It took his wife's illness, not the seemingly never-ending traffic, to finally stop their visits.

They continued off the bridge up Route 6 to Well-fleet. Remy could feel a knot of anxiety growing in the pit of his stomach.

For about five seconds, after his final words with Madeline, he'd seriously considered just calling it quits, returning to Beacon Hill, picking up Marlowe, and going home to wait it out.

Losing the one you love had the ability to make you think some really stupid things. It had taken four seconds to come to this conclusion, and another second to berate himself for wasting time.

"How we doing?" Francis interrupted Remy's thoughts. They were on a long stretch of road, undeveloped property that wasn't likely to remain that way on either side.

Remy unfolded the map he'd printed out from Map-Quest earlier and gave it a quick perusal. "Ravenbrook Lane should be coming up on our right," he said, and before too long, Francis pulled the car over and turned off the Land Rover's engine.

"We're here," he said, leaning his bald head against the driver's-side window, gazing out at the weather. "So much for it clearing up."

Remy observed that even though it was morning, it seemed as dark as night here. "Figures," he said. "You finally get to come to the Cape and it's raining."

"Isn't it always that way, though?" Francis asked.

"Isn't it?" Remy responded in kind.

They got out of the SUV, going around to the back of the vehicle. Francis used his key to open the hatchback and put down the gate. He reached inside the back, throwing aside a blanket and opening a storage compartment.

"Now, I want you to be nice to these," Francis said, pulling out the items that were wrapped in a navy blue blanket. "They're quite valuable."

He set the blanket down on the gate and carefully began to unwrap it.

Remy had sensed them as soon as Francis opened the hatchback, like a tiny, musical voice singing from somewhere far off in the distance.

The two swords appeared ancient; their once-resplendent surfaces tarnished nearly black by the passing of years. He found himself stepping back, away from the blades.

It wasn't often that swords forged in the fires of God's fury showed up minus their owners.

"How did you come by these?" he asked, not able to take his eyes from the weapons.

"They were part of a cache of Heavenly weapons that supposedly went missing during the war," Francis explained. "Haven't a clue what happened to the others. These two were found in an archeological dig in Lebanon fifty or so years ago." The fallen angel stared lovingly at the blades. "Do you know how many bad guys I had to kill in order to afford these babies?"

Remy scowled. He'd never appreciated Francis' extracurricular activities as a hired assassin.

"Take your pick," his friend told him.

It had been thousands of years since he'd last wielded a sword, and he had sworn that he'd never do it again.

The weapons whispered to him of what they could accomplish in his hand; the enemies that would fall before their righteous power.

"I don't mean to rush you," Francis said over the hissing whispers of the weaponry. "But there's this thing called the Apocalypse we're trying to avoid."

Francis was right, and he had no choice this time.

"I'll take this one," Remy said as he reached down to the blanket, taking a tarnished blade by the hilt.

And the sword began to sing.

In the hands of any other, the sword would have been just that, performing as such, but in the hands of a member of God's Heavenly host, it was so much more.

The blade vibrated in his grasp, the heavy accumulation of tarnish and grime burning away in a snaking trail of oily smoke. He could feel the weapon attempting to make contact with his true nature, and silenced the communication with his mind.

"I think it likes you," Francis said.

Remy stared at the weapon in his hand. It had started to glow, sparks of yellow flame leaping from the blade's edge as he passed it through the air.

Francis claimed his own weapon, but with little effect. The blade remained the same, its surface dark and stained. The sword did not react to him, for he had fallen from the grace of the Creator.

"Not as pretty as yours, but it'll do," he said, slicing the air with the weapon, trying it out. "Oh yeah, take one of these too."

There was a smaller package wrapped within the blanket, and Francis flipped it open to reveal two ornate daggers. "The two sort of go together," he explained, handing Remy a knife with similar markings to those on the hilt of his sword.

Not sure where he should put it, Remy slid the knife through his belt, looking down to make sure that it would stay. It did.

"All right, then," he said with a sigh. "Should we give this a shot?"

Francis adjusted his glasses and hefted his sword. He had put his knife in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "Yeah, what the fuck? Already made the drive."

They walked side by side — swords in hand — down the dirt driveway that led to a small cottage. They'd willed themselves invisible. If anyone had seen them, the police would have been called immediately, reporting that there were two crazy people walking down the street with swords.

It was a traditional-style Cape dwelling, with un-painted, weathered shingles, a carved American eagle hanging above the front door, and lobster traps deco-ratively placed against the house on either side of the steps.

"Quaint," Francis said, changing his sword from one hand to the other.

"Yeah, I'm sure it's what every angel dreams of having," Remy said, looking around for any sign that they might not have been alone. The smell of the ocean was heavy in the breeze, the wind whipping the rain nearly horizontal.

"We going in?" Francis asked. The lenses of his glasses covered with raindrops, and Remy had to wonder how he could possibly see.

"I was thinking we should," Remy said, moving toward the front steps.

Francis followed, reaching ahead of him to take hold of the doorknob. "Allow me," he said, and he gave it a quick twist, an expression of surprise blooming on his face as the door opened easily.

"Look at that," he said. "I think we're expected."

The fallen angel threw open the door and bounded inside, his sword at the ready.

Remy followed, eyes darting around the living room as he closed the door behind him. A leather couch, a love seat, and three chairs, along with a coffee table and two end tables with matching lamps, made up the furnishings. Nothing looked out of place.

The house smelled stale, as if it had already been closed up tightly for the season.

Francis lowered his sword and headed toward the kitchen.

Remy closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, searching for a scent — any hint — that a member of his kind was there.

He didn't have long to wait.

"Hey, Remy," Francis called from the other room.

He continued through the living room and down a short brick corridor to a spacious kitchen that seemed much larger than it should. Francis stood beside a marble-topped island, gazing out through the glass sliding door at a wooden patio deck, and the beach beyond it.

Something was wrong with the beach.

It appeared to be low tide, but it was the lowest tide he had ever seen.

Multiple figures were standing upon what had once been the ocean floor, their attention riveted to the house.

"You think they're waiting for us?" Francis asked.

Remy looked at the sword in his hand; it had started to glow brighter, the golden flames sparking higher.

"I think we should go down and ask," he said. Francis looked through the glass of the sliding door. He made a face and shrugged. "Works for me."

Remy pulled open the sliding glass door to the deck outside.