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.”
CHAPTER SIX
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.
And because of that, their value became immeasurable.
At the corner of Myrtle and Anderson streets, Marlowe stopped to sniff at the left-turn-only sign, running his dripping nose up and down the metal before lifting his leg and splashing it with urine.
“Anybody you know?” Remy asked him casually.
“Doone,” the dog grumbled, sniffing again to make sure his scent was the strongest. Doone was a Weimaraner who lived farther up Pinckney Street, and who had attacked Marlowe when he was just a puppy. The two had been sworn enemies ever since.
“He’s got some nerve peeing on your signpost,” Remy said.
“Yes,” Marlowe agreed. “My signpost. Not Doone. Mine.”
“Exactly,” Remy chuckled as they headed for the house.
Marlowe stood in front of the door to the brownstone, tail wagging, as Remy fished in his pocket for his keys. He opened the door and held it for Marlowe, and that was when he sensed them.
He quickly closed the door on Marlowe and was turning as they came up from behind him. One put his arm around Remy’s throat, and yanked him backward away from the door. Marlowe started barking furiously on the other side, obviously sensing danger.
He wasn’t sure how many of them there were, taking a guess at three. One of them hit him in the stomach hard, and he tried to pitch forward but was held fast by the one behind him. The wind exploded from his lungs as he was hit again, the image of a balloon losing all its air as it sailed around a room filling his head.
Sometimes you think of the damnedest things when you’re getting the shit kicked out of you, he thought, feeling himself released and falling to his knees upon the street, gasping and gagging.
He was surprised that he hadn’t sensed these Denizens creeping up behind him sooner, but clearly he had to show them what a mistake they had made in attacking him outside his home.
The Seraphim waited patiently just below the surface, as if it had somehow known that its fury would be called upon. Dropping the mental barriers just a crack Remy allowed a small portion of the power to emerge, feeling the fire of Heaven flow through his body to ignite his hands.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” one of his attackers warned.
Remy ignored him, preparing to satisfy the Seraphim’s hunger for battle. He looked up—and noticed one of the Denizens standing at his door.
The fallen angel was pointing a gun through the glass into the foyer of his home, where Marlowe still barked wildly.
Remy’s hands crackled and sparked.
“You just might make Balam nervous,” the Denizen continued from behind Remy, “and who knows what terrible things might happen then.”
The one called Balam tapped the glass in the door with the barrel of his gun, making Marlowe bark all the louder. The look on his face told Remy he was hoping he would be able to fire the weapon.
Fearing for the dog’s safety, Remy pulled back on his angelic essence. Though it fought him, he managed to force it again behind the mental barriers where it could do no harm.
“Good idea,” the spokesperson for the group commented as the fiery glow from his hands began to dim.
Remy slowly rose to his feet, eyeing the gathering standing around him. There were actually four of them, three around him and Balam at the door.
“You’ve got my attention,” Remy stated.
“Good,” the leader answered with the hint of a smile. “That’s a very sweet-looking dog you have, and I’d hate to have anything—”
“Cut the menacing bullshit and get to the point,” Remy interrupted. “I get it; you’ll hurt my dog if I don’t behave. Fine. What the fuck do you want?”
The Denizen leader started to laugh, and seeing that it was okay, so did the others. “If we didn’t need you, I’d do something about that smart mouth,” he said.
“Lucky for me,” Remy answered.
“Yeah, it is,” the leader agreed.
They glared at each other, Remy searching the fallen angel’s dead features for something familiar. Had he known this angel once? Had he once called him brother before the fall? Remy couldn’t tell. The time spent in Hell changed them outside, as well as in.
“My employer is very interested in your current job,” the fallen said. “So interested, in fact, that he wants to know all about your progress.” The angel removed a business card from inside his coat. “No skimping on the details. Do you understand… Remy?”
They moved toward him as their backs suddenly became illuminated in the glare of approaching headlights. The fallen leader let the card drop from his hand as he passed.
“Nice,” Remy said.
“I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you,” the leader said over his shoulder.
Remy squatted down to pick up the card, giving it a quick read before stuffing it into his coat pocket.
Old Scratch Contracting.
Cute, Remy thought, watching as the four men climbed into the black BMW truck and pulled out of the parking spot in front of his house.
How’d they manage such a good space? he ruminated, remembering where he’d have to walk tomorrow to retrieve his car.
The vehicle whose headlights had prompted the party to end pulled into the spot, the window coming down to reveal a familiar face.