A Hundred Words for Hate rc-4

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  A black portal grew steadily larger upon the wall, an annoying hum of expended magick cutting through the ruckus of the crumbling cave. He thought about maybe using his intestine as a lasso, preventing the elder from escaping, but had doubts about his aim.

  Malachi chanced another glance over his shoulder before ducking into the passage to be swallowed up by the bottomless darkness that had manifested there.

  So much for that, Francis thought as the cave convulsed fitfully, the walls crumbling, the floor shifting violently beneath him, knocking him back to his side.

  For a moment he imagined his situation couldn’t get any worse, but then he noticed the rope of bloody intestine—his rope of bloody intestine—cooling upon the rubble-covered floor.

  That isn’t good.

  And the crazed Hellion emerging from its hiding place, drawn again by the smell of his exposed insides.

  It was totally fucking awesome that life—what little he had left of it—could still manage to surprise him.

  The Hellion lunged, opening its cavernous mouth to take a bite from his intestine.

  Is it my large or small intestine? the former Guardian angel wondered, before deciding that it truly didn’t matter.

  He looked into the beast’s horrible maw, at all its teeth and its fat, sluglike tongue, and hoped that the monster got the nastiest case of food poisoning from him.

  Francis watched as the Hellion’s snout dipped down; the front razor-sharp-looking teeth were about to close upon the slimy, dirt-covered piece of flesh when the floor beneath the creature suddenly disappeared, and the beast that was about to nibble upon him was gone.

  It was like something out of a classic Warner Bros. cartoon, and Francis actually managed to let loose with a barklike laugh that just about ended his life.

  Consciousness leaking away, he watched through dimming eyes as the remaining sections of floor around him continued to fall away, the ground beneath him eventually disappearing as the walls of the cave collapsed, exposing it to the outside world.

  To the hell outside.

  Francis was falling, the sudden sensation of weightlessness triggering a treasured memory of the last time he’d flown.

  Before his fall from grace.

  The mountains of Hell were crumbling all around him, clouds of dirt and debris being sucked up into the swirling maelstrom that his broken body had now become part of.

  And to think he actually believed he was going to die under the teeth and claws of a Hellion. It just went to show how one could never be sure about anything.

  Except that he was finally going to die.

  Buffeted and deafened by winds, Francis found himself accepting his fate, letting go as his body drifted upon the currents of air choked with the remains of Hell’s former landscape.

  He found that he could no longer breathe, and gave in to the darkness, calling it to him with open arms and minimal regrets, wishing only that he could have seen her again—the beautiful Eliza Swan whose memory had been stolen from him till now.

  And sorry that he hadn’t earned the Lord’s forgiveness, even though he’d tried so very hard. He would have also liked to have seen Remy again, but since the son of a bitch never came to his rescue, he could go screw himself.

  The sound within the vortex went from cacophonous to silent.

  And then Francis sensed that he was no longer alone.

  He struggled to open his eyes, and in the eye of the storm a familiar figure floated.

  Lucifer was as beautiful as he remembered, and Francis was surprised to see the Morningstar gliding toward him on wings blacker than the darkest nights.

  There was a smile upon the Morningstar’s beatific face, and Francis believed that Lucifer actually remembered who he was.

  And that he was happy to see him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Eliza stroked the face of the man who appeared dead, sensing through the tips of her fingers that there was still some life left inside him.

  He was holding on for something, and she seemed to know that.

  The far corner of the room lit up as if in the midst of a lightning storm, and she looked up to find the monster who had taken her standing in front of an open closet door. The flashes of blue light were coming from inside it.

  Memories that had been denied her for so very long suddenly rushed in to fill their places.

  This was what Pearly had wanted to save her from—why Pearly had left her, and taken her memories. And now she understood how much he really did care for her.

  The light from the closet grew even brighter, more violent, as crackling bolts of electricity shot from the doorway, their intensity driving the monster back.

  Eliza thought briefly about running, but then looked at the man lying on the couch. The man called Adam. How could she leave him there, alone with the monster? And she most certainly couldn’t manage to take him with her. So she resigned herself to staying.

  “Don’t you worry,” she told him again. “I won’t leave you.”

  She knew exactly who he was, and could feel the pain of the life he’d led.

  Her own family carried a similar guilt, descendants from Adam’s bride—Eve. But the Daughters of Eve had chosen instead to accept the first mother’s sin and her punishment, and channel their guilt into efforts to do good upon the world. Eliza’s mother, and grandmother, and great-grandmother before her had always believed that God accepted this, and gave them the special gift of longevity so they could continue their work for as long as possible. Even Eliza believed this as she left the protection of her family to spread happiness through her music.

  But there were forces that wanted to silence her songs, and others that wanted her—needed her—for something that still remained a mystery.

  The lightning was abruptly replaced by complete darkness, as if the storm had passed, and the closet was filled with liquid night.

  Eliza watched as the monster crouched at the threshold, peering into the solid shadow, cautiously moving closer, then plunging its many arms into the undulating wall of black. Her captor screamed, tossing back his head in agony, but it did not stop its search.

  “I have you!” the creature finally bellowed, and Eliza saw the muscles tense on the monster’s pale back as it yanked something from the thick pool of shadow, something covered in layers of ice and frost.

  Eliza was fascinated by the frozen shape lying on the floor of the apartment, and although she couldn’t ever remember feeling so frightened, she found herself cautiously moving toward it.

  “I thought I told you to stay put,” the monster snarled, extending one of its frostbitten arms toward her. A surge of invisible force erupted from its fingers, hurling her backward, where she hit the couch and rolled to the floor, her old glasses knocked from her face.

  Stunned, she lay there, watching as the monster knelt beside the shape. The ice was beginning to melt in an expanding puddle on the hardwood floor.

  “Master,” the monster spoke softly. “I have you.” It was running its hands over the object, and where it touched, the ice fell away in clumps to reveal a man.

  He was dressed in filthy, bloodstained robes, and as he opened his eyes, his gaze fell upon the monster. A smile formed upon his bearded face at the sight.

  “Taranushi,” he whispered.

  “Yes, my master.”

  Suddenly there was a blinding flash, and when her eyes cleared Eliza was shocked to see the robed man standing directly before her, that strange smile still on his face.

  “Hello, Eliza,” he said, his voice as smooth as velvet.

  All of a sudden she remembered this man. He had come to Pearly’s aid when that thing pretending to be an angel had attacked the club.

  “I . . . I know you,” she said from where she lay upon the floor.

  And for a moment, she almost believed that things were going to be all right. But the bearded man reached down and yanked her up from the floor by the front of her apron.

  “So sorry, but the ti
me for pleasantries is at an end.”

  She struggled in his grasp, as he pulled something that glowed as if it were red-hot from within his disgusting robes.

  “You have something I need,” he said, his velvety voice now more of a growl, and jabbed that burning something into the middle of her forehead.

  To think she had almost believed that things were going to be all right.

  Her mama and daddy always said she was a damn fool.

  * * *

  Remy knew this place.

  He was standing naked atop one of the many spires surging up from the Kingdom of Heaven, staring out over the resplendent City of Light.

  He had buried the memory of how beautiful it was—before the war—but the Seraphim had found it.

  Saved it.

  Cherished it.

  This was where he wished to return.

  This was what he had been denied.

  Something passed overhead, momentarily covering Remy in a blanket of cold shadow. He turned his gaze skyward, at the awesome form gliding above him on wings of gold.

  “I think we need to talk,” he called out, and the figure banked to the right, then dropped from the sky, hurtling straight for Remy.

  Remy dropped to the base of the spire, dangerously close to the edge. Carefully he pulled himself away, eyes locked on the towers below, wondering about his fate should he fall from such a great height in this strange, dreamlike state.

  From behind him, the Seraphim laughed, a joyless sound, bitter and angry.

  Remy rose to his feet and turned to address his angelic nature. “All right, you’re pissed; I get it,” he said.

  The Seraphim studied him with cold, emotionless eyes. The angel was wearing his armor of war, shined to a glistening brilliance, looking as though it were forged from the sun itself.

  Remy remembered that armor, before its radiance was dulled by the blood of his brothers.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” the Seraphim growled menacingly.

  “You’re probably right,” Remy replied. “So you can probably guess how bad the situation is.”

  The angel tilted his head to one side, a smile cutting across his perfect features.

  “You fear the Shaitan,” he stated.

  “We should all fear the Shaitan,” Remy retorted. “Born from the darkness that was everything before His light chased it away. They were too monstrous . . . too dangerous to even be considered.”

  “There is only one,” the Seraphim spoke.

  “For now.”

  “Kill it,” the Seraphim said with a smile.

  “You know that isn’t possible,” Remy said, making the angel smile all the wider. His teeth were incredibly white, and appeared sharp.

  Did I really look like that once? he wondered, transfixed by the sight of his angelic persona, absent of any humanity.

  “Weak and pathetic,” the Seraphim stated.

  “Yeah,” Remy agreed. “You’re probably right . . . but I’m not sure how even you’d do against the Shaitan.”

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  Remy considered his answer a moment, then decided to be as honest as he could. “I’m afraid.”

  The Seraphim laughed. “Of course you are.”

  “I’m afraid of what Malachi has up his sleeve. I’m afraid that once the Shaitan are born, we won’t be able to put them back in the bottle . . . and everybody . . . everybody . . . will be forced to pay the price.”

  “What makes this threat so different from all the others?” the Seraphim asked with genuine curiosity. His wings slowly unfurled, stretched out, and then folded back. “Why don’t you just force me . . . bend me to your will as you always have. Give me a taste of freedom, and then lock me away, deep in the darkness until you need me again.”

  “This is different,” Remy said. “We have to be together on this . . . need to be. . . .”

  Remy hated to have to admit this, especially to his angelic nature, but it was true. Humanity would not be an asset in dealing with the Shaitan. He remembered what it had done to Zophiel, and it frightened him more than anything.

  “We have to be more like we once were.”

  The Seraphim’s eyes widened. “How we once were?”

  Remy nodded. “It has to be if we are to survive this.”

  “And what of your precious humanity?”

  “It’ll still be here, but . . .”

  “Pushed down in the darkness,” the Seraphim growled, enjoying the words.

  “Until—”

  “Do you even remember what you were?” the Seraphim interrupted.

  He moved fast, dropping directly in front of Remy with a single thrust of his powerful wings. The Seraphim stood before him, studying him, but Remy did not flinch. The angel tore the metal gauntlet from one hand, exposing pale, alabaster flesh and long, delicate fingers.

  “I remember,” Remy said, not quite sure what the Seraphim was about to do.

  “Do you?” the Seraphim hissed, as he placed his cold fingertips upon Remy’s brow.

  And then Remy did remember. But this time, he saw the reality of it all, the true memory no longer dulled by the passage of millennia, no longer softened by the fabrication of his humanity.

  He saw.

  He saw that he was an instrument of God, an extension of the Creator’s love and rage. He was an extension of the Almighty, as were his brethren. And all was right in the mechanism of the universe . . . until the birth of humanity.

  When they were placed within the Garden, things went horribly awry.

  The war came not long after that, and his full potential became tapped. No longer was he just a messenger of God; he was transformed by battle into a thing of violence, a thing that channeled the wrath of the Almighty.

  And he reveled in it, smiting all who would raise their weapons against his—their—Creator.

  How dare they do this? How dare they question His most holy word?

  Those he had known as brothers fell beneath his hungry sword, and as each died, a little bit of him died with them.

  Stained with the blood of his family, he found that he could no longer be there—no longer bathe in the light of his Lord God.

  For the light had dimmed.

  Bitter and confused, he left Heaven, hoping to make sense of it—to find some meaning—upon the world that God had fashioned for His favorite, yet disobedient, creations.

  It was there that he lost himself, where the separation of what he was and what he would become began.

  Yet he still carried all that anger, buried away, festering.

  Seething.

  Infected and pustulated, covered with a thin bandage of humanity.

  He saw.

  The Seraphim stepped back, studying him as he pulled the gauntlet back onto his hand.

  Remy was shaken; the powerfully raw emotion of what his angelic nature had experienced—was still experiencing—was stunning.

  “What do you want me to say?” he gasped, as the Seraphim walked away. “That I can give you answers to your questions? That I can somehow make it like it used to be? I can’t do that . . . it will never be the same.”

  Remy paused, feeling the rage as he once had. “There are no answers; it’s just how it is. Everything had lost its meaning until I started to watch them.”

  “To become like them,” the Seraphim said with a sneer.

  “Yeah,” Remy agreed. “And was that so bad?”

  “It is not what you are.”

  “No, but it’s what I’ve become.”

  The Seraphim stared with an intensity that was nearly palpable. But Remy stared back, refusing to back down.

  And suddenly the angel spread his wings, a sword of fire—Zophiel’s flaming sword—appearing in his hand. The armor that adorned it was suddenly dirty, stained maroon with the blood of his memory.

  “Look upon me,” the angel commanded, his voice booming like thunder. “Look at what I’ve become.”

  The Seraphim was a fearsome sight in
deed.

  “Right now, this is what I need you to be,” Remy said, walking across the top of the spire toward the Seraphim, and offering his hand.

  “You,” the Seraphim snarled, staring at Remy’s hand as if it were covered in filth. “What Eden . . . the Earth . . . and the Creator need you to be . . . What I need to be.”

  And with those words the Seraphim turned swiftly, unfurled its wings, and leapt from the spire, gliding down to disappear amid the elaborate structures of the holy City of Light twinkling below.

  “Are we ready?”

  Remy blinked repeatedly, first seeing the multiple boats and those who manned them in the water below where he stood, before turning his gaze to Jon and Izzy, who stared wide-eyed at him.

  “Are you all right?” Jon asked. “You got kind of quiet.”

  “I’m fine,” Remy said, remembering—experiencing—the rage of the Seraphim. “We should get going.”

  They were standing close together on the porch outside of Izzy’s house, having decided that they were going to Eden.

  “We was waitin’ for you,” Izzy said. “You was goin’ to tell me how to get to the Garden when you went all strong-silent-type on us.”

  “Sorry,” Remy apologized. “I was just thinking.”

  “Well, how about you think me an explanation as to how we’re going to find that place.”

  “We need some blood,” Jon said before Remy could reply.

  Izzy looked at him as if he had three heads. “I’ll give you blood,” she said, making a fist that crackled with repressed supernatural energy.

  “He needs it to track the location,” Jon explained, throwing up his hands in surrender. “If you can sense where Eden is, then he can track it through the magick in your blood.”

  She looked at Remy.

  “I’m afraid he’s telling the truth.”

  “How much blood?” Izzy asked.

  “Enough that I can catch a strong scent,” Remy explained.

  Izzy shook her head in disgust, reached into the pocket of her jacket—she’d put it on because she could sense that Eden was resting someplace cold—and removed a penknife.

  She unsnapped the small blade and let it hover over the index finger of her left hand. “This all right?”