Charlaine Harris - An Apple for the Creature

It was a slow day at Chandler Investigations, which wasn’t unusual, and why Remy had decided to bring his four-legged pal to work with him. Some paperwork, maybe a few follow-up phone calls, and then he’d be free for the rest of the day.

Unless something unexpected came up.

Some of the more interesting examples of the unexpected he’d experienced over recent months passed through his thoughts as he double-checked some math on the report: investigating the possibility of a demon incursion in a Southie housing project, making sure that a cache of Heavenly armaments didn’t fall into the wrong hands, a lunch meeting at the Four Seasons with the archangel Michael to discuss his possible return to the Golden City, and of course there was the time that he had to avert the Apocalypse.

Not the types of jobs usually associated with a typical private investigator, but Remy Chandler was far from typical.

Remiel, as he had been called when serving in the angelic forces of the Lord God, was of the Heavenly host, Seraphim, a warrior angel who had fought valiantly in the Great War against the forces of Lucifer Morningstar. It was that war that had soured Remiel to the ways of Heaven, and he had abandoned the Kingdom of God, choosing instead to live on the earth with the Creator’s most amazing creations, losing himself amongst them for thousands of years; suppressing his angelic nature, doing everything in his power to be one of them.

To be human.

But that had proven to be far more difficult than he had expected, as things of a supernatural nature had a tendency to find him, even though he did everything in his power not to be found.

He opened his desk drawer to remove the stapler, the clattering of items in the drawer disturbing the Labrador lying ruglike at his feet.

“Why noise?” Marlowe asked in annoyance.

“I’m sorry,” Remy responded, using the gift of tongues common to all those with an angelic heritage, and one that Remy didn’t mind using, especially when dealing with the four-year-old black Labrador.

“Didn’t mean to disturb you, Your Highness,” Remy joked as he stapled the sheets together.

“Noisy,” Marlowe grumbled again, then settled his head back down on the hardwood floor with a disgusted sigh.

Remy laughed as he found an envelope in another drawer, and a sheet of stamps in the drawer beside that one, making as much noise as he could to play with the puppy a bit.

“Bite you,” the dog said, sitting up and glaring at him.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Remy warned, fighting the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

The dog sprang to his feet, his thick tail wagging so furiously that Remy couldn’t understand how it was that the dog didn’t take flight.

“Joke,” Marlowe said, shoving his large blocky head into Remy’s lap, looking to have his floppy ears scratched. “No bite—joke.”

“You’re such a bad dog,” Remy said, as he lovingly petted the animal.

“No bad dog,” Marlowe argued.

“Oh, yes, you are,” Remy said. “Only bad dogs threaten to bite their masters.”

Marlowe stood on his haunches, resting his front paws on Remy’s thigh so he could lick his best friend’s face. “No bite, joke!” Marlowe barked. “Joke! Joke! Joke!”

The private eye laughed, trying to avoid the dog’s pink, slobbering tongue.

The door into the office suddenly opened, and both Remy and Marlowe turned to see who had interrupted their play.

An older woman strode in as if she owned the place. She was tall, close to six feet, wearing a lambswool jacket and faded blue jeans. Her white hair was pulled back tightly in a long braid, her blue eyes slightly magnified behind her silver-framed glasses.

“Sounds like somebody has a bit of a discipline problem,” she said with a hint of a smile, as she closed the door behind her.

Seeing a new face was all he needed. An excited Marlowe bounded happily across the office to greet what he was certain would be another best friend to add to his collection.

“Stop,” the woman suddenly commanded, hand outstretched.

And Marlowe did just that, coming to a complete stop, staring up at her with large, attentive eyes.

“Sit,” she said, motioning with the same hand, slowly lowering it.

And Marlowe did that too.

“It appears he has the aptitude for the basics,” she said, looking to Remy, who was now coming around the side of his desk. “I’m guessing a lack of consistency in discipline might be the culprit.”

“Ya think?” Remy asked, as Marlowe scurried away from the woman, to cower behind him.

“I’ve never met a dog that I couldn’t train,” she said, staring at Marlowe as if he was a challenge. Then she looked back at Remy, and started toward him, hand extended. “Jacqueline Kinney,” she said.

“I’m Remy Chandler,” Remy responded, taking her hand and shaking it. It was rough and callused. “What can I do for you?”

Marlowe continued to watch the woman, scooting closer to press against his leg.

“I’d like to hire you, Mr. Chandler,” she said, looking around the office.

“What seems to be your problem, Ms. Kinney?”

“Jackie,” she told him. “Call me Jackie.”

“Okay, Jackie.” He gestured for her to take the chair in front of his desk as he went around to take his own. Marlowe remained close to him, as if some strange static charge had caused him to stick. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Thanks,” she said as she lowered herself down into the seat. “For the past month or so, someone has been trying to disrupt my business, and my life.”

Remy slid a notepad over in front of him and picked up a pen for writing notes.

“And why do you think that?”

She dug into the pocket of her coat and removed a folded piece of paper. “I found this in my mailbox not long before the problems started,” she said, as she leaned across the desk to hand the wrinkled paper to Remy.

BEWARE THE BAD HOUR it read in capital letters, obviously written by an angry hand.

“And you have no idea who could have left this?” Remy asked.

Jackie shook her head. “I didn’t even know what it meant, and thought it might be one of my staff pulling a joke.”

“I’m guessing it wasn’t?”

“No, they had no idea, or where it came from, and honestly, I threw it in my desk drawer and never gave it another thought—until the problems started.”

“Problems?” He set the note down and picked up his pen.

“It started really as a kind of feeling . . . an uneasiness in the air, I guess, and I wasn’t the only one to feel it. I run an obedience school and kennel, and the dogs staying in the kennel seemed to feel it too. They began barking and carrying on twenty-four-seven. In all my years of boarding dogs, and I’ve been doing this for a long time, I’ve never seen animals act that way. It was as if they could sense something coming.”

“The Bad Hour?” Remy suggested.

“Maybe.” Jackie shrugged. “Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

“Has there been anything other than this strange uneasiness that you and the kennel dogs have been feeling? A physical threat, maybe?”

“The uneasiness was just the beginning,” the older woman said, nodding. “It wasn’t long before I started to sense a presence . . . and then it started to show me that it was there, and what it could do.”

“A presence?” Remy questioned. “Do you mean like a ghost, or an evil spirit or something?”

“I wouldn’t know what to call it,” Jackie said. She was sitting taller in her chair, her breathing coming quicker. Whatever it was, it was clearly frightening her. “It likes to slam doors and slide furniture around in the middle of the night. I hear barking inside my bedroom, but I don’t have a dog of my own.”