Mean Streets (30 page)

“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

R
emy 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

R
emy 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.

“So full of life and promise,” the angel said, tapping the photo with his manicured fingertips. “But it’s all so fleeting for them.”

“How dare you,” Remy began, feeling his anger surge and the angelic nature he worked so hard to contain setting his blood afire.

“Bite him,”
Marlowe growled, his jowls twitching and revealing his yellowed canine teeth.

“No,” Remy ordered, managing to get his own fury in check. He snatched the frame from the Grigori leader’s hand. “You have no right to be here.” He returned the picture to its place on the television stand, then turned to confront the angel. “I want you to leave,” Remy told him, speaking in the language of their kind . . . the language of the Messengers.

Sariel stood, adjusting his suit coat. “I’m not leaving without you.”

Remy glared, feeling an unnatural heat start to burn behind his eyes.

“I don’t think you understand,” he said, stepping menacingly toward the Grigori.

Sariel shook his head. “No, it is you who does not understand.”

The angel suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of Remy’s arm. He could feel the power in the grip, the angel magick flowing from Sariel into him.

Marlowe began to bark wildly as a pool of shadow expanded beneath them and the two angels dropped.

Swallowed by the darkness.

FIVE

T
hey emerged in the middle of a storm.

The wind roared like some angry beast as it tried to rip them from their purchase on the hard, concrete surface. And if it could not succeed with its bestial strength, it would try to destroy them with the ferocity of its tears, as each drop of rain struck their exposed flesh like the sting of a wasp.

Remy raised a hand to shield his eyes from the savagery of the cold, whipping rain, and quickly looked about. From the comforting warmth of his Beacon Hill home to this; where had Sariel brought him?

It didn’t take him long to realize that they weren’t on land at all. They were in the middle of the ocean; an undulating mass of white-capped gray swirled all around. His eyes darted about, taking it all in: heavy machinery and equipment, and a familiar corporate symbol, faded on the side of a forklift chained to the concrete so as not to be picked up by the wind and carried away.

An oil rig; they were on an oil rig in the middle of the ocean.

Remy looked at Sariel, who stood silently beside him. The rain pelted the angel’s pale features, leaving traces of red on his face where it stung him.

The Grigori leader turned away from Remy, fighting the wind as he began to move toward a large boxy structure rising up from the platform.

Remy had no choice but to follow, struggling against the storm that seemed to grow even more agitated now that they were moving, as if it were angry that they would even think they could escape it. He followed Sariel toward the square building, and up multiple flights of rain-slicked metal steps to a heavy metal door with the words “Level One” stenciled on it in white paint.

The Grigori leader pulled open the door, fighting the wind as it attempted to tear it from his grasp. Remy reached out, helping to hold it open as the two of them beat the fury of the ocean storm and made their way inside.