Walking In the Midst of Fire: A Remy Chandler Novel, Page 2

  “You seem surprised.” Linda laughed.

  “Guess I just didn’t know what to expect,” he said as he took another bite.

  “Kinda like how it was with me.” She winked at him over her slice of pizza.

  Remy smiled warmly, feeling her hold upon him growing even stronger. “I got more than I bargained for with you,” he said, swirling his drink in the glass, the melting ice cubes tinkling like wind chimes.

  “And is that more in a good way or more in a bad way?” she asked, with a lovely tilt of her head.

  He suddenly thought of Madeline. She was the love of his life and always would be. But there was definitely something about this woman sitting across the table from him, this Linda Somerset, that made Remy happy he hadn’t abandoned his human visage when Maddy had passed away.

  “I think you already know the answer to that,” he told Linda as he helped himself to another piece of the flatbread.

  “I know what I think,” she said, once again helping herself to the last piece. “But I’m not sure you’d agree.”

  Linda kept her eyes on him as she took a large bite of the bread.

  As an angel of the host Seraphim, Remy Chandler had fought for Heaven against the forces of Lucifer Morningstar. What he had seen, and done, during the Great War had soured him to the ways of Heaven, and so he had sought refuge on the world of the Almighty’s most cherished creations. Remy, then Remiel, had come to the Earth to lose himself, crafting a human persona of his very own, suppressing his true angelic nature.

  After thousands of years, it was Madeline who had solidified his mask of humanity, and made it something so much more. Her love for him had made him human, and now she was gone. The fabric of his humanity had begun to fray, and he’d had little hope that it would last—until he’d met Linda Somerset. Remy was beginning to believe that there just might be some hope for him after all.

  “I knew you were trouble the minute I saw you,” he said, looking at her, taking in the sight of her.

  “So, is that good trouble or—,” she started to ask, holding back her laughter as he interrupted.

  “Knock it off. You’re the best kind of trouble I know.” He reached across the table to take her hand in his.

  He’d been fighting his feelings for her since he’d met her, that annoying voice in the back of his brain reminding him how devastatingly painful it was to lose such love.

  And no matter how human Remy believed he was, he faced a harsh reality. He was immortal: destined to watch anything he came to love wither and pass from life, always leaving him alone.

  “Suddenly so serious, Mr. Chandler,” she said, and he could see the beginnings of concern in her eyes. “Is everything all right?”

  He smiled, but didn’t release her hand. It felt good in his, and he wanted to keep it there for a little while longer. “Everything’s fine,” he said. “No worries.”

  But he was worried. Things had been getting progressively worse since the Apocalypse had been so narrowly averted just a couple of short years ago.

  Remy remembered the prophetic dream he’d had just after the Hermes Building incident, when he’d spoken with a very familiar old man on a Cape Cod beach about a coming war.

  Linda looked at him as if trying to see more than what he was willing to show her. “Okay, so why do you look the opposite?”

  Jessica brought them their entrees—braised short ribs for Linda, a filet mignon with lobster for him; she then left to refill their drink order—another glass of Cabernet for her and a whiskey and ginger for him.

  Linda continued to watch him. “Hello?” she asked.

  Remy picked up the steak knife from the corner of his plate. “I’ve just been feeling a little bit guilty,” he said with a shrug as he cut into his steak. It was so tender, he could have sliced it with his fork.

  “Guilty about what?” Linda asked, tasting a bit of her own meal.

  “I don’t think I’ve been such a great boyfriend lately,” he said, placing the meat in his mouth and chewing. It tasted as good as it looked.

  Linda laughed out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” Remy asked.

  “You said you’re my boyfriend.”

  “Yeah? And that’s funny because . . . ?”

  “You’ve never said it before,” Linda answered, looking down at her plate and suppressing a smile. “I liked hearing you say it.”

  She turned her dark eyes up to him, and he just about melted.

  He used to feel a nasty twinge of guilt when she looked at him like that, as if he was somehow cheating on the memory of his departed Madeline.

  But Remy had come to an understanding with these feelings, an understanding that this was just another aspect of being human: that it was nearly impossible to stop loving, for without love, there really wasn’t much of a point.

  Especially for him.

  Without love he would be forced to return to what he really was; a warrior with the blood of his brothers on his hands, an angel that had lost faith in Heaven and its Creator.

  Remy needed to love, and needed the love of another to truly live.

  And really, wasn’t that the truth for just about everyone?

  “I would like to think of myself more as your Lambykins, or Snugglebunny,” he said without cracking a smile as he stabbed a piece of beef and lobster with the end of his fork and popped it into his mouth.

  “Interesting. I was thinking more along the lines of Honeybunny,” Linda said slyly, scrutinizing him with a careful eye from across the table. “Yeah, you’re most definitely a Honeybunny.”

  Sarah, who was tending bar at Loco that night, brought them their new drinks just in time.

  “Honeybunny it is,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast.

  “To Honeybunny,” Linda replied, picking up her wineglass.

  They each had a drink to consummate the toast, playfulness twinkling in their eyes.

  “So I’m just Girlfriend, then?” she asked.

  “You seemed to like it a little while ago,” he replied.

  “Yeah, Girlfriend is good, but it doesn’t have the same oomph as Honeybunny.”

  “True,” Remy agreed. “Maybe we should give you a more tantalizing moniker.”

  “Moniker?” she repeated, starting to laugh. “Who the hell uses the word moniker? What are you, like a hundred and fifty years old?”

  If you only knew, he thought, feeling another twinge, not over falling in love, but because he was unable to share the truth of himself with her.

  It just wasn’t the proper time. Things were still young, fresh, and the burden of his reality would surely kill what they were currently sharing.

  Some other time, perhaps.

  “Give me a break,” he said with a chuckle. “I have a word-of-the-day calendar on my desk.”

  That made her laugh again and he absorbed the sound, relishing how good it made him feel.

  “Maybe I should just call you Jerk-Woman,” he said, feigning indignation.

  “Oh really? Jerk-Woman?” she asked, pretending that she was offended, but not able to hide her smile.

  “I’m just going to sit here and finish my dinner and think of all the other fabulous words from my calendar that I still haven’t had the opportunity to use,” he said as he made a show of dismissing her.

  Linda reached across the table, taking his hand in hers and giving it a powerful squeeze.

  “Your girlfriend is perfectly fine by me,” she said as he looked up into her smiling face, feeling his heartbeat grow faster as the blood rushed through his veins.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t too thrilled with Jerk-Woman,” he said, watching as she brought her wineglass up to her mouth.

  “Oh good,” she said, just before taking a drink. “Wouldn’t care for that moniker,” she teased, wrinkling her nose with distaste.

  “I was thinking about one of the classics, like the Old Ball and Chain.”

  The words had barely left his mouth when she started to laugh while in m
idsip.

  Remy knew right then how impossibly special she was, still sexy as hell even with wine coming out of her nose.

  Jericho

  26 AD

  Simeon soon learned that no matter how hard he tried, the bliss of death was now denied him. Driven nearly insane by the Nazarene’s actions, the resurrected man wandered, searching for a way to return to the bosom of God.

  His body still bore the effects of the time he had spent rotting in the grave, his seeping flesh a home for insects, muscles pulled away from bone. He was a monstrosity, feared and reviled wherever his travels took him, and his hate of life grew, even as his body healed, for he remembered what had been taken from him.

  And a hate of God, and all that He was, blossomed, as well.

  It was in the place called the Skull, a place named Golgotha, that Simeon finally came to understand his purpose for being in this world. The Nazarene, now an adult, had been arrested and tried for his crimes. He had been sentenced to die, crucified between two common thieves. From the crowd Simeon watched the King of the Jews suffer, reveling in the fact that the one who had snatched him from death was suffering as he himself had.

  “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” the Nazarene cried out as he hung upon the cross, and Simeon took great pleasure in seeing that the Almighty seemed to ignore this man, as well, this man who called Him father.

  Simeon wanted to go to him, to stand beneath the slowly dying man and ask him to take back his gift of life, that perhaps the Lord of Lords would look kindly upon this act, and allow him release, as well.

  And just as he was about to force himself through the lingering crowd, the skies grew gray, then black, and the ground beneath his feet began to move as if alive.

  “It is finished,” the one called Jesus cried out from the cross.

  Sensing that his opportunity was fleeting, Simeon pushed against the mass of people, some weeping for their assumed savior, others waiting eagerly for his death.

  “Nazarene!” Simeon cried out, finally breaking through the throng.

  A Roman soldier stepped forward and struck him across the temple with the butt of his sword, sending Simeon to the ground, fighting to remain conscious.

  And it was then that he heard the last words of the one who had taken away perhaps his only chance at regaining the rapture he had briefly known.

  “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

  And it was done. Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews, was dead.

  Simeon looked upon the face of his tormentor through the blood that dripped from the wound on his head, and saw the peace of death.

  And he knew then and there that if he was to be denied that bliss, he would do everything in his power to see that it was denied to all.

  He would take away their Heaven.

  • • •

  The evening had been next to perfect, and Remy did everything he could to hold on to the satisfying feeling of contentment he was experiencing. As they drove back to Boston, Linda Somerset snuggled close to him in the front seat of his Toyota, her head resting upon his shoulder as the new Brandi Carlile CD played on the stereo.

  But when he drove, his thoughts tended to wander, and that very seldom lent itself to anything good. He found himself thinking of the dream he’d experienced, the one where he talked with the Almighty in the form of an old man, who Remy had once imagined was the personification of a perfect, human existence. Everything that he had wanted and would ever want for himself.

  “I need your help, Remy,” God had said in the dream, his bare feet awash in the coming tide. “The Kingdom of Heaven needs your help.”

  Remy reached for the radio, turning up the volume in the hope that Brandi’s gorgeous voice would drown out the memory of the words and what God had asked of him.

  “There is a war coming, Remy Chandler,” the old man had told him. “And I need you to stop it.”

  No pressure.

  “It was a nice night,” Linda said groggily, as Brandi sang.

  “Yeah, it was,” Remy answered, grateful for the distraction.

  He put his arm around her and pulled her closer.

  “You know it doesn’t really bother me,” she said.

  “What doesn’t?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “When you’re gone . . . for work and stuff,” she explained. “It doesn’t bother me ’cause I know that’s your job . . . and I know you’ll be back.”

  Remy pulled her even tighter to him. “That’s good to know.”

  “And if you don’t come back I get to keep your dog.”

  He laughed, happy that she and Marlowe had become so close. Remy wouldn’t have had a clue as to what to do if the black Labrador hadn’t liked Linda, but that was something he would never have to concern himself with. The dog had been pretty much smitten the first time he’d laid eyes on her.

  “Don’t let him find out about that,” Remy said. “He’ll try to figure out a way to keep me out of Boston indefinitely.”

  She laughed, rubbing her cheek against his chest. “Aw, Marlowe loves you more than he’s letting on.”

  “Oh yeah? How can you tell?”

  “He told me,” she said.

  “Really,” Remy said bemusedly. “He talks to you now?”

  “I can understand him,” Linda said. “We chat all the time about stuff.”

  Remy found the conversation particularly amusing since he actually did have the gift of language. He was able to speak the languages and understand the tongues of all life upon the planet, including Labrador retrievers.

  “You talk about stuff,” Remy repeated.

  “We do,” Linda answered. “All kinds of stuff.”

  “I’m sure it’s very interesting,” he said.

  “You’d be surprised,” she answered.

  The search for the ever-elusive parking space on Beacon Hill went as poorly as it usually did, forcing him to put his car on Cambridge Street, which meant that they had to endure the hike up Anderson Street to his home on Pinckney.

  By the time they reached Revere Street, Linda was hanging all over him, jokingly telling him that she wasn’t able to go any farther and that he was going to have to carry her. He joked about leaving her there and going for help, which got them both laughing and holding each other close. And that just led to kissing.

  At this rate they’d never get to the house, and the neighbors would be calling the cops for the indecent public display of affection.

  “We should probably take this inside,” Remy said, looking deep into her eyes.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she answered, reaching up to touch his face, her fingernails on the roughness of his five-o’clock shadow sending currents of electricity down his neck and into his spine.

  She suddenly didn’t have any problem climbing the remainder of the hill, urging him to follow with a seductive wag of her finger.

  Remy pushed himself the rest of the way, catching up to her at the top of the street, and grabbing her around the waist. He was about to kiss her again, when he saw that they weren’t alone.

  Steven Mulvehill sat on the front steps of Remy’s brownstone, legs splayed out onto the sidewalk.

  “Hey,” the Boston homicide cop said as he casually looked up from his phone. Steven was one of the few people who Remy truly called friend, even though that relationship had been going through some difficulties of late.

  “Hey back,” Remy said.

  Steven had gotten a little too close to the secret world that Remy navigated, and had almost paid a deadly price. The friends hadn’t really spoken since.

  “I was hoping I’d catch you,” Steven said. “Didn’t realize that you’d have company.” He reached down and picked up the paper bag at his feet. “We can do this another time. I’m Steven by the way,” he said to Linda, sticking out his hand as he stood. “You must be Linda.”

  “Yeah.” She gave him a spectacular smile and took his hand. “Yeah, I am. It’s really nic
e to finally meet you.”

  Steven’s own smile slowly waned as he returned his attention to Remy. “Give me a call. I know I’ve been out of touch, but I’m back now. We need to talk.”

  Remy was about to reply, when Linda beat him to the punch.

  “Hey, you know, I’ve got to get up early tomorrow,” she said, her eyes darting to Steven and then to Remy. “I was planning on going right to bed. Why don’t you stick around, Steven?”

  Linda looked at Remy. He saw what she was doing, and loved her all the more for it.

  “Why not,” Remy agreed.

  She smiled briefly at him, and then turned it to Steven. “Promise you won’t keep him up all night.” Her eyes dropped to the paper bag in his hand. “Or that you won’t get him too drunk.”

  “Promise,” Steven said, holding up his hand in a Boy Scout salute. “I know what a sloppy drunk he can be and I wouldn’t want to subject a sweet thing like yourself to his shenanigans.”

  Linda laughed out loud.

  “Shenanigans?” she repeated. “Who uses these words? Let me guess, you have a word-of-the-day desk calendar, too.”

  “He gave it to me for Christmas,” Steven said with a completely straight face, pointing at Remy. “Why?”

  • • •

  The silence on the roof of Remy’s brownstone was practically palpable.

  He and Steven had grabbed some glasses and filled a bucket full of ice in the kitchen before heading up to the rooftop deck. Marlowe had been ecstatic to see his friend Steven and had insisted on joining them. He now lay beside Steven’s chair, looking up at him lovingly, tail wagging.

  “How ya been?” Steven finally asked, breaking the silence, reaching down with his free hand to pet the black dog’s blocky head.

  “Are you asking me or the dog?”

  “Both,” Steven said. He brought his tumbler of Glenlivet 18 to his mouth and carefully sipped at the scotch.

  “I’m doing all right,” Remy said, having some scotch of his own. “How are you doing, Marlowe? Steven wants to know.”

  “I love Steven,” Marlowe said, tail thumping excitedly upon the rooftop. “Miss him.”

  “Well?” Steven asked.

  “He says he’s good,” Remy said, not bothering to share the extent of the dog’s emotions. “He said he missed you.”