He pulled a small flashlight from his jacket pocket and turned it on, the thin beam of light cutting through the murk. He was in a small hallway that led to a kitchen.
The room appeared clean—too clean. It had been used recently, not like the rest of what was around him. Covered in thick dust, the place looked to have been abandoned more than a few years ago.
Across the kitchen was a swinging door, and he went through into a corridor. There was a flight of stairs leading up to the next level on his right, and a short hallway that led to the rectory's main office. He checked out the office next. All he found was an old grime-covered desk and a broken wooden chair.
Remy returned to the stairs and climbed to the next floor. He stood on the landing, shining his light across closed doors to rooms that would have once housed the priests of the Saint Mathias parish. There was a strong, musty smell of dampness on the second floor—and something else.
As Remy approached the first door, he tried to convince himself that in a building this old, and in such disrepair, the offending smell could have come from a number of sources: a dead mouse or rat, maybe even a pigeon.
He turned the old-fashioned metal knob. The first door swung open. A rusty box spring lay on the floor in the room's center. There was a clean spot on the yellowed wallpaper where a crucifix had once hung.
At the next door, the smell was stronger, and Remy prepared himself. He opened the door and found a rat, its withered carcass caught in a trap. He let the beam of light linger on the desiccated rodent corpse, surprised at the amount of stink that still emanated from the remains.
The third room proved to be the charm. This knob was warm to the touch, but he barely noticed as he swung the creaking door wide, moving the beam of his light around the nearly empty room.
Nearly empty. At first he thought it was a sleeping bag, the encampment of some vagrant who found shelter from the harsh New England cold. But then he realized otherwise.
Remy entered the room, his light trained upon the unmoving shape on the bedroom floor. It took him a moment to process what it was that he was looking at. It was a body, wrapped up in strips of heavy cloth like a mummy. Only the face was left exposed.
A face that Remy knew.
He held the light on Noah's face. Somebody had cleaned him up, washing the dried blood from his battered face and white beard.
Preparing him for burial.
Around the old man's body, somebody had dropped slides, as if in some sort of tribute, pictures of all the animal species the old man had saved escorting him on his way to the afterlife.
The sudden sound of a floorboard creaking behind him caused him to spin around, his flashlight beam searching out the source. But he found only an empty doorway, the door slowly closing on its own.
The ringing of his cell nearly gave him a heart attack.
He lowered his flashlight and fished the phone from his pocket. It was Francis.
That was when the creatures chose to make their move. There were three of them. Their pale flesh glowed translucently in the darkness of the room as they emerged from the shadows. They were lightning quick, swatting his cell from his hand. Remy could hear the faint voice of Francis, calling out his name as the phone slid across the floor.
Remy opened his mouth to try and communicate, to experiment with the theory that perhaps these creatures—these Chimerian, which he was pretty convinced they were—were not as threatening as Sariel had painted them to be.
But he didn't get the chance. Their strikes against him were savage, relentless, driving him to the floor beside the wrapped corpse of Noah. Just as he was about to call on the destructive forces that resided within him, he felt a taloned hand grip his hair. Savagely, the creature slammed his head back against the hardwood floor.
And as the flood of darkness rushed in to drag Remy down, he heard a voice cry out.
"No, do not harm this one," it said. "He isn't one of them."
A mysterious voice that saved his life.
TWELVE
I have something to show you, said the whispering voice, sounding very much like his Madeline, but he knew that it wasn't.
Something… someone was attempting to communicate with him, to show him something of great importance. All he had to do was accept the offer.
"Show me," Remy said aloud, suddenly finding himself awake.
At once he realized that he was no longer in the dusty old room of the Saint Mathias rectory.
There was cold stone beneath him, numbing his human flesh with its freezing temperature. Remy climbed to his feet, squinting in the darkness. He did not want to do it, but no longer in possession of his flashlight, he had no real alternative. Carefully he called upon the power of the divine once more, igniting his hand with the fires of Heaven.
In the illumination of its golden flame, he found that he was in some sort of vast underground chamber, its walls covered in thick glacial ice.
"Are you cold?" asked a voice from somewhere close by.
Remy directed the light of his hand toward an outcropping of jagged rock. A figure wrapped in a blanket sat on the ground, leaning back against a wall of ancient stone.
"You're welcome to share my blanket," he offered.
Remy walked toward the man, and the light thrown from his hand revealed a somewhat familiar face. "I know you," he said as the identity of the stranger came to him. "You're the angel we brought from the rig."
"Were you there?" the angel asked. "I thought Sariel had returned alone." The angel was a mess, looking worse even than he had after Sariel's beating.
"Did he do that to you?" Remy asked.
The angel brought broken and scabbed fingers to his horribly bruised and swollen face. "He did," the angel said. "For not telling him what he wanted to know."
"Who are you?" Remy asked. "And what's your part in all of this?"
"I am Armaros," the angel said, pushing himself up, using the stone wall for support. "And I was supposed to be Sariel's spy."
The angel stepped closer, and the light from Remy's hand showed him the extent of how badly he'd been beaten. Remy hadn't seen injuries this savage since…
Noah.
"When Noah started talking about how the Chimerian had survived, Sariel became worried. He assigned me to be the old man's assistant, to help him with the search." Armaros pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
"But I was really there to keep tabs on Noah's expeditions, and to alert Sariel and my brothers if anything was ever found."
"Which it was," Remy stated.
A strange, almost beatific expression came over the fallen angel's bruised face. "Yes," he said. "Yes, we found a small number of them, but I couldn't bring myself to tell Sariel. I knew why he wanted to know if the Chimerian had survived."
Remy stared, already guessing the answer.
"He wanted to destroy them," Armaros stated, his voice trembling with emotion. "He wanted to complete what the deluge had failed to."
Something moved in the darkness behind them and Remy turned toward the sound, pushing back the darkness with the light of the divine.
Three of the Chimerian hissed angrily, scurrying back to the protection of the shadows.
"They don't mean you any harm," Armaros reassured him, moving around Remy to get to the creatures. "They're just afraid."
Armaros knelt down, calling them to him.
Remy had lowered his hand, the light thrown now at a minimum. He watched as they emerged, cautiously moving toward Armaros at his urgings.
They came to the Grigori, and he put his arms around the pale-skinned creatures. They clung to him with their clawed hands, nuzzling in the crook of his neck.