Where Angels Fear to Tread (15 page)

Remy felt his ire on the rise and was about to cause a scene, when he heard another voice from inside the establishment. The wooden panel slid closed, but he could still hear two low and tremulous voices locked in heated conversation.

The voices suddenly went silent.

And then Remy heard the sounds of locks turning, and slowly the door opened with a high-pitched creak.

A huge figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, and all Remy could do was stare. He'd heard the stories, but this was the first time he had actually seen him.

The man stood at least seven feet tall and was apparently carved from dark gray stone. He wore a bright red vest and black slacks obviously made from a stretchy, durable material.
Methuselah
was stitched in cursive on the left side pocket of the golem's vest.

"Remy Chandler," the stone man said, his voice sounding like tectonic plates rubbing together.

"Hello, Methuselah," Remy said. "I like the new look."

Remy had heard that the old man's body, after living close to a thousand years, was starting to show some wear and tear, and he had been in the market for something new and more durable.

Apparently he'd done exactly what he'd set out to do.

"You like it?" Methuselah asked. "Crude, but effective. Come on in."

The stone man turned, and Remy was impressed; for a body made of rock, it moved with far more grace than he would have expected.

"Is it okay if Marlowe comes too?" Remy asked before passing through the door.

Methuselah squatted down, his great stone hand reaching out to gently pat the Labrador's head.

"Of course he can," he said with a rumble.

Marlowe, always the charmer, licked the rock man's face.

"
Salt
," the dog said in between licks.
"Taste salt."

Methuselah laughed, and it sounded like thunder in the distance. He and Marlowe then strolled into the tavern, best buddies, as Remy brought up the rear.

A minotaur stood just to the right of the door; the doorman—door
beast
—that had attempted to deny him entrance. It eyed him suspiciously.

"Guess he likes dogs." Remy shrugged as he passed.

The minotaur responded with a grunt, and a wet blast of air came from its flared nostrils.

"What can I get you?" Methuselah asked as he deftly navigated the bulky body of rock behind the bar. Remy sauntered up to one of the stools and sat, motioning for Marlowe to lie down on the wooden floor beside the chair.

"Scotch, neat," Remy said.

"Could've guessed that," the stone man said. "It's what your buddy always had."

Methuselah poured Remy a tumbler of golden liquid from a dusty bottle without any label, which could have been good, or very, very bad. Remy took note that most of the bottles behind the bar were minus any kind of labeling.

The bartender placed the glass before his customer. Not wasting any time, Remy picked up the glass and had a sip.

It was good, very, very good, probably some of the best Scotch he had ever tasted. He knew Francis had to keep coming back to this place for something other than the company.

Casually, Remy looked around. Methuselah's wasn't busy, but there were still enough clientele to make the journey worth his while.

Some appeared human, but he knew they weren't, while others—most of whom sat in the deep pockets of shadow around the bar—were the farthest thing from human he could imagine. They were creatures of another time, beings that had passed from one reality to another.

They were myths and legends, and a few nightmares tossed in for good measure.

"Does your pooch want some water?" Methuselah asked.

Remy looked down to the floor. "Hey, Marlowe, do you want some water?"

"
Not thirsty
," the dog said, furiously sniffing at the wooden floor. Remy could only imagine the things that had been spilled there over the long lifetime of the bar.

Remy shook his head, bringing his glass to his mouth again. "He's not thirsty."

Methuselah leaned against the bar, staring at him with that big, almost expressionless stone face. It was hard to read a face like that.

"What's on your mind?" Remy asked.

"Nothing really," the ancient being said. "I always wondered when I'd see you in here."

"And here I am," Remy said, having some more of the amazing Scotch.

"And here you are," Methuselah repeated, his words sounding like a small avalanche.

The stone man picked up a rag and began wiping down the bar.

"Sorry about Francis," he said.

Remy shrugged. "He went out the way he wanted to."

Methuselah nodded. "I guess that's all we can hope for."

"I guess you're right." Remy sipped some more, denying the alcohol any effect over him. Steven would have sold his soul for a bottle of this stuff.

"So, what brings you in?" Methuselah asked, still wiping the wooden counter. "Can't be because you were up for a little socializing, seeing as you seldom mingle with your own kind."

Remy bristled.
His own kind
. He was as far from these . . .
beings . . .
as one could possibly be.

The Seraphim stirred, aroused by Remy's annoyance.

Or was he?

"I'm looking for information," Remy said, keeping his annoyance to a minimum.

A waitress who appeared perfectly normal came up to the bar and ordered a round for a table in the back. She seemed to be in her late thirties, attractive, but Remy knew not to look too closely in Methuselah's; the normal didn't often make it through the door.

Again Remy marveled at Methuselah's stone body as he mixed one drink after another; his dexterity was truly amazing.

The waitress had her drinks and was off again.

"Sorry about that," Methuselah said. "You were saying?"

"I'm looking for information," Remy stated flatly.

Methuselah picked up the dusty Scotch bottle and offered him another, but Remy passed, placing his hand over the tumbler's top.

"I'm good."

"Maybe I can help," the stone man said, placing the bottle back amongst many others behind the bar. "What are you looking for?"

"It's not much, but in this case I'm working, I've come across these strange marks . . . almost like a brand."

"What do they look like?" Methuselah asked.

"Lips," Remy stated. "It looks like these guys have been kissed by some pretty full lips that have left an indelible mark."

Remy stared at the silent bartender, attempting to read him, but as before, there was very little expression available on the stone face. He would have had better luck with one of the Easter Island heads.

"I've got nothing," Methuselah said finally, picking up the damp cloth and starting to wipe down the counter again.

And that was when Remy heard the commotion.

"You'd better go get your dog, Chandler," Methuselah said, and Remy spun around on his stool to see that Marlowe had found his way into one of the more foreboding corners of the room, and was currently attempting to have a discussion with a demonic entity about its appetizer—it looked like one of those big fried onions.

Of all the
things
in the bar, of course Marlowe had to bother that one.

Demons were foul; there was just no other way to describe them.

Knowledge of the dark entities was scarce, but some in the know believed they were a life-form that existed in the all-encompassing darkness before the Lord God turned on the lights, while others thought they were one of God's failed experiments, something that went really, really wrong.

Nonetheless, they existed, even after multiple attempts by various angelic hosts to wipe them out. And they waited in the shadows for their opportunity to bring darkness back to the world, in any form they could.

Like this one, for example
, Remy thought as he slid from his stool and moved past the tables and chairs to get to the scene.
This one wants to cause problems by hurting my dog.

Not a good idea.

The demon had stood up from its chair, its pale, moist flesh glistening in the candlelight from the table. The creature was completely hairless and glared at Marlowe with eyes like two red LEDs adrift in twin pools of darkness. Its mouth was pulled back in a snarl that could have been disgust, or rage, and its sharp yellow teeth were as rude as the rest of it.

Marlowe, on the other hand, was sitting before the demon's table, looking as pretty as could be, tail wagging happily—the perfect example of a good dog who deserved a piece, or two, or three, of somebody's onion appetizer. It was obvious that Marlowe really wasn't picking up on the hostility.

"Marlowe, no," Remy commanded.

The Labrador looked his way with that perfectly simple look, drool trailing from the sides of his grinning maw.

"You know it's not polite to beg," Remy scolded.

"
Food
," the dog woofed excitedly, looking back at the demon still standing by its table.

Pointed spines had begun to emerge from the demon's pale flesh, their tips, dangerously sharp, dripping with moisture.

"There's no need for that," Remy said to the demon, his voice booming.

Methuselah's became deathly quiet as all eyes turned to Remy and conversation stopped. Obviously they'd had no idea there would be entertainment this night.

The demon cocked its head strangely, studying Remy. It had no nose, but Remy could see some form of a sensory organ, pulsing beneath the wet skin that was pulled tight across the angular skull of its horrible face.

"You should pay better attention to your pet," the demon said. Its voice sounded as pleasant as fingernails being dragged down a blackboard.

"I know; I'm sorry about that," Remy said with as much honesty as he could muster.

The Seraphim was still awake, and it rose to the situation.

"Sometimes his belly gets the better of him," Remy said goodnaturedly. "We're sorry to have disturbed your meal."

He was about to call Marlowe away again, but the demon had other things in mind.

"This cur invaded my personal space," it screeched, turning its attention back to Marlowe, who had remained sitting, still staring at the untouched fried onion in the middle of the table. "I am within my rights to harm it."

And then the demon did a very bad thing. It extended its long, bony index finger, one of the dripping poison quills pointed directly at Marlowe's face.

And for that, the Seraphim emerged.

Remy's body erupted in light, the human flesh that he wore on the verge of being shed. Remy could barely restrain the divine power that had bubbled to the surface of his humanity, ready to cast it aside and lay waste to this loathsome being.

"Stay your hand, wretch," the angel Remiel ordered, the power of his words and the radiance of his presence causing the demon to cry out in pain. It dropped to the floor of the tavern, averting its sensitive eyes from the light of Heaven.

In the light cast by his angelic frame, Remy could see the reaction that his actions had caused. The patrons of Methuselah's looked upon him with expressions of fear and awe, the glory of his form forcing the shadows from every nook and cranny, and filling them with the Almighty's resplendent light.

And then he saw something that didn't seem to belong in a place such as this; in a far corner, now cleansed of concealing shadow, two fearsome angels of Heaven—of the Retriever host—tensed for conflict.

They were clad in the awesome armor of their class, and all Remy could think of was a stealth bomber, ready to lay waste to an enemy and its territories. Their eyes were cold, and their exposed flesh resembled the surface of glacial ice.

These were the personification of God's intensity, His desire to reclaim any and all that had been taken from Him.

Sensing the potential for escalating violence, Remy pulled back upon his holy essence, tucking it fitfully away before matters could get out of hand.

His flesh tingled like the aftereffects of a severe sunburn, but his humanity remained intact.

As his divine light was extinguished, the darkness wasted no time in rushing back to flood the secret corners, swallowing up the mysteries that had momentarily been exposed.

Why are Retrievers here?
Remy wondered, but that was something he would have to think about later, and in another place.

He'd worn out his welcome at Methuselah's.

The patrons continued to watch him with equal parts fear and hostility. Marlowe, on the other hand, sat, completely unfazed by the activity around him, his eyes still fixed on the prize on the table.

"You know dogs can't have onions," Remy said, grabbing his collar and pulling him away.

The demon cowered on the floor, a foul-smelling fluid leaking from its moist, almost luminescent flesh.

"Never threaten a man's dog," Remy said to the trembling thing. Then, holding on to Marlowe's collar, Remy escorted the Labrador back to the bar where Methuselah watched.

"Sorry about that," Remy said, but the golem remained quiet. "What do I owe you for the Scotch?" Remy asked, using his free hand to fish his wallet from his back pocket.

Methuselah held up his blocky hand. "It's on the house," he said with a rumble of stone against stone.

"Thanks, I appreciate it," Remy said. He pulled a business card from his wallet and laid it on top of the superclean wooden bar.

The golem reached for it, delicately picking it up.

"If you should hear anything or think of anything about those marks I mentioned, give me a call."

Sliding the card inside his vest pocket, Methuselah nodded. "Will do."

Marlowe in tow, Remy started for the door, still feeling the eyes of the tavern upon him.

The minotaur stood up from its chair by the door, giving Remy the hairy eyeball as it opened the door for them.

"Sorry for the commotion," Remy said again, loud enough for Methuselah and the remaining patrons to hear.

And the minotaur slammed closed the heavy tavern door behind Remy and Marlowe with a good-riddance-to-bad-rubbish kind of grunt.