"That's a good boy." Remy patted Marlowe's side. "We'll get a good night's rest and be able to look at things more clearly in the morning. How does that sound?"

"Love Remy," Marlowe said, tail thumping upon the mattress, looking, with deep, soulful eyes, over his shoulder at the angel.

"I love you too, pal," Remy answered, reaching over to turn off the bedside light. "Now let's get some sleep."

Remy lay in the darkness, the rhythmic changes in Marlowe's breathing as he gradually drifted off helping him to relax.

It wasn't long before he too was asleep.

And dreaming.

It was like something out of a spaghetti western.

Remy found himself standing in front of an old train station. The wood of the place was weather beaten and dry, and the floorboards creaked noisily as he shifted his weight.

The angel was alone.

He looked out across the broad expanse of desert, following the dark, metal tracks as they curved off into the horizon, where an angry orange sun was just starting to rise. A sudden wind kicked up, blowing thick clouds of dust and sand off the desert, and Remy shielded his eyes from the grit and grime. He looked down at himself and

saw that he was wearing his Brooks Brothers suit — his best suit — the one that he wore to weddings and funerals. Offhandedly, he wondered what the occasion was.

At first, he mistook the sound for the wind, a low, moaning sound that seemed to come up out of nowhere, filling the empty expanse around him. But then he heard it in tandem with another sound, and he knew exactly what it was.

A train was coming.

He put a hand upon his brow and squinted into the morning light.

The train appeared as an unsightly blotch against the orange of the rising sun, a thick plume of black smoke trailing from its smokestack.

Remy walked down the length of platform toward the oncoming locomotive. It was big, larger than any train he'd ever seen before, its metal body blacker than the smoke that plumed from its unusually tall stack. But it wasn't just its appearance that was strange; the way the train moved along the track was almost as if it were somehow more than just a machine — strangely alive, like some huge, prehistoric predator, slithering down the length of track, following the scent of its prey.

He knew then, as he stood upon the lonely platform, that the train coming into the station carried no more than four riders. And each of these riders brought with them a means by which to begin the Apocalypse.

The Horsemen were coming.

And the end of all things followed them.

Remy awakened with a start, the image of the fearsome locomotive barreling toward him as he stood upon the station platform seared into his mind's eye.

His heart was racing, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his entire body. He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, an occasional car passing by on the street below causing oddly shaped shadows to slide across the white surface. But he paid them little attention; his thoughts replaying the events of the bizarre dream.

He heard the train whistle, moaning somewhere in the back of his memory, the rhythmic pulse of the locomotive engine as it drew closer.

The Horsemen on the way.

It was then that he realized he was alone. He turned his head on the pillow, looking for Marlowe where he'd normally be, curled up into a tight ball near his head. But the dog wasn't there.

He sat up, looking down at the foot of the bed. He wasn't there either.

Remy was about to call out the dog's name when he heard a soft whimper from somewhere in the room.

"Marlowe?" Remy asked in the darkness.

Something scrabbled beneath the bed, nails scraping across the hardwood floor. Remy rose and knelt down, lifting the blanket and sheets that hung over the side of the bed and peering beneath. Marlowe's dark, glistening eyes stared back at him.

"What the heck are you doing under there?" Remy asked the animal.

"Scared," the dog told him.

"Scared of what?"

"Something coming… something big."

Remy felt an electric jolt of surprise. Had the animal shared his dream? "A train?" he asked. "Did you dream about a train?"

"Train," the dog agreed. "Train coming. Bad. Scared."

Remy reached into the shadows and scratched the dog behind the ear. "You don't have to be afraid," he soothed him. "Come on out."

"Scared," the dog said again.

"Well, okay, then," Remy said, dropping the sheets and beginning to stand. "Guess I'll just have to go for a walk by myself."

"Walk?" Marlowe barked, creating a racket as he clambered to extract his seventy-five pounds from the cramped confines beneath the bed.

"I thought you were too scared," Remy said, slipping on a pair of dark gray sweatpants.

Marlowe emerged from his hiding place, standing alert, tail wagging furiously, his fear already forgotten.

"Yeah," Remy chuckled as he pulled a sweatshirt on over his head.

"Walk."

Chapter six

Remy loved the dawn.

If the day before was lousy, it was a chance to try it all again. And if the new day didn't work out, well, there was always tomorrow.

A fresh start every day.

Before he had abandoned his angelic nature, there had been no dawn, no todays or tomorrows for him. After all, what was the passage of time to a being that would live forever? If nothing else, his decision to live as a human among them had made him realize how precious each new day really was.

Marlowe trotted along beside him, his chain collar jingling cheerfully. They stopped at the corner of Joy and Beacon Street, and Marlowe's tail began to wag happily as he caught sight of the Boston Common across the way.

"Common," he said, over and over again, his pink tongue flopping from the side of his mouth as he panted excitedly.

"Can't pull the wool over your eyes, can I, pal?" Remy said, eyeing the early morning traffic.

A yellow Boston Herald truck slowed down with a squeal of old brakes, and the driver motioned for them to cross.

Remy waved his thanks, then gave a gentle tug on the leather leash. "C'mon," he said to Marlowe, and the two sprinted across the street and down the granite steps into the Common.

It was still relatively dark in the park, the sun not yet high enough to penetrate through the trees. Remy scanned the shadows, and seeing only a few joggers on the paths here and there, reached down to unclip the leash from Marlowe's collar. There was a leash law in Boston, but as long as it wasn't crowded and the dog didn't bother anybody, Remy didn't see the harm in letting him run a bit.

"Don't bother any of the joggers," he reminded, releasing the Labrador.

"No bother," Marlowe agreed, and trotted off through the trees. His black form merged with the shadows, the glint of the chain around his neck sometimes the only thing separating the dog from the darkness as he darted from tree to tree, nose pressed to the grass.

Marlowe was searching for rats. There was nothing the retriever loved more than chasing rats in the early morning hours on Boston Common. Remy didn't have to worry about his four-legged friend catching any of the vermin that prowled the public park; it was all about the chase with Marlowe.

The Boston Common and adjacent Public Garden formed Boston's equivalent of New York's Central Park. It was the oldest public park in the United States, and Remy could actually remember when its land was used for cattle grazing, and when British troops had camped here before marching out to face Colonial resistance at Lexington and Concord.