disease that grew inside her.
Outside the Westin, it was hot and humid, but how else would Boston be in August?
A quick glance at his watch showed Remy that if he didn’t hurry, he would be late for his early dinner date with his friend Steven Mulvehill. Not that it really mattered; the homicide detective was never on time anyway.
Remy walked up Dartmouth Street toward Beacon, not a little concerned about his reaction toward Mrs. Grantmore. It was taking less and less these days to rouse the angelic nature he had worked so hard to contain. A sign of the times, most definitely, he mused as he stopped to let a cab pass that would certainly have run him down if he’d stepped in front of it.
A few years ago, a thought like that would have been just plain foolish. But now, since the death of his beloved wife, he couldn’t be so sure. Everything had changed—in the earthly world, as well as in the unearthly.
He looked around him. Things looked the same, but the difference was there, an undercurrent. Whether they knew it or not—the pretzel man, the student, the teller at the bank stepping out for a quick cigarette break—the world was different.
And not in a good way.
Remy’s own world had begun to change dramatically when his wife first became ill. From there it was as if a row of cosmic dominoes had begun to fall, with the disappearance of the Angel of Death and then the narrow averting of the Apocalypse, the nearly unbearable pain of Madeline’s death, the return of Lucifer Morningstar to Hell, and the loss of Francis, the former Guardian angel who had been Remy’s friend and frequent comrade in arms.
And it was just the beginning; of this Remy was sure.
He turned down Beacon Street, and the disturbing realization of how dramatically different things were suddenly became a reality when he caught sight of the bedraggled form of Steven Mulvehill waiting in front of the restaurant.
And the world became that much stranger a place.
The restaurant was pricey, even for an early dinner, but Mulvehill had a gift certificate he’d gotten from another detective whose wife had developed a wheat allergy and, according to Mulvehill, couldn’t go out to eat anymore.
Remy was pretty sure there was more to the story; there always was when it came to things surrounding Mulvehill, but he didn’t feel the need to dig any further. A free dinner was a free dinner, and he would leave it at that.
“Working today?” Mulvehill asked, reaching for his glass of water, in which a fresh lemon slice floated amongst the ice.
Remy popped another french fry into his mouth, nodding while he chewed.
“More of the weird shit?” Mulvehill asked, leaning forward to pick up the second half of an amazingly large hot pastrami sandwich that he had slathered with dark mustard.
Remy was having a cheeseburger, and, like the fries, it was excellent. He didn’t have to eat; his sustenance came from the life energies around him, but eating had become one of his biggest pleasures and he wouldn’t give it up for anything.
“Nope, nothing weird this time,” he said, picking up his burger. “Just a very wealthy woman looking to put the kibosh on her daughter’s relationship.”
“That bitch,” Mulvehill snarled, wiping his mustard-covered hands on the cloth napkin. Remy noticed that some of the dark condiment had dribbled onto his friend’s tie, but there were so many other stains there already, it wasn’t worth mentioning. “Did you set her straight? No, wait—did you get paid, and then set her straight?”
“Final bill hasn’t gone out yet, but it will,” Remy said around a large bite of burger. He hesitated a moment, then continued.
“She really pushed my buttons; I had to stifle the urge to fry her where she sat,” he said, not looking at his friend. He pulled a slice of red onion from his sandwich and stuffed it into his mouth.
Mulvehill was strangely silent, and Remy looked up. The homicide detective knew all of Remy’s secrets, and he was the only one Remy could share this with—now that Maddie was gone. He knew Mulvehill often wished he didn’t know what he did, but that cat had been let out of the bag some time ago.
And besides, it always led to really interesting conversations.
“Seriously?” Mulvehill finally asked. “You really wanted to burn her alive with your angel superpowers?”
Remy halfheartedly nodded, shrugging his shoulders as he tried to explain. “It wasn’t really me per se, but, y’know, the part of me that. . you know.”
Mulvehill slowly nodded. “Yeah, I know, but damn. Remind me never to piss you off unless we’re near a fire extinguisher or a lake or something.” He picked up a half-eaten pickle spear from his plate and took a bite.
“I’d never burn you alive,” Remy said. He set what was left of his burger on his plate. “With all the booze you drink, you’d probably go off like some great big, fleshy Molotov cocktail.”
“Oh, you’re a fucking riot,” Mulvehill said sarcastically. He reached for his water and held up the glass. “See, water.” He took a drink.
“Only because you’re on duty,” Remy teased. “If you were off today, we’d probably need another three gift certificates to handle the bar bill.”
“See if I invite you out on my dime again,” the homicide cop said, going back to his mustard-drenched sandwich.
“It’s a gift certificate,” Remy reminded him.
“Yeah, that I could have used with any number of hot babes trying to become the next Mrs. Mulvehill.”
Remy laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Any number of babes?” he repeated. He pulled a few more fries from his plate. “That’s good.”
“What, you don’t think I’m desirable?” Mulvehill asked with a smile, a giant gob of brown mustard oozing down his chin.
“If we weren’t in a public place, I’d take you now, you gorgeous hunk of man,” Remy said.
They both laughed, then turned their attentions toward finishing their meals.
“Did you really want to burn her?” Mulvehill asked suddenly, breaking their silence. “Seriously?”
Remy looked up into his friend’s worried gaze. He couldn’t lie to him. “Yeah, I did,” he answered quietly. He took the napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth.
“I have to say that isn’t such a good thing.”
Remy agreed. “No, and it worries me. Since Madeline. . I feel myself drifting. . Not all the time, but sometimes, when certain things push a button.”
Mulvehill noisily chewed the last of his pastrami sandwich and wiped the grease and mustard from his face. “The next well-done corpse I find in the city, I’m looking for you, pal,” he said.
Remy gripped his water glass, staring at the ice and lemon slice. “It scares me.”
His friend remained quiet. No snarky comeback; it wasn’t the time.
“I’m afraid of the day when I can’t. . when I don’t want to keep it inside anymore.”
“Is that a possibility?” Mulvehill asked.
“Could be.” Remy shrugged. “Probably not right now, but there could come a time when I won’t have the things around me that keep me anchored to this world.”
“Like Maddie,” Mulvehill said quietly.
Remy silently nodded. “She was the most amazing thing in my life here, but now there’s just this giant void where she used to be.” He could feel a darkened mood descending on him, as it had a tendency to do when he thought too hard about things connected to his fragile humanity.
“I know what your problem is,” Mulvehill said, tossing his napkin onto the tabletop. “I should’ve given you the gift certificate.”
Remy looked across the table at his friend. “Should’ve given me the gift certificate? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You could’ve used it for a date,” Mulvehill said. “You could’ve taken somebody out for a nice dinner and maybe found a new anchor—not that anybody could ever replace Maddie. I’m just saying it might help.”
Remy had to laugh. “You think I should date?” he asked incredulously.
“Yeah, why not?” Mulvehill asked. “What was the name of that woman you told me about?” He snapped his fingers. “The waitress. . you know who I mean.”
“Linda,” Remy said, focusing on the water in his glass again.
“Yeah, Linda. Why not go out with her?”
It was all so very complicated. Remy had met Linda Somerset through Francis. During the Great War in Heaven, Francis had chosen the wrong side, but then saw the error of his ways and was desperate to make amends. The Almighty had given him the duty of watching over one of the passages to the Hell prison of Tartarus, which just so happened to be in the basement of the apartment building that the Guardian angel owned on Newbury Street.
The last time Remy saw Francis, he had been badly wounded in the effort to prevent the Morningstar’s catastrophic return to Hell. Remy still held out hope that somehow Francis had managed to survive.
Although as time passed, it was becoming less and less likely.
Francis had been obsessed with Linda Somerset, even though she knew nothing of his interest. Remy had spoken to the attractive waitress at Newbury Street’s Piazza restaurant a few times since Francis’ disappearance, and he could understand his friend’s fixation.
There was definitely something about Linda Somerset.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Remy said, hoping, but doubting, that would be the end of the discussion.
Their waiter approached the table. “Are you gentlemen finished?” he asked, reaching for their plates.
“Could you wrap that last piece of burger in some foil for me?” Remy asked the well-groomed Hispanic man who had introduced himself as Harry.
Harry smiled. “You must have a dog?” he asked, lifting the plate from the table.
“No, he’s gonna have that as a snack later,” Mulvehill offered. “He’s really cheap.”
“Will you shut up,” Remy snarled. “Yes, I do, and if I don’t bring him something, I’m going to be in trouble.”
“No problem,” Harry said. “Any coffee or dessert?”
They both declined, Mulvehill sticking out his belly and patting it as a sign that he was sated.
The waiter said he’d be back with Remy’s food, and the check, excusing himself as he left with their dirty plates.
“So, why not?” Mulvehill started up again
“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Remy said, trying not to become upset with his friend. He did not want to even think about burning his best friend alive. “It’s far too early for me to even be thinking about things like this; Madeline hasn’t even been gone six months.”
“Stop right there,” Mulvehill said. “I don’t mean to be cold or heartless, but you just said the magic words.”
Remy tilted his head inquisitively to one side, as he’d so often seen Marlowe, his four-year-old Labrador retriever, do.
“Madeline’s gone, Remy,” the detective said. “I know how you felt about her—I loved her too—but if her being gone and your being lonely mean you’re going to start losing your shit and frying
