Where Angels Fear to Tread

  “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 tha
t 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.