Mean Streets

"You agreed to this," Remy repeated, resigning himself from question to statement.

"Yeah," Francis said, breaking off another piece of waffle and shoveling it into his mouth.

"Do you understand what he wants you to do?" Remy asked. "He wants you to help them kill these creatures… these survivors."

"He said that you were on board, too," Francis told him, reaching for his teacup.

"Of course he did." Remy had picked up the other half of his bagel, but placed it back on his plate. He couldn't even pretend to be hungry anymore. "I just can't wrap my brain around the idea of wiping them out," he said.

"Think of it this way: they're murderers," Francis said flatly. “And they shouldn't even be alive. The flood should've erased them from the world."

Remy poured himself another cup of coffee, not buying the Guardian's justification.

"Think of it as tidying up," Francis stressed. "We'd be setting things right."

"We'd be committing murder."

"Is it murder when you put a rabid animal down?" Francis asked. "These things are likely dangerous. Can we take a risk on them maybe breeding and getting around?"

Remy knew that his friend's points were accurate, but something nagged at him, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"We don't know anything about them, other than what Sariel has told us."

"And?" Francis asked.

"When have we ever trusted anything Sariel has said?"

"Good point." Francis took a sip of his tea.

"I'm not comfortable with this," Remy said, removing the cloth napkin from his lap and placing it on the table.

"So does that mean you're not in?" Francis asked.

Remy fished fifty dollars out of his wallet and put it on the table.

"I don't know what it means."

"Do you want a lift?" Francis asked. "Let me finish here and—"

"Think I'll walk," Remy told him. "It'll give me a chance to think this through. I'll call you later."

"Sounds like a plan," Francis said, as he continued to eat. "And thanks for breakfast."

"Everything all right?" the hostess asked as Remy passed her on his way out.

He smiled, tempted to tell her the truth. No, things weren't all right. Not in the least.

It was a nice day, not that Remy noticed at all.

He walked across Arlington Street and through the Public Garden, heading toward the Boston Common. People were just starting to hit the streets on their way to work, flowing up from the Park Street T Station and trickling down from the many small streets that made up Beacon Hill.

Remy wandered against the tide heading to Downtown Crossing, the financial district and Government Center, making his own way home up through the Common to Joy Street.

As he walked, the same thoughts bounced around inside his head. He didn't want to be like them… like the Grigori, and even Francis. He would have been perfectly content to live like those bustling along to work around him.

Ignorant to the matters of the preternatural.

But he wasn't, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't ignore what he knew.

Especially when lives—human as well as angelic—might be at risk.

To say that Marlowe was happy to see him was an understatement. But that was one of the most glorious things about dogs, they were always happy to see you. The black Lab met Remy at the door, panting like a freight train, tail wagging so fast that Remy thought he was going to take off for sure.

"Remy!" the dog barked. "Remy! Remy! Remy!"

"Hello, hello," Remy said with a laugh, pushing the dog aside so that he could get in and close the door.

"Thought gone," the dog said, eagerly licking Remy's hand.

"Yep, I was gone but now I'm back," he reassured the animal.

Remy walked down the hallway, excited dog by his side.

"Did Ashley stop by to feed you?" he asked, already knowing that she had.

"No," the dog said, standing at attention in the kitchen.

The dog's answer took him by surprise.

"No?" he asked.

"No feed,” he growled. "Hungry."

Remy glanced around the room, noticing the empty food bowl and the full water dish. He also saw the note on the counter near the coffeepot and Ashley's unmistakable scrawl telling him that Marlowe had been fed and taken out. She'd even drawn a smiley face at the bottom of the note.

"Then what's this?" Remy asked, picking up the note and showing the dog.

"Paper," the dog answered, tail wagging. "Rip?"

"No, you can't rip it. It's a note from Ashley telling me that you already ate," Remy said. "You've been nabbed, good sir."

"Nabbed, good sir," Marlowe repeated sadly.

Remy laughed. The Lab had a bottomless pit for a stomach and often tried this trick to get an extra meal. It had worked a few times with Madeline, but never with Remy.

His wife had been too trusting.

He flashed back to the last vision he'd had of her aboard the rig, the sensation of warmth on his hand as it was placed upon her stomach.

"A gift of our union," she had said.