“What’s your name?” Francis asked, snapping his fingers in front of the man’s face to distract him.

“Silas,” he said after some thought.

“You will live here in this building, Silas, until you become acclimated to this city, and to the world,” Francis explained.

“I… I will live here?” Sirus stammered.

“Exactly. You will live here with others of your ilk—others who have begun the next phase in their rehabilitation.”

“How… how long must I…,” the fallen began.

Francis reached down to grab the man beneath the arm, pulling him up from his seat. “Haven’t a clue,” he explained. “When the Big Man decides that you paid enough for your betrayal of His holy trust, I guess He’ll allow you to return to Heaven… but then again, maybe He won’t. God’s funny like that; you never know what He’s going to do.”

Still holding his arm, Francis guided the fallen toward the door. “My suggestion is to live a good life, keep your nose clean, and you never know what good might come of it. You’re on the second floor, first door on your right—number 213; I left it open. Go up, get settled, and if you have any questions, don’t be afraid to come find me.”

Silas started up the stairs, looking as though he really wasn’t quite sure what was happening. It would take him some time to get used to his new, less agonizing setting, but it would happen eventually, Remy thought as he watched the man go.

“I didn’t think he’d ever leave,” Francis said, closing the door behind him, heading into the kitchen on a course to the coffee machine.

“What do you think?” Remy asked. Marlowe was lying on his side, sound asleep, looking as though he’d been shot. “Think he’ll stay clean, or will he be seduced by the dark side?”

“I hate it when you make Star Wars references,” Francis sneered, taking a sip from his own cup of coffee.

“Would you prefer Trek? You’re so old-fashioned that way.”

Remy joined his friend in the kitchen. Marlowe suddenly sat up, probably afraid he would miss some food.

“Where?” the dog asked groggily.

“Just getting some coffee, pal,” he told the animal. “Go back to sleep. Don’t worry, I’ll wake you up if something good is going on.”

He found a mug in the drainer by the sink and poured himself a cup.

“So what do you think? Will Silas return to Paradise?” Remy leaned against the counter, sipping from his cup.

Francis shrugged on his way into the living room. “Not my job,” he said. “I’m just supposed to get them here, and then that whole free will business that the Big Guy is so famous for kicks in. Personally I don’t think it lives up to the hype.”

He groaned as he slowly lowered himself into a beat-up old recliner. “If it wasn’t for free will, none of us would be in this situation.”

Marlowe had moved closer to the Guardian, dropping down on the area rug beside his chair.

Remy pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and took a seat on the couch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No free will, no Lucifer deciding that he wanted to be the boss, no war in Heaven, and I just keep moving along doing what I was created to do.” He had some more of his drink.

“And what about me? If the war never happened, I’d never have left Heaven, come to Earth, loved Madeline…”

“Exactly,” Francis interrupted. “There’d have been a whole lot less pain for the both of us.”

There was a tiny part of Remy that agreed with the fallen Guardian, a tiny part that wanted to be stronger, but he refused to allow it to grow. Even with all the pain he’d suffered these past few months, he wouldn’t have given up what he’d experienced with his wife. She had helped to define him, shaping him into the man he was today.

Yes, the man.

The Seraphim inside came awake in the darkness, far stronger than it had been in centuries. It knew that the power that had once suppressed it was gone, that a chance existed that it might one day regain control, and that knowledge made it content.

Patient to wait.

“Did you just stop by to cheer me up, or did you want something?” Francis suddenly asked, interrupting the uncomfortable silence that now filled the former Guardian’s dwelling.

Remy motioned to the file he’d left on the corner of the coffee table.

“What’s this?” Francis asked, snatching it up. “Case you’re working on?”

The angel started to flip through the pages. “Nice,” he said, nodding at the weaponry. “This is the Karnighan business, right?”

Remy watched him carefully, looking for a specific reaction.

“Hey there, good-lookin’,” Francis suddenly said, eyes fixated on a specific item.

“Let me guess,” Remy said. “It’s either a medieval battle-axe, a Japanese katana, two daggers, or an old Colt 45.”

“It’s the Colt,” Francis said, holding up the picture. “But now you’ve made me curious about the other three.” He searched the stack, finding them.

“What do you think?” Remy asked.

Francis adjusted his dark-framed glasses. “They’re all gorgeous, real collectors’ pieces, but these particular items are fucking golden.”

“I don’t know shit about this stuff, and those same items gave me a similar reaction. Why do you think that?”

He shrugged. “Maybe some of my exquisite taste in tools of death and destruction has finally started to rub off on you,” Francis said, continuing to ogle the pictures.

“So you’ve got nothing for me?”

“Nothing other than these things giving me a hard-on,” Francis said. “What I wouldn’t give to have just one of these in my collection.”

He picked one of the pictures from the stack and stared at it. Remy could see that it was the Japanese sword.

“Thought you’d like that one,” he said.

Francis looked up from the picture. “There’s a legend that says that just before he died, Asamiya forged his masterpiece, a sword that would make its wielder invincible in battle.”

Remy leaned forward on the couch. “Do you think that’s it?”

“That would be so fucking cool,” Francis said, coveting the ancient weapon. “There’re stories like that about all kinds of weapons,” he explained. “Supposedly every weapons smith has made a piece so perfectly that it stands far above any of its predecessors. Together these weapons they were called the Pitiless.”

“Pitiless?” Remy asked, not quite getting the reasoning behind the name.

“Supposedly these particular weapons were favored by Death and blessed with its power; no enemy could escape their intent.”

“Special,” Remy said.

Francis smiled, slowly nodding in agreement.

“And if they existed, worth a fucking mint.”

Remy wanted to call Karnighan right there and then but realized that it was a bit too late for business.

In the morning for certain.

Leaving Francis’ brownstone, he’d driven home, his head buzzing with questions. Was it possible? Had Karnighan somehow managed to find these priceless, legendary weapons? And since he’d failed to mention what these weapons actually were, was there anything else that he’d neglected to share?

Questions, with a heaping portion of questions on top of those.

There wasn’t a parking space to be found anywhere on the Hill, forcing him to park down on Cambridge Street. He locked up the vehicle, and he and Marlowe walked up the rather steep incline of Irving Street, turning right onto Myrtle.

Remy didn’t mind the walk and certainly neither did Marlowe. It was a pleasant spring night, and the exercise would do them both good.

Trudging up the street, Marlowe slightly ahead, gently tugging on the leash, Remy reviewed what Francis had shared with him about the weapons… about the Pitiless. The former Guardian had known about the Japanese katana crafted by Asamiya, but had heard only whispers about the other weapons that made up the deadly arsenal. Supposedly the weapons had found their way into the hands of individuals throughout the centuries, and had been responsible for some of the largest body counts ever to be chronicled. Their notoriety grew with the spilling of each new drop of blood.