A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

The weather was still bad, alternating between torrential downpour and deluge, and Remy had to seriously wonder if this was some sort of precursor to the end.

"You never really answered my question," Casey said, above the sounds of the storm: the heavy patter of rain as it landed upon the roof of the car, the rhythmic swish from the wipers as they barely kept up with the water on the windshield.

"What question was that?" Remy asked, as he headed down Atlantic Avenue toward Summer Street, the rain so heavy he could hardly see the harbor on the other side of the hotels.

"What's Jon's co

He had to think a bit on how to answer. The truth was obviously out of the question, but he didn't want to lie to her either; the poor woman had already been through enough.

"Jon has changed," Remy began, carefully picking his words as he navigated the Toyota through the rain-drenched streets. "He isn't who I remember him to be….But then again, neither am I."

He could sense her sudden agitation.

"So what're you saying: that you do know him, that the two of you have changed your identities or something?"

"No, nothing like that," Remy said, trying to stifle her growing unease. "Let's just say that we both have… complicated pasts, and leave it at that."

Casey gazed into the darkness through the rain-spattered passenger's window. "That's probably what he meant about starting fresh after his illness."

Remy wanted to agree. The illness had indeed allowed Israfil to start fresh, providing him with an established identity — a life — that he could slip into like a comfortable suit of clothes. And then it hit him. Casey had never known Jon Stall at all; it was Israfil that she had fallen in love with.

She looked away from the window and at him. "Just tell me that you didn't do anything wrong… you or Jon."

Remy remembered the war in Heaven, wings spread as he dropped down from the skies, his sword cutting a bloody swath through the forces of the Adversary.

Killing his brothers.

She waited for an answer that he wasn't sure how to pose, when he was saved by the ringing of his cell phone.

"Excuse me." He reached for his phone, and she turned back to the window. "Hello?" he said.

"It's me," said the unmistakable voice of Lazarus. He always sounded exhausted, like he had just woken up from a nap. Living as long as he had was obviously very tiring.

"Hey," Remy answered, avoiding a particularly nasty-looking pothole behind the Industrial Park. "Do you have something for me?"

"Nothing," Lazarus said sleepily. "But it isn't that I'm not trying. I hit a few hangouts… some demon social clubs. I asked about your beating and nobody was fessing up. They all thought it was pretty fu

"A riot," Remy answered. "Nothing about the other thing?"

"Israfil? Nope, but they all sense something's up. The last place I was in was pretty wild. Lots of heavy drinking and fights. The natives were most definitely restless. Had to spread some serious cash around in order to get anybody to even look at me."

"I'll reimburse you." Remy glanced over at the girl. She was drawing a smiley face in the window fog. "I might actually be on to something about that."

The phone was quiet, and for a moment Remy thought he might have lost the co

"Yeah," Lazarus answered. "Sorry about that. Do you think you know where he is?"

"Maybe. I'm on my way to a place on Dorchester Street."

"The Angel of Death was living in Southie?" the immortal asked incredulously. "Maybe," Remy told him.

Again there was silence, and Remy had to wonder if Lazarus was watching television or something.

"Well, good luck," the immortal finally said. "Give me a call if you need anything."

"Yeah, you do the same."

"Was that about Jon?" Casey asked, as Remy returned the phone to its holder on his belt.

"Sort of," he replied. "It's a little complicated right now. I'll fill you in a bit more after I have a look around his study, all right?"

He looked over at her to see she was staring directly at him. There was trust in her dark eyes as she nodded in agreement.

"Good. Now, why don't you guide me the rest of the way. We have to be getting close now."

Casey did as he asked, directing him toward an olive green two-family building on Dorchester Street. He managed to find a parking space relatively close, on the other side of the street, among the bumper-to-bumper SUVs. Somebody had broken a bottle in the spot, making it unattractive, and Remy got out and kicked the glass around a bit with his shoe before parking.

Collars pulled up against the rain, the two hurried across the street. She pulled her keys from a tiny purse and opened the front door. The entryway was warm and dry. The house, like many older buildings, smelled like food, like the hundreds of meals cooked there over the years. It was a good smell. A comforting smell.

Casey put a finger to her lips, telling him to be quiet as they climbed the carpeted steps to the second floor.

"The landlady's a pretty light sleeper," she whispered, searching her key chain again. "I'll be hearing about it for days if I wake her up."

She found her apartment key and let them both in, switching on a ceiling light as they entered.

"This is it," Casey said, taking off her wet coat and throwing it on an old wooden chair that sat by the door. Remy left his coat on, casually checking things out.

The door opened into their living room; mismatched furniture around an old television set, tasteful watercol-ors of what looked to be a beach house on Cape Cod decorating the walls. Beneath that was a framed and yellowed photograph, of what looked to be the same location captured by the watercolor artist, only in the photo there was family — mother, father, and son, dressed in the clothing of the time period, the early seventies, Remy believed — standing out in front of the cottage. He guessed that the child was Jon.

In a recliner in the corner, a large tiger cat rose to its feet, arching its back in a quivering stretch. The animal eyed Remy curiously with large, yellowish eyes.

"Hello," Remy said to it.

"Who?" the cat asked.

"Who am I? I'm Remy. I'm a friend of your master."

"No master," the cat proclaimed indignantly, then began to lick its paw, ignoring him.

"Sorry," Remy apologized. Cats always had the worst attitudes.

"Feed?" it suddenly asked between licks. "Not me," the angel answered it. Then, as if on cue, Casey returned with a dish in her hand.

"Are you talking to Tyger?" she asked, a hint of a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

"She'll feed you," Remy told the animal, hooking a thumb toward her.

The cat meowed loudly, jumping down from the re-cliner, walking around Casey's feet, rubbing against her legs.

"Come on," she said to the cat. "I've got your supper here." She turned back to the kitchen, Tyger following, complaining all the while that he shouldn't have had to wait so long to eat.

Just beyond the living room was a short hall, and down the hall, a door. "Is this Jon's study?" Remy asked, raising his voice so that Casey could hear him in the kitchen.

She came back to the living room, wiping her hands on an old dish towel. "Yeah, but I think it might be locked."

Remy grabbed the doorknob and tried to give it a turn. It was.

"I'd really like to take a look inside," he said to her.

"I don't have a key," she said. "Maybe you could open it with a screwdriver?" She started back down the hall. "There's one in the kitchen that we use to…"

"I could open it with a minimum amount of damage," he called after her.

Casey stopped, slowly turning back to him. "Just try not to make a lot of noise, all right?" she warned.