Where Angels Fear to Tread

CHAPTER EIGHT

Remy lay upon the bed that he’d once shared with the love of his life, and pretended to sleep.

He went through all the motions: removing his clothes, climbing beneath the covers, and closing his eyes.

But he didn’t sleep; not really.

Remy had learned to send himself into a deep fugue state, a kind of healing, dreamlike place where his mind wandered to review and reexamine. Of course, he found himself thinking an awful lot about Madeline on these long, lonely nights.

It was torture to see her again, but at the same time it made him so very happy.

She was young in this place inside his head, young, beautiful, and healthy. It was how he liked to remember her . . . how she always appeared to him, even when time and the ravages of her illness sought to take away her beauty.

They were reclining in beach chairs, side by side in the sand as the sun slowly set and the tide inexorably drew closer. He wore a loose-fitting cotton shirt—unbuttoned—exposing his hairless chest, and shorts, while she wore that red one-piece swimsuit that had always flattered her figure, large-framed sunglasses, and an impossibly floppy hat.

She reached out and took his hand in hers; he turned to smile at her and couldn’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, giving his hand a loving squeeze.

“Nothing,” he said, still taking her all in. “It’s just really good . . . ,” he said, pausing as he felt himself fill with emotion. “It’s just really good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” she said, and brought his hand to her mouth to kiss it.

They sat there like that for quite some time, listening to the sounds of the beach. They were alone here, and Remy relished every moment of having her near him again.

Even though she was only a product of his memories.

“The case is a strange one,” she said, staring out at the approaching tide.

“What?” he asked, looking at his wife.

“The case you’re working on,” she said. “It’s turned into another strange one, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He stuck his bare feet beneath the cool, damp sand. “It has.”

“What do you think it means?” she questioned. “The lip marks on the back of that man’s hand and on the doctor’s neck.”

Remy shook his head. “I really don’t know. It’s not a tattoo. It’s almost as if the flesh had been burned . . . burned by a kiss.”

He looked across to see that she was staring at him, a dreamy smile on her beautiful face. “What?” he asked.

“Aren’t you glad my kisses don’t burn?” she said, leaning toward him.

Remy did the same, their faces almost meeting.

“Even if they did, I’d tolerate them,” he said.

“Even if they hurt like hell?” she asked, pulling back slightly.

“Even if they hurt like hell,” he said.

And they kissed, gently at first, but becoming more passionate the longer their lips touched.

“I think that one almost burned me,” Remy said, the first to break the lock.

“We’d better try again, just to make sure,” Madeline suggested.

And they kissed again, long and passionate, stopping only when she brought her hand to the side of his face, and unlocked her lips from his.

“You realize this is likely important, right?”

“Our kissing? Very important.”

Remy leaned in to kiss her again, but this time Madeline pulled away from his advance.

“The lip marks,” she stressed.

“Yeah,” he said, “you’re probably right.”

“Probably? I’m offended.”

“Guess I should look into those more closely,” he said, his eyes back on the crashing surf that had moved that much closer.

“Yes, you should.” She gave his hand another squeeze.

And as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, they continued to sit, holding on to the special moment, not wanting it to end.

But knowing it would.

“I love you,” he told her. This time he brought her hand to his lips. “And I always will.”

“Of course you will,” she said with a smile bright enough to replace the sun. “Now get to work. Zoe is depending on you.”

And the darkness came, as it always did, and Remy was alone.

Remy opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom.

His hand had drifted to Madeline’s side of the bed, lying there as if hoping to feel some evidence that she had been there, but it was cold.

He turned his head and glanced at the clock. It was a little past three a.m. He hadn’t been resting any more than two hours, so now what? He had no desire to put himself back into the fugue state.

He lay there a moment longer, then sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He caught sight of Marlowe, on his side as if shot, sound asleep at the foot of the bed. Carefully he stood, not wanting to wake the dog. Quietly he retrieved a shirt from his closet, then slipped on some socks and a pair of pants.

The memory of his conversation with Madeline was fresh in his thoughts. She was right; he had to look into the origin of the lip marks, and what it had to do with the torment of a man’s soul.

He was slipping into his loafers when he realized he was being watched, and looked up to see Marlowe staring, his dark brown eyes glistening in the darkness.

“Go back to sleep,” Remy told him. “It’s too early for you to be up.”

“You? ” Marlowe asked curiously.

“I have work to do,” Remy said, going to his dresser for his wallet and keys. “When I get back, it’ll be time for you to get up.”

Remy rolled his eyes at the sound of the animal jumping from the bed.

Marlowe approached him, sticking his butt into the air as he stretched.

“Go to work,” the dog grumbled.

“No.” Remy shook his head. “I’m going somewhere that might not be safe for dogs.”

The dog looked at him with a curious tilt of his head.

“Normally, I would have sent Francis to do this, but . . .”

“Francis gone,” the Labrador said, and Remy could hear sadness in his animal’s voice.

“Yeah, Francis is gone, so now I have to do it.”

The dog sat down at his feet, tail sweeping the floor.

“Go,” he barked, staring intently at Remy.

Remy ignored him, leaving the bedroom and heading downstairs, Marlowe close on his heels.

“Do you need to go out before . . . ,” he began, then stopped and turned to look at the dog.

Marlowe was sitting perfectly straight, as if waiting for the secret password.

“No,” Remy said again. “You can’t.”

“Go,” the dog grumbled again, his tail wagging all the faster.

Remy was about to put his foot down, but he had a sudden change of heart. “All right, do you really want to go?”

The Labrador yelped and sprang to his feet. His thick, muscular tail wagged so fast that it was practically a blur.

“Fine,” Remy said, going to the kitchen counter for the dog’s leash. “But you’ve got to promise me you’ll stay out of trouble.”

“Promise,” the dog answered as Remy slipped the chain around his neck.

“Okay, let’s go,” Remy said, and Marlowe beat him to the front door. “But first we have to stop by Francis’ house.”

“Francis gone,” Marlowe said, bounding into the predawn morning as Remy opened the outside door.

“Yeah,” he said, following the dog down the steps. “Thanks for reminding me, again.”

It was close to four in the morning, so Remy had no problem finding a parking space close to Francis’ Newbury Street apartment building.

Since his friend’s disappearance, the building had been under Remy’s care, but he’d allowed it to remain empty. There was just so much bizarre history connected with this building that Remy had thought it best to let it be for now, although he must have received twenty calls a week from various real estate firms practically begging to buy the building.

He didn’t even bother to return the calls.

Remy climbed the stone steps and let himself into the building, the eager Labrador at his side. The air was tainted with the smell of mustiness and age. Marlowe immediately began to prowl the foyer, his nose pressed to the old rug.

Francis had lived in the basement apartment, and Remy went to the heavy wood door that would allow him access. He took a key from his pocket and undid the lock.

“Coming?” he called after Marlowe.

The Labrador had his nose wedged beneath an old steam radiator.

“Mouse,” he grumbled as he pushed past Remy to go down the stairs into Francis’ apartment. He always had to be first.

Remy followed, feeling a sense of melancholy as he stood at the foot of the stairs and looked around. He’d left it pretty much as he’d found it, almost a shrine to his friend.

Marlowe was sniffing around, following a trail through the living room and into the tiny kitchen.

“More mice?” Remy asked him.

The dog ignored the question, far too busy to be bothered.

Remy left the animal to his business and set about on his own particular chore.

Francis had something that Remy required.

Whenever one of his cases had taken a turn toward the bizarre, Francis had always been there to provide the intel from the supernatural community that prowled the streets of Boston, and just about every other major population center on the planet.

Francis had no problem at all dealing with these citizens of the weird, and Remy was more than happy to pay the former Guardian angel for his troubles. Remy hated to deal with the unearthly inhabitants; it served only to remind him of his own true, inhuman nature.

He stood in the center of the living room and placed his hands on his hips. “If I were a key, where would Francis put me?” he muttered aloud as he scanned the apartment.

In the far corner of the room was a large wooden wardrobe. That was where Francis kept his most prized possession—his weapons collection.

“As good a place as any,” Remy said, pulling open the heavy wooden doors to reveal the arsenal stored within.

So much death in one place, the angel thought as he perused the collection. There were swords both long and short, knives from all over the world and time periods, handguns, rifles, shot-guns, explosives.

Francis had certainly loved his weapons.

And if he had been going to store something away for safe keeping, this was where he would have put it.

There was a place called Methuselah’s where the citizens of the weird liked to hang out, have a few drinks, maybe an appetizer or two.

It existed between the here and the there . . . the now and the then, and only members could get in, with a special key. Francis had been a member.

There were a number of small drawers inside the wardrobe, and Remy began to pull them open. One was filled with ammunition, while another, strangely enough, contained marbles. And then in a drawer that held only random scraps of paper with phone numbers scrawled on them, Remy found the key.

It resembled an old-fashioned skeleton key, but the magickal energies it contained made the tips of his fingers tingle as he picked it up.

Turning, he saw Marlowe standing in front of a closet that had once contained a powerful secret. At one time that closet was the doorway to Tartarus.

But now with the prison no more, and Lucifer in control of Hell, the closet was just a closet.

Or was it?

“Pee,” Marlowe said, sniffing the hardwood floor in front of the door.

“You peed there, remember?”

Marlowe glanced at Remy with an almost-embarrassed look.

When Marlowe was last in Francis’ apartment, the poor animal had caught a glimpse of Tartarus, one of the most horrible places in existence, and had lost control. Who could blame him?

Remy imagined Mulvehill would have reacted in very much the same way.

With a cautious eye, the dog watched him approach the door, and Marlowe backed slowly away, tail between his legs.

“It’s all right,” Remy reassured him. “That bad place isn’t behind the door anymore. But with this key”—Remy held up the skeleton key he’d found—“it’ll be a doorway to another place.”

“Bad place? ” Marlowe asked.

“Not really,” Remy said. “There are people there I have to talk with.”

Marlowe relaxed some, creeping closer.

“You ready?”

The Labrador stared at the door, the black fur around his neck bristling slightly.

Remy took the old-fashioned key and slid it into the lock. He could feel the magick pulsing through the key, and up his arm. It stirred the Seraphim inside, and the power of Heaven awakened.

Remy turned the key, the sound of the door’s unlocking far louder than it should have been. He gripped the knob, which had become unusually warm, and readied to turn it.

“Stay with me,” he said to his dog as he opened the door.

And they stepped into another place.

Remy and Marlowe found themselves in a stone alley. It was as dark as pitch, the only source of light a red neon sign over a rounded wooden door at the end of the rock corridor—METHUSELAH’S, it announced.

Remy removed the key from the door, allowing it to close—and disappear as if it had never been there at all.

Marlowe woofed, sniffing at the wall, his tail wagging nervously.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured the animal, patting his flank. “It’ll be there when it’s time to go home.”

They started down the stone passage toward the tavern at its end, their acute senses picking up the sounds of movement in the thick shadows on either side of them.

Marlowe started to stray, his nose twitching as he moved closer to the scrabbling sounds, but Remy was quick to draw him back.

“Stay with me, pal. I don’t think you want to be messing with what’s lurking in there.”

Marlowe growled menacingly at the scratching noises and returned to his place at Remy’s side as they approached Methuselah’s front door.

Remy reached for the door handle, attempting to enter, but the door didn’t budge.

“Shit,” he muttered, trying again. “Don’t tell me they’re closed.”

A wooden panel in the door suddenly slid open, and a fearsome face peered out at them.

“Hey,” Remy said, “I’d like to come in.”

Marlowe looked up at the face and began to bark.

“Shut up,” Remy told him. He looked back to the face in the door. “Sorry, he gets a little excited sometimes.”

The dark eyes from the door studied him, and Remy decided that what was on the other side of that door wasn’t even remotely human.

“Do you have a key?” the creature asked, its voice a throaty rumble.

Remy held up the key.

The dark eyes stared at it, then shifted back to Remy.

“It is not your key,” the beast said. “You cannot be admitted.”

Remy rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I know whose key it was, but he’s not around, and I have been awarded all of his possessions, making the key mine.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m Remy Chandler.”

The beast squinted, before two large nostrils appeared in the opening, a brass ring hanging between the two cavernous holes. The nostrils twitched, sniffing at the air around Remy.

“Who are you really?” the beast asked again.

Remy hesitated a moment. “I am Remiel of the Heavenly host Seraphim,” he said reluctantly, his voice taking on the air of authority befitting one of his species.

The beast’s eyes appeared in the opening again, and Remy expected the door to open.

“You still cannot come in.”

“Why the hell not?” Remy asked incredulously. “I have a key that rightfully belongs to me. . . .”

“No dogs allowed,” the creature growled, turning its gaze to Marlowe, who sat patiently at Remy’s side.

Remy felt his ire on the rise and was about to cause a scene, when he heard another voice from inside the establishment. The wooden panel slid closed, but he could still hear two low and tremulous voices locked in heated conversation.

The voices suddenly went silent.

And then Remy heard the sounds of locks turning, and slowly the door opened with a high-pitched creak.

A huge figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, and all Remy could do was stare. He’d heard the stories, but this was the first time he had actually seen him.

The man stood at least seven feet tall and was apparently carved from dark gray stone. He wore a bright red vest and black slacks obviously made from a stretchy, durable material. Methuselah was stitched in cursive on the left side pocket of the golem’s vest.

“Remy Chandler,” the stone man said, his voice sounding like tectonic plates rubbing together.

“Hello, Methuselah,” Remy said. “I like the new look.”

Remy had heard that the old man’s body, after living close to a thousand years, was starting to show some wear and tear, and he had been in the market for something new and more durable.

Apparently he’d done exactly what he’d set out to do.

“You like it?” Methuselah asked. “Crude, but effective. Come on in.”

The stone man turned, and Remy was impressed; for a body made of rock, it moved with far more grace than he would have expected.

“Is it okay if Marlowe comes too?” Remy asked before passing through the door.

Methuselah squatted down, his great stone hand reaching out to gently pat the Labrador’s head.

“Of course he can,” he said with a rumble.

Marlowe, always the charmer, licked the rock man’s face.

“Salt,” the dog said in between licks. “Taste salt.”

Methuselah laughed, and it sounded like thunder in the distance. He and Marlowe then strolled into the tavern, best buddies, as Remy brought up the rear.

A minotaur stood just to the right of the door; the doorman—doorbeast—that had attempted to deny him entrance. It eyed him suspiciously.

“Guess he likes dogs.” Remy shrugged as he passed.

The minotaur responded with a grunt, and a wet blast of air came from its flared nostrils.

“What can I get you?” Methuselah asked as he deftly navigated the bulky body of rock behind the bar. Remy sauntered up to one of the stools and sat, motioning for Marlowe to lie down on the wooden floor beside the chair.

“Scotch, neat,” Remy said.

“Could’ve guessed that,” the stone man said. “It’s what your buddy always had.”

Methuselah poured Remy a tumbler of golden liquid from a dusty bottle without any label, which could have been good, or very, very bad. Remy took note that most of the bottles behind the bar were minus any kind of labeling.

The bartender placed the glass before his customer. Not wasting any time, Remy picked up the glass and had a sip.

It was good, very, very good, probably some of the best Scotch he had ever tasted. He knew Francis had to keep coming back to this place for something other than the company.

Casually, Remy looked around. Methuselah’s wasn’t busy, but there were still enough clientele to make the journey worth his while.

Some appeared human, but he knew they weren’t, while others—most of whom sat in the deep pockets of shadow around the bar—were the farthest thing from human he could imagine. They were creatures of another time, beings that had passed from one reality to another.

They were myths and legends, and a few nightmares tossed in for good measure.

“Does your pooch want some water?” Methuselah asked.

Remy looked down to the floor. “Hey, Marlowe, do you want some water?”

“Not thirsty,” the dog said, furiously sniffing at the wooden floor. Remy could only imagine the things that had been spilled there over the long lifetime of the bar.

Remy shook his head, bringing his glass to his mouth again. “He’s not thirsty.”

Methuselah leaned against the bar, staring at him with that big, almost expressionless stone face. It was hard to read a face like that.

“What’s on your mind?” Remy asked.

“Nothing really,” the ancient being said. “I always wondered when I’d see you in here.”

“And here I am,” Remy said, having some more of the amazing Scotch.

“And here you are,” Methuselah repeated, his words sounding like a small avalanche.

The stone man picked up a rag and began wiping down the bar.

“Sorry about Francis,” he said.

Remy shrugged. “He went out the way he wanted to.”

Methuselah nodded. “I guess that’s all we can hope for.”

“I guess you’re right.” Remy sipped some more, denying the alcohol any effect over him. Steven would have sold his soul for a bottle of this stuff.

“So, what brings you in?” Methuselah asked, still wiping the wooden counter. “Can’t be because you were up for a little socializing, seeing as you seldom mingle with your own kind.”

Remy bristled. His own kind. He was as far from these . . . beings . . . as one could possibly be.

The Seraphim stirred, aroused by Remy’s annoyance.

Or was he?

“I’m looking for information,” Remy said, keeping his annoyance to a minimum.

A waitress who appeared perfectly normal came up to the bar and ordered a round for a table in the back. She seemed to be in her late thirties, attractive, but Remy knew not to look too closely in Methuselah’s; the normal didn’t often make it through the door.

Again Remy marveled at Methuselah’s stone body as he mixed one drink after another; his dexterity was truly amazing.

The waitress had her drinks and was off again.

“Sorry about that,” Methuselah said. “You were saying?”

“I’m looking for information,” Remy stated flatly.

Methuselah picked up the dusty Scotch bottle and offered him another, but Remy passed, placing his hand over the tumbler’s top.

“I’m good.”

“Maybe I can help,” the stone man said, placing the bottle back amongst many others behind the bar. “What are you looking for?”

“It’s not much, but in this case I’m working, I’ve come across these strange marks . . . almost like a brand.”

“What do they look like?” Methuselah asked.

“Lips,” Remy stated. “It looks like these guys have been kissed by some pretty full lips that have left an indelible mark.”

Remy stared at the silent bartender, attempting to read him, but as before, there was very little expression available on the stone face. He would have had better luck with one of the Easter Island heads.

“I’ve got nothing,” Methuselah said finally, picking up the damp cloth and starting to wipe down the counter again.

And that was when Remy heard the commotion.

“You’d better go get your dog, Chandler,” Methuselah said, and Remy spun around on his stool to see that Marlowe had found his way into one of the more foreboding corners of the room, and was currently attempting to have a discussion with a demonic entity about its appetizer—it looked like one of those big fried onions.

Of all the things in the bar, of course Marlowe had to bother that one.

Demons were foul; there was just no other way to describe them.

Knowledge of the dark entities was scarce, but some in the know believed they were a life-form that existed in the all-encompassing darkness before the Lord God turned on the lights, while others thought they were one of God’s failed experiments, something that went really, really wrong.

Nonetheless, they existed, even after multiple attempts by various angelic hosts to wipe them out. And they waited in the shadows for their opportunity to bring darkness back to the world, in any form they could.

Like this one, for example, Remy thought as he slid from his stool and moved past the tables and chairs to get to the scene. This one wants to cause problems by hurting my dog.

Not a good idea.

The demon had stood up from its chair, its pale, moist flesh glistening in the candlelight from the table. The creature was completely hairless and glared at Marlowe with eyes like two red LEDs adrift in twin pools of darkness. Its mouth was pulled back in a snarl that could have been disgust, or rage, and its sharp yellow teeth were as rude as the rest of it.

Marlowe, on the other hand, was sitting before the demon’s table, looking as pretty as could be, tail wagging happily—the perfect example of a good dog who deserved a piece, or two, or three, of somebody’s onion appetizer. It was obvious that Marlowe really wasn’t picking up on the hostility.

“Marlowe, no,” Remy commanded.

The Labrador looked his way with that perfectly simple look, drool trailing from the sides of his grinning maw.

“You know it’s not polite to beg,” Remy scolded.

“Food,” the dog woofed excitedly, looking back at the demon still standing by its table.

Pointed spines had begun to emerge from the demon’s pale flesh, their tips, dangerously sharp, dripping with moisture.

“There’s no need for that,” Remy said to the demon, his voice booming.

Methuselah’s became deathly quiet as all eyes turned to Remy and conversation stopped. Obviously they’d had no idea there would be entertainment this night.

The demon cocked its head strangely, studying Remy. It had no nose, but Remy could see some form of a sensory organ, pulsing beneath the wet skin that was pulled tight across the angular skull of its horrible face.

“You should pay better attention to your pet,” the demon said. Its voice sounded as pleasant as fingernails being dragged down a blackboard.

“I know; I’m sorry about that,” Remy said with as much honesty as he could muster.

The Seraphim was still awake, and it rose to the situation.

“Sometimes his belly gets the better of him,” Remy said goodnaturedly. “We’re sorry to have disturbed your meal.”

He was about to call Marlowe away again, but the demon had other things in mind.

“This cur invaded my personal space,” it screeched, turning its attention back to Marlowe, who had remained sitting, still staring at the untouched fried onion in the middle of the table. “I am within my rights to harm it.”

And then the demon did a very bad thing. It extended its long, bony index finger, one of the dripping poison quills pointed directly at Marlowe’s face.

And for that, the Seraphim emerged.

Remy’s body erupted in light, the human flesh that he wore on the verge of being shed. Remy could barely restrain the divine power that had bubbled to the surface of his humanity, ready to cast it aside and lay waste to this loathsome being.

“Stay your hand, wretch,” the angel Remiel ordered, the power of his words and the radiance of his presence causing the demon to cry out in pain. It dropped to the floor of the tavern, averting its sensitive eyes from the light of Heaven.

In the light cast by his angelic frame, Remy could see the reaction that his actions had caused. The patrons of Methuselah’s looked upon him with expressions of fear and awe, the glory of his form forcing the shadows from every nook and cranny, and filling them with the Almighty’s resplendent light.

And then he saw something that didn’t seem to belong in a place such as this; in a far corner, now cleansed of concealing shadow, two fearsome angels of Heaven—of the Retriever host—tensed for conflict.

They were clad in the awesome armor of their class, and all Remy could think of was a stealth bomber, ready to lay waste to an enemy and its territories. Their eyes were cold, and their exposed flesh resembled the surface of glacial ice.

These were the personification of God’s intensity, His desire to reclaim any and all that had been taken from Him.

Sensing the potential for escalating violence, Remy pulled back upon his holy essence, tucking it fitfully away before matters could get out of hand.

His flesh tingled like the aftereffects of a severe sunburn, but his humanity remained intact.

As his divine light was extinguished, the darkness wasted no time in rushing back to flood the secret corners, swallowing up the mysteries that had momentarily been exposed.

Why are Retrievers here? Remy wondered, but that was something he would have to think about later, and in another place.

He’d worn out his welcome at Methuselah’s.

The patrons continued to watch him with equal parts fear and hostility. Marlowe, on the other hand, sat, completely unfazed by the activity around him, his eyes still fixed on the prize on the table.

“You know dogs can’t have onions,” Remy said, grabbing his collar and pulling him away.

The demon cowered on the floor, a foul-smelling fluid leaking from its moist, almost luminescent flesh.

“Never threaten a man’s dog,” Remy said to the trembling thing. Then, holding on to Marlowe’s collar, Remy escorted the Labrador back to the bar where Methuselah watched.

“Sorry about that,” Remy said, but the golem remained quiet. “What do I owe you for the Scotch?” Remy asked, using his free hand to fish his wallet from his back pocket.

Methuselah held up his blocky hand. “It’s on the house,” he said with a rumble of stone against stone.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Remy said. He pulled a business card from his wallet and laid it on top of the superclean wooden bar.

The golem reached for it, delicately picking it up.

“If you should hear anything or think of anything about those marks I mentioned, give me a call.”

Sliding the card inside his vest pocket, Methuselah nodded. “Will do.”

Marlowe in tow, Remy started for the door, still feeling the eyes of the tavern upon him.

The minotaur stood up from its chair by the door, giving Remy the hairy eyeball as it opened the door for them.

“Sorry for the commotion,” Remy said again, loud enough for Methuselah and the remaining patrons to hear.

And the minotaur slammed closed the heavy tavern door behind Remy and Marlowe with a good-riddance-to-bad-rubbish kind of grunt.