He didn’t have Marlowe to worry about this time, and that was good.

“You told me to call when I had something,” Remy said as he slowly got out of the car, his attention focused on the spokesman from their last meeting. “I don’t have anything yet, but you never know, I might be coming into some information shortly.”

“My employer says that you’re taking too long,” the spokesman said.

There was a barely perceptible nod, and one of the Denizens was coming at him, his hand inside his coat pocket.

Remy didn’t have time to wait to see what it was. He met the fallen angel halfway, moving as quickly as he could, slamming his fist into his attacker’s face.

The Denizen stumbled back, nose spurting blood, a short knife with a blade seemingly made from a polished black stone clattering to the ground.

Remy was glad he hadn’t waited; that particular blade, made from the walls of Tartarus, could have done some serious damage to him.

He knew the name of only one of them, Balam—the one that had pointed a gun at his dog—and decided that he would deal with that one next. The memory of what he had done caused a terrific anger to flare within Remy, and he let the Seraphim inside have a brief taste of freedom.

Balam hadn’t pulled his gun, and Remy figured they probably wanted him alive, but this particular Denizen was large and powerful, moving far more quickly and gracefully than Remy expected. He threw a punch that Remy attempted to avoid, but he moved a tad too slow, and the man’s knuckles grazed the side of his face. It hurt like hell, and for a moment he saw an explosion of stars.

Balam took immediate advantage, gripping him by the back of the coat and pulling Remy toward him. The arc of his fist was a blur as the hit connected with Remy’s stomach, doubling him over with a painful explosion of air from his lungs.

Again with the stomach.

But it had brought him close enough.

Close enough to strike.

Remy allowed Heaven’s power a moment’s freedom, the fires of the divine collecting at the tips of his fingers. He thrust his hand at Balam’s stomach, the burning fingers connecting with the satiny material of the dress shirt he wore, burning through, and into the flesh beneath.

And the fire did not stop there.

Balam screamed as his body began to ignite, the fires of Heaven fueled by his wickedness. He immediately dropped to the ground and began to roll.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the spokesman moaned, rolling his eyes.

There was movement to his left, and Remy whirled, the man who had tried to stab him earlier was charging. Where’s the knife? His thoughts raced as he grappled with the fallen, trying to keep his hands in view. They tumbled to the ground, each of them trying to get the better of the other.

The remaining attacker must have ducked around Remy’s car, coming at him from a blind spot.

Remy wasn’t even aware that he’d been stabbed—in the shoulder—until he felt his entire right side begin to grow numb.

Fists were raining down from above him as he attempted to get up, but one of his legs had become useless, tingling and trembling.

“That’s enough,” he heard the spokesman say, and the two Denizen thugs stepped back.

The leader stood over him, a hate-filled flicker of fire burning in the center of his eyes. “If my employer didn’t think you were valuable to him, I’d have you cut to ribbons and sold to anybody who wanted a piece.”

Remy’s shoulder throbbed with the steady beat of his heart. “Why don’t we cut the bullshit and you just tell me what’s going on,” he grunted as he struggled to stand.

“I will kill him,” a dry hiss of a voice rasped. His buddy Balam tried to get at him but was held back by two of the others. His body still smoldered, the Heavenly fire having badly burned his face and chest as it spread. He had his gun out and was waving it around.

Remy was almost on his feet when the spokesman came forward and, with a kick, knocked him back down to the ground.

“We’ve been watching you, waiting for a chance to talk to you without your Guardian angel friend being around.”

They were afraid of Francis, and he couldn’t blame them. He’d had a scary reputation even before he fell from God’s grace.

“We think you’ve found some things out,” the spokesman said. “Things that my employer would be very anxious to hear about.”

“You first,” Remy said, lying on his back, finding it very difficult to keep the world from spinning. “First tell me why your boss is looking for the Pitiless, and I’ll fill you in on what I know. Who knows, maybe between the two of us this whole mess will start to make some sense.”

The spokesman came toward him then, the fire of his hate burning even brighter in the center of his coal black eyes, but then a sudden voice interrupted his murderous intent.

“Hey, Arioc,” one of the Denizens called.

Arioc, the name echoed inside Remy’s skull.

“You might want to see these,” one of the fallen angels said.

Remy managed to pull himself into a sitting position. They were at his car, the passenger door open. The Denizen was handing his superior the bundled sweatshirt with the daggers at its center.

“No!” Remy barked, and again attempted to climb to his feet. This time he was successful, lurching toward his vehicle.

“What have we here?” Arioc asked, hefting the item handed to him. “Do we have something more here than dirty laundry? By your reaction, I would have to say that’s a big yes.”

They all laughed. The Denizen who’d searched his car, and had been the one to stab him, again came at him from behind, pushing Remy roughly up against his car.

Face pressed to the cold metal of the hood, he managed to twist his head enough to see what was happening. The Denizens were all standing around their leader as he unwrapped the sweatshirt.

Remy could feel himself beginning to fade, finding it harder and harder to remain conscious as the poison from the Hell blade’s bite continued to course through his system. He was forced to drop the barriers again, allowing the power of Heaven to course through his frame, burning away the toxins that if allowed to spread would kill him.

He was able to stand now, a sudden vitality making his muscles hum with divine power.

Arioc had exposed the blades, eyes wide in wonder as he looked upon them. He reached within the cloth, removing one of the daggers and holding it up. The blade glinted seductively in the glow of a streetlight that had just come on. By the twinkle in his beady eyes, Remy could tell that the murderous images conjured by the weapon were now filling the Denizen’s mind. The fallen angel smiled, reveling in their intensity. He held the dagger aloft, pointing it into the sky, toward Heaven.

“Oh, isn’t this the sweetest thing,” Arioc said, as all eyes were glued to the seductiveness of the single Pitiless.

Remy was at a loss as to what he should do. He was considering the insanity of trying to get the blades back and making a run for it when things went from bad to worse.

It didn’t even register at first, his brain attempting to process what it had seen, and then attempting to delete the information as a side effect of having the shit knocked out of him again.

The wind had kicked up; at least he believed it to be the wind. There was a sudden rush of air—a roar—and something far more substantive was moving amongst the Denizens.

Arioc’s head was suddenly gone from his body, the crimson arterial spray shooting up into the air like a fountain. The others barely had the opportunity to take their eyes from the Pitiless blade still being held aloft before they too were taken down.

Balam was next to go, his burned and blackened facial features registering danger well before the others.

Remy started to yell as Arioc’s headless corpse finally collapsed to the ground, the stump of his neck still pumping blood out onto the street. He pushed off from the car, his warrior’s nature urging him into battle. Closer now, he could just about make out the blurred shape of the thing that moved amongst them. It was large, about the size of a jungle cat.