A Deafening Silence In Heaven Read online

  “Remy, what should I do?” she pleaded.

  She was panicked, and he wanted to hold her, to tell her that he would be fine, but he could no longer move his arms, and now that what he truly was had been revealed, he did not want to begin another lie.

  “I . . . I’m so sorry,” he managed to squeak. “Didn’t want . . . to lie.”

  “Remy,” she cried, her tears raining down upon his face—tears that he could not feel.

  He tried to stay with her, but his eyes had grown so heavy, and he could no longer hold them open. Maybe if I close them for just a moment.

  To rest.

  Marlowe howled, his cries reverberating through the room, and Remy thought it was the saddest sound he had ever heard.

  Darkness surrounded him, but there was fire in the midst of shadow, a flame struggling to stay alight within the encroaching gloom.

  But the flame grew smaller with each passing moment until it was but a faintly glowing ember, and it could fight no more and gave in to the dark.

  Is this what it’s like to die?

  • • •

  Remy opened his eyes to look upon an eternal expanse of ocean, the color of copper and fire in the light of the sun hanging over the horizon.

  He felt a sense of calm as he realized he had been to this place before.

  “Is this it?” he asked, shifting in the beach chair so he could see the person sitting beside him, still as beautiful as she had been in life.

  Madeline stared out at the ocean, her attention unwavering.

  “Do you want it to be?” she asked.

  “I . . . ,” he began, then hesitated, letting his wife’s question reverberate through his mind, surprised that he couldn’t answer right away.

  “Did you finish?”

  He watched her as she continued her study of the ocean.

  “What do you mean?” he finally asked.

  Madeline turned her gaze to Remy, her dark sunglasses showing the twin reflections of the setting sun in their center as if they were her eyes. “Did you finish everything that you started?”

  Again, he had to think about her question, the memories of what he’d left behind already starting to fade. It would have been so easy to just say yes, but he knew he would be telling another lie.

  “I doubt it,” he said sadly.

  She nodded, smiling the way she always had, and he felt a love for her that was so great he was surprised his mortal form could contain it.

  And then he remembered another woman who had managed to capture his heart after Madeline’s devastating loss.

  “Linda,” he said quietly, fearing that speaking the name of another would somehow take away from the love he had shared with the woman sitting beside him.

  “I bet you two would have told a wonderful story,” Madeline said.

  Remy held on to the memory of Linda, refusing to let it diminish—refusing to let her go. “Yeah” was all he could say.

  “Yeah?” Madeline repeated, reaching out to let her fingertips caress his biceps.

  “Yeah,” Remy said again. “I’d like to tell that story.”

  Madeline smiled, and he knew that she was truly happy for him.

  A sudden breeze came off the ocean then, a cold sharpness to the air that made him wince as he pulled his bare legs up from the sand. Remy gazed down and saw that he was bleeding. He’d forgotten that he had been hurt.

  The sky above the ocean had grown dark, thick, roiling clouds blotting out the warmth of the sun.

  “That’s going to be a problem,” Madeline said, her fingers still gently caressing the skin of his arm, which had now gone cold.

  “It looks bad, doesn’t it?” Remy said, staring at his wound, not quite remembering exactly what had happened.

  “It’s even worse on the inside,” Madeline told him.

  “Do I have a chance?” Remy asked, a sudden despondency washing over him.

  Madeline returned her gaze to the ocean. The water was receding, exposing an ocean floor that resembled the surface of some alien world.

  “That’s not for me to say.”

  “Something’s happening,” he said, his body racked with pain as he too watched the sea pull away from the shore.

  “He’s coming.”

  There was a sound, far off in the distance, like the blast of a trumpet heralding the arrival of something great, but as Remy listened more closely he realized it was the sound of a giant wave as the ocean rushed back to meet the shore.

  The wall of water came toward them with incredible speed, and he reached out, searching for his wife’s hand, before—

  The wave froze in place as his fingers wrapped around hers.

  “What’s happening?” Remy asked, eyes fixed on the wall of bluish green water before them.

  “I told you He was coming,” she whispered as she leaned in to kiss him warmly on the lips. “Your Father.”

  The water parted like a curtain, and an old man stepped out.

  Remy gazed quickly to where his wife should have been but found that she had left him alone on the beach with a petrified ocean and an old man.

  An old man.

  Remy knew this man, dressed in His fine, dark suit. They had spoken on this very beach, not long ago, about a coming war.

  “The war,” Remy called out as he stood.

  The old man, who was so much more than that, did not look at him, instead gazing off in the distance as if seeing something that Remy was not privy to.

  “A horrible thing,” He said.

  “What are you saying?” Remy was confused. “The war hasn’t happened.”

  The wall of water crashed to the sand behind the old man in a roaring rush that sent water and foam splashing through the air. But it did not touch the man. “Yes,” He said, His gaze drifting toward Remy. “And no.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “In some instances it did happen, while in others . . .”

  Remy still wasn’t certain what He was going on about, but who was he to question his Father?

  “So many worlds,” the old man said. “I wish I could save them all.”

  “My world?” Remy asked, stepping closer. He could feel the power emanating from this being, and knew he should be on his knees with his head bowed in respect, but his concern was too great. He needed to know if his world was all right.

  The old man looked Remy up and down, the hint of a smirk playing at the wrinkled corners of His mouth. Remy took a step back.

  “A favorite,” He said. “But on the brink.”

  A nearly overwhelming sense of panic washed over Remy . . . followed by the numbness. Once again, he found it difficult to remain standing and fell to his knees. “Please,” he begged. “I need to help them.”

  The old man stared at him and Remy saw in His eyes an array of infinite possibilities.

  And as he believed his question—his plea—was about to be granted, the old man turned His attention to the sky above. The clouds had grown thinner and the stars were beginning to shine down upon them.

  “You need to see,” He said wistfully. “You need to see what it will be like if you fail.”

  “Show me,” Remy pleaded.

  “It is a sad thing,” the old man said, His voice quavering with emotion. “A tragic thing.”

  “Show me,” Remy demanded.

  The old man turned tear-filled eyes to Remy, extending a hand to gently cup the angel’s face.

  And Remy saw.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Time was standing still.

  Linda Somerset was afraid to move as she sat, cradling her injured lover in the doorway to the living room of his Beacon Hill home.

  What she had just seen—what she had just experienced—tested everything that she had always considered her reality. She was even afraid to breathe, afraid that the up and down of her chest would be enough to cause it all to break away.

  Her entire world shattering like an old mirror.

  But she had to breathe to live
. Carefully, slowly, she exhaled, eyes darting about, watching for signs that the world was about to come apart.

  And it stayed as it was.

  For the moment, at least.

  Linda took in a small, tremulous breath, not sure exactly what she expected to happen. Would there be the sound of something cracking as her world fell apart? Like a frozen lake on a late winter’s afternoon, when the sun was at its strongest.

  There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of a soft exhalation, followed by the most pathetic of whines. Linda jumped, remembering that she wasn’t alone. Marlowe lay on the floor nearby, the black Labrador’s brown, soulful eyes locked upon his master’s still body.

  Reality had remained in one piece after all.

  Linda dared to look at Remy as she cradled him in her arms. There was blood on the front of his dress shirt, the expanding stain reminding her of the violence that had erupted in her lover’s home.

  She saw the fight in staccato images burned into her memory: Remy—her wonderful, handsome Remy—fighting a pale, horrible thing that seemed to have appeared out of nothingness. The memories were as clear as if the events were unfolding before her at that very moment.

  But it was really just one particular sight that caused her to doubt her sanity.

  Made her doubt her reality.

  Maybe it had already fallen, insanity growing like some malignant vine, twisting the normal into something beyond comprehension.

  Remy had had wings—powerful, golden wings. She had seen them as clear as day in the theatre of her mind’s eye but still doubted their actuality.

  Marlowe whined again and shoved his black snout beneath Remy’s still hand, attempting to flip it so that Remy would pet him. But the hand just flopped back to the floor.

  The Lab’s sadness was palpable, and whether Linda believed in what she had just witnessed, Remy was injured, and she needed to help him.

  She let his body slide gently to the wood floor, placing her hands on his face, struggling to remain in control of her emotions. His skin was cold and turning an unhealthy shade of gray. She could feel Marlowe’s eyes watching her as she searched for signs of life.

  “He’s going to be all right,” she told the dog as she jammed her fingers beneath the collar of Remy’s shirt, desperate to find a pulse. “Don’t do this to me,” she said aloud, panic creeping in as she felt none. “Don’t you dare!”

  She’d had to take CPR classes when working as a waitress at Piazza and tried to remember what she’d been taught. She placed the heels of her hands, one atop the other, on the center of Remy’s chest and began compressions.

  Marlowe paced around her, vocalizing his concern.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” she said, breathlessly, still pumping. “We’re going to bring him back to us.”

  She stopped for a moment and checked again for a pulse. Still finding none, she reached into her back pocket for her phone to call 911—and found it empty.

  “Fuck!” she screamed in frustration, turning toward the living room, where she had landed when Remy had thrown her inside. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on a small pile of crushed bone smoldering in a patch of sunlight that managed to creep from beneath the pulled shades. She thought of the pale-skinned attacker and the weapon he’d wielded. She remembered the feel of it shattering beneath her foot as she stomped down upon it.

  It was real.

  She recalled the ferocity of the battle, Remy holding on to his foe as his hands began to burn. And there was the black, oily stain where the pale man had died, eaten alive by the fire that had come from her lover’s hands.

  It was real.

  Linda was suddenly dizzy, but the sound of Marlowe’s whines as he licked Remy’s ashen face spurred her on. She caught sight of the phone and lunged across the floor, snatching it up.

  Just as Marlowe erupted. The dog stood over Remy, staring beyond the open door to the foyer, barking furiously, black hackles raised the length of his back and tail standing out stiffly from his body.

  As if yet another threat was about to present itself.

  • • •

  Francis was in the basement apartment of the Newbury Street brownstone that he owned, trying to drown his anxieties in a tumbler of scotch and Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West. But he hadn’t even made it to the introduction of Henry Fonda’s reptilian villain, Frank, before being forced to switch the Blu-ray player off.

  He couldn’t banish the look from his mind—the expression of utter disappointment on Remy Chandler’s face.

  He’d tried to explain his actions to his friend, why he had joined with Heaven’s angel elite to execute the offspring of Nephilim whores and archangel soldiers.

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Francis had said. “Part of the deal I made. He says, ‘Jump,’ and I ask how high.”

  “And exactly how high can you jump, Francis?” Remy had retorted, wearing the look that now haunted Francis’ memory.

  It wasn’t as if he had never disappointed Remy before; the former Guardian angel’s penchant for violence had often been a bone of contention between the two friends.

  But this time it was different. This time, Francis might have gone too far. He considered just leaving Remy alone, giving him a chance to work through his anger, and maybe in time, they would talk things through.

  But the look in his friend’s eyes had hurt so much more than harsh words or a knife to the kidney. This was something that Remy wouldn’t let go; this was something that had altered their relationship forever.

  Even though Francis was sure Remy had already put two and two together. How else could Francis have survived being trapped in a re-forming Hell, if the Morningstar hadn’t saved him?

  And for that save, Francis owed the former right hand of God and failed conqueror of Heaven. Where had the Almighty and all His angelic legions been as Francis lay dying upon a transforming, hellish landscape? Nowhere. It had been Lucifer who had found him—saved him—lifted him up and made him whole again.

  What fucking choice had he had but to once again swear his allegiance to the Son of the Morning?

  He’d known how it would go over with Remy, so he’d kept his mouth shut. There was no easy way he could ever have explained himself.

  Dude, yeah, not sure if I mentioned this, but Lucifer is my new boss. Let me tell you about his kick-ass benefits package.

  He could see that going over like a fart in an iron lung.

  But Francis couldn’t leave it alone, couldn’t let what he had with the former Seraphim wither and die. As much as it killed him to admit it, their relationship meant something to Francis.

  And that was why he had to talk to his friend now, whether Remy wanted to hear it or not. Francis was going to come clean about everything that had gone on and was going on.

  Francis hoped it would be enough to get him back in Remy’s good graces, but one never knew when dealing with the former soldier of Heaven–turned–private investigator. He could be a little prickly sometimes.

  Francis would just have to wait and see.

  Wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible, the fallen Guardian angel stood and began to use one of the gifts that Lucifer had bestowed upon him—the ability to walk between realities, to go from here to there in a matter of seconds, even though his wings had long ago been taken from him. He thought of the foyer in Remy’s Pinckney Street brownstone and stepped through the rip in the fabric of time as it opened before him.

  Francis sensed it immediately; something bad had transpired in his friend’s home, and not too long before his arrival, by the feel of it. Instinctively he reached for the Colt pistol inside his suit coat pocket.

  A dog was barking ferociously nearby, and Francis recognized it as Remy’s dog, Marlowe. One didn’t need to be able to speak the language of beasts to know that the dog was upset.

  The heavy wooden door into the hallway was wide-open, so Francis began to move toward the sound of the frantic animal, gun cocked and ready to
fire. The atmosphere grew even more tainted, a negative energy electrifying the air, telling him that whatever had happened was bad.

  Really bad.

  But nothing could have prepared him for what he saw as he turned toward the living room.

  “What the fuck?” he said aloud, bearing witness to his best friend lying on the floor, dog tensed protectively over him, and a woman, cell phone caught midway to her ear.

  “Oh my God,” cried the woman, whom Francis suddenly realized was Linda, the waitress from Piazza. “Are you the police?”

  Ignoring her question, Francis dropped to his knees beside his downed friend, the pistol disappearing back inside his jacket. Marlowe growled as Francis reached to check Remy’s vitals.

  “It’s all right, pal,” Francis said, and the growl turned to a pathetic whine.

  “I’m calling nine-one-one . . . ,” Linda began.

  “Put the fucking phone away,” Francis snapped at her, and she recoiled as if slapped. He pressed his hand against Remy’s throat. The coldness of the flesh beneath his fingertips and the widening stain on the front of Remy’s shirt told him all that he needed to know.

  “Give me the abridged version,” Francis barked, ripping open his friend’s shirt, sending buttons in every direction.

  “He was attacked. . . . We were attacked . . . ,” Linda stammered.

  “By who?” Francis asked, eyes upon the strange injuries.

  “It was some sort of . . . thing,” she said, trying to find more words but failing miserably.

  Francis looked up at her and followed her gaze to a pile of what appeared to be bones smoldering on a greasy stain in the corner. “Is this it?” He sprang up from Remy’s side toward the bone pile. “Is this what’s left of the thing that attacked you? Did Remy do this?” he asked as he knelt before the remains.

  “Yes.” Linda nodded furiously. “He did that before . . .”

  There wasn’t much time. Francis reached for what was left of the creature’s skull. There were still bits of skin attached, and he hoped that there might be enough inside its brainpan to read.

  From inside his coat, Francis removed a knife with a blade so thin it looked as though it might be able to cut between molecules. Linda was watching him, wide-eyed, and he wondered if he was going to lose her as he positioned the blade above the skull and brought it down with great force, puncturing the skull, like a straw into a juice box.