should have been dead but were not.
Not good. Not good at all.
Remy climbed the steps to the converted brownstone and entered the lobby. He checked his mailbox and found that the postman had already been by with his daily dose of bills. This time it was electric and phone. Making his way to his office on the second floor, he swore that the utility companies had started billing more than once a month, for it didn’t seem possible that the services had come due yet again.
The angel tensed as he pushed the key into the lock and turned it. There was no mistaking the smell wafting out from within his office. He listened to the clacking sound as the bolt slid back, unlocking his office door. It had been quite some time since he had last breathed in that thick, heady aroma. To the human nose, it would smell like a strange mix of cinnamon and burning tires.
To an angel, it smelled of power.
Remy turned the knob and swung open the door.
They were waiting for him. Four of them, each dressed in stylish suits of solid black with white shirts buttoned up to their throats. They stood before his desk, their broad backs to him, unresponsive to his entrance.
Remy entered the office just as he did any other day of the week, putting his keys back in his pocket and gently shutting the door. He placed his mail in a wicker basket that rested atop a gray file cabinet to the right of the door. The basket had once contained a plant sent to him as thanks from a satisfied customer, but not anymore. He had never been very good with plants.
His visitors still did not move, and Remy continued to act as if they weren’t there, grabbing the glass carafe from the coffeemaker that sat on a small brown refrigerator on the other side of the file cabinet. He leaned over, opened the fridge, and removed a jug of springwater. He filled the carafe, then placed the water jug back inside. Allowing the refrigerator door to close by itself, he turned to finally acknowledge his guests.
“Coffee?” he asked, plucking a filter from a box. He placed it in the machine and filled it with several scoops of the rich-smelling brew, then poured the contents of the glass carafe through the plastic grill on top and flicked the switch to on. The machine gurgled to life.
He knew them, these silent visitors, each and every one of the strange figures who stood perfectly still before his empty desk, staring off into space. They were Seraphim, one of the highest orders of angels in the kingdom of Heaven. At one time, they had been his brothers.
One of the Seraphim slowly turned his gaze away from the wall and fixed the detective with an intense, unblinking stare. The eyes were large and completely black, the actual look of the human eyeball a detail considered trivial by its wearer. His name was Nathanuel, and he was their leader.
As he opened his mouth to speak, Remy knew it had been some time since the angel last wore the clothes of flesh, remembering the difficulty he himself had encountered after his decision to be human. “Coffee. Yes, I would enjoy coffee.” The voice sounded wrong, the cadence off. Human speech was far more complicated than any angel knew.
The coffeemaker hissed and burbled loudly as the final drops of water passed through its innards.
“Hope you like it strong. It gets me through the day.”
He was talking to them as if they were new clients— as if they were of this earth. That was a mistake.
Nathanuel laughed suddenly, harshly. It was how the angel imagined a human laugh should sound, but no human would have recognized as laughter the strange barking noise that sounded entirely bestial.
Remy looked over at the Seraphim leader.
“Something wrong?”
Nathanuel continued to stare at him. “You need coffee to keep you going. That is amusing.”
Remy turned back to the coffeepot. “Yeah, a real riot.” He set two mugs down, a black and an olive green, then looked toward the other Seraphim who were still engrossed in the empty wall
Not good. Not good at all.
Remy climbed the steps to the converted brownstone and entered the lobby. He checked his mailbox and found that the postman had already been by with his daily dose of bills. This time it was electric and phone. Making his way to his office on the second floor, he swore that the utility companies had started billing more than once a month, for it didn’t seem possible that the services had come due yet again.
The angel tensed as he pushed the key into the lock and turned it. There was no mistaking the smell wafting out from within his office. He listened to the clacking sound as the bolt slid back, unlocking his office door. It had been quite some time since he had last breathed in that thick, heady aroma. To the human nose, it would smell like a strange mix of cinnamon and burning tires.
To an angel, it smelled of power.
Remy turned the knob and swung open the door.
They were waiting for him. Four of them, each dressed in stylish suits of solid black with white shirts buttoned up to their throats. They stood before his desk, their broad backs to him, unresponsive to his entrance.
Remy entered the office just as he did any other day of the week, putting his keys back in his pocket and gently shutting the door. He placed his mail in a wicker basket that rested atop a gray file cabinet to the right of the door. The basket had once contained a plant sent to him as thanks from a satisfied customer, but not anymore. He had never been very good with plants.
His visitors still did not move, and Remy continued to act as if they weren’t there, grabbing the glass carafe from the coffeemaker that sat on a small brown refrigerator on the other side of the file cabinet. He leaned over, opened the fridge, and removed a jug of springwater. He filled the carafe, then placed the water jug back inside. Allowing the refrigerator door to close by itself, he turned to finally acknowledge his guests.
“Coffee?” he asked, plucking a filter from a box. He placed it in the machine and filled it with several scoops of the rich-smelling brew, then poured the contents of the glass carafe through the plastic grill on top and flicked the switch to on. The machine gurgled to life.
He knew them, these silent visitors, each and every one of the strange figures who stood perfectly still before his empty desk, staring off into space. They were Seraphim, one of the highest orders of angels in the kingdom of Heaven. At one time, they had been his brothers.
One of the Seraphim slowly turned his gaze away from the wall and fixed the detective with an intense, unblinking stare. The eyes were large and completely black, the actual look of the human eyeball a detail considered trivial by its wearer. His name was Nathanuel, and he was their leader.
As he opened his mouth to speak, Remy knew it had been some time since the angel last wore the clothes of flesh, remembering the difficulty he himself had encountered after his decision to be human. “Coffee. Yes, I would enjoy coffee.” The voice sounded wrong, the cadence off. Human speech was far more complicated than any angel knew.
The coffeemaker hissed and burbled loudly as the final drops of water passed through its innards.
“Hope you like it strong. It gets me through the day.”
He was talking to them as if they were new clients— as if they were of this earth. That was a mistake.
Nathanuel laughed suddenly, harshly. It was how the angel imagined a human laugh should sound, but no human would have recognized as laughter the strange barking noise that sounded entirely bestial.
Remy looked over at the Seraphim leader.
“Something wrong?”
Nathanuel continued to stare at him. “You need coffee to keep you going. That is amusing.”
Remy turned back to the coffeepot. “Yeah, a real riot.” He set two mugs down, a black and an olive green, then looked toward the other Seraphim who were still engrossed in the empty wall
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