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And because of that, their value became immeasurable.
At the corner of Myrtle and Anderson streets, Marlowe stopped to sniff at the left-turn-only sign, ru
“Anybody you know?” Remy asked him casually.
“Doone,” the dog grumbled, sniffing again to make sure his scent was the strongest. Doone was a Weimaraner who lived farther up Pinckney Street, and who had attacked Marlowe when he was just a puppy. The two had been sworn enemies ever since.
“He’s got some nerve peeing on your signpost,” Remy said.
“Yes,” Marlowe agreed. “My signpost. Not Doone. Mine.”
“Exactly,” Remy chuckled as they headed for the house.
Marlowe stood in front of the door to the brownstone, tail wagging, as Remy fished in his pocket for his keys. He opened the door and held it for Marlowe, and that was when he sensed them.
He quickly closed the door on Marlowe and was turning as they came up from behind him. One put his arm around Remy’s throat, and yanked him backward away from the door. Marlowe started barking furiously on the other side, obviously sensing danger.
He wasn’t sure how many of them there were, taking a guess at three. One of them hit him in the stomach hard, and he tried to pitch forward but was held fast by the one behind him. The wind exploded from his lungs as he was hit again, the image of a balloon losing all its air as it sailed around a room filling his head.
Sometimes you think of the damnedest things when you’re getting the shit kicked out of you, he thought, feeling himself released and falling to his knees upon the street, gasping and gagging.
He was surprised that he hadn’t sensed these Denizens creeping up behind him sooner, but clearly he had to show them what a mistake they had made in attacking him outside his home.
The Seraphim waited patiently just below the surface, as if it had somehow known that its fury would be called upon. Dropping the mental barriers just a crack Remy allowed a small portion of the power to emerge, feeling the fire of Heaven flow through his body to ignite his hands.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” one of his attackers warned.
Remy ignored him, preparing to satisfy the Seraphim’s hunger for battle. He looked up—and noticed one of the Denizens standing at his door.
The fallen angel was pointing a gun through the glass into the foyer of his home, where Marlowe still barked wildly.
Remy’s hands crackled and sparked.
“You just might make Balam nervous,” the Denizen continued from behind Remy, “and who knows what terrible things might happen then.”
The one called Balam tapped the glass in the door with the barrel of his gun, making Marlowe bark all the louder. The look on his face told Remy he was hoping he would be able to fire the weapon.
Fearing for the dog’s safety, Remy pulled back on his angelic essence. Though it fought him, he managed to force it again behind the mental barriers where it could do no harm.
“Good idea,” the spokesperson for the group commented as the fiery glow from his hands began to dim.
Remy slowly rose to his feet, eyeing the gathering standing around him. There were actually four of them, three around him and Balam at the door.
“You’ve got my attention,” Remy stated.
“Good,” the leader answered with the hint of a smile. “That’s a very sweet-looking dog you have, and I’d hate to have anything—”
“Cut the menacing bullshit and get to the point,” Remy interrupted. “I get it; you’ll hurt my dog if I don’t behave. Fine. What the fuck do you want?”
The Denizen leader started to laugh, and seeing that it was okay, so did the others. “If we didn’t need you, I’d do something about that smart mouth,” he said.
“Lucky for me,” Remy answered.
“Yeah, it is,” the leader agreed.
They glared at each other, Remy searching the fallen angel’s dead features for something familiar. Had he known this angel once? Had he once called him brother before the fall? Remy couldn’t tell. The time spent in Hell changed them outside, as well as in.
“My employer is very interested in your current job,” the fallen said. “So interested, in fact, that he wants to know all about your progress.” The angel removed a business card from inside his coat. “No skimping on the details. Do you understand… Remy?”
They moved toward him as their backs suddenly became illuminated in the glare of approaching headlights. The fallen leader let the card drop from his hand as he passed.
“Nice,” Remy said.
“I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you,” the leader said over his shoulder.
Remy squatted down to pick up the card, giving it a quick read before stuffing it into his coat pocket.
Old Scratch Contracting.
Cute, Remy thought, watching as the four men climbed into the black BMW truck and pulled out of the parking spot in front of his house.
How’d they manage such a good space? he ruminated, remembering where he’d have to walk tomorrow to retrieve his car.
The vehicle whose headlights had prompted the party to end pulled into the spot, the window coming down to reveal a familiar face.
“This was meant to be,” Steven Mulvehill said as he put the car in park. He turned the engine off and climbed out of the vehicle with a paper bag held lovingly in his arms. “While at the liquor store I said to myself, if I was meant to share this bottle of fifteen-year-old Scotch, there’ll be a spot for me in front of the lucky individual’s humble abode.”
He partially pulled the bottle of alcohol from the bag to give Remy an enticing peak at the contents. “And as luck would have it, you were the first house on my list.”
Remy smiled in spite of what had just transpired there on the street. It was good to see his friend, and a drink was just what he could use about then.
Marlowe continued to bark as if insane from inside the hallway, capturing the homicide detective’s attention.
“What’s the matter with him?”
Remy shrugged, retrieving his keys again and heading to the door.
“I think he smells something bad in the air.”
“So who were they again?”
Mulvehill poured himself some more Scotch as he waited for Remy to answer.
“I thought you didn’t like to know about the weird shit,” Remy said, swirling the ice around in his glass as he reclined farther in the patio chair on the rooftop deck of his building.
Mulvehill dropped a handful of ice from the full bucket into his finger of alcohol. “Normally I don’t, but I’m fascinated by the concept of anybody smacking you around.”
Remy set his glass down on the patio table and reached inside his pocket to remove the business card.
“They were Denizens,” he said in explanation. “Fallen angels.” Mulvehill returned to his seat across from his friend, sipping on his ice-filled drink as he sat down.
“And these are the guys that used to be in… y’know.”
He motioned with one of his hands, pointing to the ground, not wanting to say the word.
“Hell,” Remy finished for him. He found it interesting that the legends and stories of the prison realm had made it so that humanity was terrified of the place as well, even though their kind would never see it. Hell was only for those who had fallen from their servitude to Him.
“Right. They used to be in Hell, but now they’re here and they like to beat you up.”
Remy was taking a drink and laughed. “That’s right,” he said, wiping a dribble of Scotch from his chin. “They just love to kick my angel ass.”
Marlowe, who was resting by his chair, suddenly sat up at attention.
“No kick ass. Marlowe will bite them,” the Labrador said with what he intended to be a menacing growl.
Remy reached down and stroked the dog’s soft black fur. “Of course you would have. You’re the bravest animal I know.”