Distracted momentarily by his inner struggle, Remy reacted too slowly as the monster pounced again. He managed to get only one of the daggers up as the full weight of his bestial attacker fell upon him. He pushed up on the dagger as he was driven back to the ground by the behemoth’s full weight, the animal’s tough, leathery hide resisting the piercing point of the Pitiless blade.
He hit the ground with tremendous force, his head striking the ground with equal intensity, and his world exploded into a reality of flashing colors and overwhelming nausea.
Fighting to remain conscious, he looked up into the eyes of the behemoth, laser points of yellow like the final moments of a dying star as it burned its last in the thick velvet tapestry of the night sky.
Its breath stank of blood and something else.
Brimstone.
And he then knew where the creature had originated, but he did not have the slightest clue as to how it had come to hunt upon the streets of Boston.
It was a question that nagged at him as the weight of the beast crushed him against the unyielding street, the darkness exploding inside his head, making it difficult to focus, making it difficult for him to remain conscious.
He watched through a spreading black haze as the beast drew back its bony face, its jaws opening wide before its jagged bite descended toward his throat.
Explosions of thunder crashed in the heavens as a curtain of darkness fell, sparing him the moment of his unpleasant demise.
The Pitiless blades chattered.
Even deep beneath the crushing waves of unconsciousness he could still see the moments of their existence. Death after death; he thought he would drown in the blood spilled by their being.
Eventually the visions of death ran thin, and he was shown the sight of their conception and birth, materials mined from the earth, nothing but raw matter to be melted down to liquid and poured into molds to be crafted into the objects of death they would become.
But the special knives wanted him to see more, wanted him to know all their secrets. They took him deeper into their memories, showing him what they were before they had fallen from the sky to the world of man.
What they were before they were dropped from Heaven.
Heaven?
The darkness was suddenly ablaze with a vision of one of the Lord’s chosen—the angel Azazel, weapons master of the angel hosts, working his artistry within the hallowed confines of his workshop within Heaven’s armory. Rows upon rows of beautiful armament lay waiting for the day that they would be called upon in battle.
Remy knew—sensed—that this was a time before the war, before the fall.
Azazel’s wings fanned the flames of a fire that burned hotter than the center of a sun. The armorer worked the stuff of Heaven, manipulating the divine material, shaping it into a thing of the utmost beauty, as well as a tool of devastation.
Remy could now see what it was that angel armorer worked upon, what he toiled so diligently to produce.
One had already been birthed, lying there patiently, waiting for its sister to be completed.
The Pitiless daggers.
The sight of them in such a holy place filled Remy with a dire sense of foreboding. He was tempted to call out, to ask the angel why it was that he had produced the twin daggers, when the angel turned to speak—but not to him.
There was another present—another who hung close to the shadows, watching the birth of the deadly armaments.
Having completed the second of the pair, the angel weaponeer turned, holding the glowing daggers in hand, presenting them to the figure cloaked in shadows. The light shining from the still-white-hot metal dispelled the pockets of darkness within the workshop, revealing the figure that stood there in wait.
As beautiful as Remy remembered him to be, he was adorned in armor the color of the sun’s rays, his sharp, noble features looking as though they had been sculpted by a master’s hand… which they had.
He was the first of the angels, and favorite to the Almighty.
He was the son of the dawn… the Morningstar.
He was Lucifer.
And the Pitiless belonged to him.
Remy awoke with the warmth of the Morningstar’s radiance still upon his face.
He was lying on his back upon a plush leather sofa, arms draped across his chest, a Pitiless dagger still clutched tightly in each hand. They were still whispering to him, attempting to pull him back into the visions of their violent glory, but he’d had just about enough of that.
Rising to a sitting position, he forced his cramped fingers open, allowing the twin blades to fall to the Oriental rug on the floor beneath him.
A fire burned cozily in the large marble fireplace across from where he sat, and he looked around the room at the beautiful floor-to-ceiling bookcases that covered three of the walls.
He was in somebody’s study; he could at least figure that out. But whose was the million-dollar question.
The back of his head throbbed, and his body ached in places where he didn’t think it was possible to ache. The animal… he’d been fighting the animal when he’d been knocked cold. Remy touched the back of his head, wincing from the tenderness there.
The door into the study opened, and a large, bald-headed man, who Remy could sense was a Denizen, peered in at him.
“Hey,” Remy said, having never seen the man before. He was hoping for some answers.
The man didn’t respond. Instead he turned to somebody outside the room. “He’s awake, sir,” the fallen angel said as he stepped back into the hallway.
Remy rubbed gently at the back of his head, trying to make the throbbing pain go away. It wasn’t doing much, but the continuous ache was helping to clear away the fog that had settled over his brain.
The bald man appeared in the doorway again, opening the door wider for another to enter, a tall, handsome figure with long blond hair that came down to his broad shoulders. And Remy then knew where he had ended up, but not how he had gotten there. Another heaping portion of mystery, on an already overflowing plate.
Yum.
“Hello, Byleth,” Remy said from the couch, eyeing the daggers to make sure they were within reach.
Byleth smiled as he strolled into the study, dressed in dark slacks and sports coat. The bald man came in as well, as did another Denizen lackey. They eyed him with distaste, which Remy could understand. He doubted they had much opportunity to mingle with Seraphim since their fall from grace, and imagined that his presence would likely remind them of things they’d rather remain forgotten.
“It’s good to see you, Remiel,” Byleth said, using his angelic name. “Or would you prefer that I call you Remy?” he asked with a chuckle.
Remy shrugged. “It’s been a long time since the old name actually meant something to me,” he said. “You can call me what you like.”
Byleth brought a long-fingered hand to his chest. He wore a red silk shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal part of a pale, muscular chest. There were gold chains around his neck. “I actually go by William these days,” he said, turning to approach a wooden cabinet in the corner.
“Drink?”
He opened the doors, removed a cut-crystal decanter, poured one glass, and then another. He delivered one to Remy on the sofa.
“William,” Remy said, taking the offered drink. “I wouldn’t figure you for a William.”
“No?” Byleth asked, taking a sip from his own glass.
Remy drank as well. It was Scotch, a really good Scotch—better than the stuff he’d drunk the other night with Mulvehill.
But would a Satan of the Denizen underworld serve anything less? Remy doubted it.