Remy picked up the cell phone resting in his lap and tried Cresthaven again. He'd been calling every five minutes since he'd left his office, and he still couldn't get through.

Speeding through a yellow light in front of the Museum of Fine Arts, he narrowly missed a group of tourists who had foolishly stepped out to catch the T across the street.

The phone continued to ring in his ear, but no one answered. Images of violence filled his mind — death and destruction hidden in an undulating fog of total darkness, falling upon the convalescent home, all the lives within threatened because of him, because of the life he had so selfishly chosen.

And because of the task with which Heaven had charged him.

"Damn it," Remy hissed, tossing the useless piece of technology onto the passenger's seat. He was almost there. His eyes scanned the horizon for smoke and flames, but everything appeared to be perfectly normal. He, of all people, knew that appearances could be deceiving.

Luck was with him, and he found a parking space easily. He was out of the car and running across South Huntington Ave. at full speed, distantly aware of parts of his body aching in protest.

He charged through the doors of Cresthaven and into the lobby. Everything seemed perfectly fine, except for the look on the receptionist's face. Her eyes were wide, mouth hanging open, as she stared at him.

"Are…are you all right, Mr. Chandler?" she asked, her voice high and wavering, as she slowly began to stand.

And then he realized what he must look like. He glanced down at the front of his light blue button-down shirt, spattered with stains of drying blood. His knuckles were scuffed and bleeding, and he could only imagine how his face appeared after the beating his enemies had given him.

"Yes," he said, not really sure how to continue. "I was trying to call, but…"

"The lines have been down since early this morning," the receptionist explained. "I called the phone company with my cell and they said they're working on the problem. I guess there was a fire on Center Street this morning and…»

Remy felt his legs grow wobbly, and he thought he just might need to sit down.

"What the hell happened to you?" a familiar voice bellowed, and he looked to see Nurse Joan coming around the corner. She was wearing bright red scrub pants and a top decorated with the characters from Loo-ney Tunes.

He felt himself begin to sag, but then Joan's strong arm took hold of his, preventing him from falling.

"Do I need to call the police?" she asked in a hushed tone.

Remy shook his head and wished he hadn't, as the lobby began to spin. His attackers had taken more out of him than he imagined, and the surge of adrenaline that had gotten him here was waning.

"No, I'm fine. Job hazard; had a little run-in with some folks who don't appreciate a case I'm working on." And before Joan could respond, he added, "Madeline, is she okay?"

Joan nodded, holding firmly onto his arm, escorting him out of the lobby. "She's fine," the woman explained. "Had a rough night, but she's resting now. I was just down with her."

Remy nodded. "Good. That's good. As long as she's all right. I need to see her."

He started to pull away, but met with firm resistance.

"You go down there looking like that, your momma's gonna get sicker than she already is," Joan said, dragging him toward the nurses' break room.

He was desperate to see his wife, but he knew Joan was right, so he allowed himself to be escorted through the doorway into the small room. There was a table in the center with chairs around it, a watercooler in the far corner, and a refrigerator on the other side. To his left was a sink with cabinets above it.

"Sit," Joan ordered, and he did. "I'll be back in a minute."

Remy didn't argue, actually glad to be seated. He looked at his knuckles, at the torn skin, and flexed his hand. He was already starting to heal. In a day or so he'd be as good as new.

If only his pride would heal so quickly.

Joan came back into the room, arms loaded with medical supplies. "And I don't want to hear any complaining from you," she said, setting the stuff down on the tabletop. "This is probably gonna hurt like hell, but what did you expect?"

She started by cleaning the gash over his eye, and then moved on to the other cuts and abrasions. There was nothing she could do about the bruising.

"Tell me one thing," she asked, stepping back to look at her handiwork. "Does the other guy look as bad?"

Remy laughed, his ribs hurting sharply with the movement.

"Don't know," he gasped. "It was too dark to see."

"By the looks of these, you done all right," Joan said, cleaning off his knuckles with an alcohol wipe.

She tossed the used supplies in the barrel, then, putting her hands on her broad hips, she gave him the once-over again.

"Well, you still look like hell, but at least you won't be giving the poor old thing a heart attack."

Remy stood. "Thanks, Joan," he said, pushing his chair back beneath the table. "I owe you one."

"One? Then you can't count," she said, gathering up the unused supplies and turning to leave the break room.

Remy followed her through the door, turning in the direction of his wife's room.

"And don't you go waking your mother up," Joan called out. "If she's still asleep, you leave her alone. She needs her rest."

"Gotcha, and thanks again." Remy waved over his shoulder and continued on to Madeline's room. The nurse said nothing more, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking noisily as she went.

He passed the doorways of other residents, some asleep, others watching television from their beds, or simply sitting in chairs in their rooms. And from somewhere down the long hallway, a soul cried out for release.

Remy reached Madeline's doorway and slowed as he entered the room, not wanting to startle her if she was awake. But he needn't have worried. She was fast asleep, lying on her side, and he was reminded of the thousands of times he'd watched her sleep, sometimes for hours at a time. He used to find a certain peace in the act, a special solace, but now it only made him feel sad.

Careful not to make a sound, he moved a chair closer to the bed. He felt a certain amount of relief seeing her alive and unharmed by his mysterious foes, but there was also despair. She looked paler than usual, an expression of pain permanently present on her features. He reached out, moving a stray lock of gray hair from her sweat-dappled forehead, then reached beneath the covers to take her hand in his. It was cold, the chilling sensation worming its way to his heart.

And as he watched her lying there in the hold of sleep, he knew that it was only a matter of time before the illness claimed her. It would be so easy, he thought, his thumb lightly caressing the soft flesh of her hand. To ignore the Seraphims' request — to do what his attackers had demanded of him — to lie down and do nothing.

To have more time with her would be wonderful, but at what cost?

Madeline groaned, the discomfort of her illness etched upon her face, even in sleep.

But at what cost?

He couldn't do that to her.

Remy let go of his wife's hand, placing it beneath the covers, and got up. He put the chair back where he'd found it and returned to Madeline's bedside, allowing himself just a minute more to stare before bending down and kissing her on the forehead.

He had to go. There were things he needed to do — people he needed to see — if he had any hopes of finding Israfil.

Though it pained him to do so, he had to speak to the Watchers.

Remy removed his bloodstained shirt and threw it on the bed.

"I'm fine," he told the Labrador standing in the doorway, as he grabbed a clean shirt from his closet. "I got a little bit banged up, but I'll be all right. Okay?"