure,” he answered, startled that he’d been caught in his observation.

“Her name is Julia, and I don’t know what I’d do without her,” he said as the monkey softly chattered to itself, licking some of the pizza grease from its little digits.

“Without her you’d have to depend on Ichabod here, or Mr. Sunshine, to feed you your lunch,” Francis commented, referring to the Offspring, Neal, and Southie, who had gone to separate corners to eat their pizza slices.

“I wouldn’t trust them to wipe their own asses,” the crippled man commented nastily. “If it wasn’t for the fact that they occasionally have their moments, I’d have monkeys doing all their jobs.”

Julia threw her tiny arms around Mason’s face and licked his forehead. The man started to giggle, his flabby body undulating in the electric wheelchair like a plate of Jell-O whacked with a stick.

“You’re such a naughty girl,” he said between laughter as the monkey chirped and squeaked.

Remy didn’t have the heart to tell the man that based on what the capuchin was saying, it was only enjoying the saltiness of his skin.

“It looks like you two might want to be alone, so why don’t we take care of business so you can get on communing with nature, or whatever the fuck you’ll be doing as soon as we leave.”

Francis snatched up one of the napkins on the table and wiped his hands fussily.

The monkey stopped licking Mason’s face and glared at Francis. It squeaked something—
the monkey equivalent of fuck you
—and climbed up onto its owner’s shoulder, a scowl upon its furry features.

Neal started laughing, likely understanding what the monkey had just said. Remy didn’t have to guess about at least one of the angelic talents this Offspring had inherited from its fallen sire.

“Francis says you might have some information for me,” Remy interjected before things got any nastier between the disabled man and the former Guardian.

“Antique weaponry, Remy?” the man asked, a crooked smile upon his doughy features.

“That’s what I was told was stolen.”

Mason’s flaccid hand manipulated the controls of his wheelchair, moving him closer to Remy. “Francis said these weapons could well be the legendary Pitiless.”

“It’s a possibility,” Remy said, turning to glare at Francis.

“So shoot me.” The Guardian threw up his hands. “I’m excited.”

Mason closed his eyes, a twisted smile spreading across his doughy features. “I’d pay a small forture just to look at them,” he said, a trickle of saliva beginning to dribble from one of the corners of his mouth. “But I’ve heard nothing, Remy,” Mason said.

Julia had returned to the man’s shoulder and was now grooming his hair, in search of something to snack upon.

“And if they’re as valuable as you say, I doubt you’d tell me if you did.”

Mason’s smile broadened, the drool flowing like a river. “It depends on whether or not the person who retained your services was offering a comparable reward, and to be perfectly honest, Remy, I’m not too sure I’d really care to have these priceless objects in my possession. They have a bit of a history. A nasty history.”

“They’re like the ultimate weapons,” Francis said, taking a congealed piece of greasy cheese pizza from the box and bringing it up to his mouth. “What would you expect?”

Moving his chair in the Guardian’s direction, Mason responded. “Lore states that death is the end result of anybody who possesses the accursed weaponry,” he explained. “It is said that they were not meant for human hands, but for Death itself.”

Francis waved the claim away. “Death doesn’t need a fucking sword or a pistol. He just has to look at you to get the results he wants.”

The capuchin eyed Remy from her perch upon Mason’s shoulder, bored with grooming his stringy hair. Tensing her legs, Julia leapt.

“Then who . . . or what were they made for?” Remy asked, catching the flying monkey, allowing her to climb up onto his shoulder.

Mason looked panicked, staring at his simian helper, who seemed perfectly at home on this stranger’s shoulder. “That is the mystery,” he said, making noises with his mouth, attempting to call the monkey back to him.