A Hundred Words for Hate rc-4

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “What happened,” Mulvehill repeated. “What the fuck happened?” Steven’s voice was growing louder, more intense. “You fucking happened is what happened. . . . You, Remy fucking Chandler.”

  The words were like physical blows, but Remy could understand his friend’s anger.

  “I’m sorry,” he said truthfully. “I had no idea. . . . I didn’t know.” He didn’t know what else to say; no amount of Scotch or steak dinners would make things right at the moment.

  “Leave me alone,” Mulvehill said, closing his eyes.

  “Where’s Eliza?” Remy asked.

  Mulvehill looked at him strangely.

  “Fernita,” Remy corrected himself. “Where’s Fernita?”

  “She’s gone,” the homicide cop said. “Taken by some fucking monstrosity . . . a Shaitan or something; I don’t fucking know.” He moaned and closed his eyes again.

  Hearing the word was like taking hold of a live wire. There had to be some kind of mistake.

  “Shaitan?” Remy repeated. “Where did you hear that?”

  “It’s what the angel with the three faces called it,” Mulvehill said, opening his eyes and scowling. “Now will you please get the fuck out of here and leave me alone.”

  “Steven . . . ,” Remy began again, desperate for his friend to know how badly he felt. How sorry he was.

  “Just get away from me,” Steven said, the fight going out of him as he finally succumbed to whatever drugs he had been given. “Please go away.”

  Remy wanted to say more, but it wasn’t the time. Steven needed a chance to heal, time to wrap his brain around what he had experienced and survived.

  Willing himself unseen, Remy jumped from the back of the ambulance as the two EMTs approached, one getting in the back with Steven while the other closed the doors and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Remy stood watching with a heavy heart as the ambulance was driven away, lights flashing and siren wailing.

  For better or worse, his friend would never be the same again.

  And for that, Remy was truly sorry.

  Jon approached a portion of wall once hidden by stacks of boxes, his eyes focused on a block of sigils now exposed to the room.

  It’s there to make you forget, Remy had said. He ran a finger over the strange shape, wondering whether it could have an influence over him, or if the spell was specific to this Eliza Swan.

  There was part of him that would have liked to forget what he’d been through over the last twenty-four hours.

  The image of Nathan strapped to the chair in the biodome, his body under the influence of the fruit from the tree, came to mind. He would have liked to forget that, to forget the screams of pain from the man he loved.

  His vision started to blur, his eyes were so fixed upon the black shapes, but nothing changed. The horrible memories of the last day remained, still painful and raw, at the forefront of his thoughts. The magick had been only for Eliza.

  But why? What did she have to forget that was so bad?

  He guessed that it would all come to light once—and if—the woman was found, and the three of them were reunited with Malachi and Adam when the Garden returned.

  A chill of excitement passed through him at the thought of Eden. How long had his people dreamed of that wonderful place denied to them? The Sons of Adam always had plans for the Garden; it had been the core of their mission since the order’s inception. They believed that once Adam was forgiven, Eden would return for him, and those who had cared for the first father’s needs would be allowed to live in Paradise forever.

  He had never really believed that any of it was possible, but here it was on the verge of being true.

  Jon made out the familiar sound of flapping wings from the kitchen, and knew that Remy had returned.

  “Any luck?” he asked, tugging at his ear as he rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a living nightmare.

  He let out an unmanly scream, stumbling backward into the hall.

  Zophiel slowly approached, and Jon realized the Cherubim was injured.

  Steady drips of angelic blood leaked from horrible wounds and from beneath sections of its filthy, and damaged, armor. The three faces that made up its fearsome visage appeared slack, unfocused, experiencing the effects of its injuries.

  “You’re hurt,” Jon said, stating the obvious.

  The creature of Heaven stopped, tilting its large head to one side, as if noticing him for the first time.

  The face of the lion twitched, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air.

  “There is danger in the Garden, Adam-son,” the Cherubim said, the voice coming from all three of its mouths, and loud enough that he could hear perfectly well. It lurched toward him, crashing to its armored knees as the blood continued to weep from its wounds. “Danger to us all.”

  The Cherubim knelt there, its massive head bobbing as it struggled to remain conscious.

  Jon surveyed the damage to the being. Huge pieces of its armored body had been ravaged, torn. . . . Are those bite marks? he wondered, seeing large areas of pale, bleeding flesh.

  “What did this to you?” he asked in awe.

  “The emerging danger,” Zophiel answered. “The first of the Shaitan to be born . . .” The Cherubim shook its head from side to side. “But not the last if Malachi returns to the Garden.”

  The great angelic beast lurched, rising to one knee.

  “The Garden must remain closed,” the Cherubim said. It reached toward its side, and pulled an enormous flaming sword seemingly from out of thin air. “If you must be slain to make this a reality”—the monstrous angel had risen to its full height, raising the burning blade to strike at him—“then so be it.”

  Jon tensed, watching as the giant swayed on shaky legs, preparing to strike him dead. The sword descended in a hissing arc, cutting into and through the wood floor as he managed to evade the blazing strike.

  He darted toward the angel, hoping to get around it and into the kitchen, where he could escape through the back door.

  The angel roared, lashing out with its armored wings and tearing huge chunks of plaster from the wall as it spun to follow. Jon dropped to the floor, crawling on all fours as fast as he was able as the Cherubim pursued him.

  “Do not make this harder than it has to be, Adam-son,” Zophiel said, two huge strides of his powerful legs allowing him to catch up to the fleeing man in an instant.

  Jon flipped onto his back just in time to see the Cherubim again raise his sword. He continued to backpedal, sliding across the debriscovered floor until his back hit up against the lower kitchen cabinets.

  “It is for the good of us all,” Zophiel roared as the blade started its descent.

  The burning sword hissed as it fell, reminding Jon of some huge snake darting forward to strike. He reached for the cord of a microwave that had been knocked to the floor during all the damage, and was about to lift it up, he hoped to block the blade’s fall, when another winged figure dropped down from the hole in the ceiling in front of the attacking Zophiel.

  Remy.

  Jon was about to call out, but saw that the angel needed no such urging, reacting instinctively, as his warrior breed was wont to do. Remy lunged, grabbing hold of Zophiel’s wrists, preventing the giant blade from finishing its arc.

  Remy lashed out with his foot, kicking Zophiel in the center of its chest plate with enough force to send it rocketing back into the hall.

  “You might want to get out of here,” Remy said, turning briefly before charging after the Cherubim.

  Jon saw the kitchen back door—and his way out—and almost went for it, but couldn’t leave his friend. Unwavering loyalty had always been one of his more endearing characteristics.

  He hoped that it didn’t get him killed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Zophiel had landed upon his back in the hallway, thrashing upon the ground like some giant turtle on its shell, attempting to right itself. Remy didn’t want to give the Cherubim the chanc
e, flying the brief distance from the kitchen to the hallway to land upon his foe, slamming him back to the floor.

  “This ends here, Zophiel,” Remy cried, the Seraphim inside howling with glee as the warrior’s instincts and skills were allowed to flow. He reached out, grabbing hold of a wooden coatrack in a corner behind the door, shaking loose the multiple coats and hats that had been hung upon it, until only the rack remained.

  Standing upon the struggling Cherubim’s chest, he allowed the divine fires of Heaven to flow through his hands and into the wooden shaft that he held. The wood glowed suddenly with an unearthly light, suddenly so much more than it had been.

  He raised the new weapon high, preparing to bring it down like a spear. Zophiel, though badly injured, still had much fight remaining in him, flailing his muscular wings and tossing Remy up against the opposing wall.

  Zophiel rolled onto his side, using the gigantic blade to help him rise.

  Remy leapt into the air as Zophiel lunged, swinging the burning blade. The sword buried itself deep within the plaster wall. Zophiel tugged upon his weapon to free it as Remy dropped down upon him.

  Riding the Cherubim’s back, Remy wedged the shaft of the glowing coatrack beneath Zophiel’s chin. He yanked backward with all his strength, causing the monstrous angel to stagger backward, leaving the burning sword stuck within the wall.

  Zophiel flailed, slamming his enormous bulk against the hallway walls, desperate to remove the troublesome Seraphim pest.

  Remy held on as tightly as he could, pulling up on the burning coatrack beneath the Cherubim’s throat with all his might until the muscles in his arms were screaming. His own hands now burning with Heavenly fire, Zophiel attempted to reach behind him, to grab enough of Remy to tear him from his perch. Avoiding the Cherubim’s wanting fingers, Remy continued to hold on.

  At last the great angel dropped to the floor, but Remy did not let up, continuing to pull upon the heavy wooden rod.

  From the corner of his eye he saw movement, and Remy turned his head to see Jon over by the stairway wall, where the Cherubim’s sword was still buried. The man was pulling up on the hilt of the giant blade, attempting to free it.

  “Leave it,” Remy yelled to the man.

  Zophiel saw Jon and what he was doing and became roused by the sight. A low growl from the angel’s constricted throat vibrated the burning shaft still clutched beneath the Cherubim’s chin as Zophiel pushed himself to his feet.

  Jon pulled upon the blade, the wall surrounding the weapon beginning to smolder and burn.

  With a newfound strength Zophiel reached up with his clawed metal fingers and began to tear at the shaft wedged under his chin, ripping away chunks of wood, as well as his own flesh.

  Zophiel lurched across the brief expanse of floor toward the man who sought to claim his weapon. Jon saw the angel coming, increasing his attempts, but still the sword remained trapped in the wall.

  Yanking back with all that remained of his strength, Remy heard the fateful snap of the makeshift weapon falling away from the Cherubim onto the floor.

  Heavenly fire no longer burning at his throat, Zophiel grabbed for his sword, just as Jon managed the incredible feat of pulling it free.

  The sword of the Cherubim dropped heavily to the hallway as Jon attempted to lift it. The strain of this action apparent, the Son of Adam brandished the Heavenly weapon with a surprising display of strength.

  “Come on,” Jon said, fighting to keep the blade up.

  He thrust the burning sword at Zophiel, the angel easily moving aside to avoid any harm. Lashing out, he struck the Son of Adam, knocking him ruthlessly to the stairs, the flaming weapon falling from his grasp.

  As the Cherubim reached to reclaim the blade, Remy reacted.

  The Seraphim was crying out for blood, and Remy saw no reason to deny it its fill. Holding two jagged ends of the broken coatrack that still smoldered with the divine fires of the Heavenly Father, Remy leapt, pushing off with his wings, propelling himself at his foe with great speed.

  Sensing the imminent danger, Zophiel spun to meet his attack, but the Seraphim was faster. With a bloodthirsty roar, Remy thrust the two jagged ends of the poles into the already ravaged throat of the monstrous Cherubim.

  The pair flew back, crashing into the wall just before the stairs, narrowly avoiding Jon, who darted partway up to the second floor to avoid being crushed.

  The Cherubim struggled, gauntleted hands going to his injured throat, but Remy did not let up, leaning forward with all his strength, hands still gripping the two ends of the twin spears that had pierced his enemy’s neck. Zophiel’s hands glowed with the fire of the divine, but they began to subside, as did the bestial angel’s struggles.

  Remy could feel the angel growing slack, the extensive injuries already received coupled with this latest abuse at last taking their toll. The Cherubim went limp, his powerful, armored body becoming still. Sensing that his foe was down, Remy released his grip upon the two pieces of pole and stepped back. Zophiel stood for a moment, swaying from side to side, before lowering gradually to his knees, and then falling face-first to the floor.

  Remy stared at his fallen foe, but strangely enough, even as the warrior nature at his core howled in victory, he felt nothing but trepidation.

  “Is it dead?” Jon asked, venturing down from safety.

  “If not, I’m sure he soon will be,” Remy said, his voice sounding tired . . . flat. There were missing pieces to this puzzle, and he hated missing pieces.

  The Seraphim was eager to finish what he started. . . . Remy, not so much.

  He could hear Zophiel’s struggles to live, multiple, wheezing gasps as the angel sentry fought to breathe.

  Remy approached his fallen foe, considering the merciful thing. If the Cherubim did not pass from this existence shortly, Remy would assist him on his way. Moving closer, Remy allowed the power of Heaven to fill his hands. Fire hotter than the surface of the sun snaked from his fingertips as he grew nearer.

  Jon watched from his perch upon the stairs, crying out as Zophiel again fought off approaching death, reaching out to grab hold of his fallen weapon, dragging the burning blade to him.

  Remy drew back, preparing for yet another round of battle, but quickly sensed that maybe this was not the case.

  The Cherubim pulled the sword close, using the blade to prop himself up.

  The two pieces of wood still protruded from his throat, dark blood oozing down their lengths, sizzling and smoking like grease on a hot stove.

  Fire in his hands, Remy was ready for just about anything, watching the angel with a cautious eye. The Seraphim whispered in the back of his mind: Kill your enemy. Do it now. . . . But Remy didn’t feel that this was necessary, which just made his warrior side all the more frantic.

  Zophiel reached up, removing one of the burning spears sticking from his throat, and then the other. Angel blood flowed freely, running down the front of once golden armor in glistening, dark rivulets.

  Attack. Attack. Attack. Attack, the Seraphim urged, but Remy stayed his hand.

  Swaying as he stood, the Cherubim hefted his mighty sword. It now glowed brighter—hotter—in his grasp, happy to be back in its master’s possession.

  It had been a very long time since Remy last held a weapon that he had bonded with, a weapon as much a part of him as any appendage. Flashes of the Great War exploded in his mind, and of the blood-caked sword that he had dropped upon the battlefield when the war was done.

  When he was done.

  “I am at an end,” the Cherubim weakly gurgled, holding the burning blade up so that he could look upon it. “I can do no more.”

  Zophiel whipped the blade forward, tongues of flame leaping down its tarnished length to lick eagerly toward him.

  Remy recoiled, but did not attack.

  “Take it,” Zophiel commanded, releasing the large sword from his grip, letting it land at Remy’s feet. The fire that covered the blade dimmed as it lay there. “If the warrior’s hear
t still beats within your breast, you must rouse it, for the Kingdom of Heaven is threatened by things most foul.”

  Zophiel slowly slid to his knees, the life going out of him as the blood from his injuries continued to flow.

  “A cancer grows in the bosom of the Garden,” the Cherubim warned, his voice weaker. “A malignancy that cannot be allowed to spread.”

  On his knees, Zophiel’s once fearsome form grew more and more still, as fire as well as blood streamed from his wounds.

  “Stop him, Remiel of the host Seraphim,” Zophiel begged as his body was slowly consumed by the fire of God leaving his dying body.

  “Stop Malachi before it all crumbles to ruin.”

  The words broke loose from Zophiel’s lips in a final whisper, the white-hot flames licking at the flesh of his body, surging to engulf his entire form in an inferno.

  Remy watched as the fire burned white, temporarily blinding him with its intensity, before it receded, growing softer, until nothing remained but the burn mark where the Cherubim had knelt upon the wooden floor.

  That and the still smoldering sword lying at Remy’s feet.

  The Garden was in pain.

  She had felt the illness growing inside of her for quite some time, felt it writhe as it slowly grew over the ages to maturation.

  The sickness was inside . . . beneath her cool, fertile earth, feeding off the life energies of this vibrant Paradise.

  Suckling upon the roots of the Tree.

  It was new life that grew, dangerous life that yearned to be born.

  Eden had tried to thwart their growth, making her skin shake and shift, inciting the more primitive life that lived upon and inside her to feed freely on this malignant invader.

  But the illness was created to be strong, even in its earliest stages.

  She had attempted to communicate with the multiple life-forms gestating within her bosom, wanting to know their purpose, and she learned that they had been created to survive, to usurp what had come before.

  The Garden knew that this was wrong, that the things nestled inside her should not come to be, but she was helpless.