A Hundred Words for Hate

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  The screams had drifted off, but Mulvehill still surged ahead.

  He listened as he wove between the trees, listening for the sound of pursuit, but so far there was nothing.

  Maybe they killed each other, he thought, just as he found the old woman, kneeling in front of a birch tree. Wouldn’t that be something.

  “Fernita,” he called, then caught sight of something wrapped in a red blanket leaning against the tree.

  A body.

  She turned at the sound of his voice, and he could see that her face was damp with tears, but there was something in her expression.

  Something in her eyes.

  Clarity. That was the only way to explain it.

  “This is Adam,” she said. “And he needs our help.”

  Mulvehill stepped forward and knelt beside Fernita. He was shocked by the condition of the body leaning against the tree. It reminded him of a mummy that he’d seen at the Museum of Science a few years back, only this mummy was somehow alive.

  “I don’t know how much time we have,” he said, his eyes drawn to the dark, sunken orbs in the body’s—in Adam’s—skull. Mulvehill felt as though he were falling into them, suddenly feeling a sense of calm despite the current situation.

  “You help him,” Fernita said, holding on to Mulvehill’s arm as she awkwardly climbed to her feet. “I’ll be fine.”

  Mulvehill gently placed one arm behind Adam’s back and the other under his knees, and carefully lifted him from the ground. His injured hand throbbed painfully with each rapid-fire beat of his heart, but he didn’t have a choice. They had to move, and move now.

  It was a little disconcerting, the corpselike figure in his arms seeming to weigh close to nothing. Skin and bones, that was all he was.

  “If we head this way, I think we’ll be close to the highway,” Fernita said, leading them away.

  There was that look again, Mulvehill observed as he followed with Adam. There was that clarity.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” a voice boomed from somewhere behind them.

  Mulvehill spun around to see the white-haired, older gentleman, but he knew better. He was about to tell Fernita to run faster, when the bearded man was suddenly right in front of him, his movement a blur.

  “I believe you have something that belongs to me, monkey,” the thing wearing the mask of humanity said with a knowing smile. It knew that Mulvehill was aware of its deception. “Give him to me,” he demanded, holding out his arms.

  “Why don’t you go fuck yourself,” Mulvehill said, knowing that probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say.

  The figure before him stared blankly before seeming to explode. First there was a bearded guy in a suit, and then there wasn’t—the man’s shape flowing up and out, expanding and contracting as it became something else.

  A thick tentacle of pale, tattoo-adorned flesh lashed out, slapping Mulvehill with such speed and ferocity that he found himself airborne before striking a nearby tree and dropping to the frozen earth in a heap of agony.

  The taste of blood filled his mouth. And through bleary eyes he saw that the creature was holding the blanket-wrapped Adam in an arm that coiled about the ancient figure like the body of a large snake.

  “Respect,” the creature said, fixing Mulvehill with its inhuman gaze. “Humanity will know its betters soon enough.”

  “Steven,” a frightened voice called out.

  Mulvehill turned his head slightly and saw Fernita moving toward him through the trees. His heart sank.

  “There she is,” the creature said happily, a grin, absent of any real joy, spreading across its gaunt, skull-like features.

  Fernita knelt before Mulvehill, placing a cold hand against his cheek.

  “I told you that you should’ve left me,” she scolded.

  “I could be saying the same thing to you,” Mulvehill replied, trying to shake off his pain but only making everything hurt all the more.

  Fernita turned to face the strange beast that held the body of Adam in one tentacled arm.

  “You’re here for me . . . aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” it said, a tremble of what could only be excitement passing across the creature’s body and making it vibrate. “I’ve been trying to find you for a very long time.”

  And with those words, another boneless limb lashed out, wrapping around the elderly woman’s waist and drawing her to it.

  Mulvehill reached for Fernita as she was yanked away, but the movment made him dizzy and he fell over on his side, too weak to right himself.

  Face pressed to the cold winter ground, he watched as the tattooed beast admired its two prizes.

  “Master, I have them both at last,” it said almost gleefully. “Now I have the key.”

  The very air around the creature began to stir, to swirl, picking up leaves, snow, and twigs, as if they were in the eye of a cyclone.

  Through blurring vision, the homicide cop watched as one moment they were there, and the next they were gone.

  One moment he was conscious, and the next . . .

  The air above Fernita Green’s cluttered living room floor began to shimmer and quake.

  Something from somewhere else moving from there to here.

  Remy and Jon had been at the stilt house in the middle of the Louisiana swamp, and now they were in the old woman’s home in Brockton.

  “Oh, God, that’s awful,” Jon said, stumbling out from beneath Remy’s wings.

  Remy didn’t waste any time, ignoring the Son of Adam, who was doing everything he could not to retch upon the carpet. Remy was about to call out for Fernita, for Steven, but his eyes were instantly drawn to something that filled him with fear.

  The walls were covered in powerful sigils: the kind used in angel magick. Remy could feel the power leaking from the markings that remained, but he noticed the bucket of filthy water, the scrub brush floating within it, and the sections of old wall smeared black where the sigils had been wiped away.

  Remy’s eyes darted over the writing as he tried to discern their meaning . . . their purpose.

  “What is it?” Jon asked, some color returning to his pale features.

  Remy’s mouth moved as he translated what he could. It had been ages since he’d seen an angelic spell this complex, but he pretty much got the gist of it.

  “This writing . . . It’s there to make you forget,” he said, ice flowing in his veins as he recalled the numerous discussions he’d had with the poor old woman, blaming her condition on age and ailment.

  “Like that you’re actually somebody named Eliza Swan?” Jon asked.

  “Something like that,” Remy said, eyes darting about the room. He lunged toward a chair overflowing with loose clothing, books, and magazines, grabbing the piece of furniture and sliding it across the room to see what lay hidden behind it.

  It was as bad as expected.

  “Remy!” Jon called out.

  He hadn’t realized that the man had left the room, and went to find him. At the end of the hall, Remy found Jon in the kitchen. It looked as though a demolition team had come by and turned the room on its ass.

  “What happened here?” Jon asked, looking up at the enormous hole in the kitchen ceiling to the second floor, and then up through another jagged hole into the attic. One of his hands tugged at his damaged ear nervously as he gazed up through the ragged openings.

  “Whatever it was came through the roof,” Remy said. He allowed his angelic senses to expand, sniffing the air for the scent of anything familiar, and he found it.

  Cherubim.

  “Fernita?” he called. “Steven?”

  He tensed his legs and flapped his powerful wings once, flying up to the second floor.

  “Hello?”

  The stink of the angel sentry was strong up there as well, and he began to feel afraid. If Zophiel had found Fernita and Steven here . . .

  He pushed the troubling thoughts aside, not wanting to think about the outcome. Expanding his senses fa
rther, Remy listened beyond the sounds of the house to the neighborhood outside, and beyond that.

  The sound of sirens.

  He flew up through the gaping hole in the ceiling of the secondfloor hallway, through the attic, and then outside, his powerful wings keeping him aloft as he scanned the area with vision sharper than a bird of prey’s. In the distance he saw a plume of smoke and immediately flew toward it, a tightening in his gut warning him of what he might find.

  From the air he looked down at multiple fire engines as they doused a car that had gone off the road into the woods and hit a tree.

  A very familiar car.

  “Son of a bitch,” Remy hissed, dropping out of the sky toward an ambulance parked a way up the back road. He willed himself unseen, touching down beside the open doors as a paramedic hopped out, calling to his partner, who was speaking with one of the firemen.

  Remy withdrew his wings and angelic essence, assuming his human guise as he looked into the back of the emergency response vehicle to see a battered Steven Mulvehill strapped to a stretcher.

  Silently he hopped in.

  “Hey,” he said, feeling almost giddy that he’d found his friend alive.

  Mulvehill’s neck was immobilized by a white plastic brace, and for a moment Remy thought he might have been unconscious.

  He reached out, taking his friend’s hand in his.

  And Mulvehill’s swollen eyes shot open, bulging wide as they looked upon Remy.

  “It’s only me,” Remy said, smiling warmly at his friend.

  “I know it’s you,” Mulvehill answered, alarm in his tone.

  Remy checked Steven out. He was banged up pretty badly, but nothing looked to be too serious.

  “What happened?” he asked, the guilt already beginning to grow.

  “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 wa
s 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 chance, 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.