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CHAPTER TWELVE
Remy rolled awkwardly onto his back, the metallic taste of fresh blood filling his mouth. He leaned his head back against the wall of the narrow corridor, and gazed at the dilapidated door, listening to the sudden silence.
Slowly Madach moved down the hallway toward him. “What happened?” he asked, cautiously eyeing the closed door.
Remy scrambled to his feet, his human form aching in more places than he could count. He ran a hand across his mouth and nose, wiping away the blood there.
“He closed it.”
Remy took hold of the doorknob again, experiencing none of the extreme sensations he had before. The emanations from Hell had stopped completely. Throwing the door wide, he gazed upon a utility closet, the most menacing things inside an ancient mop and a plastic bucket.
“He closed it,” Remy said again, looking fitfully to Madach. His mind was on fire. Something terrible was happening in Tartarus, and he was almost certain that the Nomads were responsible, and that it all revolved around the Pitiless weaponry.
A spasm of cold went up his back, so powerful that it nearly broke his spine, Suroth’s words again echoing in his ear.
This time the true victor will reign supreme…
He liked the sounds of them even less now.
Pushing past the fallen, Remy went out to the living area, his brain humming as he tried to piece together every piece of information he’d gathered and form it into something he could act upon.
But there were still too many gaps.
“So what now?” Madach asked, much calmer now since the radiation from Hell had stopped.
Remy dropped down heavily upon the couch. “Good question,” he said, throwing up his hands in frustration. “I’m stumped.” He strained his fevered brain even more, staring at a particular section of pattern on the carpet beneath the coffee table until it blurred.
“The Nomads took the Pitiless for some kind of purpose,” he said aloud. “And from what I just saw, it has something to do with Tartarus and the prisoners there.”
Madach leaned against the doorframe. “They’re going to break them out,” he said suddenly.
Remy looked up, urging him on with his eyes.
“They’re going to use the power of the weapons to free all the fallen angels still being punished in Tartarus.”
A sick sensation began to grow in the pit of Remy’s belly, something horrible and malignant expanding in size as he realized how close Madach likely was to being right.
“They’re going to free all the prisoners,” Remy muttered, again hearing the Nomad leader’s chilling words.
This time the true victor will reign supreme…
Tiny pinprick explosions of realization erupted all across the surface of Remy’s brain and suddenly he knew the horrible, deadly truth.
He bolted up from the sofa, going to the closet in the corner of the room adorned with the original poster from The Wild Bunch. He grabbed the latch and gave it a pull. As expected, it was locked, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow that to stop him. He gave the handle a forceful twist followed by a tug and listened as the lock broke, pieces of the mechanism clattering around somewhere inside the closet door.
Remy pulled open the door, exposing Francis’ treasure trove of violence: everything from bladed weapons to guns of almost every caliber, shape, and size. It was a closet filled to the brim with instruments of death.
“Was your friend expecting to fight a war?” Madach asked, coming to stand beside him.
“He liked to be prepared,” Remy said, reaching for one of the handguns—a Glock—hanging from a peg. He hoped that Francis had a hefty supply of the special ammunition he would need to deal with the kind of threat he believed he was going up against.
Madach reached for one of the handguns too.
“You don’t have to do this,” Remy said, finding the ammunition in a small wooden box and loading a full clip. Even touching these special bullets, created from materials mined in Hell, made him feel sicker than he already did.
“Yeah, I think I do,” Madach answered. He took a gun, staring at it in his hand. “You said it yourself. If it wasn’t for me, none of this would have happened.”
Remy slipped the loaded clip into his gun.
Madach helped himself to some of the special bullets, doing as he’d watched Remy do. “Who knows,” he said with the hint of a sad smile, “if I do some good maybe I’ll get time off for good behavior, and I’ll be able to go back home all the sooner.”
Remy scowled, not even wanting to think of Heaven. If what he suspected was going on, he was disturbed to see its lack of involvement. It just proved to him again how dramatically things had changed, and not for the better.
“So what now?” the fallen asked, carefully loading his weapon.
“I had some dealings with the Nomads a few days ago,” Remy said. “Only thing I can think of right now is to check out where I found them last and hope they’ve left clues as to where we go next.”
Madach stared at him blankly.
“I know, the plan sucks, but it’s all I’ve got right now.”
His phone started to ring and he reached inside his coat pocket to retrieve it.
“Hello,” he said, placing it to his ear.
There was a long pause, and Remy was about to hang up on the call when he heard the unmistakable sound of labored breathing. He almost laughed, an obscene phone call at a time like this, but then the caller managed to speak.
“Mr. Chandler,” it gasped, and he recognized the voice.
“Karnighan?”
“Come to Lexington, Mr. Chandler,” the old man wheezed, sounding as though he was teetering at death’s door.
“Karnighan, I certainly will be coming to Lexington. You’ve got a lot of questions to answer, but right now…”
“Come to Lexington, Remiel,” Karnighan interrupted, using Remy’s angelic name as if he’d known it all along. “It’s time you knew what is going on.”
Mulvehill wasn’t picking up, so Remy left a message.
“Hey, it’s me,” he started, leaning back against his parked car. He wanted to be sure to phrase what he had to say right. He didn’t want to frighten his friend, but how else could he explain that he might not survive the next few hours? “Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask.”
Remy glanced back up the street toward Mass Avenue. Things looked as though they’d returned somewhat to normalcy. He was sure the multiple fire trucks and police cars and hazmat teams were still milling about upper Newbury Street. As he’d left the brownstone, he’d heard murmurings about some sort of weird gas leak.
Whatever helps them make it through the night, he thought.
“Things have gotten a bit intense,” he started to explain into the phone. “Not sure how much deeper I’m going to be sucked into this and I was wondering if you could… if need be… take care of stuff for me.”
He felt a raw, painful surge of emotion that he was more than willing to blame on the residuals of the Hell leakage, but deep down Remy knew that it wasn’t the case. These were the emotions he’d suppressed—pushed down deep—since Madeline’s death. They bubbled to the surface now, hot… burning.
Infuriating.
It was a product of that damn humanity he’d worked so hard to achieve. All part of being human.
“I know you’ve said you’re not good with dogs, but… if something should happen to me… would you take care of him… of Marlowe?”
He thought about his animal friend, feeling guilty about how much the simple creature had had to endure over the past few months.
“I’d really appreciate it if you would do that for me.” Remy paused, not knowing how to go on. He really didn’t have anything more to say.
“Thanks, buddy,” he finally added. “Take care of yourself and… well, I hope to see you later.”