Francis snatched up one of the napkins on the table and wiped his hands fussily.
The monkey stopped licking Mason’s face and glared at Francis. It squeaked something—the monkey equivalent of fuck you—and climbed up onto its owner’s shoulder, a scowl upon its furry features.
Neal started laughing, likely understanding what the monkey had just said. Remy didn’t have to guess about at least one of the angelic talents this Offspring had inherited from its fallen sire.
“Francis says you might have some information for me,” Remy interjected before things got any nastier between the disabled man and the former Guardian.
“Antique weaponry, Remy?” the man asked, a crooked smile upon his doughy features.
“That’s what I was told was stolen.”
Mason’s flaccid hand manipulated the controls of his wheelchair, moving him closer to Remy. “Francis said these weapons could well be the legendary Pitiless.”
“It’s a possibility,” Remy said, turning to glare at Francis.
“So shoot me.” The Guardian threw up his hands. “I’m excited.”
Mason closed his eyes, a twisted smile spreading across his doughy features. “I’d pay a small forture just to look at them,” he said, a trickle of saliva beginning to dribble from one of the corners of his mouth. “But I’ve heard nothing, Remy,” Mason said.
Julia had returned to the man’s shoulder and was now grooming his hair, in search of something to snack upon.
“And if they’re as valuable as you say, I doubt you’d tell me if you did.”
Mason’s smile broadened, the drool flowing like a river. “It depends on whether or not the person who retained your services was offering a comparable reward, and to be perfectly honest, Remy, I’m not too sure I’d really care to have these priceless objects in my possession. They have a bit of a history. A nasty history.”
“They’re like the ultimate weapons,” Francis said, taking a congealed piece of greasy cheese pizza from the box and bringing it up to his mouth. “What would you expect?”
Moving his chair in the Guardian’s direction, Mason responded. “Lore states that death is the end result of anybody who possesses the accursed weaponry,” he explained. “It is said that they were not meant for human hands, but for Death itself.”
Francis waved the claim away. “Death doesn’t need a fucking sword or a pistol. He just has to look at you to get the results he wants.”
The capuchin eyed Remy from her perch upon Mason’s shoulder, bored with grooming his stringy hair. Tensing her legs, Julia leapt.
“Then who… or what were they made for?” Remy asked, catching the flying monkey, allowing her to climb up onto his shoulder.
Mason looked panicked, staring at his simian helper, who seemed perfectly at home on this stranger’s shoulder. “That is the mystery,” he said, making noises with his mouth, attempting to call the monkey back to him.
Julia squeaked no in her primitive tongue.
“Some writings say that they were weapons meant for gods,” Mason continued. “And for any other to possess them was to seal their fate.”
Remy whispered to Julia, asking the monkey to return to her master, and the creature begrudgingly complied.
“There’s my girl,” Mason cooed, more at ease now that she had returned to him.
“So can I count on you to give me a call if you should come across anything that might be of interest?” Remy asked. He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a business card.
Julia squealed with excitement as Remy placed the card in her tiny hand. Holding it on either end, she proceeded to nibble its corner.
“I’ll be more than happy to keep you in mind, Remy,” Mason said, amused by his monkey’s antics. “Things of a… How shall I put this? Things of an eclectic nature have a strange habit of finding their way into my possession.”
The sudden noise was practically deafening in the small space, and they all turned toward one of the storage units.
Southie looked sheepishly in their direction, dropping to his knees to pick up the contents of the unit that had spilled out when its door had been opened.
Bones—thousands of bleached remains from every conceivable part of the human anatomy—lay upon the storage-facility floor.
Things of an eclectic nature. Mason’s last statement echoed in Remy’s ears.
It certainly did seem to be the case.
“All things considered, that went well,” Francis said as they walked to their cars.
“Let’s just see if he does as he says,” Remy commented, fishing his keys from his pocket. “If these weapons turn out to be what we think they might be, they’ll be worth an awful lot of money to someone looking to amass some serious power.”
Francis pointed his remote at the Range Rover, starting the vehicle with the push of a button.
“And if they’re actually as dangerous as legend says, things like the Pitiless in the wrong hands could be very bad news,” the Guardian said, the look on his face showing that he was weighing the consequences. “Things are already tense between the various Denizen hosts. If one of the Satans got their hands on these weapons, there’d be freakin’ war.”
Remy sighed. “Great, another war. Just what we need.”
The two angels stood silently in the parking lot, at a loss for words.
“Where to now?” Remy asked his friend.
“I was thinking of heading over to Newbury Street.”
“Have you introduced yourself yet?”
Francis shook his head. “It’s not like that,” he explained, reaching to open his car door. “I couldn’t do what you did.” The fallen angel paused. “Not sure how I would’ve survived what you’ve been through.”
Surviving, Remy thought. Was that what he was doing now?
He thought of the Throne representative, and its request for him to return to Paradise, but quickly pushed it away. He didn’t want to think of such things.
“One does what one has to,” Remy answered, not wanting to talk about it anymore.
He too went to his car, opening the door. “I’d tell you to say hi for me, but there’s really no sense in that, is there?”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Francis answered, climbing up into the Range Rover.
In the rearview, Remy watched Francis leave the lot, two quick toots from his horn, and then he was gone.
It was an odd sensation, and it surprised him, but he was actually a bit jealous over what Francis had, a level of intimacy suddenly absent from his own life.
“Look at what you’ve done to me,” Remy muttered beneath his breath, imagining he was speaking with his departed wife. “It’s a sad day when I’m jealous of Francis for anything.”
He turned the car’s engine over and reached into his pocket for his phone.
It was time to make the call.
Dialing the number, he waited through quite a few rings before the phone was picked up.
“Mr. Karnighan,” he said, putting the car in drive and leaving the parking lot. “This is Remy Chandler. I’m on my way over. I believe there are some things we need to discuss.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Remy was just about to get onto Route 128, heading north, when he got the call. It was Steven Mulvehill, and he was speaking in careful whispers.
“You might want to come over to Huntington Ave,” he said, his voice barely audible over the sounds of traffic leaking into the car.
“What’s up?” Remy asked, nearing the exit that he would need to take if he was going to continue on to Lexington.
“Let’s just say something that has Remy Chandler written all over it, and leave it at that.”
Remy didn’t take the exit, instead reversing to head back in the direction he had come. He hadn’t been too far from the address Steven had given him, and it wouldn’t take him long to get there.