Of Saints and Shadows (1994) by Christopher Golden

sleep.
    Outside, the snow had stopped, and the fine white blanket was marred only by Peter Octavian’s footprints. They led from the front step around to the back of the building, where they came to an abrupt end. High above, Peter was gliding through the darkness, breathing in the night air and wondering what he would find when he reached his destination. Once there, he would certainly need the talents he and his kind were notorious for, which had made him into a singularly capable detective.

 

5
     
    DAN BENEDICT WAS TRYING VERY HARD TO relax, leaning way back in his beloved La-Z-Boy with his feet up, arms behind his head, his old, ragged bathrobe with a belt that didn’t match pulled tight around him as he huddled down into the chair.
    It wasn’t working.
    He sighed as he wiggled his butt again, trying to shift himself into a more comfortable position without disturbing his bathrobe or moving his arms. On his color television was the late show, a black-and-white him that had been colorized. Dan had tuned all the color out of his set. You Just couldn’t watch Bogey in color, dammit. It was un-American.
    Max was curled up on the floor at his feet. His head lay on his crossed paws, but try as he might, the big shepherd couldn’t sleep either. So there they lay, man and dog, staring intently at the action on the screen, unable to relax as sense of dread settled on them both. Max emitted a low growl for no apparent reason, and Dan silently seconded the motion.
    “You may have the falcon,” the Fatman was telling Bogey on the screen, “but we most certainly have you.”
    Dan scowled—this was his favorite part of the movie and yet he could not enjoy it. He and Max had watched the film more times than he could count, and until now, it had never failed to entertain him. He reached out to the table next to him, sipped his Coke, and then put the glass back down, ice clinking. He huddled further in his chair in another futile stab at comfort. There was no draft, yet he shuddered. Had he been looking at Max, he would have seen that his pet twitched as well. Of course, Dan would have passed it off as fleas.
    At the next commercial, Dan realized he had been unconsciously stifling his need to urinate, and as he jumped up to head for the John, the urge hit him almost painfully. He walked stiffly down the hall so as not to disturb his bladder, flipped on the bathroom light, shut and locked the door. He knew there was no need to do so, but habit forced him. As a child he had been terrified by the thought that someone might walk in on him while he was on the toilet.
    His subconscious mind had already decided that, hey, since he was in here anyway, why not get the evening sit-down over with? So he sat comfortably on the foam-rubber seat, reading the Boston Globe. His mind drifted in and out, half reading and half wondering whether it would be too late to call Janet’s apartment to see if Meaghan had any news. He continued combing through the Globe’ s business section until he had forgotten the comfortable chair, Max, and The Maltese Falcon.
    And then he heard the sound of Michelob’s latest jingle wafting down the hall, snapping him back to reality. He dropped the paper, cleaned up, and was still pulling up his pants as he walked back to his chair. As he sat down Bogart came back on, and he realized he had missed fifteen minutes of the film. The dog hadn’t moved an inch, and Dan realized he was either asleep or very close to it.
    Well, he thought, at least one of us can relax.
    Dan had just begun to be comfortable again when the next commercial break came. It was infuriating. They always seemed to slack up the ads near the end, when you’re paying the closest attention. Now that he was comfortable, he really didn’t want to get up, but his stomach signaled to him that a snack was in order, and he had risen from his roost without thinking about it. In the kitchen, he snatched a bag of Chip-a-Roos from the cabinet above the