A Deafening Silence In Heaven - Thomas E. Sniegoski Page 0,3

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.

“A favorite,” He said. “But on the brink.”

A nearly overwhelming sense of panic washed over Remy . . . followed by the numbness. Once again, he found it difficult to remain standing and fell to his knees. “Please,” he begged. “I need to help them.”

The old man stared at him and Remy saw in His eyes an array of infinite possibilities.

And as he believed his question—his plea—was about to be granted, the old man turned His attention to the sky above. The clouds had grown thinner and the stars were beginning to shine down upon them.

“You need to see,” He said wistfully. “You need to see what it will be like if you fail.”

“Show me,” Remy pleaded.

“It is a sad thing,” the old man said, His voice quavering with emotion. “A tragic thing.”

“Show me,” Remy demanded.

The old man turned tear-filled eyes to Remy, extending a hand to gently cup the angel’s face.

And Remy saw.

CHAPTER ONE

Time was standing still.

Linda Somerset was afraid to move as she sat, cradling her injured lover in the doorway to the living room of his Beacon Hill home.

What she had just seen—what she had just experienced—tested everything that she had always considered her reality. She was even afraid to breathe, afraid that the up and down of her chest would be enough to cause it all to break away.

Her entire world shattering like an old mirror.

But she had to breathe to live. Carefully, slowly, she exhaled, eyes darting about, watching for signs that the world was about to come apart.

And it stayed as it was.

For the moment, at least.

Linda took in a small, tremulous breath, not sure exactly what she expected to happen. Would there be the sound of something cracking as her world fell apart? Like a frozen lake on a late winter’s afternoon, when the sun was at its strongest.

There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of a soft exhalation, followed by the most pathetic of whines. Linda jumped, remembering that she wasn’t alone. Marlowe lay on the floor nearby, the black Labrador’s brown, soulful eyes locked upon his master’s still body.

Reality had remained in one piece after all.

Linda dared to look at Remy as she cradled him in her arms. There was blood on the front of his dress shirt, the expanding stain reminding her of the violence that had erupted in her lover’s home.

She saw the fight in staccato images burned into her memory: Remy—her wonderful, handsome Remy—fighting a pale, horrible thing that seemed to have appeared out of nothingness. The memories were as clear as if the events were unfolding before her at that very moment.

But it was really just one particular sight that caused her to doubt her sanity.

Made her doubt her reality.

Maybe it had already fallen, insanity growing like some malignant vine, twisting the normal into something beyond comprehension.

Remy had had wings—powerful, golden wings. She had seen them as clear as day in the theatre of her mind’s eye but still doubted their actuality.

Marlowe whined again and shoved his black snout beneath Remy’s still hand, attempting to flip it so that Remy would