Dancing On the Head of a Pin

CHAPTER EIGHT

Remy was just about to get onto Route 128, heading north, when he got the call. It was Steven Mulvehill, and he was speaking in careful whispers.

“You might want to come over to Huntington Ave,” he said, his voice barely audible over the sounds of traffic leaking into the car.

“What’s up?” Remy asked, nearing the exit that he would need to take if he was going to continue on to Lexington.

“Let’s just say something that has Remy Chandler written all over it, and leave it at that.”

Remy didn’t take the exit, instead reversing to head back in the direction he had come. He hadn’t been too far from the address Steven had given him, and it wouldn’t take him long to get there.

Something’s come up that has Remy Chandler written all over it. Nice, he thought.

Traffic was relatively light for that time of day, and he was able to get to Huntington Ave in almost record time. Even being nearby didn’t gurantee anything in Boston traffic; this just happened to be one of the good days. Who knew, maybe it was a sign of good things to come.

Yeah, right.

He had no trouble finding the right building—the police cars, ambulance and coroner’s van a dead giveaway. Slowly, he drove by the run-down tenement building.

Finding a parking spot proved to be more difficult than the entire ride, but he finally managed, leaving his car on the next street over, and hoofing it to the building in question.

The police had put up yellow crime scene tape around the entrance, keeping the gawkers at a safe distance. Remy stood across the street with the growing crowd, searching for a familiar face.

Eventually Steven Mulvehill came through the door of the building with his partner, Rich Healey. They were talking, Mulvehill removing a pack of cigarettes from his suit coat pocket and putting one in his mouth. Healey nodded, going back inside as Mulvehill walked down the steps to the street, butt dangling from the corner of his mouth while he scanned the crowds of curious onlookers.

Their eyes locked as they found each other, the detective motioning for Remy to follow. He moved through the rubberneckers, watching Mulvehill doing the same on the other side.

Remy crossed the street, navigating traffic that had slowed to a crawl to take a peek at the scene. The detective was standing out in front of McVee’s Liquors puffing on his cigarette.

“Not sure how McVee’s is for old Scotches, but maybe we can find a vintage bottle of Mad Dog.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Mulvehill said, sucking on the end of the cigarette as if it were life support. “After what I just left, being three sheets to the wind would suit me just fine.”

“What’s going on?” Remy asked.

Mulvehill dropped what remained of his cigarette, rubbing it out as he exhaled a foul-smelling cloud of smoke. “Follow me,” he said as he started back toward the building. “Oh, and do that thing you do,” he said, turning slightly and waving his hand in the air. “You know, so you can’t be seen and shit.”

It would raise a whole lot of questions for Mulvehill if Remy were to be spotted at the scene of an active investigation. Remy’s being invisible would make it easier for everyone and would give him the chance to really look around.

Remy followed close to his friend as he maneuvered through the crowds outside the crime scene tape. A beat cop lifted the tape so that Mulvehill could get under; Remy had to practically jump onto his back so that he could make it under with him.

“Do you mind?” Mulvehill spoke softly from the corner of his mouth. “You weigh a freakin’ ton; I thought angels were supposed to be as light as a feather.”

“It’s all that Scotch you’ve been making me drink,” Remy whispered from behind. “Because of you I’ll probably have my wings revoked.”

“Go screw,” Mulvehill said.

“Excuse me, sir?” a uniform asked as he pulled open the door for the detective.

“Nothing,” Mulvehill said quickly, entering the run-down lobby. “Talking to myself is all.”

The lobby was empty and for the moment strangely silent, as if something unnatural had stolen away the sound.

“Are you ready for this?” Mulvehill asked, starting up the creaking wooden staircase. The stairs were covered with what had once been a flowered print runner, the pattern now practically invisible from years of stains and the treads of countless feet.

Remy was thinking of cracking wise, maybe something along the lines of I was born ready. But it just didn’t seem like the time for that.

There was something in the air of the apartment building, and as they climbed the steps, getting closer, it became stronger, more oppressive.

Something unnatural.

They reached the top of the stairs and proceeded down the hallway. There appeared to be two apartments on this level, the one that they were looking for obviously being at the end of the hall, with police detectives, uniforms, and two guys who belonged to the meat wagon out front, standing in front of the open door chatting amongst themselves. The guys from the medical examiner’s had placed their stretcher across the doorway as they laughed it up with two of the uniformed police officers.

They noticed Mulvehill coming down the hallway and immediately changed their demeanor, standing taller and attempting to exude an air of professionalism.

“We’ll be removing the deceased shortly, sir,” one of the drivers said. “The photographers just left, and Detective Healey is finishing up. As soon as he’s done, we’ll—”

Healey appeared in the doorway, sliding the stretcher out of his way. “All right, boys; it’s all yours,” he said.

He then noticed Mulvehill standing there and shook his head, a look of unease upon his face.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said, removing a pair of rubber gloves from his hands.

“Do you think I could take another look before you pack ’im up?” Mulvehill asked, turning to the drivers.

They looked at each other and shrugged.

“Sure, take your time,” one of them said.

Mulvehill moved the stretcher out of the way so that they could both pass through with little difficulty.

“I’ve got no idea what could have caused that kind of damage,” Healey said, again shaking his head. “Maybe if we look together we can—”

“Go grab a smoke,” Mulvehill told his partner. “You’ve done your part; let me take it from here.”

“You sure?” Healey asked, already moving, eager to leave the building.

Remy maneuvered around both men, starting down the hallway inside the apartment, checking out the rooms on either side, pretty sure that he’d know the scene of the crime when he came across it.

“I’m sure. And if you hit the store, pick me up a coffee,” Mulvehill told the younger man. “I shouldn’t be long here, wait for me outside. We’ll head over to Brigham to see what we can get out of the girlfriend.”

“Got it,” Healey said, on his way toward the stairs.

Remy was standing in a doorway looking into a filthy kitchen as Mulvehill came up from behind.

“What’s this about a girlfriend?” Remy asked.

“We’re guessing that she walked in on what you’re about to see,” the detective said, continuing down the hallway. “It’s down here.”

Remy followed, noticing a strange, smoky aroma wafting in the air the closer they got to the room at the end of the hall.

“What do you make of that?” the homicide cop said, motioning with his hand for Remy to look into the room.

The first thing he noticed was the gaping hole in the wall, seconded by the body of a man, probably in his mid- to late thirties, lying on his back on the floor of the room. His stomach and chest had been exposed—set afire and extinguished. The man’s body still smoldered, explaining the drifting stink of roast pork in the air.

“I don’t know what to say,” Remy said, unable to take his eyes from the corpse. Though the stomach and rib cage appeared blackened, the rest of the man’s remains were untouched.

Remy moved closer and squatted beside the body. The frozen expression on the victim’s face was horrible, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening to him.

“Who is he?” Remy asked.

“Douglas Bender,” Mulvehill said from the doorway. “A familiar face to Burglary. They got a hysterical call from the girlfriend before we did. I guess she and some of the guys had bonded over their love for poor misunderstood Dougie.”

Remy’s eyes moved over the body and to the area around it. There were deep gouges in the hardwood floor surrounding the murdered man’s corpse. He was immediately reminded of something he himself had seen before, marks very similar to this left in the hardwood floors of his own home by Marlowe’s nails, only these appeared much deeper.

“Where is she now, the girlfriend?” He looked away from the corpse to his friend.

“She’s at the hospital, in shock. Whatever she walked in on practically pushed her over the edge.”

“Did she tell anyone anything? Anything that could explain this?” the angel asked, standing, eyeing the extensive damage to the room. It was as if somebody had driven a truck through it.

The detective shook his head. “We found her in the entryway pretty banged up. She’d fallen down the stairs and just kept screaming and crying.” Mulvehill shook his head. “It was pretty bad, and of course I thought of you immediately.”

“Thanks.” Remy looked around the room. There were boxes stacked everywhere, some of the contents having spilled out onto the floor in the apparent struggle. The boxes were filled with an odd assortment of things: video-games systems, a toaster oven, stereo receiver and speakers, an iPod or two.

Something caught Remy’s eye and he moved toward it. The box was jammed into a corner, an old VCR having tipped off of it, pulling open the flaps of the box.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice,” Mulvehill said. “When I found them I figured I should call you.”

Remy pulled back one of the cardboard lids and looked down into the box. Though they were wrapped in pieces of bubble wrap, and even some newspaper, there was no mistaking the antique nature of the items within. He reached inside.

“You might not want to touch those without gloves,” Mulvehill warned, reaching into his pocket for an extra pair.

“No worry. There won’t be fingerprints if I don’t want there to be,” the angel said, carefully removing one of the tightly wrapped objects.

“Fucking show-off,” the police detective growled.

Remy unwrapped the bundle, seeing that it contained an antique dagger, vaguely recalling that he had seen a photo of this knife in Karnighan’s paperwork.

But not one of the supposed Pitiless.

“Did you happen to find anything else of interest?” Remy asked, rewrapping the blade and placing it back inside the box. He looked about the room again, his eyes constantly drawn to the condition of the dead body there.

What did this to you?

The detective shook his head. “Poked around some, but that’s pretty much all that I could find in regard to what you were asking about. I gather that isn’t all of it?”

“No,” Remy said, looking into the box again to be sure. “There were a few other pieces of more considerable value,” he explained.

“The guy on the third floor said that Dougie and the missus had somebody crashing with them for the last few weeks. We’re working on a name. Maybe he’ll know where the other stuff is.”

If that was all they had, it would have to do, Remy thought, standing up from the box. He was thinking that maybe he would go over to Brigham and Women’s to speak with the victim’s girlfriend when his eyes were again drawn to the deep gouges in the wooden floor. Some of the planks had actually been splintered, partially pulled up to reveal the old floor beneath.

Remy poked the jagged furrows in the wood floor with the toe of his shoe.

“We should think about getting out of here,” Mulvehill said from the doorway. “I’m sure they want to get Dougie here over to the morgue before…”

It was as if Remy had stepped on a live wire, his entire body going rigid as violent images flooded into his head. Scene after scene of brutal acts, two delicate knife blades slicing through the air to cut short the lives of multiple victims. It was almost more than he could stand. Remy was blind to the world, seeing only one murder flowing into another.

From somewhere in the distance he heard his friend’s voice, filled with concern.

Sound became muffled, distant, and he found himself falling, dropping to his knees upon the floor. The images grew stronger, faster, more pronounced and more savage. Men, women, and children; the blades; whoever wielded them undiscerning in who was felled by their razor-sharp bite.

A cascade of savagery almost suffocating in its relentless onslaught continued, and multiple voices could now be heard, voices that did not wish to speak to him, but to his other side.

Voices that spoke to the Seraphim, urging it to come forward.

Here, they hissed inside his head as he watched the image of a woman’s throat being cut so deeply that it practically severed her head.

The visions halted momentarily, and Remy found himself staring at a section of flooring. It wasn’t obvious, but on closer examination he saw where the floor had been cut to create a hiding place beneath.

Compelled by the voices inside his head, Remy clawed at the floor, his fingernails digging into the edges of the boards.

He saw the dead man—Dougie—wrapping something in a towel, hiding something away. The next images were like a head-on collision: multiple flashes filled with muffled screams, frozen moments of death and destruction.

“What the fuck is going on?” he heard Mulvehill ask from what seemed like miles away, but he couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t speak.

Something had come through the wall, something large and bestial. It had first attacked Dougie before turning its attention to the room.

Searching.

The board came loose from the floor, and Remy tossed it over his shoulder before plunging his hands inside the darkness of the hidey-hole.

The memory of a woman’s scream exploded in Remy’s mind; the scream had driven whatever it was—the beast—away. It hadn’t found what it was looking for.

But Remy had.

His hands emerged from beneath the floor holding something wrapped in an old, black-checked dish towel, the same something that he’d seen Dougie holding in the flash of the past. Remy dropped the wrapped object to the floor, pulling apart the cheap cloth to reveal what was hidden within.

Brother and sister daggers.

Two of the Pitiless.

Holding the daggers was even worse.

The images became more clear, more focused and precise, accompanied by the sounds of the death and misery that the brother and sister had caused.

The knives were stuck to his hands, and although repelled, he never wanted to let them go. The Seraphim was aroused, enticed by the song of the blades. Remy could feel his flesh grow warm, the masquerade of humanity that he wore ready to be sloughed off and cast aside.

“No!”

He used all the strength that he had remaining to open both hands, causing the daggers to drop to the floor.

Perfectly balanced, they spun around, their razor-sharp tips digging into the hardwood. They protruded there, vibrating with malice, urging the angel to again take them up.

“What the fuck is going on?” Mulvehill asked again as Remy stumbled backward, away from the weapons’ siren call. He leaned on his friend for support.

“There’s something very wrong about those knives,” he gasped, forcing the angelic essence back down.

“Did I just see your skin start to smoke?” Mulvehill asked, a hint of panic in the man’s voice. Again the unseen world that scared him so was peeking around the corner, waving to him.

“Yeah, but I’m all right now,” Remy said, eyes searching the room. In the corner there was a stack of cheap sweatshirts with various Boston colleges’ insignias decorating the fronts. He darted over to the stack, snatching up one of the heavy pullovers. Using the sweatshirt as a buffer, he carefully pulled the two blades from the floor, wrapping them tightly in the heavy fabric.

“I need to take these,” he said, doing all he could to ignore the whispering from the blades that he could still hear inside his head. Even through the layers of cloth, he could hear them—feel them.

Mulvehill just stared.

“You can have the others,” Remy stated. “But I need to take these. This is much bigger than a case of stolen property.”

“Detective?” a voice called from the apartment’s doorway. It was one of the drivers from the medical examiner’s office. “Is everything all right?”

Mulvehill looked briefly from the doorway of the room back to his friend. “Take them,” he said. “Something tells me they’re not something we should have lying around in Evidence anyway.”

Remy bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the images of murder and death that tried to fill his mind.

“You’re right,” the angel said, resisting the urge to throw the daggers away.

Mulvehill stepped into the doorway so that he could be seen by the man at the entrance to the apartment. “I’m just wrapping things up,” he said. “I’ll be right out.”

The detective gave a casual wave and returned to Remy.

“Thank you,” Remy said.

“Are you going to be all right with those?” the detective asked. “You look a little green around the gills.”

“I’ll be fine,” Remy said, “but the sooner I get rid of them, the happier I’ll be.”

He followed the homicide detective through the building, out the front entrance, and down onto the street. The crowds had diminished slightly, many of the gawkers probably tired of waiting for something horrible to see, satisfied to go home and watch it on the evening news instead.

“I’ll let you know what I find out,” Remy whispered in his friend’s ear as he headed in the direction of his car.

Mulvehill was lighting up a cigarette. “Watch your ass,” he muttered, cigarette clamped between his lips. Some of the remaining crowd gave the man talking to himself a sideways glance before turning their attention back to the apartment building.

The die hards will be getting their payoff soon, Remy thought, cutting across to the side street where he’d parked his vehicle. Dougie’s bagged body will soon be coming out on a stretcher, a prize for their endurance.

The Pitiless daggers beneath his arm screamed to be noticed, but he managed to close his mind to the disturbing imagery they tried to force upon him.

Remy got to his car and tossed the wrapped blades down onto the passenger seat. His thoughts raced with what he would need to do next.

He slipped the key in the ignition, deciding that he would continue on to Karnighan’s. The old man had to know more than he was letting on. The engine turned over, and he thought that it might be wise to give Ashley a call to go over and feed and walk Marlowe. Who knew how long the business in Lexington would take, and he didn’t want his four-legged friend back home to suffer.

He was thinking that Francis might need a call as well when the black SUV seemed to appear out of nowhere, cutting him off as he pulled out of the parking space, blocking his exit.

He been around long enough to know that nothing good was about to happen.

The truck’s doors opened and four familiar faces emerged.

This shit never gets any easier, Remy thought, almost sure that he could hear his angelic nature chuckling to itself as the four Denizens who had attacked him at home surrounded his car.

He didn’t have Marlowe to worry about this time, and that was good.

“You told me to call when I had something,” Remy said as he slowly got out of the car, his attention focused on the spokesman from their last meeting. “I don’t have anything yet, but you never know, I might be coming into some information shortly.”

“My employer says that you’re taking too long,” the spokesman said.

There was a barely perceptible nod, and one of the Denizens was coming at him, his hand inside his coat pocket.

Remy didn’t have time to wait to see what it was. He met the fallen angel halfway, moving as quickly as he could, slamming his fist into his attacker’s face.

The Denizen stumbled back, nose spurting blood, a short knife with a blade seemingly made from a polished black stone clattering to the ground.

Remy was glad he hadn’t waited; that particular blade, made from the walls of Tartarus, could have done some serious damage to him.

He knew the name of only one of them, Balam—the one that had pointed a gun at his dog—and decided that he would deal with that one next. The memory of what he had done caused a terrific anger to flare within Remy, and he let the Seraphim inside have a brief taste of freedom.

Balam hadn’t pulled his gun, and Remy figured they probably wanted him alive, but this particular Denizen was large and powerful, moving far more quickly and gracefully than Remy expected. He threw a punch that Remy attempted to avoid, but he moved a tad too slow, and the man’s knuckles grazed the side of his face. It hurt like hell, and for a moment he saw an explosion of stars.

Balam took immediate advantage, gripping him by the back of the coat and pulling Remy toward him. The arc of his fist was a blur as the hit connected with Remy’s stomach, doubling him over with a painful explosion of air from his lungs.

Again with the stomach.

But it had brought him close enough.

Close enough to strike.

Remy allowed Heaven’s power a moment’s freedom, the fires of the divine collecting at the tips of his fingers. He thrust his hand at Balam’s stomach, the burning fingers connecting with the satiny material of the dress shirt he wore, burning through, and into the flesh beneath.

And the fire did not stop there.

Balam screamed as his body began to ignite, the fires of Heaven fueled by his wickedness. He immediately dropped to the ground and began to roll.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the spokesman moaned, rolling his eyes.

There was movement to his left, and Remy whirled, the man who had tried to stab him earlier was charging. Where’s the knife? His thoughts raced as he grappled with the fallen, trying to keep his hands in view. They tumbled to the ground, each of them trying to get the better of the other.

The remaining attacker must have ducked around Remy’s car, coming at him from a blind spot.

Remy wasn’t even aware that he’d been stabbed—in the shoulder—until he felt his entire right side begin to grow numb.

Fists were raining down from above him as he attempted to get up, but one of his legs had become useless, tingling and trembling.

“That’s enough,” he heard the spokesman say, and the two Denizen thugs stepped back.

The leader stood over him, a hate-filled flicker of fire burning in the center of his eyes. “If my employer didn’t think you were valuable to him, I’d have you cut to ribbons and sold to anybody who wanted a piece.”

Remy’s shoulder throbbed with the steady beat of his heart. “Why don’t we cut the bullshit and you just tell me what’s going on,” he grunted as he struggled to stand.

“I will kill him,” a dry hiss of a voice rasped. His buddy Balam tried to get at him but was held back by two of the others. His body still smoldered, the Heavenly fire having badly burned his face and chest as it spread. He had his gun out and was waving it around.

Remy was almost on his feet when the spokesman came forward and, with a kick, knocked him back down to the ground.

“We’ve been watching you, waiting for a chance to talk to you without your Guardian angel friend being around.”

They were afraid of Francis, and he couldn’t blame them. He’d had a scary reputation even before he fell from God’s grace.

“We think you’ve found some things out,” the spokesman said. “Things that my employer would be very anxious to hear about.”

“You first,” Remy said, lying on his back, finding it very difficult to keep the world from spinning. “First tell me why your boss is looking for the Pitiless, and I’ll fill you in on what I know. Who knows, maybe between the two of us this whole mess will start to make some sense.”

The spokesman came toward him then, the fire of his hate burning even brighter in the center of his coal black eyes, but then a sudden voice interrupted his murderous intent.

“Hey, Arioc,” one of the Denizens called.

Arioc, the name echoed inside Remy’s skull.

“You might want to see these,” one of the fallen angels said.

Remy managed to pull himself into a sitting position. They were at his car, the passenger door open. The Denizen was handing his superior the bundled sweatshirt with the daggers at its center.

“No!” Remy barked, and again attempted to climb to his feet. This time he was successful, lurching toward his vehicle.

“What have we here?” Arioc asked, hefting the item handed to him. “Do we have something more here than dirty laundry? By your reaction, I would have to say that’s a big yes.”

They all laughed. The Denizen who’d searched his car, and had been the one to stab him, again came at him from behind, pushing Remy roughly up against his car.

Face pressed to the cold metal of the hood, he managed to twist his head enough to see what was happening. The Denizens were all standing around their leader as he unwrapped the sweatshirt.

Remy could feel himself beginning to fade, finding it harder and harder to remain conscious as the poison from the Hell blade’s bite continued to course through his system. He was forced to drop the barriers again, allowing the power of Heaven to course through his frame, burning away the toxins that if allowed to spread would kill him.

He was able to stand now, a sudden vitality making his muscles hum with divine power.

Arioc had exposed the blades, eyes wide in wonder as he looked upon them. He reached within the cloth, removing one of the daggers and holding it up. The blade glinted seductively in the glow of a streetlight that had just come on. By the twinkle in his beady eyes, Remy could tell that the murderous images conjured by the weapon were now filling the Denizen’s mind. The fallen angel smiled, reveling in their intensity. He held the dagger aloft, pointing it into the sky, toward Heaven.

“Oh, isn’t this the sweetest thing,” Arioc said, as all eyes were glued to the seductiveness of the single Pitiless.

Remy was at a loss as to what he should do. He was considering the insanity of trying to get the blades back and making a run for it when things went from bad to worse.

It didn’t even register at first, his brain attempting to process what it had seen, and then attempting to delete the information as a side effect of having the shit knocked out of him again.

The wind had kicked up; at least he believed it to be the wind. There was a sudden rush of air—a roar—and something far more substantive was moving amongst the Denizens.

Arioc’s head was suddenly gone from his body, the crimson arterial spray shooting up into the air like a fountain. The others barely had the opportunity to take their eyes from the Pitiless blade still being held aloft before they too were taken down.

Balam was next to go, his burned and blackened facial features registering danger well before the others.

Remy started to yell as Arioc’s headless corpse finally collapsed to the ground, the stump of his neck still pumping blood out onto the street. He pushed off from the car, his warrior’s nature urging him into battle. Closer now, he could just about make out the blurred shape of the thing that moved amongst them. It was large, about the size of a jungle cat.

The thing from the vision he’d experienced back at the apartment. The thing that had killed Dougie.

Balam was attempting to get a bead on the blurred shape with his gun when his hand was abruptly no longer attached to his wrist. Remy watched the hand, still holding the weapon, sail through the air, bouncing off the side of the SUV and clattering to the ground.

It had all happened so fast that the fallen angel didn’t seem to know that he was now weaponless, pointing the bloody stump at the shape that circled him, preparing for its next strike. Balam’s stomach was torn open next, the burned flesh sounding like the crackling of autumn leaves as the former angel was savagely disemboweled.

Whatever it was that attacked them was nearly invisible to the human eye, it moved so quickly. Fueled by the Seraphim’s lust for battle, Remy advanced toward the bloody scene. Another of the Denizens had gone down, while the other looked on, stunned, his face spattered with the blood of his companions.

Remy squinted, altering the composition of his eyes to look upon the world not as a human, but as an angel, and at last he was able to see what exactly they—he—was up against.

It had the shape of a large dog, but its body resembled that of something that had had its skin pulled away to reveal raw sinew and musculature. Its pointed head seemed to be made entirely of exposed bone, its yellow eyes like two LEDs illuminated from within the deep black caverns of the eye sockets.

It was perched on the back of the third Denizen, who thrashed beneath the thing’s weight. The dog thing eyed Remy before lowering its head to bite into the back of its prey’s neck, and with a savage shake, it broke it. The beast was drooling, and Remy noticed that everywhere the saliva touched, it sizzled and burned. The unpleasant image of Dougie’s burned open belly filled his head, and he suddenly understood.

The monster looked back to Remy, distracted from the remaining blood-spattered Denizen, who stood frozen in place, his eyes riveted to the terror that had laid waste to them.

The thing’s body was rigid except for the slight movement of its yellow eyes. Remy stared back at the beast, attempting to draw it closer to him, away from the other man.

The surviving Denizen began to back away, but his movement caught the attention of the animal. It turned with a shrieking hiss, as its red-veined muscles tensed to pounce on the escaping prey.

The nature of the Seraphim exerted control, and Remy found himself bounding at the animal as it prepared to strike. Remy snatched up the Pitiless dagger that Arioc had dropped from a cooling puddle of blood, and then found the other still nestled snugly within the confines of the sweatshirt lying in the street.

In his hands, the daggers began to sing an aria to the glory of the violence to come.

This is what they had been created for.

The beast sprang, catching the remaining Denizen with little effort, and was about to maul him savagely when Remy launched himself through the air, twin daggers poised to strike.

The animal looked away from its prey, mouth open in a roar of savagery, a roar drowned out by the cry of a warrior.

A warrior of Heaven.