Marlowe ran off as Remy stared out across a bridge made from the bodies of the most unrepentant of the fallen angels. Their moans and cries for mercy made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and the Seraphim nature crave to be unleashed so that it could end the suffering of its brethren.

He would have preferred to turn his back on the sights before him, but the realm of Hell demanded to be looked upon, to be feared and respected.

Geysers of molten lava exploded up from the blighted land far below, the intense glow from the liquid rock illuminating the nightmarish landscape. It was said that there lived bands of fallen angels, those who chose not to complete their penance upon the Earth, preferring to live out the remainder of their contrition upon the wastelands of Hell.

Remy couldn’t imagine how they survived.

Turning his attention from the fearsome landscape to what loomed at the end of the bridge, he had to wonder, which was actually worse: the wilds of Hell…

Or Tartarus?

The prison glistened before him, and though surrounded by the scorched, molten landscape, it remained frigidly cold. Tartarus grew up from the barrens of the nether regions, so cold in its growth that not even the fires of Hell could melt it. It was wide at its base, rising to a jagged, gradual point like a pyramid of ice crafted by a long-extinct polar civilization.

Remy’s head was suddenly filled with a quote from a poem by Robert Frost, “Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.”

It wasn’t the end of the world—Remy had already been close enough to see what that would look like—but as a sight to steal away any sense of hope, it ran a close second.

The screams and moans from the bridge made of the fallen grew suddenly louder, their bodies writhing in horrible discomfort, causing the fleshy structure to undulate.

And Remy then saw the reason for the fallens’ distress, an orange light, like the pulsing of a star, had appeared from behind the wall of ice at the front of the frozen prison. The light grew brighter, and brighter still, an opening—an exit—melting in the face of Tartarus.

Remy stumbled back a bit, bumping into the wall behind him as two Sentries emerged. They were fearsome creations, angels whose sole purpose it was to watch over the magnitude of Tartarus’ prisoners, none more deadly than Lucifer Morningstar.

He could not see their faces, for their entire bodies were adorned with ornate armor forged from the stuff of Heaven, making them impervious to the malignancy of this damnable place. Their wings were armored as well, each and every feather coated in the same Heavenly metal that dressed their bodies.

Remy could feel their eyes on him, assessing whether or not he was a threat to them. They must have deemed him harmless because they turned back toward the cavernous opening, standing on either side as two more figures emerged from within the chilling blackness.

Francis escorted a naked man from the icy prison, holding on to his scrawny arm as they passed under the gaze of the Sentries, whose helmeted heads slowly turned to watch them as they passed.

Francis appeared as he often did, unfazed and perhaps even a little bit bored by the whole thing. He was wearing his gray suit, with a coral-colored dress shirt and red-and-black striped tie. Remy wasn’t entirely sure that the colors matched, but for some reason, it worked for the former Guardian.

The naked angel looked a wreck, his emaciated body caked with the filth of confinement in Tartarus. His eyes bulged from his skull, obviously in a state of shock. They walked across the bridge of misbegotten flesh, the screams and moans of those whose bodies they walked upon agitated all the more by the fallen’s passing. They knew that he was leaving and were jealous of him.

Just before reaching the doorway to the earthly plain, the Sentries turned and walked back into the ice prison. At their passing, the frozen wall began to re-form, and soon there was no trace that a door had ever been there at all.

“Hey,” Francis said with a friendly nod as he caught sight of Remy in the doorway.

Remy gave a wave.

The former Guardian was about to step over the threshold with his charge when he came to a sudden stop.

“Who the hell pissed on my floor?”

The parolee from Hell sat in the chair, wrapped in a towel, and shivered. Remy wasn’t sure if it was from cold or from having the residue of Tartarus scoured from his lean frame by Francis.

Francis handed him a steaming cup of coffee. “Here, drink this. It’ll warm up your guts.”

He took it, his eyes filled with emotion. It was probably the first act of kindness he had been shown in God only knew how long.

Remy watched the fallen bring the mug slowly to his mouth, a look of euphoria spreading across his haggard features as he took the hot liquid into his system. In Tartarus, they were denied any physical sensation at all, except for pain.

The toaster popped, and Francis took two slices of bread from the machine and slathered them with butter.

“You’re going to give the guy a heart attack,” Remy said as his friend brought the plate over to the towel-draped figure. With a shaking hand he set his coffee down and took the offered plate. With a ravenous glee, he began to devour the toasted bread.

“He needs some meat on his bones,” Francis said.

Marlowe’s wagging tail thumped the floor as he covetously watched the man eat.

“Where mine?” he asked.

“You’re not getting anything; you pissed on my floor,” Francis said to him.

Marlowe lowered his head, ears flat in shame. “Scared,” the dog whined sadly. “Marlowe scared.”

Remy reached down and patted the big dog’s side. “That’s all right, buddy. We cleaned it up. It’s all good.”

Before the toast was completely devoured, Francis reached down to the man’s plate, grabbing one of the pieces and tearing away a section of crust.

“As long as you’re sorry,” he said, tossing it to the dog.

Marlowe snapped it out of the air, swallowing the bread with a minimum of chewing. “Very sorry,” the Labrador said. “Pee outside only.”

“Yeah, well, you be sure and remember that next time.”

“You’re such a hard-ass,” Remy said, petting his dog’s head.

“Damn straight,” Francis agreed. “Got to keep up my reputation.”

He turned his attention back to the man sitting wrapped in a towel, eating toast and drinking coffee.

“How are you doing?” Francis asked him. “Do you know where you are?”

The fallen looked around the room. He seemed to be in shock, which would be perfectly understandable, considering where he’d just come from. He opened his mouth to speak, but could only manage a dry croak. Remy gestured for him to drink some more of the coffee.

He did and once again attempted to answer Francis’ question.

“Limbus,” he managed.

The earthly plain was looked upon by the fallen angels as a kind of Limbo—or Limbus, as they called it—a sort of waiting period they would have to endure before it was determined whether or not they would be allowed to return to God.

“Bingo,” Francis said, gripping his shoulder. “So you probably know what’s up for you now, but in case you don’t, I’ll be brief. This is the next phase of your penance for crimes against the Lord God Almighty.”

Francis left the man’s side, going to a wooden cabinet in the corner of the kitchen area. He opened the door and removed folded clothing, a towel, and some toiletries.

All the parolees from Tartarus were given the same things.

He handed the stack to the man, who tentatively took it.

“Although not as torturous as the time spent in Hell’s prison, your stay here on the world of God’s man will provide you with many challenges.”

The man seemed distracted, running his hands over the smoothness of the clothing, reveling in the pleasant sensation, nearly overwhelmed by something other than sheer agony and suffering.