A hostess tried to seat an older couple where Remy and Francis were sitting, but the woman insisted on another table. Big surprise.

“What was the name of that guy you asked me about?” Francis asked, changing the topic.

“Alfred Karnighan,” Remy said, happy to oblige.

“Karnighan,” Francis repeated. “I think I had some dealings with him a few years back at a private auction. He’s a collector. Both of us had our eyes on an especially sweet medieval battle-axe, if I’m not mistaken. What’s up with him?”

“Got a phone call from him yesterday,” Remy explained. “Says he wants to hire me. I don’t know the specifics yet, but it involves stolen property. I’m meeting with him tomorrow morning.”

Francis nodded his approval.

“So that’s it? He’s a collector. Anything more you can tell me?”

“Nothing more to say, really,” Francis said with a shrug. “The guy deals in rare antiquities, with a special appreciation for weapons. You can see how we would’ve crossed paths.”

Remy could, ancient weaponry one of the only things the former Guardian angel actually seemed to take enjoyment from. That and Jeopardy; the fallen angel loved Jeopardy.

“The guy’s got bucks,” Francis stated. “If I were you, I’d charge him double.” And then he was out of his seat.

“What’s up?” Remy asked.

“Looking after my charge.”

Francis moved past him to a table where a less-than-pleasant man was giving Linda a hard time. Evidently the bartender had decided to cut him off and he was taking it out on his waitress.

Bad idea.

It was when the guy, his face flushed from too much alcohol and anger, picked up his empty glass and shattered it on the tabletop that the invisible Francis made his move, sinking his fingers into the soft, fleshy area around the man’s thick neck.

Remy winced in sympathetic pain as the drunken man suddenly leaned violently forward with a scream, his face bouncing off the table. The shrieking continued as he lurched to his feet, tipping over his chair as he tried to pick bloody pieces of glass from his face. Linda, along with some of the other Piazza waitstaff, had retreated to the safety of the restaurant doorway. The manager and what appeared to be the bartender were now dealing with the injured man. In the distance, a police siren wailed.

Realizing that he was likely in trouble, the big man grabbed a cloth napkin from a nearby table and wiped at his mess of a face. Tossing the stained white cloth to the ground, he tried to force his way past the café employees.

Francis stuck out his foot, and the fleeing man tripped, his drunken bulk plowing into a recently vacated table, still covered with dirty lunch dishes. The crash was tremendous, the man falling to the ground, the table and all its contents landing atop him.

At least he had the good sense not to get up again.

Francis returned to their table as the police pulled up. Remy shook his head, trying to hide his smile of amusement.

“It’s an absolute sin when a man can’t hold his liquor,” Francis said, watching as two officers picked the bleeding man up from the patio floor, and escorted him to the waiting cruiser.

“Good thing he wasn’t driving.”

Remy had been to this place before.

The air was rich with the smell of the sea, aroused by the passing storm, the moist sand cool between his toes. He was on a beach at the Cape—in Wellfleet. This was where the Apocalypse had been thwarted, where he had joined with the Angel of Death to realign the balance of nature—of life and death.

Where he had refused God’s request to return to Heaven.

He sensed their approach, as he’d done that cataclysmic day when the world almost came to an end, and turned to face them.

Thrones.

They were God’s messengers, bringing His word to those deemed worthy enough to listen.

“The Creator asks for your return to the City of Light—for the honor to sit at His right hand,” they had said that day, in voices that sounded like the planet’s largest orchestra tuning their instruments at once.

And Remy had told them no.

Now here he was before them again, their pulsing radiance like three miniature suns, though the surface of the sun, he was pretty sure, was not covered in multiple sets of scrutinizing eyes.

The Thrones silently stared at him, their resplendent forms rolling in the air before him.

“Greetings, emissaries of Heaven.” Remy finally spoke to them in the language of his ilk.

The Thrones remained silent.

“To what do I owe this latest visitation?”

And suddenly his mind was filled with the sound of their voices, his face contorting in pain as the cacophony assailed his senses.

“We were called, and we have answered.”

Remy was startled. “You are mistaken. I did not summon you.”

“No, you did not,” the Thrones replied.

He was about to question them further when he felt his Seraphim nature stirring, beginning its ascent from the dark recesses of his being. Finally he understood who had summoned the Thrones and why. With all his might he tried to push it back down, to quell the powerful and destructive nature. What he was… what he was capable of scared Remy, and he would do all he could to keep that part of himself locked away. In the past he had been strong enough.

But now it seemed impossible.

Remy began to scream, his human guise turning to so much ash as the Seraphim exerted control.

As Remiel exerted control.

“Why have you summoned us, Seraphim?” the Thrones asked the armored angel now kneeling before them.

“I want to go home,” Remiel said, lifting his gaze to them, bathing in the light of their resplendence.

“I wish to return to Heaven.”

Remy awoke with the sound of the Seraphim’s request echoing in his ears.

It was still dark outside, and he lay atop the comforter. This was his first night back in the bed that he had shared with his wife, and he could not yet bear the thought of lying beneath the covers.

Marlowe stared at him from the foot of the bed, his animal eyes glinting red in a flash of headlights as a lone car drove up Pinckney Street.

“It’s all right,” Remy tried to reassure the dog, as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He studied his hands to make sure that the human flesh was still present, and not the pale, luminous skin of the Seraphim. “Just a dream is all.”

He threw his legs over the side, somewhat surprised that he had actually managed to put himself in a semirestful state. It had been a while, though he could have done without the dream.

Or should it be called a nightmare?

Marlowe hauled up his bulk, stumbled across the mattress, and plopped down beside him. “Okay?” he asked, flipping Re-my’s hand, demanding to be petted.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Remy sat for a while in the early-morning darkness, scratching behind the dog’s ears, thinking about his dream.

Is it possible? he wondered. On some subconscious level did he really wish to return to Heaven? He’d certainly thought about it from time to time, when things weren’t going well. He’d thought about it mostly since Madeline had died.

But is that what he really wanted? Had he really played at being human long enough?

“Hungry,” Marlowe grumbled, leaning his head against Re-my’s leg as he was rubbed behind the ear. “And have to pee.”

“Let’s get you fixed up, then.” Remy stood, grateful for the distraction, as the dog jumped from the bed and ran down the stairs to the first floor.

The air outside was crisp, the tail end of winter not wanting to surrender to the inevitable spring. Marlowe ran to the far end of the small yard, and then bounded back inside to eat.