In the House of the Wicked: A Remy Chandler Novel

  Never knowing what was ahead.

  Now he walked the shore alone, searching for the one that would make this piece of life he had carved away for himself complete.

  A cool gust blew off the water, stirring the miasma of gray that filled the air, and he could just about make out a shape there in the distance, and moved toward it.

  He found it a little strange that she hadn’t been there waiting for him when he’d first arrived, but really didn’t think all that much about it. When they finally found each other, he would ask where she had been, and she would likely say something fresh, like it was good that he had to wait until he found her, that absence makes the heart grow fonder, or one of those things she liked to say.

  And he would tell her that he had no patience when it came to things involving her, and he would take her into his arms, remembering all the times he had done just that.

  Holding on and never wanting to let go.

  The shape was becoming more defined and Remy was just about to call out to her when he came to a most startling realization.

  It wasn’t Madeline.

  A spark of anger flared within him as he approached the male figure standing with his back to him in the rolling surf. The man was dressed in a dark suit, his slacks rolled up to his knees as the water surged up to greet him like an excited dog before receding in play. This was his special place, his and Madeline’s; there shouldn’t have been anybody else here.

  He didn’t want anybody else here.

  “What are you doing here?” Remy asked the man’s back.

  “Which name do you prefer?” the man spoke over the roar of the tumbling waves.

  Remy was confused by the question.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Which do you prefer, Remiel or Remy?” the man asked, slowly turning his back on the ocean to face him. “I think I’d like to call you Remy,” he said, and smiled.

  There was no mistaking who this man was, and Remy felt the air sucked from his lungs as he dropped to one knee in the sand, head bowed, eyes averted.

  “Oh, stop that,” the man said. “Stand up and look at me. I didn’t come here to make you grovel.”

  But why did you come? Remy thought, his mind in turmoil. Why did He come?

  Remy rose ever so slowly, eyes gradually drifting to the older gentleman’s kindly visage, wondering if there was any reason why He had chosen to appear like this…as if He needed a reason.

  “You’d once seen this man walking the boardwalk of Coney Island with his wife, his grown children and their wives, and their children,” He said, answering Remy’s question before it was asked. “Then you believed him to be the embodiment of a happy existence—everything that you wished for yourself, the things that you would strive for.”

  Remy recalled the moment suddenly; it had happened not too long after he’d decided to live among humanity—to live as one of them.

  “I thought it might make it easier for you to accept why I have come to you,” He said.

  The implication hit Remy like a sledge to the heart.

  “Am I dead?”

  The man turned His gaze back to the fog-enshrouded sea.

  “You could have been,” He said. “But I preferred that that you were not.”

  As did Remy.

  “Why are you…” Remy began, stopping as He again turned His attention to him.

  “I need your help, Remy,” He said. “The Kingdom of Heaven needs your help.” The surf grew suddenly angry as winds began to howl off the restless water. “The world of man needs your help.”

  Particles of sand hurled by the wind stung his face, and he raised a hand to shield himself from the onslaught.

  The man had again turned away from him, gazing out into the fog and the unknown that existed beyond it. There came a low rumble of thunder; the ominous growl of uncertainty.

  “There is a war coming, Remy Chandler,” He said. “And I need you to stop it.”

  The smell of coffee had replaced that of the sea.

  Remy groaned as he opened his eyes, looking up at the white tin ceiling. It took only a few seconds to figure out where he was; coffee beans grown and harvested in Hell had a very specific aroma when brewed.

  He was reclining upon the leather sofa, covered with a heavy afghan, in Francis’ basement apartment. Remy sat up, peering across the living room into the kitchen, where Francis, the hobgoblin, and Angus were sitting around the kitchen table, having coffee.

  “How did I end up here?” Remy asked, pulling the afghan off.

  “Hey, look who’s awake,” Francis said. He rose from his chair, going to the cabinet and reaching for a mug. “Coffee?”

  “Sure,” Remy said, noticing that he was wearing a turquoise sweat suit. “What the fuck am I wearing?”

  “Your clothes were pretty much nonexistent after you fell from the sky,” Francis said as he poured a steaming cup from the carafe. He crossed the room and handed Remy the cup.

  “How did you all get in here?” Remy asked, ready to take a sip, desperate for the taste and the jolt the Hell-grown beans would bring. “Thought I had the only keys.”

  When Francis had disappeared and was believed dead, Remy had been left the Newbury Street brownstone. He thought he was the only one who could get inside.

  “I left a key under the mat,” Francis said, returning to the kitchen.

  “What mat?” Remy asked after his first sip of the rejuvenating brew.

  “There’s got to be a mat around here somewhere,” the former Guardian said, filling his own cup again.

  “There’s always a mat,” Angus agreed with a nod.

  “A dime a dozen,” the hobgoblin added.

  Remy left the living room and approached them, coffee in hand.

  “Anybody care to fill me in on what happened out there?” he asked. “I’m guessing that the outcome was favorable?”

  Francis shrugged. “All depends on how you define favorable.”

  “The shadow realm didn’t flood the earth, so that’s good,” the hobgoblin stated.

  Remy eyed the small, ugly creature.

  “You dragged me out of there—the shadow realm—with Ashley,” Remy said.

  “Yeah,” the hobgoblin said, rising from his chair with a wince. He was wearing a yellowed wifebeater stained with blood, and Remy could see that his shoulder was heavily bandaged.

  “The name’s Squire,” the goblin said, reaching across the table to take Remy’s hand in a powerful grip. “Sorry that I didn’t bring back the real girl on the first try.”

  Remy shook Squire’s hand. “Thank you,” he said. “I didn’t even know.”

  “Golems can be tricky,” the sorcerer Angus added, chubby hands wrapped around his coffee mug.

  “Where is she?” Remy then asked. “Is she all right?”

  Francis lowered his mug, silent for longer than Remy cared for.

  “She’s up in one of the apartments on the first floor,” Francis answered. “I said that she could use it to get herself cleaned up. Get her shit together.”

  “Is she all right?” Remy asked again.

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said. The others were nodding in agreement. “She’s been through a lot…seen some things that somebody like her…”

  Francis seemed as if he wanted to say something else, but stopped and had some more to drink.

  “Not just her,” Angus spoke up, turning his coffee mug in his hands. “As of tonight, the entire world has seen things the likes of which have never been witnessed on such a grand scale.” The sorcerer got up from his chair, going to the coffeepot for a refill. “Little girls promising a message from God, things emerging from the shadows, a swirling black hole in the sky…”

  Angus looked directly at him as he poured.

  “An angel flying into that hole and exploding in a flash of heavenly light.”

  He set the carafe back down and took a quick sip from his cup as he returned to his seat.

  “As of tonight…I would
say the whole goddamned planet has changed.”

  Remy had hoped that maybe, somehow, the rational, thinking minds of the world would have explained it all away as some sort of mass hallucination brought on by…he didn’t know exactly. He expected those same rational brains to fill in the blanks.

  Didn’t sound like that was in the cards this time.

  “That bad?” Remy asked.

  “Pretty bad,” Francis said. “More than two thousand dead, and that was just a result of the television broadcast. We haven’t even gotten a number yet on how many as a result of what happened on the plaza.”

  Remy felt the weight of the world push down even further on his shoulders as he remembered the message given to him in his subconscious.

  There’s a war coming.

  “Did Ashley get in touch with her folks?” Remy asked, needing to change the subject.

  “I gave her my phone,” Francis said. “But she said that she wanted to wait until you woke up…to talk with you before…”

  Remy understood what he needed to do. Nodding, he finished his cup and set it down on the table. As much as he’d rather not, he needed to speak with Ashley, to explain to her how sorry he was for getting her involved in his insane world.

  “I guess I should get up there,” Remy said, motioning toward the door. “What room is she in?”

  “Maybe you should take it easy for a little while longer,” Francis suggested. “Give her some more time to wrap her brain around everything that she’s gone through.”

  “I think she needs an explanation now,” Remy said.

  “Angus and Squire are going to be hanging out for a while. Why don’t we get some Chinese and…”

  “What room?”

  “Gave her the key to 1G,” Francis said, resigned to the fact that he was going.

  Remy headed toward the stairs that would take him up to the lobby and was halfway up when Francis called up to him from below.

  Standing on the stairs, Remy turned to see what he wanted.

  “Can I talk to you about something?” Francis asked.

  “Can it wait until…”

  “It’s about Ashley,” Francis spoke out, his features frighteningly still. “And what I could do to help her.”

  The discussion he’d had with Francis lingered like a bad smell in his thoughts as he stopped before the door to apartment 1G.

  He looked toward the stairs to see Francis reach the first floor.

  “I’ll wait out here,” he said. “If she says yes.”

  Remy nodded, chilled by Francis’ suggestion, but also feeling a twisted sort of relief that the option he was going to present to her even existed.

  It would be up to her to decide.

  Remy knocked lightly upon the door and waited.

  “Yeah?” called a tiny voice from behind the door.

  “It’s me,” Remy answered.

  “Come in.”

  Remy opened the door and stepped into the apartment, closing the door gently behind him. He noticed that every bit of lighting had been turned on, making the barren walls of the empty apartment seem to glow. Ashley was sitting at the far end of the living room, up against the wall, beneath the open window. It was raining softly outside, and a gentle breeze that carried the smell of fire and magick wafted into the apartment.

  He left the door to stand on the border of the hallway and living room, not wanting to get any closer to her. Ashley tensed as he stood there, pulling her legs up closer to her body and refusing to look at him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her. “Do you need to see a doctor?”

  She shook her head no, sniffling, a wad of toilet paper appearing in her hand to wipe at swollen, teary eyes and a running nose.

  “The first thing I want to say to you is how sorry I am,” Remy told her.

  “For what?” she asked, still refusing to look at him.

  “This never would have happened if it wasn’t for me and what I am.”

  “What are you?” The question was quick, harsh, as if she’d been waiting for the opportunity to present itself.

  “I’m an angel…a Seraphim.”

  “Like, from Heaven and stuff?” Ashley asked, sniffing again.

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “That’s pretty nuts,” she said, and started to laugh, but she was soon crying again.

  “It is pretty nuts, and it’s why I’ve kept it a secret from you all these years.”

  “Does anybody know?”

  “Mulvehill found out by accident. Francis, who’s got issues of his own. Marlowe…”

  “Marlowe understands that you’re an angel?” she asked. It was the first time she’d looked at him.

  “Yeah, I can talk to him just like I’m talking to you. I can speak and understand any language. It’s one of the angel perks.”

  “You can speak dog?”

  “Dog…cat…wombat…yeah, anything that has any kind of language.”

  “Did Madeline know?” Ashley asked.

  “Yeah, about that—”

  “Wait—if you’re an angel, how could you have a mother?” she wanted to know.

  “She wasn’t my mother,” Remy admitted with a sigh. “She was my wife.”

  There was silence as the answer slowly permeated.

  “I knew it,” Ashley said finally. “I knew there was something different about you guys…about your relationship. Mom said that she thought you might be one of those gay guys who’s really close to their mothers, but I knew you weren’t gay.”

  “Your mother thinks I’m gay?” Remy asked, finding out more than he cared to.

  “Yeah, she did at first,” Ashley said. “Now she doesn’t know what you are.”

  “I can’t believe your mother thought I was gay,” he said.

  “What would you think?” she asked. “Good-looking guy, lived with his mother, now lives alone with his dog.”

  “You think I’m good-looking?”

  She laughed softly. “Is also very neat and tidy.”

  “Neat and tidy? I’m a slob.”

  “I’ve never seen a dirty dish in your sink…ever, and I’ve known you for, like, a hundred years.”

  “That’s because I seldom eat at home.”

  “Not even a dirty glass or cup. It’s freaky.”

  “But you didn’t think I was gay,” he said to her.

  She shook her head. “I just thought you were…eccentric.”

  “You and your mother didn’t have any kind of bet, did you?” Remy asked, trying not to smile but completely powerless not to.

  Ashley was smiling back, and he saw her old self finally breaking through the darkness he had caused.

  “With my dad,” she said, and started to laugh. She looked at him then and the fear was gone.

  “Your dad? I think I need to sit down.”

  Remy came into the room, lowered himself to the floor, and leaned back against the living room wall, no more than three feet from her.

  “So no money has exchanged hands yet, I gather?”

  “Nope,” Ashley said. “There’s been nothing definitive yet to say who’s won.”

  “How’s it feel to be right?” Remy asked.

  A shadow passed over her pretty face, and she studied something underneath one of her fingernails.

  “You’re probably wishing I was gay.”

  “That would have been normal,” she said. “Easier to understand.”

  “Is there anything that I can say or do to make it easier for you?” he asked.

  He could see her thinking. It looked as though it might’ve hurt.

  “There’s still a part of me that hopes I’m having hallucinations or something, that the crap I’ve just gone through has all been in my head.”

  She looked at him, eyes hard.

  “It’s all been real, hasn’t it?”

  Remy just nodded, feeling ashamed. He was about to tell her how sorry he was again, but knew that it would have little impact.

  “You have n
o idea how hard it is for me to be sitting here and not crying or screaming or curled into a ball with my eyes closed, but no matter what I do I can’t escape what I’ve seen…what I’ve done.”

  The fear was back, swirling behind her eyes, and he could see that she was doing everything in her power to hold it together.

  “The world isn’t the same anymore, Remy,” she said, looking at him, swollen tears dribbling from her eyes, down a face that somehow appeared older to him.

  “No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”

  “I’m not the same anymore,” she added.

  It was then that he remembered that Francis was standing outside in the hallway, and what they had discussed.

  “What if there was a way that I could make you the same?” Remy asked.

  Ashley looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m just saying, how would you feel if there was a way that you could be made to…forget.”

  He wasn’t sure if it was more fear or excitement he saw in her gaze then.

  “That isn’t possible,” she said in a whisper.

  “Do you remember that you’re talking to an angel?”

  “How? How could you make me forget?”

  “Francis…”

  “Francis can make me forget?”

  “He’s acquired this…instrument,” Remy started to explain. “It’s a scalpel of supernatural origin.”

  Ashley was just staring at him.

  “A scalpel so precise that…” Remy paused, even the thought of using the instrument on the girl making him feel sick to his stomach.

  “A scalpel to cut out my memory?” Ashley finished for him.

  “Yeah, that’s about right.”

  “How could…How would you…?”

  “Francis would go in and cut the bad stuff away,” Remy explained. “Like cutting away an infection. He’d likely start just before you were taken and stop not too long after now…just before you get home.”

  “And I wouldn’t remember any of it?” she asked.

  “It would be gone,” Remy said.

  He could see that she was thinking…thinking hard.

  “It would be so easy to say yes,” she said to him. “To let Francis take away all the scary stuff, but that’s the stuff that has changed me…. And no matter what I can and can’t remember, I’m still changed. I’m still that new person now, whether I can remember what happened or not.”