A Deafening Silence In Heaven

  “We need to stop this nonsense and try to figure out what the hell is going on.”

  “I already know what’s going on,” the dog said, pacing like a caged tiger, his eyes never leaving Remy. “My master has been replaced with a doppelganger—some sort of Shaitan trick, maybe.”

  Shaitan.

  Another name that caused Remy’s brain to explode outward in ragged imagery as he remembered foes from what seemed like another life. And this is where it became all the more insane—all the more riling—for in his memory, the Shaitan—the shape-shifting and savage precursor to the angels of Heaven—were still trapped within the confines of Eden, the Garden cut loose from Heaven during the Great War to drift through the seas of reality.

  Remy remembered that they had tried to escape, but he had stopped them. . . .

  • • •

  Or had he?

  There was another memory suddenly present, one that he was afraid to look upon. In this memory, Eden had returned, and the Shaitan . . .

  The Shaitan had been set free. . . .

  Images played before his eyes, flashes of a film that he had no real recollection of seeing, but they were there just the same. The Shaitan, horrible creatures of violence exploding up from the soil surrounding the Tree of Knowledge, their loathsome numbers descending upon a magnificent city composed of purest yellow light.

  A golden city that could exist only in Heaven.

  The picture of the air above this place filled with the war of angels versus Shaitan, and the Golden City as it burned below temporarily stole his breath away.

  Remy blinked away the nightmarish vision to see the great demon beast staring inquisitively.

  The dog came at him again, his growl low and guttural and filled with determination.

  Remy felt the shield of tainted Heavenly power solidify on one arm and drove it into the face of the oncoming beast. He needed something to defend himself further, eyes darting about the enclosed space for something—anything that he might use.

  His eyes locked with one of Samson’s brood, a teenage girl with a razor-sharp glint in her eye.

  Leila. Her name was Leila.

  Suddenly she darted forward, and he saw the short-bladed sword in her hand. For a moment Remy thought he might be defending himself on multiple fronts, but instead she surprised him by tossing him the sword.

  “It’s only fair,” Leila said as her brothers gawked at her. “It’s only fucking fair.”

  Remy gripped the sword, willing more of the sluggish power of divinity into the blade. It sputtered to life, Heavenly fire dancing across the metal surface. He stabbed at the hound, and the great beast leapt back.

  “Won’t fucking matter,” the dog growled. “You’ll be gutted before you get the chance to use it.”

  “That would be too bad,” Remy said in a crouch, waiting for the inevitable pounce. “’Cause then you’d never get the chance to hear my story.”

  “I know your story,” the demon dog spat, pacing back and fourth.

  “You think you do.” Remy stared at the animal, the shield of divine power on his arm starting to sputter away. “Look at me,” he commanded. “Really look at me. Do you seriously believe that I’m some sort of imposter?”

  The dog continued to snarl, his fleshy upper lip rippling. “Who knows what the fuck the Shaitan are capable of these days?”

  “You said my smell was off, but only just a little. How can that be? I either smell like me, or I don’t.”

  “I’m getting tired of your yapping,” the hound roared.

  “I smell like me—like Remy Chandler—because I am Remy Chandler. I’m just not the Remy Chandler that you know.”

  The enormous dog cocked his head in a familiar way that caused Remy’s heart to suddenly hurt, reminding him of somebody likely gone, but then again . . .

  “What kind of shit are you trying to sell?” the beast asked. “Not the Remy Chandler that I know . . . What does that even mean?”

  “I know it’s a lot to swallow. . . .”

  “Oh no,” the dog growled, taking a menacing step closer. “I could swallow it just fine.”

  “Will you just listen . . . please?” Remy begged.

  For some reason, this seemed to work, and the demon dog actually stopped his advance.

  “Talk,” the dog barked, sitting his muscular bulk down upon the rocky floor. He glanced at his small army. “Stand down,” he commanded, then returned his attention to Remy. “I’m waiting.”

  Remy took a deep breath. “Something happened . . . ,” he began, digging deep into his memory. “I was hurt—badly. Dying, and then I woke up here, but here . . .” He paused, remembering all that he had experienced since regaining consciousness in this twisted version of his body. “This”—he motioned to the world outside the cave—“this isn’t right. . . . I don’t know a world like this.”

  The demon dog made a sound that Remy thought might be a laugh. “That’s fucking nuts!”

  “Yeah, it is,” Remy agreed. “But it’s true. . . . It’s what I know.”

  “So you’re saying that you’re a different Remy . . . a Remy from another time or place, who somehow ended up in this Remy’s body.”

  “Wish I had a better answer, but yeah,” Remy said. “That sounds about right.”

  The beast seemed to think for a bit, then rose to all fours and turned to the children of Samson, who had gathered behind him. “What do you think?” he asked them.

  One of the kids, covered in tattoos, with a wiry yet muscular build and a Mohawk, casually pulled a toothpick from his mouth. Remy suddenly seemed to recall that his name was Sid. “I think it sounds like a load of crap,” he said, and then shrugged his shoulders. “But that’s just me.”

  The dog turned his head to Remy.

  “Yeah, I think it’s bullshit, too,” he said. “Take him.”

  The children of Samson rushed him in a wave. The burning sword in his hand throbbed eagerly, but Remy resisted the urge to strike them, holding the blade down as they swarmed.

  The spawn of Samson laid into Remy. Fists like boulders rained down upon him until he could no longer stand, and he went down in a heap of numbing oblivion, dropping his weapon as he welcomed the shroud of darkness that gave him respite from the madness that his life had become.

  • • •

  Steven Mulvehill was certain that his friend was dead.

  “I’m too late,” he said again, reaching out to touch the cold flesh of Remy’s hand.

  Marlowe stood right beside him, and Mulvehill wrapped his arm around the dog, holding him close. The dog responded with furious licks that wiped away the tears running down Mulvehill’s face.

  “He’s not dead,” the woman spoke from the living room entryway.

  Mulvehill was certain that he’d heard wrong, immediately stifling the surge of raw emotion that just about stopped his heart. He tore his gaze away from his friend to look at Linda.

  “He’s not dead,” she repeated, managing the weakest of smiles. “He’s not doing well, but he isn’t dead—yet.”

  There came a surge of adrenaline through Mulvehill then, his brain immediately kicking into full action as he began to formulate what needed to be done next.

  “We have to do something,” he said, alarm bells going off in his thoughts as he traipsed through the minefield of what he knew of Remy’s true identity and what he could share with the woman.

  Mulvehill stood, tempted to use his phone to call 911, knowing deep down that this would not help in the least and would most likely be a detriment to his friend’s continued health, but he had to do something.

  “Francis has gone for help,” Linda then said, and there came the screeching of psychic brakes, and quite possibly the realization that Linda Somerset knew more than he’d imagined.

  “Francis?” Steven Mulvehill reiterated.

  She nodded. “He said that a special kind of physician was needed to deal with . . .”

  Linda stopped, her eyes riveted to
the man lying on the living room floor beneath a blanket.

  “To deal with . . .” Mulvehill urged her to finish the thought.

  “To deal with somebody . . . like Remy.”

  “You know,” he stated flatly.

  “I know.” She nodded. “I’m not sure what I know exactly . . . but I know that he’s . . .”

  She stopped again, and Mulvehill knew exactly how she was feeling. He’d felt that same raw emotion that threatened to push him from his small perch of sanity when he’d first realized what Remy really was.

  “He’s special,” Mulvehill finished for her. “He’s very special.”

  Linda could only nod vigorously in agreement as emotion filled her eyes.

  “I want to do more, but . . .”

  Mulvehill found himself going to her, placing a comforting, supporting arm around her.

  “I know there’s only so much we can do for him.” He squeezed her tighter, hoping that they could somehow support each other then.

  “Where is Francis now?”

  “He left a while ago,” she told him. “He went to get the physician, to bring him back here.”

  “Okay,” Mulvehill said, taking the info and processing it. His eyes kept going to Remy, lying there so still. It didn’t seem right for him to be this way. He was a force to be reckoned with, and to see him so defenseless filled Mulvehill with an unnatural panic. What did this mean for the rest of the world? Who was keeping the boogeyman from the front door?

  “He’s going to be all right,” Mulvehill suddenly blurted out, looking to Linda for backup. But she just stared. “He has to be.”

  There was a noise from the kitchen, and they both looked in that direction, while Marlowe barked and bounded from their side, ahead of them, to check things out.

  Linda followed him. When they noticed that Marlowe had come to a complete stop just outside the kitchen, hunched and growling, hackles raised, they stopped as well.

  “What is it?” Linda asked Marlowe, about to go around the animal.

  Mulvehill wasn’t sure, but instinct made him grab hold of her arm, preventing her from going any farther as he reached for the Glock holstered on his belt.

  Pulling her behind him, Mulvihill entered the kitchen. The back door was open, moving lazily in the gentle breeze finding its way inside. Marlowe’s unease had intensified, the dog barking crazily, his gaze fixed on a corner of the kitchen.

  All he saw was a patch of shadow, and he was about to tell the dog to be quiet as he checked out the yard, when something moved in the corner of the room.

  It dislodged itself from the shadows, a vaguely human shape wearing a tattered cloak that seemed to change color as the figure pushed off from the wall to come at him.

  Mulvehill knew exactly what he was facing, having killed one of the creatures in his own apartment only hours ago. He aimed the pistol, firing on the assassin as it drew its own fearful weapon from beneath its cloak, a gun seemingly made from the skeleton of some freakish animal. The creature was fast, ducking beneath his shots as it aimed its skeletal gun.

  He caught sight of Linda, frozen in the doorway, and screamed something unintelligible, hoping she would understand and run for cover. Mulvehill fired again, buying them some time, praying that he might kill yet another of the monstrous assassins, but from the corner of his eye he saw the still shape of Remy Chandler—an angel warrior of Heaven, laid low by one of these very things—and realized that his luck had likely run its course.

  The creature flowed to one side, easily evading his shot, the bullet burying itself in the plaster wall behind it, as it aimed its own grotesque weapon and prepared to fire.

  Marlowe lunged with a guttural growl, hitting the killer like a runaway freight train, throwing the weight of his eighty-pound body into the assassin’s side, causing the skeletal weapon to spit its shot into the ceiling.

  The creature screamed something in a foul-sounding tongue as it recovered its footing, lashing out at the attacking dog. Marlowe did not let up, showing a ferocity that Mulvehill would never have imagined. The Labrador sank his teeth into the assassin’s wrist, holding on and shaking the limb violently as the creature flailed. Mulvehill brought his weapon up, wanting to take another shot but afraid he might hit the attacking Marlowe.

  There was a flash, the glint of light off something metal, and Mulvehill saw that a knife had suddenly appeared in the creature’s hand. He screamed the dog’s name in warning, still trying desperately to aim his gun, but the shot was not there, and he watched in horror as the assassin prepared to use the knife on its attacker—

  But instead the hooked blade fell from his grasp.

  Mulvehill was stunned, even more so when the assassin pitched forward and fell face-first to the floor, an axe buried in its back.

  From behind, a short, squat figure climbed out of a patch of shadow as if climbing up and out of a hole.

  “Sorry I’m late,” the grotesque little man said as he stomped over to the body of the assassin and pulled the axe from its back with a horrible squelching sound. “But I always have a bitch of a time pulling myself away from Law & Order marathons.”

  The odd stranger wiped the blood-covered blade on the sleeve of his jacket as Marlowe again began to growl.

  “So, got anything to eat? I’m fucking starving.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Vatican

  Normally Patriarch Adolfi would have had one of his Keeper assistants drive him from his apartment across Vatican City to the Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana—the Vatican Apostolic Library. But today the seventy-eight-year-old leader of the Keepers decided that it was a beautiful day for a walk.

  For the first time in many months the holy man had slept well. Instead of the nightmare of an approaching apocalypse that had plagued his sleeping hours of late, last night, he had dreamed of a single word, spoken in the languages of the world. A single, special word repeated over and over again in every language spoken, or ever spoken, upon the earth.

  Unification.

  And he’d awakened refreshed and rejuvenated, with a sense that something wonderful was going to happen.

  “Good morning, Patriarch,” the guard at the door of the library said in Italian as he bowed and pulled open the door.

  “Yes, yes it is,” Adolfi agreed, feeling the muscles around his mouth stretch as he smiled for the first time in a very long time.

  It was a good morning.

  Adolfi passed through the doorway into one of the oldest libraries in the world, the smell of ancient texts—of knowledge—permeating the air of the beautiful building. He mourned the day that the priceless information contained in one of the most significant collections of historical texts would be stored within a computer. He doubted very much that a computer could produce an aroma so enticing and filled with promise.

  Not wanting to taint his mood, he pushed aside the concerns of the future library and strode across the meticulously maintained marble floor, beneath high, curved ceilings adorned with Renaissance art. He spied people at heavy oaken tables here and there, perusing texts and making notes in their pursuit of wisdom.

  The Patriarch walked from one building to the next and through a security checkpoint into an area of the library where the Holy See’s most sacred and secret writings were stored. At the back of this room was a nondescript wooden door, and that was where Adolfi stopped. From the waistband of his cassock, he produced a key, inserted it in the lock, and turned it, hearing a muffled click.

  The door swung open, symbols of ancient power carved into the doorframe glowing white in response to Adolfi’s presence. He thought briefly of the recent fate of a reporter who’d been attempting to do an exposé on secret organizations within the Vatican. He had found his way to this very door, managing to pick the lock with great expertise, but the poor inquisitive soul was struck dead by the security spell infused within the frame of the door, his mortal form reduced to ash. Adolfi believed that a votive candle was still lit in Saint Peter’s Basili
ca in the man’s honor.

  The heavily reinforced door slammed closed with finality behind the Patriarch, and the intensity of the light thrown by the sigils over the door softened but still provided ample light to guide his way.

  He headed toward an elevator at the end of the sharply inclined corridor, feeling another security spell wash over him, before the metal door slid open to grant him access. Stepping inside, he positioned himself in the center of the cab as he always did, and waited for the journey, miles beneath the Vatican Library, to begin. The magick of the place flowed around him, like the electrically charged atmosphere before a summer storm. This was a place of great power, and that was why the Keepers had been assigned to police this great and often forbidden arcanum.

  Every day Adolfi came to the Atheneum to expand his knowledge, lording over tablets, books, and scrolls, collating and translating the ancient writings of some of the world’s most powerful magick users. But today he had another purpose.

  Unification.

  The elevator came to a stop, and he waited for what seemed like an eternity—it always seemed like an eternity—for the door to slide open into what had been his primary domain for nearly sixty years. The light of a Tiffany lamp, a gift from the United States’ ambassador to the Vatican, shone from the desk in his study. Despite his exuberant mood, he felt a sudden spike of anger as he saw an open notebook with a pen resting atop it on his desk. Few members of the Keeper organization were actually allowed access to these archives, and certainly none were welcome at his desk.

  The old priest headed toward the rows of shelving where many of the Atheneum’s special texts were racked. He was going to call out but decided instead to catch the culprit red-handed.

  He heard the sound first, a gentle sigh, filled with the weight of so much sadness. The wave of emotion from this simple exhalation was so great that it threatened to darken Adolfi’s mood, wrapping him in a heavy cloak of malaise and dragging him down into the shadows. He could not imagine who within his Keeper fold could contain such misery.