A Hundred Words for Hate rc-4, Page 2

  “What do you know?” Remy asked.

  “Know lot,” Marlowe responded indignantly.

  “You think?” Remy reached up to tighten the knot on the blueand-red silk tie. “Worn a lot of ties, have you?”

  Marlowe remained silent, watching his master.

  Remy laughed as he turned from the mirror to face the dog on the bed.

  “Honestly, do I look all right?”

  The dog just stared, droplets of drool leaking from his loosely hanging jowls and staining the bedspread.

  “Your silence speaks volumes.” Remy moved to the bed to ruffle the black dog’s velvety soft ears and kiss the top of his hard, blocky head. “I’ve got to get going,” he said, feeling a lead ball form heavily in the pit of his stomach.

  He turned to leave the bedroom, and heard the familiar thud as the dog leapt to the floor to follow.

  “Out?” Marlowe asked, looking up from Remy’s side.

  “I am, but you’re not,” Remy told the animal as they started down the stairs.

  He’d been dreading this night since he’d planned it a little more than a week ago. Every day since he’d tortured himself with the question of why he had done it, swearing he would cancel.

  But he never did, and now it was too late.

  “Why?” Marlowe asked, having already forgotten what they’d discussed earlier in the day.

  “Because I have to go someplace where they don’t allow dogs,” Remy explained, going to the hallway closet for his heavy jacket. “I know it’s hard to believe that there are actually places in this city that won’t welcome your smiling face, but it’s true.”

  The dog plopped heavily onto the living room carpet just inside the doorway.

  “Work?” he asked, tilting his triangular head quizzically.

  “I wish it was,” Remy answered with a sigh, slipping into the leather coat. “But no.”

  He’d debated for weeks and then made the call in a moment of weakness. He’d finished watching Streisand and Redford in The Way We Were, and blamed the film for lowering his resistance.

  Remy went to the kitchen, took a Red Delicious apple from the bowl on the counter, and cut it into pieces.

  “This should hold you until I get back,” he told the black dog, as he returned to the living room and dropped the pile of chopped apple on the rug in front of him. “I shouldn’t be too late.”

  The dog didn’t seem to notice him anymore, scarfing down the apple as if he hadn’t been fed in days.

  Remy said good-bye again, and left the house.

  The Seraphim nature stirred within as it sensed his anxiety.

  If only the current situation could be resolved by unleashing the heavenly might of his angelic essence, it would be one of the few times he wouldn’t regret the loss of control.

  But this wasn’t the time for an angel’s rage, for beating wings and flaming swords.

  It was freezing outside—typical January weather for Boston, but Remy paid the harsh temperatures no mind. He had other things to think about as he walked to his car and drove the few blocks to Boylston Street.

  Everybody had told him he was doing the right thing . . . well, everybody meaning Steven Mulvehill, homicide cop and Remy’s closest human friend.

  Madeline had been Remy’s anchor in this human world, and so much more, but it was nearly a year since her death now, and he’d had no one in his life since. Mulvehill argued that this was causing his friend to disconnect from the humanity Remy had worked so hard to create.

  Remy’s true nature surged with the thought. He was, after all, a creature of Heaven . . . a warrior angel . . . a Seraphim . . . but Remiel—as he had once been called—had grown tired of the fighting, and the war, and the death, and he had left the Kingdom of God, heading to the world of man to find an easier life.

  A happier life.

  A human life.

  And after a few thousand years, give or take, Remiel had found just that as he made the Earth his home. He’d chosen the name Remy Chandler, and started his work as a private investigator, and suddenly it had all fallen into place.

  That was when a beautiful woman had applied for a job as his office secretary, and suddenly he wasn’t pretending to be human anymore.

  He was human.

  The love of her—of Madeline—had transformed him into so much more than what he had been.

  He wished more than anything that their love could have gone on forever, but the Lord God had seen fit to make His most favored creations mortal; a very sad flaw in the Creator’s design, Remy believed.

  So Madeline was gone now, taken by cancer and age, and he was left alone to grieve for his beautiful wife, and his slowly faltering humanity.

  It had been so much easier being a thing of Heaven, serving the Almighty with nary a question. And the business of being human? That was truly a chore, but despite the confusion and pain, it was something Remy was desperate to hold on to.

  That was what brought him out here on this cold January night. It was all about his need to connect again. To find that special thing . . . that special someone to tie him to the world of man, and keep his eyes from straying to the heavens.

  The power inside him would return to its master in an instant, but Remiel . . . Remy had seen far too much as a soldier of God and preferred the grimy city streets of Earth to the golden spires of Heaven.

  Remy handed off his keys to the valet in front of Mistral and headed toward the restaurant. As he reached for the brass handle on the door, he felt as if the world were dropping away from beneath his feet, and he tried to recall whether he had felt this anxious when stepping through the passage to the Hell prison of Tartarus.

  He didn’t think so.

  He took a deep breath and stepped into the lobby, unzipping his leather jacket as he scanned the dining room.

  “Hi, may I help you?” asked an attractive woman with long blond hair and a radiant smile.

  Remy returned the smile. “I have a reservation for Chandler,” he said, not seeing his date.

  The woman studied the open book on the podium. “Yes, sir, seven fifteen, for two,” she said, looking up at him. “The other member of your party hasn’t checked in yet. If you’d like to wait in the bar, and I’ll call you as soon as . . .”

  Remy felt a blast of January air as the door opened behind him, and he turned to face it.

  Linda Somerset stood in the entryway.

  Her cheeks were a rosy pink, and there seemed to be a touch of panic in her gaze as she looked past him to the restaurant beyond. She pulled the floppy woolen hat from her head and combed her shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair with her fingers.

  Remy couldn’t help but smile as her gaze turned to him and recognition dawned on her pretty face.

  Linda laughed, reaching out to grab hold of his arm. It was a nice sound, and she had quite a grip.

  “I didn’t even notice you,” she said, her eyes never leaving his. “I was afraid I was late.”

  “No worries,” Remy said. “I just got here myself.”

  The manic look he’d seen when the woman had first entered started to recede, and he found himself suddenly feeling more comfortable as well.

  What’s that all about? he wondered, staring at Linda. Mere seconds ago he was ready to jump out of his skin, now . . .

  She was the first to break their gaze, reaching into her coat pocket for a wrinkled Kleenex. “I’m sorry,” she said, laughing again as she brought the tissue to her nose. “My nose runs like crazy when it’s cold. I don’t want to embarrass myself any more than I have to.”

  She looked self-conscious, turning away from him as she wiped beneath her nose and quickly put the Kleenex away.

  “There, perfect,” she said with an exaggerated eye roll.

  “Perfect,” Remy agreed. “Shall we head in?”

  Linda nodded.

  “May I take your coats?” the hostess asked as she stepped from behind the podium.

  Remy helped Linda off with hers,
then took his own off and gave both to the woman. They waited as the hostess hung them in a closet behind the podium, then returned, picking up two leather-bound menus.

  “This way,” she said, holding the menus to her chest.

  Remy gestured for Linda to go first, and followed close behind.

  This is it, he thought.

  Once more into the breach.

  Hell

  The floor of the underworld bucked and heaved like a succubus coming down from a weekend of gorging at the all-you-can-eat soul buffet.

  Didn’t even have the common courtesy to wait until I died, the Guardian angel once of the angelic host Virtues thought as his injured form was thrown about the shifting landscape.

  Fraciel—now called Francis—held on to his fleeing consciousness, staving off inevitable death, in order to bear witness to what was happening in the realm of Hell.

  Lying upon his back, the ground beneath him moving like the Magic Fingers beds at the no-tell motel out on Route 114, he lifted his head to see the ice prison of Tartarus—that most horrible of places, created by God to imprison those who had taken up arms with the Morningstar—crumble and fall, disintegrating before his very eyes.

  There’s something you don’t see every day, he thought in a painfilled haze, watching as gigantic hunks of glacial ice cascaded toward the surface of Hell, only to stop midway and float inexplicably weightless through the debris and ash-choked air. Pieces of Tartarus, like an asteroid field above the quake-ravaged surface, gradually dissolved into a thick cloud of swirling matter.

  Hell was coming apart at the seams, and Francis had a front-row seat.

  After centuries of servitude, he had been given the job as Guardian of one of the many gates—passages—from the world of man to the Hell realm and the prison of Tartarus. It had been his way of making amends with the Almighty for temporarily siding with the Morningstar. And he had served his God well, helping those fallen angels released from their time in the icy prison to prepare for the remainder of the penance they would do on Earth.

  He’d also shown some initiative, and managed to maintain a lucrative business as a professional assassin. Very selective in those he killed, Francis had eliminated only the worst of the bad. It had been the one saving grace in his exile upon the planet of man—that and his friendship with the Seraphim Remiel.

  Known now as Remy Chandler.

  The remains of Tartarus swirled in the air, a maelstrom of ice, dust, dirt, and rock.

  And the storm was growing.

  Francis lay upon the trembling ground watching in awe. He knew that was where Remy had been going when last he saw him, and wondered if the Seraphim had anything to do with the cataclysm that threatened the Hell realm.

  Of course he did.

  The ground beneath his back grew incredibly hot, but Francis didn’t have the strength to move. He was thankful Hell decided to do this for him.

  There was an explosion of foul-smelling gas, the force of the blast propelling him up into the air, only to land on his belly at the edge of an expanding pool of lava.

  Francis barely managed to hold on to consciousness, the sucking darkness of oblivion pulling him slowly closer. He tried to pull himself away from the burning fluid, but managed only to turn onto his back, where he could once again look up into the rubble-filled sky.

  Pieces of Hell and Tartarus had mingled together, a growing, swirling vortex of all the misery, hate, and sorrow that defined this horrible place created by a supposedly loving God.

  It wouldn’t be long until Francis too joined the maelstrom, sucked up with everything else into the yawning maw of the voracious funnel cloud.

  What did you do, Remy? Francis wondered as he felt the first, burning touch of liquid rock on his battered flesh. What did you find inside the prison that could have led to . . . this?

  And as if some higher power had heard his question and, knowing that he would soon no longer be among the living, took pity upon him, showing him the answer.

  The vortex spun above him, opening wider and wider. And inside its mouth, floating in the dust-, dirt-, and ash-choked air, untouched by the madness of what was happening around him, floated a figure.

  The figure . . . he was like the sun, repelling the darkness with a golden light that emanated from his perfect form.

  Francis remembered this being, and how he had once stood alongside the Almighty.

  The answer to his question hovered in the center of the storm.

  The Morningstar had risen.

  And Francis knew that nothing would ever be the fucking same again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “So, what’s your story, Remy Chandler?”

  Linda Somerset’s voice echoed inside Remy’s head as he drove past the Museum of Science on his way to Somerville, where he’d promised to meet Steven Mulvehill for a nightcap.

  The date had gone well—nothing spectacular, but good. There were no fireworks or wedding plans or joint checking accounts in the foreseeable future, but the night had been okay. There’d been lots of small talk, conversation establishing a comfort zone for the two of them. Normally, Remy would have been bored to tears, but from Linda, it was like opening the window on a gorgeous spring day after a particularly harrowing winter.

  And it had been a harrowing winter.

  “So, what’s your story, Remy Chandler?”

  He heard her ask the question again. She had just finished talking about everything from her fear of spiders and her love for Japanese monster movies to her failed marriage and how it had taken her a very long time to get her head straight again.

  She had paused, brought her second merlot to her lips, and asked him over the rim of her glass:

  “So, what’s your story, Remy Chandler?”

  And strangely enough, he had told her. Not everything, of course, just the things that wouldn’t make her run screaming into the night. No, there’d be plenty of time for that business on the second date.

  The second date.

  The thought troubled him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want another; he’d had a pretty good time with Linda, but he just couldn’t shake the guilt.

  He felt as if he were cheating: cheating on the memory of Madeline.

  Remy parked his car at a meter across from the Bowman. The usual barflies were hanging out in front of the neighborhood tavern, smoking their cigarettes, even though the windchill had to be well below zero. The cigarette smoke mixed with the exhalation from their lungs formed thick clouds of white that billowed in the air before them.

  Remy passed through the cloud bank and pulled open the heavy wooden door to a blast of warm air that stank of stale beer and age. He looked around and found Mulvehill hunched over the bar, contemplating the secrets of the universe in a Scotch on the rocks.

  “Should you be drinking that now?” Remy asked as he joined his friend, removing his heavy leather jacket and placing it over the top of a high-backed stool. “Isn’t it a school night?”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” the homicide detective said, gesturing for the bartender. “What do you want?”

  “I’ll have whatever he has,” Remy told the proprietor as he took a seat beside Mulvehill.

  “So?” Mulvehill asked, taking a careful sip of his drink, barely disturbing the ice.

  “So what?” Remy replied, knowing full well what his friend was getting at.

  “Didn’t you have plans tonight?” Mulvehill said with a smirk.

  The bartender returned with another Scotch on the rocks and placed it on a napkin in front of Remy. “Thanks.” Remy nodded as he picked up the drink and took a long sip of the golden liquid.

  “Maybe,” he said to Mulvehill as he smacked his lips and set the glass back on the napkin.

  Mulvehill laughed. “Asshole,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

  “I know assholes,” Mulvehill said, pointing to himself as he stifled a laugh. “And you’re exceptional.”
>
  Remy lifted his drink in a toast to his friend. “Why, thank you, sir,” he said. “I have at last achieved greatness.”

  Mulvehill picked up his own drink in response and they both drank, silently savoring the alcohol and the friendship they shared.

  “So, did she show?” the detective asked, finally breaking the silence.

  “She actually did,” Remy answered, staring straight ahead at the elaborate assortment of liquor bottles behind the bar. “Imagine that.”

  “Imagine.” Mulvehill nodded. “How’d it go?”

  “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” Remy turned his gaze to his friend with a smile.

  Mulvehill cringed in mock horror. “Ouch,” he said, screwing up his face in an expression of pain. “Sorry, dude.”

  Remy laughed. “No, it was fine,” he said. “Nice, actually.”

  “Nice?” Mulvehill asked. “What, did you go out with my mother?”

  “No, that would have been hot.” Remy wiggled his eyebrows for effect.

  “Now you’re just getting gross,” Mulvehill said with a disgusted look.

  Remy took another sip of Scotch. “Really, we did have a nice time.”

  Mulvehill watched him carefully. “Really? A nice time? The sky didn’t open up and rain toads or anything?”

  Remy shook his head. “Nope, it was a nice time.” He could still feel the guilt inside, squirming around, keeping company with the essence of the Seraphim, and he hoped his friend wouldn’t notice.

  “Then why does your face look like that?” Mulvehill asked, turning on his bar stool to study Remy.

  “Like what?” Remy asked, feigning innocence. He leaned over the bar to get a better look at himself in the mirror behind the liquor bottles. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing wrong. I went on a date, we had a nice time, and that’s it. Nothing more.”

  “You’re so full of shit you stink,” Mulvehill growled. “I’m going to need another one of these just to talk with you.” He gestured for the bartender.

  “I might as well too,” Remy said, lifting his glass toward the bartender.

  “So if you had such a nice time, why do you look like you ate a bad piece of fish?” Mulvehill pressed.