shit,” Remy said, swirling the ice around in his glass as he reclined farther in the patio chair on the rooftop deck of his building.
Mulvehill dropped a handful of ice from the full bucket into his finger of alcohol. “Normally I don’t, but I’m fascinated by the concept of anybody smacking you around.”
Remy set his glass down on the patio table and reached inside his pocket to remove the business card.
“They were Denizens,” he said in explanation. “Fallen angels.” Mulvehill returned to his seat across from his friend, sipping on his ice-filled drink as he sat down.
“And these are the guys that used to be in . . . y’know.”
He motioned with one of his hands, pointing to the ground, not wanting to say the word.
“Hell,” Remy finished for him. He found it interesting that the legends and stories of the prison realm had made it so that humanity was terrified of the place as well, even though their kind would never see it. Hell was only for those who had fallen from their servitude to Him.
“Right. They used to be in Hell, but now they’re here and they like to beat you up.”
Remy was taking a drink and laughed. “That’s right,” he said, wiping a dribble of Scotch from his chin. “They just love to kick my angel ass.”
Marlowe, who was resting by his chair, suddenly sat up at attention.
“No kick ass. Marlowe will bite them,” the Labrador said with what he intended to be a menacing growl.
Remy reached down and stroked the dog’s soft black fur. “Of course you would have. You’re the bravest animal I know.”
“Yes, Marlowe very brave,” the animal agreed.
“What’s he going on about?” Mulvehill wanted to know.
“He just wants to reassure me that he would have protected me from the bad guys that smacked me around.”
The homicide detective nodded. “Now, why were they threatening to shoot your dog again?”
Marlowe lay back down on his side with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and almost immediately drifting off to sleep.
Remy shrugged, the ice in his tumbler tinkling like the bells of Christmas.
“Do you have run-ins with these fallen guys . . . these Denizens . . . often?”
“They have a tendency to run in darker circles than I usually like to travel in, but lately I’ve found myself entering those places more often.” Remy had some more to drink.
“They’re not very nice,” he continued. “Like most organized crime families, really. They gather in groups, as if looking to find what they’d once had with their angelic hosts in Heaven, only there’s very little interest in serving God now.”
Mulvehill shook his head as he shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the complex world of the supernatural. “And you wonder why I drink so much?” he said, finishing the Scotch in his glass.
“No, not really. You’re just a drunk.”
They both had a good laugh. It had been quite some time since Remy had laughed—since he’d really laughed. It felt good, and for the briefest of moments, he had the most unusual idea that he wouldn’t be sad forever, that eventually he would be able to think about something other than how much he missed his wife.
Wouldn’t that be something, he thought, knowing that it was likely very far away, but still having a sense that it was there, somewhere beyond the horizon.
“So we’ve established that they’re bad guys and they like to do bad things as a way of flipping the bird at God,” Mulvehill said, grabbing the bottle of booze and pouring himself another. “Now do you have any idea what you did to piss these bad guys off?”
Remy shrugged again, attempting to form some kind of image from what little information he had. It was becoming more likely that Karnighan’s missing property could very well be the legendary Pitiless, and that they could have been stolen by persons of an angelic persuasion.
Smelled like you, the voice of the rottweiler Luthor echoed in his head.
He could only begin to wonder what the
Mulvehill dropped a handful of ice from the full bucket into his finger of alcohol. “Normally I don’t, but I’m fascinated by the concept of anybody smacking you around.”
Remy set his glass down on the patio table and reached inside his pocket to remove the business card.
“They were Denizens,” he said in explanation. “Fallen angels.” Mulvehill returned to his seat across from his friend, sipping on his ice-filled drink as he sat down.
“And these are the guys that used to be in . . . y’know.”
He motioned with one of his hands, pointing to the ground, not wanting to say the word.
“Hell,” Remy finished for him. He found it interesting that the legends and stories of the prison realm had made it so that humanity was terrified of the place as well, even though their kind would never see it. Hell was only for those who had fallen from their servitude to Him.
“Right. They used to be in Hell, but now they’re here and they like to beat you up.”
Remy was taking a drink and laughed. “That’s right,” he said, wiping a dribble of Scotch from his chin. “They just love to kick my angel ass.”
Marlowe, who was resting by his chair, suddenly sat up at attention.
“No kick ass. Marlowe will bite them,” the Labrador said with what he intended to be a menacing growl.
Remy reached down and stroked the dog’s soft black fur. “Of course you would have. You’re the bravest animal I know.”
“Yes, Marlowe very brave,” the animal agreed.
“What’s he going on about?” Mulvehill wanted to know.
“He just wants to reassure me that he would have protected me from the bad guys that smacked me around.”
The homicide detective nodded. “Now, why were they threatening to shoot your dog again?”
Marlowe lay back down on his side with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and almost immediately drifting off to sleep.
Remy shrugged, the ice in his tumbler tinkling like the bells of Christmas.
“Do you have run-ins with these fallen guys . . . these Denizens . . . often?”
“They have a tendency to run in darker circles than I usually like to travel in, but lately I’ve found myself entering those places more often.” Remy had some more to drink.
“They’re not very nice,” he continued. “Like most organized crime families, really. They gather in groups, as if looking to find what they’d once had with their angelic hosts in Heaven, only there’s very little interest in serving God now.”
Mulvehill shook his head as he shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the complex world of the supernatural. “And you wonder why I drink so much?” he said, finishing the Scotch in his glass.
“No, not really. You’re just a drunk.”
They both had a good laugh. It had been quite some time since Remy had laughed—since he’d really laughed. It felt good, and for the briefest of moments, he had the most unusual idea that he wouldn’t be sad forever, that eventually he would be able to think about something other than how much he missed his wife.
Wouldn’t that be something, he thought, knowing that it was likely very far away, but still having a sense that it was there, somewhere beyond the horizon.
“So we’ve established that they’re bad guys and they like to do bad things as a way of flipping the bird at God,” Mulvehill said, grabbing the bottle of booze and pouring himself another. “Now do you have any idea what you did to piss these bad guys off?”
Remy shrugged again, attempting to form some kind of image from what little information he had. It was becoming more likely that Karnighan’s missing property could very well be the legendary Pitiless, and that they could have been stolen by persons of an angelic persuasion.
Smelled like you, the voice of the rottweiler Luthor echoed in his head.
He could only begin to wonder what the
Similar Books
