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It was a beautiful day and Remy decided to walk the few blocks to his office. It would give him a chance to think, and he wouldn't have to waste time trying to find a parking spot on the congested Boston streets — one less thing to worry about.
He still didn't have any leads on the whereabouts of Israfil and the scrolls. He had hoped Lazarus might have heard something in his travels, but that hadn't been the case so far, and now he was left with only one other option.
He turned the corner from Charles Street onto Beacon Street and felt his irritation prickle. He hated the Watchers with a passion; and they were none too crazy about him.
In Heaven, they had been called the Grigori. They were a host of Heavenly guardians charged with safeguarding the development of the Almighty's most beloved creations — humanity — and preventing them from straying off the path of righteousness.
Yeah, that worked out well.
Remy reached his office building near the corner of Mass Ave., stepping through the door into the lobby. He took his keys from his pocket and opened up the mailbox, just in case the delivery had come early. It hadn't, so he slammed closed the rectangular metal door and headed for the stairs.
Instead of protecting humanity from corruption, the Grigori themselves had become corrupted, seduced by the primitive human ways, going native, so to speak. They began teaching the fledgling human race things they were not yet mature enough to know. And it wasn't long before humanity had mastered the art of making weapons: swords, knives, and shields — instruments of violence. But the Watchers didn't stop there, the dumb sons of bitches had actually introduced the joys of jewelry and makeup to the early females.
Remy shook his head. A lot of guys would want to see the Grigori get their asses handed to them for those reasons alone.
And get their asses handed to them, they did.
Remy reached the top of the stairs, glancing at the keys in his hand, finding the one for his office.
The Almighty was not amused. He had lashed out at the Grigori, stripping away their wings. If they so badly wanted to be human, then let it be so. He banished them to Earth, and they had been here ever since.
Remy was just about to slip the key into the lock on his office door when he felt a sudden chill, the temperature in the hallway dropping by at least ten degrees. He glanced up, curious, and noticed that the lights at the end of the hall near Rolanda's Beauty Supply had gone out, plunging the end of the corridor into total darkness. Better give the super a call about replacing those fluorescents, he thought.
And then the darkness began to spread, flowing toward him, swallowing the light as the wave of shadow picked up speed.
Remy didn't even have chance to react before it was upon him.
Before they were upon him.
The first punch nearly broke his neck, dropping him to his knees, the taste of blood filling his mouth. The attackers were strong, inhumanly so, and their use of the darkness implied something demonic in nature. Totally blind in the sea of inky black that engulfed him, Remy couldn't be sure how many there were; it could have been two or twenty. What he did know was that if he didn't act fast, they would kill him.
He took a deep breath and surged to his feet, swinging his fists, hoping to hit something. And hit something he did, feeling his knuckles co
Suddenly, Remy could feel his angelic nature begin to stir. Locked away, deep inside, it was roused to the brink of wakefulness as his instinct for self-preservation kicked in. It had been a long time since last he'd felt that power, and immediately he pushed it back, allowing his attackers to gain the upper hand.
That was not him anymore, and he couldn't imagine any amount of pain would ever force him to be that way again.
They were kicking him now, driving him back against the cool plaster wall. He struggled to block the blows, but he was sore and lost in the darkness, and it was becoming harder to stay focused.
And just when he thought he could take no more, the beating stopped; but within the sea of shadow, he could still hear them breathing.
"Had enough?" Remy asked, cracking wise, wiping a stinging trickle of blood from his eye.
One of them laughed, a high, wheezing sound that ended in a low, wet gurgle. "Look at you," the voice rasped, echoing in the artificial shadow. "A soldier of the Heavenly host Seraphim, beaten and bloody, cowering in the darkness. Is this what you have abandoned so much to become?"
Remy shifted his back against the wall, every joint and muscle screaming in protest as he tried to stand. He could still feel it within him — stirring — deep in the hole where he kept his true nature locked away.
That's not me anymore.
"Sorry to be such a disappointment," he grunted, sliding up the plaster wall.
"We could kill you now," the voice said coldly, and Remy could feel each word, a gentle movement against his battered cheek.
"Yeah, you probably could," he agreed, staring in the direction he imagined his attackers would be. "But I think if you were really going to, you would've done it by now."
His comment was met with a resounding silence.
"Thought so," Remy said. "Why don't you tell me what you want, so we can all get on with our day." He straightened, keeping his back against the wall, its firmness providing an anchor in the ocean of black.
"Is this how you do penance, Remiel of the Seraphim?" the voice asked. "Is this how you pay for your sins?"
The words hurt more than any of their physical blows, but Remy gritted his teeth and stared defiantly into the shadows. "What the fuck do you want?" he demanded.
Again there was laughter, only this time much closer. The voice was right in front of him, close enough to reach out and strangle.
"We strongly advise that you cease your current investigation."
"And which investigation would that be?" Remy asked, playing dumb. He knew exactly why they were here, and the implications were already filling his mind, threatening to burst his skull like an overripe melon.
"Stop it," the voice snapped, so close now that Remy could smell the stink of corruption on its breath, like it had just finished a heaping bowl of murder for breakfast. "Continue to play your human games, moving amongst them, pretending to be one of them, but leave the Death Angel to us — after all, it would be in the best interests of those to whom you have grown close and hold so very dear."
Those final words chilled Remy to the bone, and he found himself doing something all too stupid — all too human. He sprang off the wall, raising his fists to strike at his enemy, but they were ready. They avoided his blows with ease, and then they were hitting him again, knocking him back against the wall, pushing him down to the floor, the savagery of the blows bringing him close to the brink of oblivion.
And just as he was about to spiral down into the arms of unconsciousness, they stopped, and he felt the cold words of his attackers' spokesman gently teasing the flesh of his ear, making it feel as though maggots were crawling inside it.
"Stay down, Seraphim," it said, chased with a wet chuckle. "Think of this as just another form of penance."
And then the darkness was gone, like thick smoke dispersed by the wind.
Remy pushed himself up on his elbows and, with his one good eye, gazed up at the buzzing fluorescents that now illuminated the hall outside Rolanda's, as clear as day.
Guess he wouldn't have to call the super after all.
He was driving down Huntington Avenue much faster than he should have been, the ominous words of his attacker echoing inside the hollowness of his skull.