A Hundred Words for Hate

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  To think that there was an entire legion of these beings to feast upon was enough to drive him mad with pleasure.

  Taranushi groaned in satisfaction as the angel struggled within him. He wanted to tell the Heavenly being to cease its efforts, that it was only prolonging the inevitable, but the truth was, he enjoyed the feeling, the power that he had over this arrogant messenger of God.

  The sensation of supremacy.

  The Seraphim’s movements grew weaker, and Taranushi felt his own digestive fluids increase in flow. The beast was tempted to release the angel, so he could rip the flesh from its bones and stuff the bloody pieces of Heavenly meat into his mouth as the Seraphim slowly passed from life, but this form of consumption would more than suffice.

  The first twinge startled the Shaitan, but that moment quickly turned to excitement as he realized that the Seraphim still had some fight in him.

  More life to feed his insatiable appetite.

  The Shaitan constricted his muscles all the tighter, giving his prey little space to move.

  “Fight, pretty angel,” he cooed, stretching his head above the undulating mass of black, marked flesh that was his body. “It will just make your meat all the sweeter.”

  The monster began to laugh, but his amusement turned to concern as he realized that the Seraphim’s movements were growing stronger.

  Concentrating with all his might, the Shaitan tightened his body’s pliant muscles, just as a clenched fist savagely punched through the mass of its body, and into the air.

  “Yeeeeeeeeeearrrgh!” Taranushi cried out.

  His flesh flowed over the arm and drew the limb back down into his body. But another fist forced its way through, followed by the flexing of a mighty wing.

  The Shaitan was in trouble, and he doubled his efforts to put his prey down, but to little avail. It was as if the Seraphim had been given a second opportunity at life.

  An intervention on behalf of the divine, he almost considered, before pushing the disturbing thought away.

  And that was when he began to feel the heat. The angel had attempted the same trick before, radiating the fire of its divinity, but the darkness inside Taranushi had been enough to suffocate that flame.

  Now, however, hands burning white with fire hotter than the heart of a star tore through Taranushi’s flesh, the meat of the Shaitan’s body sizzling as his juices were cooked from within.

  The Seraphim tore himself out from the prison of flesh, body glowing white-hot, and tossed his head back in a savage scream that informed the universe he still lived.

  Taranushi recoiled, flowing away from the intense heat of the angel’s form. He was hurt, his body damaged in ways that it had never been before. Gazing down at the wounds, he considered escape, giving himself time to heal before resuming the struggle.

  But the ground beneath his feet pulsed with life.

  The life of his kind, and he knew there wasn’t much time before they were born, and unleashed from the Garden unto the world.

  There was no choice.

  The angel stood naked before him, the fluids from his captivity smoldering upon his superheated flesh. Slowly he flapped his wings, shaking off the burning residue.

  Taranushi let the rage come, ignoring his pain to once more challenge the soldier of Heaven.

  “Time to die, messenger,” the spawn of darkness said as he lunged for his prey.

  For the fate of his kind.

  There was a balance within the Seraphim now.

  Before there had always been a sense of struggle, of holding back.

  But now that was gone.

  He had been about to die when the change had come upon him, but two opposing forces joined together to form one.

  Dispelling the darkness with light.

  Dispelling the darkness with holy fire.

  Seraphim and Shaitan came together at the base of the Tree of Knowledge, two bodies colliding with such force and strength that the Garden trembled with the intensity of it.

  They both knew that this was the moment their fates would be decided.

  They smashed into the base of the Tree, tearing away huge pieces of bark, revealing the pale, oozing flesh beneath.

  The Shaitan was up to his old tricks at once, his body like water, attempting to engulf his foe. But this time the Seraphim was ready. He refused to allow the malleable beast to take hold. Instead, he made his hands burn with the heat of the righteous.

  The Shaitan drew back, roaring his displeasure. He shifted part of his mass into a muscular tentacle and lashed out with all his might, swatting the angel away, the intensity of the blow picking him up from the ground and launching him through the air.

  Sensing an opportunity, the Shaitan slithered across the ground in pursuit of his prey.

  Remiel climbed slowly to his feet, attempting to stave off the encroaching unconsciousness. He could hear the monster approaching, its breathing excited and eager, probably imagining that victory was at hand.

  The Seraphim decided to let it continue to think that way, for he had found his own opportunity.

  Unwittingly, the Shaitan had knocked him within inches of his weapon. He had lost Zophiel’s sword when the struggle had first intensified, but now he looked upon it, protruding from the ground, covered in winding vines and thick leaves that were constantly burning, only to regrow twice as large, and twice as thick, only to burn all over again. To the normal eye it appeared as a small tree, but to the Seraphim . . . to Remiel, it was so much more.

  The blade of Eden’s sentry was crying out to him, screaming into his mind to take it up and destroy the foes of the Garden and Heaven.

  Almost, he thought, the sounds of the eager Shaitan nearly upon him.

  Closer.

  Closer . . .

  The damnable thing was almost there; he could smell the evil sweating from its pores, hear the sound of its flesh as it abandoned its shape, becoming molten, preparing to envelop him.

  Remiel reached for the sword, tugging the burning blade from a scabbard of thick vines and leaves, and spun to meet his attacker with a cry of fury. Their eyes met as Zophiel’s blade hissed through the humid air on its designated course.

  The Shaitan attempted to bend its body around the sword, but the blade forged in the fires of Heaven would have none of that. It was starving for the blood of its enemy.

  Gouts of black, foul-smelling blood spurted into the air as the blade cut through the twisted thing’s rubbery skin. The Shaitan cried out in pain, and dropped to the ground, slithering back from its foe.

  Remiel spread his wings wide and flew after the monster, relentlessly hacking at its thick, trunklike body, each blow cutting spurting gashes in the thing’s ever-shifting flesh. The Shaitan managed to reach the Tree of Knowledge, winding itself around the trunk like a serpent, and up toward the expanse of withered branches. Huge, leathery wings began to take shape from its body, beating the air, as it attempted escape.

  Remiel shot up into the air, intercepting the beast as it exploded through the diseased, fruit-covered branches. He slashed one of the monster’s new wings, crippling it. It began to fall, and the Seraphim joined it, holding on, pushing the monstrosity down through the Tree’s branches to the hard ground below.

  Remiel landed atop the thrashing Shaitan, raising his fiery sword and plunging it into the monster, pinning it to the ground. Screams filled the air . . . the Shaitan’s, as well as those of its fetal brethren still gestating and waiting in the soil beneath.

  The Shaitan’s movements grew frantic as it attempted to right itself. Its blood flowed into the ground, exciting the young beastlings that waited below and enticing them toward the surface.

  The earth began to seethe and Remiel quickly stepped back. The Shaitan struggled to be free of the sword, but it held fast, pinning the monster to the churning earth.

  And then it began to scream.

  The baby Shaitan were emerging, pale skinned and hungry, crawling up from the darkness into the murky light of the Garde
n. They shrieked angrily at the light, the sudden illumination hurting their sensitive eyes, but it did not stop them from their purpose.

  To feed.

  The blood of their brother had created a feeding frenzy—the blood of their brother rich with the taste of Seraphim.

  It was a horrific sight to behold, and the unfortunate Shaitan survived much longer than Remiel would have imagined possible.

  He was not sure how long it was before his foe was completely consumed, but the Seraphim realized that, little by little, the babies were starting to notice his presence. Those that had fed sniffed the air, zeroing in on his scent, and began to claw their way toward him across the overturned earth, dragging malformed limbs in their wake.

  Hungry for their next meal.

  And Remiel did not know if he had the strength left to defeat them.

  The old black woman struggled in his grasp as Malachi peered through the thick jungle foliage at the battle raging before him.

  This Seraphim, he thought, watching as the angel Remiel finally dispatched the Shaitan. There is something different about him now, something that wasn’t part of his original design. Something new is present.

  Something deadly.

  The Shaitan’s death screams spurred him to action. He began to drag the woman away, but she fought him.

  “I know that one,” Eliza Swan cried. “That’s my Remy,” she said, voice trembling with emotion. “That’s my Remy Chandler.”

  Malachi savagely pulled her away. All he needed was for her to draw the attention of the Seraphim—especially that Seraphim.

  The ground still moved beneath each footfall, trees swayed, and plants reached weakly to snag them as they passed. The Garden was dying, but she still tried to stop those she believed had harmed her. He wondered how long she had before all the life left her.

  A wall of thick vegetation blocked the opening to his cave, but the scalpel of light was more than sufficient to gain him entrance. The vines squeaked in death, and wilted away as the blade cut through their tubular bodies to expose the gaping cave mouth.

  Eliza planted her feet, not wanting to enter, but the elder had little time for the human monkey’s games. He dragged her with ease, the grip upon her wrist so powerful that he could feel the frail old bones grinding together as he pulled her along.

  The chamber was just as he’d left it, and he headed toward his workstation, tossing Eliza aside. The old woman fell to the ground, stunned.

  Malachi ignored her, his mind abuzz. He found a deep bowl made from the bottom portion of a gourd, and plucked it from the table. Turning, he focused on a section of wall and recalled the forbidden piece of angel magick he would recite, and the sigils he would have to draw, in order to make his escape.

  Now all he required was the blood to draw with.

  Malachi turned toward Eliza and brought forth the ever-soversatile blade of light. “One last chore before . . . ,” he began, only to stop short when he saw that they were no longer alone in the cave.

  A figure knelt beside the woman, tenderly touching her face as she lay stunned upon the floor of the cave. At first he did not recognize him, clothed as he was in a dark three-piece suit, but as he rose there was no mistaking the former Guardian angel.

  “Fraciel,” Malachi said excitedly. “How nice it is to see you again.”

  “Yeah,” Francis said, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket so the white of his shirt showed just below the cuffs. “And it’s Francis now.

  “Bet you didn’t see this coming.”

  Francis could practically hear the gears turning inside the old angel’s skull as he slowly approached.

  “This day is just full of surprises,” Malachi said, dark eyes shining in the weak light of the cave. “Surprises and revelations,” he added.

  The elder stopped halfway to Francis, who continued to stare in stony silence.

  “The surprise, of course, being that you’re still alive,” Malachi said with a chuckle. “And the revelation that we are somehow linked, you and I.”

  Francis was mildly interested to see where this would go.

  “Ever since I first partook of the fruit from the Tree,” the ancient angel explained, “you have been part of the future that I foresaw. . . .”

  Malachi paused.

  “I had thought your part at an end with my escape from Hell, but now . . . seeing you here, I realize that our lives—our futures—are far more intricately entwined than that.”

  “You gutted me like a fish,” Francis said, still feeling the excruciating pain.

  “I did,” Malachi agreed. “And yet here you are. Don’t you see, Francis? We’re supposed to be together.”

  Malachi was inching closer, and Francis let him come.

  “The survival of this reality—of all realities—is our responsibility,” the elder stressed. “We are the future.”

  “I have a job for you,” Francis heard Lucifer Morningstar say, as he balanced on the precipice of death. “If you are so inclined.”

  There must have been something in his eyes, something that told Malachi he wasn’t about to buy into his bullshit. And that was when the ancient being made his move. The scalpel was out, slicing through the moist, stagnant air of the cave, as Malachi darted forward to try to kill him again.

  But Francis had been expecting as much, willing the golden pistol from where it waited in the ether, to his hand, pitilessly firing a single, Hell-forged bullet into the center of Malachi’s forehead.

  The elder’s head snapped violently backward, the glowing scalpel flying from his open fingers, an amusing look of surprise frozen upon his ancient features.

  “Always wondered what would happen if I fucked with the future,” Francis said, watching his victim fall backward to the floor.

  He walked over to where Malachi lay, surprised to see that he was still alive, even with a bullet of Hell metal lodged inside his skull.

  “I have a job for you,” he heard the Morningstar speak again.

  The golden peacemaker was still in his hand, and he held it above the angel’s chest, firing another round into Malachi’s black heart.

  The angel twitched as the bullet entered his body, and then went still.

  “If you are so inclined.”

  Francis closed his eyes, recalling the offer, and the answer he gave, as he was yanked back from the edge of death.

  There was a scuffling sound somewhere behind him, and he spun around, finger twitching on the trigger of the deadly pistol.

  But it was only Eliza Swan.

  Eliza Swan. Even thinking her name brought a smile to his lips.

  Willing the gun away, he went to the woman.

  She was leaning up against the cave wall, and it was then that Francis noticed how incredibly old she had become. He tried to do the math, and gave up. She was of Eve’s bloodline, and would live much longer than the average human woman, but even by those standards, she was pretty damn old.

  Francis approached the woman, whose love he had remembered only a short time ago, and knelt down beside her.

  “How are you, girl?” he asked, emotions that he would never admit to bubbling to the surface.

  Eliza lifted her head to look into his eyes. “Pearly,” she whispered. “I never forgot you.”

  She lifted a hand to stroke his face, and he leaned into it, reveling in the affection, but suddenly taken aback by the scent of blood.

  “Eliza?” he questioned, taking her hand and staring at it. Her fingers were stained red. “Are you hurt?”

  “You told me to leave the writing where it was,” she said, her eyes locked on his. “That if I didn’t, I would put myself in danger . . .”

  Francis began to panic; the smell of blood was stronger.

  “Why is it that I never listened?” she asked him. “Why did I always ignore the people I loved? My parents . . . you . . . I guess I was always bad news, wasn’t I?”

  “You were never bad news. . . .”

  She began to cough, and th
at was when he saw it.

  Malachi’s scalpel protruding from her belly.

  He gasped and reached to pull it free, but she caught his wrist, demanding that he look at her.

  “I did this,” she told him. “If I had listened . . . if I had listened, none of this would have happened. Figured I’d best put an end to it . . . before I messed up anything else.”

  He was about to tell her that she would be fine, that he would find a way to fix her, but he didn’t want to lie, not to her.

  Her hold on his wrist grew weaker, and her hand eventually fell into her lap.

  Francis reached for the blade, pulling it from her. He stared at it, listening to its faint hum and occasional crackle, before slipping it into the pocket of his jacket.

  Claiming the weapon as his own.

  Eliza’s eyes had begun to close, and he knew that she didn’t have much longer. There was so much he wanted to say, to tell her before she left, but all he could do was watch.

  “I have a job for you.”

  And remember what he had done to be here.

  “If you are so inclined.”

  Eden was still dying, but she wasn’t as sick as she had been before.

  Izzy could feel the connection with the Garden now, the thrum of her life through her own body.

  And Jon’s.

  He had been the key to saving her, the two of them somehow providing the place with what she needed to fight . . . the strength to fight and possibly survive what was happening to her.

  The ground still trembled violently beneath their feet as they pushed their way through the thick jungle, an effort on the part of Eden to fight back against her foes.

  Izzy could feel where she needed to go, holding on to Jon’s hand, leading him to their destination. He believed that they were going to Remy, to assist the angel in his fight against the Shaitan, but she knew otherwise.

  There was someplace else she was supposed to be right now.

  She brought them to a stop before the gaping mouth of the cave.

  “What are we doing?” Jon asked. “This isn’t where . . .”