But as the world that he loved-and fought for-continued to transform, Remy had to face the fact that the warlike nature of the Seraphim was needed. If he was going to continue to protect this changing world and all he loved from the rapidly escalating supernatural threats, the two warring natures at the core of his being would have to unite.
Finally, with the help of the memory of his beloved Madeline, Remy had embraced a side of his nature that he had been attempting to stifle for thousands of years. Remy Chandler was transformed.
Whole.
The human and the angelic were one. He was a creature of both Earth and Heaven, and tonight he had chanced a listen to the prayers of humanity. It was a mother’s plea that had touched him tonight, compelling both the human and the Seraphim to action.
Remy walked across the puddle-covered blacktop of the prison yard and stopped beside a guard who stood outside the main entrance, smoking a cigarette beneath an overhang. Patiently, he waited in the steady fall downpour as the man finished his smoke, then followed him into the brightly lit building, the heavy metal door slamming closed behind them.
Remy had been relaxing on the roof of his Beacon Hill brownstone, sipping a glass of Scotch as his canine friend, Marlowe, snored loudly at his feet. The rain hadn’t started, but the dampness permeated the air, and he’d known that it was only a matter of time before it did.
He had seen the glow of the lights at Fenway Park and absently wondered if the Sox would be able to get their game in before the deluge. He had allowed the effects of the alcohol to wash over him. His psychic connection to the world’s inhabitants danced in the corners of his perception. Normally he would have blotted it out, not wanting to eavesdrop on the pleas of the needy and devout, but something about this particular night had encouraged him to open himself up to the cacophony of prayers.
It had been like being in a sea of sound, a multitude of voices in every worldly dialect, all speaking at the same time.
Remy had been tempted to pull back from the deafening roar but forced himself to concentrate, whittling down the sounds of many to a select few, until he was focusing on only one, the strongest and most plaintive of them all.
The prayers of Catherine Perlas.
Remy was deep inside the prison now. The noxious smell of violence and desperation hung stagnant in the air, despite the nearly overwhelming stink of industrial cleaner. He’d left his escort to wander on his own and was passing the prison infirmary when his acute hearing picked up the sound of heavy breathing-someone fast asleep.
He stepped inside a darkened office to find an older man sleeping at his desk, file folders spread out before him as if sleep had claimed him in the midst of work. Silently, Remy approached the man.
“Robert Denning,” he said softly in the voice of an angel.
The man twitched with a grunt and slowly raised his head, leaving a small puddle of drool on one of the folders. He looked around the room, bleary-eyed and still mostly asleep, searching for the source of the voice.
“Where can I find him?” Remy whispered into the man’s other ear.
The man could barely keep his eyes open. His head bobbed up and down as sleep tried to pull him into its embrace once more.
“Where is Robert Denning?” Remy repeated.
“Maximum Security,” the man mumbled. “Special Housing, Unit Six.”
His eyes closed again, and this time they did not open. His breathing grew deeper as he laid his head back down on his pillow of folders. He was snoring as Remy looked around the office, searching for some kind of floor plan. On the back of the door he found an emergency map of the facility and quickly located the maximum-security wing.
Catherine Perlas had lost her daughter and twin grandchildren to murder, and prayed with all she had that God would punish their killer.
The story had been all over the local news. Charlotte Marsh, a thirty-three-year-old single mother, and her six-year-old daughters had been found brutally murdered in their Camden, New Hampshire, home. They had been together, maimed to render them unable to escape, and Charlotte had been the last to die.
Who could do such a thing and why? asked everyone who heard the tale of horror. The answer was far from satisfying, and more disturbing than most could bear.
Robert Denning was a twenty-year-old college dropout and, according to the testimony at his trial, had always been curious about how it would feel to take a life. After a particularly taxing day when he’d fought with his girlfriend, Robert had felt the overwhelming desire to satisfy that murderous curiosity.
He’d seen Charlotte and her daughters, Amanda and Emily, at a local supermarket and followed them home. He had parked his car and waited, unnoticed, until the house grew dark. Then he’d entered through an unlocked door in the garage. Details were sketchy, but they said he’d taken his time with them.
Remy found his way into Maximum Security, transporting himself through the locked doors by wrapping his wings about his body and picturing the other side.
It was as if the prisoners asleep behind the doors of the cells could sense his divine presence; many of them cried out pathetically as he strolled past. Most simply returned to a restless sleep when he paid them no mind-the prowling Seraphim on the hunt for a specific prey.
Denning had tried to escape human justice by declaring that he was insane at the time of the murders, but the jury hadn’t bought it, agreeing with the prosecutor, who had portrayed the man as a cold, calculating killer.
Remy stopped before a white metal door, the number 6 stenciled large and black above the single Plexiglas window. He stood for a moment staring at the door, imagining what was on the other side. A part of him- his human side — yearned to sense some unspeakable evil emanating from the cell, something beyond the norm that would explain why Robert Denning had done what he had.
A form of demonic possession or some such manifestation of evil.
A way to make some strange kind of sense from the senseless.
But Remy felt nothing out of the ordinary, and that just made it all the more maddening.
The angel stepped closer to the cell, peering into the small, darkened space, seeing a shape huddled beneath a blanket on the bed.
He opened his wings, wrapped them about himself once again, and he was there on the other side of the door, beside the bed, watching the figure in the embrace of a seemingly peaceful sleep. Remy wondered briefly about Catherine Perlas, wondered if it was possible for the poor woman to sleep peacefully again. Or would she be forever haunted by the memories of her murdered family?
His emotions had never been more acute as they had since embracing his angelic side once more. Even the most mundane feelings affected him with startling acuity. Never had he experienced love so strongly, or, as in this particular instant-
Hate.
“Robert Denning,” Remy said into the darkness, his voice resonating with divine presence. “Awaken.”
Denning stirred on the bed, the angel’s command pulling him into the waking world.
“What? Who’s there?” the young man asked sleepily, pushing himself up on his elbows, squinting into the shadows.
Remy chose to remain visible this time and had not hidden his wings. The brilliant white of their feathers cast an unearthly radiance about the cramped cell.
And Robert Denning saw what had come into his room. He sat up with a sucking gasp, throwing himself back against the wall, clutching his blanket tightly beneath his chin.
His eyes were wide and filled with fear, and Remy wondered if the young man was thinking of Charlotte, Amanda, and Emily then…thinking of how afraid they had been in his presence that night he had yearned for and sampled the act of murder.
Remy hoped that he was.
“What the fuck?” Denning screamed.
“Keep your voice down,” Remy commanded, not wanting the murderer’s cries to summon any of the prison staff.
