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.
“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.”