The air inside the office was stale and unmoving. Throwing the mail down upon the desktop, he went to the window and opened it to release the stagnant smell. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the once-lovely fern given to him by an appreciative client, now withered and brown. He picked up the pot and studied the plant’s remains, searching for any sign of green, hoping for an indication that the plant could be saved, but there was none.

Remy sighed as he dumped the plant in the wastebasket. He was painfully aware that the once-thriving plant had died because of his neglect, a neglect that could very easily be affecting not only his office plants, but his business, as well as what remained of his personal life.

It was decided just like that. No more bullshit. He would go and see the Nomads. First he’d straighten out the office, return phone calls and e-mails; then he’d try to find Suroth and his flock.

But it was just so damn hard to care about anything anymore.

Madeline had been the primary reason why he lived as a human—she was his anchor to humanity—and with her gone…

His thoughts again started to wander, and he saw her the day he’d revealed his true self to her. It was early morning, as the sun came up over the Atlantic Ocean on Nahant Beach. They had been out dancing, and there wasn’t a soul around. He remembered the expression on her face when he said that he had something he wanted to show her.

Remy smiled sadly with the memory, certain that what he had revealed had never even entered her realm of possibility. How often did the guy you were dating reveal that he was an angel of the host Seraphim? Not often, he imagined. He hated these thoughts of the past, but at the same time embraced them like a long-lost friend.

Or lover.

The sudden banging on his office door removed him from the moment, and his anger surged. He could actually feel his true nature writhe in preparation, as if it expected to be unleashed.

Not good. Not good at all.

“Yeah,” Remy said as the door swung open and one of the subjects of his recent neglect ambled in, bags in hand.

“Look who decided to come to work today,” the gruff homicide detective said as he placed the two bags he was carrying on the corner of Remy’s desk and returned to the door to close it. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

There would be time for the memories later, whether Remy wanted them or not.

“No, it’s good. Sorry I missed you last night.”

Mulvehill started to rummage through one of the bags. “Had a bottle of Glenlivet with our names on it, but since you weren’t around, I had to cross yours off,” he said, removing a large coffee and placing it in front of Remy. “I felt really bad, but I didn’t want it to spoil.”

He removed one for himself and smiled. He lifted the plastic lid and took a sip from the scalding liquid. “Your loss, I guess.”

“My loss,” Remy repeated as he removed the cover from his own coffee.

His friend looked as he always did, tousled black hair, five-o’clock shadow, clothes wrinkled as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and with Steven, that very well could have been the case. He lived the job, not really having much else.

Mulvehill removed his light spring jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door. “So where were you last night? Working a case?”

He pulled out the seat in front of Remy’s desk and sat down, but before he relaxed, he reached for the other bag.

The dying angel appeared within Remy’s brain, the empty eye sockets like twin whirlpools trying to suck him down, further into despair.

“Yeah, pretty much wrapped it up last night.”

“Cheese Danish?” Mulvehill offered, pastry in hand. “I got an apple one in here too.”

“No, thanks,” Remy said. “The coffee is all I want.”

Mulvehill shook his head in mock disgust. “And you wonder why I’m not as svelte as I used to be.” He took an enormous bite from the pastry, crumbs raining down onto the front of his shirt and pants. He then wrinkled the top of the wax paper bag closed, and placed it on the floor beside his chair.

“I’ll save the other one for later,” he told his friend, retrieving his coffee cup from the desk. “Playing catch-up?” he asked, motioning with the Danish toward the pile of mail.

“Yeah,” Remy answered, flipping through some of it. “Amazing how quick it piles up.”

The cop nodded, slowly chewing. There was an uneasy silence starting to develop, something completely unfamiliar to their friendship, and Remy had an idea as to where the conversation would be going next.

“How are you doing?” Mulvehill finally asked.

Remy nodded, slowly turning the paper cup on his desktop. “I’m doing all right,” he said, trying to sound convincing.

“Yah think?” Mulvehill responded, shoving the last of the Danish into his mouth, and brushing the crumbs from the front of his shirt onto the floor.

“Yeah, I think,” Remy answered, unable to hide the beginning of annoyance in his tone.

“Haven’t seen you in weeks. Every time I stop by the office or your house you’re not there. I just wouldn’t have a clue if you were doing good or not,” Mulvehill explained, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs.

“I’ve been trying to keep busy,” Remy said.

He could feel the detective’s eyes scrutinizing him, searching for signs that things were not okay at all. Remy doubted that he would need to look all that closely.

“Why don’t you cut the shit and tell me the truth.”

Remy glared at his friend, the power of Heaven writhing at his core. It wanted to be free—it wanted to destroy what offended it.

“Do you want to hear that I’m miserable?” he asked. “That when she died a large piece of myself died with her? Is that what you want to hear?”

“I want to hear the truth,” Mulvehill responded. “Call it a side effect of my job. Since Maddie passed you’re not the same; there’s something not right.”

Remy brought the cup of coffee up toward his mouth. “It’s to be expected,” he said, taking a long drink. It was hot, burning hot. It felt good to feel something other than sadness.

“With most folks, yeah, but with you it’s different. You’re not the same person anymore, and that’s really sad.”

Remy set his cup down. “Who am I, then?” he asked, directing the question as much to himself as to his friend. “Maybe when she died Remy Chandler died with her, and this is the new guy who got left behind.”

Everything grew very quiet, the emotion suddenly so thick that it was almost difficult to breathe.

“Any chance of the old guy coming back?”

“Why, does he owe you money?” Remy joked, trying to lighten the mood.

The scruffy man shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “Just pure selfishness on my part. I’m not ready to say good-bye to him yet.”

“I hear he’s been going through some pretty rough shit,” Remy said as he picked up his cup, looking inside at what remained of the contents. He finished what was left and grimaced at the bitter end.

“Thought I heard something to that effect,” Mulvehill said, moving to the edge of his chair to retrieve the empty bag from the floor. He put his own empty coffee cup inside it. “I hope he swings around again sometime soon so I can tell him that he’s not alone in this, that he has people who give a shit about how he’s feeling, and what he’s going through.”

Remy wheeled his chair closer to the barrel where he’d recently disposed of his plant. “I’m sure he’s aware of that already, but it doesn’t hurt to tell him again.” He threw away his coffee cup.

“Yeah,” Mulvehill said, rising from his seat. “He’s kind of thick like that.”

The detective retrieved the bag containing the apple pastry and crinkled the top tighter. “Sure you don’t want this?” he asked.

Remy shook his head. “I’m good.”

Mulvehill accepted this, walking across the office to the coat rack for his jacket.