“Yes, Marlowe very brave,” the animal agreed.

“What’s he going on about?” Mulvehill wanted to know.

“He just wants to reassure me that he would have protected me from the bad guys that smacked me around.”

The homicide detective nodded. “Now, why were they threatening to shoot your dog again?”

Marlowe lay back down on his side with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and almost immediately drifting off to sleep.

Remy shrugged, the ice in his tumbler tinkling like the bells of Christmas.

“Do you have run-ins with these fallen guys… these Denizens… often?”

“They have a tendency to run in darker circles than I usually like to travel in, but lately I’ve found myself entering those places more often.” Remy had some more to drink.

“They’re not very nice,” he continued. “Like most organized crime families, really. They gather in groups, as if looking to find what they’d once had with their angelic hosts in Heaven, only there’s very little interest in serving God now.”

Mulvehill shook his head as he shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the complex world of the supernatural. “And you wonder why I drink so much?” he said, finishing the Scotch in his glass.

“No, not really. You’re just a drunk.”

They both had a good laugh. It had been quite some time since Remy had laughed—since he’d really laughed. It felt good, and for the briefest of moments, he had the most unusual idea that he wouldn’t be sad forever, that eventually he would be able to think about something other than how much he missed his wife.

Wouldn’t that be something, he thought, knowing that it was likely very far away, but still having a sense that it was there, somewhere beyond the horizon.

“So we’ve established that they’re bad guys and they like to do bad things as a way of flipping the bird at God,” Mulvehill said, grabbing the bottle of booze and pouring himself another. “Now do you have any idea what you did to piss these bad guys off?”

Remy shrugged again, attempting to form some kind of image from what little information he had. It was becoming more likely that Karnighan’s missing property could very well be the legendary Pitiless, and that they could have been stolen by persons of an angelic persuasion.

Smelled like you, the voice of the rottweiler Luthor echoed in his head.

He could only begin to wonder what the Denizens’ involvement in this would be.

“I think their Satan has an interest in the new case I’m working on,” Remy said as he tipped his glass toward his mouth, letting what remained of the ice fall into his mouth.

Mulvehill almost choked.

“Their Satan? Are you saying that their boss is the fucking Devil?”

Remy chuckled. “It’s not what you think,” he explained. “Satan is a title… a designation, like capo or don in the Mafia.”

“Almost gave me a heart attack,” Mulvehill said. “So their leader—their Satan, if you will—has an interest in your case?”

“It appears so,” Remy answered. “But at this point what that interest is I haven’t a clue. I suppose I should probably find out.”

Remy went for the bottle again, offering it first to Mulvehill.

“No, thanks,” the homicide cop said, placing the flat of his hand over his glass. “I think the drunk’s had about enough.”

“Suit yourself,” Remy said, splashing a bit more of the golden liquid into his glass.

Mulvehill rose from his seat and stretched. “Probably should think about getting home. For some reason it’s always harder for me to get my ass out of bed after a night of visiting with you. Wonder what that’s all about.”

Remy swished what he’d just poured around in his mouth before swallowing.

“Haven’t got a clue,” he said. “Maybe you could come by tomorrow night and we can discuss the possibilities as we finish this off?” He held out the half-empty bottle of Scotch.

“That’s a good idea,” Mulvehill said, slowly making his way toward the stairs that would take him down into Remy’s home.

Marlowe stood, gave himself a good shake and followed the homicide detective to the doorway.

“Steven,” Remy called out to his friend. He held the bottle in the crook of one arm, the two empty tumblers in his other hand.

Mulvehill turned, giving Marlowe’s black tail a playful swat as the dog passed. “What’s up?”

“Do me a favor?” Remy asked, coming to join him.

“If I can.”

“Keep your ears open,” he asked. “If you hear anything from your friends in Burglary about weapons—antique guns, knives, or swords—give me a call.”

“Antique weapons,” Mulvehill said, his eyes searching Re-my’s for more.

“Yeah, if you hear anything, think of me first, all right?”

The Boston homicide detective put an arm around his shoulder as they headed for the stairs.

“With the weird shit, you’re never far from my thoughts.”

It was like he had traveled back in time.

Except for the ringing of his cell phone.

Madeline had brought him back to her apartment, the two of them soaking wet after being caught in a sudden summer downpour. She’d commented on them looking like a couple of drowned rats before pulling him closer, kissing him hard on the mouth.

She’d said something about the two of them getting out of their wet things before they caught their death of cold. And then she’d laughed, one of the most arousing sounds he’d ever heard in his long lifetime, and started to remove their clothes.

The sound of his phone was distracting, tugging at him, pulling him from this special place in time.

It was the first time they’d made love, not even making it to her bed. They’d dropped down upon the living room floor, feeding each other’s passions their only intent.

He’d been with other humans before, more out of a perverse curiosity than anything else. If he was going to be one of them, he needed to experience everything, sampling all their wants and desires. Sexual dalliance was inevitable.

But nothing had compared to this.

She had awakened something within him, something that had become still over the centuries, deathly quiet since he’d left Heaven. She made him want to be part of something larger; she awakened his need to connect.

The feel of her body against his, the awkwardness of their attempts to satisfy a passion that grew in intensity over the passing seconds.

He had felt it. Actually felt it.

Connecting in the instant their bodies grew together, the rhythm of their furious lovemaking like the heartbeat of some giant, long-extinct animal.

No. Like the heartbeat of the world.

Remy knew what it was like to be them. He wasn’t just pretending anymore.

He knew what it was to be human.

The phone wouldn’t stop, soon drowning out the sounds of their lovemaking, and suddenly he wasn’t there anymore.

The harsh reality of the present had found him once more, as it always seemed to.

Lying in the darkness, he felt his wife’s touch upon his body, phantom caresses growing softer, and softer still, until all he had left was their memory.

Marlowe stirred at the foot of the bed, lifting his large head as if to ask Remy if he would ever answer that damnable piece of technology.

Remy’s hand moved like lightning, and he was tempted to throw the trilling device at the wall, but what good would come of that? He’d only have to buy a new one.

“Yes,” he said after flipping open the cell. He saw on the face of the phone that it was a little after four in the morning, and had a suspicion about who would be calling him at this hour.

“Did I wake you?” Francis asked. Remy could hear the sound of a television blaring in the background. It sounded like a game show, probably The Price Is Right. Francis had a thing for Bob Barker, thought he was the coolest MC that had ever graced a game-show stage.