A Deafening Silence In Heaven

Praise for the Remy Chandler Novels

Walking in the Midst of Fire

“Sniegoski continues to ramp up the stakes in the entertaining fifth hard-boiled adventure . . . complete and entertaining.”

—
Publishers Weekly

In the House of the Wicked

“Remy and his human friends are engagingly believable characters in a series noted for flashes of humor despite its overall serious tone. Series fans and followers of Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files will enjoy this urban fantasy.”

—
Library Journal

“A fun book . . . a thought-provoking book.”

—Innsmouth Free Press

“The conflict and situations within this novel are refreshingly personal. . . . The characters are varied and very well-developed, bringing life and humanity into this novel largely centered around the angelic pantheon. . . . A very powerful, very personal tale that is equal parts gut-wrenching, heartwarming, and awe-inspiring.”

—The Ranting Dragon

A Hundred Words for Hate

“Sniegoski nicely juggles a large cast and throws in some touching moments (Remy’s conversations with his late wife, Madeline, are especially sweet) and humor (as always, provided by Remy’s dog, Marlowe) to balance the epic violence. There’s more than enough nonintrusive exposition to let new readers jump into the story, while longtime fans will appreciate the development of recurring characters.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A fun, fast ride that takes advantage of a strong setting and interesting characters. And when a book combines that with serious angel smackdowns, really, what else do you need?”

—The Green Man Review

Where Angels Fear to Tread

“This strong, fast-paced noir fantasy is a treat. Remy is a compelling character, as he constantly struggles to hold on to the shred of humanity he forged for himself by suppressing the Seraphim. . . . This is one of the better noir fantasy–meets–gumshoe detective series on the market today.”

—Monsters and Critics

Dancing on the Head of a Pin

“[Sniegoski] nicely blends action, mystery, and fantasy into a well-paced story . . . a very emotional read, with the hero’s grief overshadowing his every move.”

—Darque Reviews

“Equal measures heartbreaking and honorable; Sniegoski has created a warm, genuine character struggling with his identity and destiny. . . . The fast pace, gratifying character development, and a sufficiently complex plot to hold your interest from start to finish make this one a winner.”

—Monsters and Critics

“A fun read. The pace of the book is excellent, and it never has a dull moment. . . . The tale is definitely something that you would read out of a 1930s crime noir novel, and it is engaging, tightly written, and moves along at a rapid pace. You won’t find a dull moment.”

—
Sacramento Book Review

A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

“The most inventive novel you’ll buy this year . . . a hard-boiled noir fantasy by turns funny, unsettling, and heartbreaking. This is the story Sniegoski was born to write, and a character I can’t wait to see again.”

—Christopher Golden, bestselling author of
Waking Nightmares

“Tightly focused and deftly handled, [
A Kiss Before the Apocalypse
] covers familiar ground in entertaining new ways. . . . Fans of urban fantasy and classic detective stories will enjoy this smart and playful story.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“This reviewer prays there will be more novels starring Remy. . . . [T]he audience will believe he is on earth for a reason as he does great things for humanity. This heart-wrenching, beautiful urban fantasy will grip readers with its potent emotional fervor.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“It’s kind of refreshing to see the holy side represented. . . . Fans of urban fantasy with a new twist are likely to enjoy Sniegoski’s latest venture into that realm between humanity and angels.”

—SFRevu

“Blurring the lines between good and evil,
A Kiss Before the Apocalypse
will keep readers riveted until the very end. This is an emotional journey that’s sometimes filled with sadness, but once it begins you won’t want to walk away. Mr. Sniegoski defines the hero in a way that makes him very real and thoroughly human. . . . Fast-moving, well-written, and wonderfully enchanting, this is one that fantasy readers won’t want to miss.”

—Darque Reviews

“A fascinating look at religion and humanity from a different point of view. Mr. Sniegoski has written a compelling story of what emotion can do to even the most divine creatures.
A Kiss Before the Apocalypse
is not a book that one can pick up and put down easily. Once you start, you will not want to put it down until you are finished.”

—Fresh Fiction

“An exciting, page-turning mystery with the bonus of the popular paranormal aspects as well. This author has created a compelling central character with both human and angelic features, which allows the reader to become completely immersed in the story and the tension as it builds. The suspense alone leaves the reader anxious to come back for more. The story builds to a thrilling, edge-of-your-seat, nail-biting conclusion and will leave you wanting to read more of this character and certainly more of this author.”

—
Affaire de Coeur

ALSO BY THOMAS E. SNIEGOSKI

A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

Dancing on the Head of a Pin

Where Angels Fear to Tread

A Hundred Words for Hate

In the House of the Wicked

Walking in the Midst of Fire

ROC

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Thomas E. Sniegoski, 2015

Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

Roc and the Roc colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

Sniegoski, Tom.

A deafening silence in heaven: a Remy Chandler novel/Thomas E. Sniegoski.

pages cm.

“A Roc Book.”

ISBN 978-0-698-15781-1

1. Chandler, Remy (Fictitious character). 2. Private investigators—Fiction. 3. Angels—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3619.N537D43 2015

813’.6—dc23 2015026446

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For my father.

If I end up being only half the amazing individual that you were, that will still be something pretty darn special.

Love and miss you every day.

Joseph J. Sniegoski

November 20, 1919–April 26, 2013

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Intense amounts of love and thanks to my long-suffering wife, and to Kirby for always keeping things interesting.

Special thanks also to my buddy Christopher Golden, the amazing Jessica Wade, Ginjer Buchanan, Howard Morhaim, Kate Schafer Testerman, Thomas Fitzgerald, Dale Queenan, Larry Johnson, Pam Daley, Frank Cho, Dave Kraus (from his La-Z-Boy in Heaven), Kathy Kraus, Mom Sniegoski, and the Filthies down at Cole’s Comics in Lynn, MA.

You ain’t seen the last of the Boston Seraphim.

What we call the beginning is often the end.

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

The end is where we start from.

—T. S. ELIOT

A shopping mall food court

Somewhere in the United States

I
t was a day that seemed just like any other.

The sun rose as it was supposed to, and people woke from their nightly slumber to begin their daily routines: preparing for work, getting dressed for school, walking the dog, retrieving the morning paper from the front walk, making breakfast.

It was all so normal.

All so mundane.

If only they were aware of the event of cosmic proportions and significance that was about to occur.

•   •   •

He who had been called the Son of the Morning sat at a table in the food court of the mall, observing the ebb and flow of humanity.

Leaning back in the metal chair, Lucifer Morningstar saw them at their best and worst: an old woman fumbling with multiple plastic bags unwittingly drops a wad of dollar bills to the floor; a man sidles up alongside her, snatches up the money, and then promptly returns it to her. A teenage girl—a mere child—picks up her phone from the tabletop, her hands shaking horribly as she checks to see if her dealer has called, and bursts into tears when she sees that he hasn’t. An overtired and whining child is brought to obvious joy when handed a book to read. A man who is unhappy with the speed in which he received his burrito takes it out on the young girl at the counter. A Benny Goodman instrumental plays over the food court sound system and an old man grabs hold of his wife’s hand; they look into each other’s eyes and smile, their love still strong.

“Don’t tell me that you’re still upset with them,” said a voice beside him, and Lucifer turned to see an elderly gentleman, dressed in a beautifully tailored dark suit, standing at the table, orange tray in hand.

“I was never upset with them,” the Morningstar said, pushing out a chair so the gentleman could sit down. “I was much more upset with you.”

The old man sat down and began to disperse the items on His tray. He placed a cup of steaming coffee in front of the Morningstar. “You thought that I loved them more,” He said. He took His own steaming cup from the tray, and what appeared to be a container of chicken fingers.

“I wasn’t the only one,” Lucifer said. He continued to watch the patrons of the mall food court.

“No, but you were the loudest voice.”

The old man prepared His coffee: two sugars and three containers of cream.

“I felt I needed to be loud so you would hear me . . . hear us.” Lucifer sipped his own black coffee, dark eyes roaming the court.

The old man chuckled, drinking delicately from his cup before setting it down upon the table. “Oh, I heard you, all right.”

Lucifer fixed Him in a steely gaze.

“But did you listen?”

The old man did not answer but reached into the foam container and removed a piece of fried food.

“Is that a chicken finger?” Lucifer asked Him, shocked by what he was witnessing.

The old man studied the batter-covered object, which did not resemble any part from a chicken, or a finger, for that matter. “I love chicken fingers,” He said, taking a bite. “Horrible for you, but everything in moderation.”

Lucifer drank more of his coffee, noticing the euphoric teenage girl from before, walking past them while talking happily on her cell phone, her dealer having finally called. Life was good again. Or not.

“I listened, but I don’t believe there was anything I could have said at that time to convince you otherwise,” the old man said, picking up a napkin to wipe the grease from His mouth. “You did what you felt you needed to do, as did I.”

Lucifer turned his cup ever so slowly.

“Was it worth it?” he asked, feeling a heavy sadness for all that had come to pass.

“That’s a question I should be asking you,” the old man said, pointing with a chicken finger.

Lucifer continued to slowly turn his cup, a faint trace of steam billowing from the hot liquid.

“It is what it is,” he said finally, neither regretful nor content.

The old man finished His chicken finger and licked the tips of His delicate fingers.

“Things happened, and as a result . . .” He made a rolling gesture with His hand.

“Here we are,” Lucifer finished. “When it’s presented that way, it all seems so simple.”

“It’s all in how you look at things,” the old man replied as He wrapped His hand around His coffee cup. He was watching the elderly couple that Lucifer had been observing earlier. They were talking happily, and for a brief moment even began to dance, which got them both laughing.

“Why are we here?” Lucifer finally got up the courage to ask. “I’m sure you’re well aware of the whispers of a new war between Heaven and Hell floating in the ether.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I am.”

“So?”

The old man lifted His cup and had some more coffee. “I think it’s time for something more to happen,” He said, speaking over the rim of His cup.

Lucifer leaned in closer. “War?” he asked.

The old man was silent, as if deciding on His answer.

“No,” He said after a moment. “The opposite.”

“Truce?” Lucifer suggested. “I thought we already had that.”

“Peace,” the old man corrected.

Lucifer was shocked. “What are you suggesting?”

“I want you to come home.”

And for the first time in countless millennia the Son of the Morning was speechless.

“It’s time for us to be whole again,” the old man told him.

“Do you mean to say . . . ,” Lucifer began, and stopped as the old man sitting across from him nodded slowly, a loving smile spreading across His face reminding Lucifer of the very first dawn over the world on the eighth day.

“Unification, my son,” the old man said, and then slid the container of chicken fingers toward him. “Chicken finger?”

•   •   •

The Bone Master screamed far longer than Remy Chandler imagined it could have.

When the creature finally fell silent, Remy let its body slip from his grasp. But the fire continued to burn, jumping to the assassin’s robes and the flesh beneath; before long, there would be nothing left to show that the assassin had ever lived . . .

. . . except for the physical and mental damage it had inflicted.

Marlowe came to Remy, leaping up onto his chest, stretching his neck to eagerly kiss Remy’s face. Remy found it suddenly difficult to remain standing, and dropped to his knees, giving the dog ample opportunity to display his rampant affections.

As Marlowe licked his face, Remy caught sight of Linda staring at him from where she sat, perfectly motionless upon the floor. He wanted to explain everything to her, but the words would not come.

The look of fear in her eyes froze them in his throat.

“I believe,” he began, forcing the words from his mouth, “I owe you an explanation.” He found his speech strangely slurred and wondered what could be the cause, then realized that his entire body was growing increasingly cold. He could not feel his limbs and suddenly toppled over onto the floor.

Marlowe yelped in panic as he fell, and Linda was at his side, leaning over him, tears in her eyes, her face racked with the beginnings of panic.

“You’re bleeding,” he heard her say, though the words were strangely muffled.

He managed to lift his head and saw that he was indeed bleeding. The cold realization washed over him—the assassin’s bullets had found their target, the venom-infused teeth sending a powerful poison coursing through his veins.

Remy tried to alter his internal chemistry, as he had so many times before, to burn the poison away. . . .

Nothing happened, and the cold continued to permeate his every fiber. He was finding it harder and harder to remain there—to remain with Linda and Marlowe.

Marlowe cried pathetically, pacing back and forth in front of them. Linda was holding him now, gripping him tightly in her arms and begging him to stay with her.

“Remy, what should I do?” she pleaded.

She was panicked, and he wanted to hold her, to tell her that he would be fine, but he could no longer move his arms, and now that what he truly was had been revealed, he did not want to begin another lie.

“I . . . I’m so sorry,” he managed to squeak. “Didn’t want . . . to lie.”

“Remy,” she cried, her tears raining down upon his face—tears that he could not feel.

He tried to stay with her, but his eyes had grown so heavy, and he could no longer hold them open.
Maybe if I close them for just a moment
.

To rest.

Marlowe howled, his cries reverberating through the room, and Remy thought it was the saddest sound he had ever heard.

Darkness surrounded him, but there was fire in the midst of shadow, a flame struggling to stay alight within the encroaching gloom.

But the flame grew smaller with each passing moment until it was but a faintly glowing ember, and it could fight no more and gave in to the dark.

Is this what it’s like to die?

•   •   •

Remy opened his eyes to look upon an eternal expanse of ocean, the color of copper and fire in the light of the sun hanging over the horizon.

He felt a sense of calm as he realized he had been to this place before.

“Is this it?” he asked, shifting in the beach chair so he could see the person sitting beside him, still as beautiful as she had been in life.

Madeline stared out at the ocean, her attention unwavering.

“Do you want it to be?” she asked.

“I . . . ,” he began, then hesitated, letting his wife’s question reverberate through his mind, surprised that he couldn’t answer right away.

“Did you finish?”

He watched her as she continued her study of the ocean.

“What do you mean?” he finally asked.

Madeline turned her gaze to Remy, her dark sunglasses showing the twin reflections of the setting sun in their center as if they were her eyes. “Did you finish everything that you started?”

Again, he had to think about her question, the memories of what he’d left behind already starting to fade. It would have been so easy to just say yes, but he knew he would be telling another lie.

“I doubt it,” he said sadly.

She nodded, smiling the way she always had, and he felt a love for her that was so great he was surprised his mortal form could contain it.

And then he remembered another woman who had managed to capture his heart after Madeline’s devastating loss.

“Linda,” he said quietly, fearing that speaking the name of another would somehow take away from the love he had shared with the woman sitting beside him.

“I bet you two would have told a wonderful story,” Madeline said.

Remy held on to the memory of Linda, refusing to let it diminish—refusing to let her go. “Yeah” was all he could say.

“Yeah?” Madeline repeated, reaching out to let her fingertips caress his biceps.

“Yeah,” Remy said again. “I’d like to tell that story.”

Madeline smiled, and he knew that she was truly happy for him.

A sudden breeze came off the ocean then, a cold sharpness to the air that made him wince as he pulled his bare legs up from the sand. Remy gazed down and saw that he was bleeding. He’d forgotten that he had been hurt.

The sky above the ocean had grown dark, thick, roiling clouds blotting out the warmth of the sun.

“That’s going to be a problem,” Madeline said, her fingers still gently caressing the skin of his arm, which had now gone cold.

“It looks bad, doesn’t it?” Remy said, staring at his wound, not quite remembering exactly what had happened.

“It’s even worse on the inside,” Madeline told him.

“Do I have a chance?” Remy asked, a sudden despondency washing over him.

Madeline returned her gaze to the ocean. The water was receding, exposing an ocean floor that resembled the surface of some alien world.

“That’s not for me to say.”

“Something’s happening,” he said, his body racked with pain as he too watched the sea pull away from the shore.

“He’s coming.”

There was a sound, far off in the distance, like the blast of a trumpet heralding the arrival of something great, but as Remy listened more closely he realized it was the sound of a giant wave as the ocean rushed back to meet the shore.

The wall of water came toward them with incredible speed, and he reached out, searching for his wife’s hand, before—

The wave froze in place as his fingers wrapped around hers.

“What’s happening?” Remy asked, eyes fixed on the wall of bluish green water before them.

“I told you He was coming,” she whispered as she leaned in to kiss him warmly on the lips. “Your Father.”

The water parted like a curtain, and an old man stepped out.

Remy gazed quickly to where his wife should have been but found that she had left him alone on the beach with a petrified ocean and an old man.

An old man.

Remy knew this man, dressed in His fine, dark suit. They had spoken on this very beach, not long ago, about a coming war.

“The war,” Remy called out as he stood.

The old man, who was so much more than that, did not look at him, instead gazing off in the distance as if seeing something that Remy was not privy to.

“A horrible thing,” He said.

“What are you saying?” Remy was confused. “The war hasn’t happened.”

The wall of water crashed to the sand behind the old man in a roaring rush that sent water and foam splashing through the air. But it did not touch the man. “Yes,” He said, His gaze drifting toward Remy. “And no.”

“I don’t understand.”

“In some instances it did happen, while in others . . .”

Remy still wasn’t certain what He was going on about, but who was he to question his Father?

“So many worlds,” the old man said. “I wish I could save them all.”

“My world?” Remy asked, stepping closer. He could feel the power emanating from this being, and knew he should be on his knees with his head bowed in respect, but his concern was too great. He needed to know if his world was all right.

The old man looked Remy up and down, the hint of a smirk playing at the wrinkled corners of His mouth. Remy took a step back.