A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  As he climbed, Remy's thoughts drifted to the strange dream he'd had the other night, the monstrous train coming down the track. Now, standing in front of a metal door, its surface painted a flat black, he had to wonder how close that train was.

  How much closer are the Horsemen?

  Steeling himself, he raised his fist and pounded upon the door. Remy could feel the corrupted presence of the Grigori emanating from the other side, and he had no doubt that they could feel him as well.

  He didn't have long to wait before he could hear the sound of locks being turned and dead bolts sliding across the other side. The heavy metal door opened slowly, the shriek of the hinges giving the impression it had been quite some time since it was last opened. An older man dressed in a starched white shirt and black bow tie stood at attention, his milky, cataract-covered eyes gazing out at Remy, seeing nothing but at the same time seeing everything.

  Blind.

  “This is a private club, sir,” the man said, his voice dripping with disdain. How dare Remy befoul their doorstep. “I suggest you leave before you arouse the ire of my masters.”

  He started to close the door, but Remy placed the palm of his hand firmly upon the cold black surface. “I'm here to see Sariel. Tell him that Remiel is here,” he stated flatly, hand still pressed upon the door. “And that I'm still looking for some of those answers.”

  The blind man went away for a bit.

  Remy had allowed him to close the door, leaving him in the darkness on the landing while the servant went off in search of his master.

  It won't be long.

  Despite the fact that they hated one another, there was still a connection between Remy and the Grigori – an unearthly bond, a brotherhood that could not be denied. They were all a part of something so much larger.

  The sound of the dead bolt interrupted his thoughts, and the door creaked open again.

  “This way, Master Remiel,” the old, blind man said with a bow, motioning for Remy to enter.

  He passed through the doorway from the dark factory landing that stank of dampness and age, into an opulent lobby that made the Four Seasons look like a Motel Six. Another man stood there, dressed in a crisp white shirt, black bow tie, and black slacks. This one was younger but also blind.

  There was something about the handicapped. Almost as if to make up for their physical or mental deficiency, some were given another gift, the ability to recognize heavenly beings for what they actually were. The blind were the most sensitive of all, and the Grig-ori loved nothing more than to be recognized for what they used to be.

  “Your coat, sir?” the young man asked, reaching out in Remy's general direction.

  “No, thank you,” he responded. “I'll hold on to it. I'm not planning to be here that long.”

  The doorman led him toward a dark mahogany door at the far end of the lobby. “This way, Master Remiel.”

  Remy bristled at the use of his true name, but knew if he wanted to talk with the Grigori leader, it had to be this way.

  The doorman found the carved ivory handle and pushed it down, allowing the door to glide smoothly open, and for the sound of revelry from within to escape.

  There was a party going on, and Remy wouldn't have been in the least bit surprised to see a bonfire with people wearing fake wings dancing around it.

  But this appeared to be a much classier affair.

  A full orchestra, all blind, performed a beautiful piece by Mozart from their station in the corner of the room, but those present really didn't seem to notice, or care. Booze flowed from two bars set up on either side of the room; the pungent aroma of marijuana wafted through the air; and on tiny side tables scattered about, Remy could see crystal dishes piled with what could only have been cocaine and various multicolored narcotics.

  Grigori and a few chosen humans – both male and female – carried on as if this really was the night before the end of the world.

  Remy felt suddenly sick at the thought that they might know something he did not.

  Looking about the room at the decadence, he saw that even after all these years – thousands of years – the Grigori were exactly as they were the first time he'd met them, unchanged by the passage of time.

  Poor bastards.

  But he did have to give them points for consistency.

  “Remiel!” a voice called out over the sounds of the festivities, and Remy turned to see a grinning Sariel heading toward him.

  The Grigori leader was dressed impeccably in a suit that probably cost more than what Remy had made the previous year before taxes. The angel wore his white hair long and slicked back, and his skin had an odd orange color like that of an artificial tan.

  Sariel strode across the room, snatching two flutes of champagne from the serving tray of a blind waiter as he moved.

  “So nice to see you again,” he said, leaning forward to kiss Remy on the side of the cheek.

  Remy's senses were nearly overwhelmed by the aroma of expensive cologne, and something else just beneath the strong perfume – the scent of decay. He stepped back, resisting the urge to wipe at his face.

  The Grigori leader offered him one of the two flutes he was holding.

  “No, thank you,” Remy said, shaking his head.

  Unfazed, Sariel downed one and then the other. He smacked his lips noisily, and then tossed both of the empty champagne glasses over his shoulder. They shattered on the hardwood floor, and for a moment the silence in the room was deafening, but then the band resumed its play and the buzz of conversation began again.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Sariel asked, an unnatural smile creeping across his angular features. “Your aversion to mingling with our kind is quite well-known, and it's killing me to know what could be so pressing.”

  One of the blind waiters had appeared with a dustpan and brush, dropping to his knees, gingerly moving his hands across the floor in search of the razor-sharp slivers of Sariel's glasses. The Grigori watched the man with great interest, their eyes twinkling maliciously each time the man's groping hands encountered a piece of glass.

  “Why are you here, Remiel?” Sariel asked again.

  The waiter suddenly yelped in pain as he knelt on a jagged fragment of the flute. The Grigori burst out laughing, applauding the injured man as he pulled the bloody glass from his knee.

  “Is there someplace where we can speak in private?” Remy asked, not able to keep the tone of distaste from his voice.

  “Oh, my,” Sariel said, bringing a hand to his mouth in mock horror. “This sounds serious.” Remy said nothing, waiting.

  “Very well.” Sariel finally motioned for him to follow. “This way.”

  They started across the room, the Grigori and their human guests parting to let them through.

  “Missed a piece,” Sariel said, gently stroking the top of the waiter's head as the angel passed him. The man's body trembled, as if in the throes of ecstasy, at the touch of the Grigori leader's hand, and he continued his search for stray bits of glass with increased vigor.

  Sariel led Remy to another wooden door at the far end of the ballroom, then stopped, turning to look out over the expansive room. “They hate you,” he said as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.

  Remy was a bit taken aback, but not surprised. “You'd think they'd be over it by now,” he said, feeling their suspicious gazes on his back.

  “They'll never be over it,” Sariel replied, opening the door and gesturing for him to move through. Remy entered, the Grigori leader following, closing the door on the hate-filled eyes.

  “You can go back any time,” Sariel continued, crossing the room toward two overstuffed chairs in front of a marble-and-wood fireplace. A cozy fire burned within. “Back to the glory that is Heaven . . . back to Him, but you choose not to. You're actually here because you wish to be.”

  Remy chose a chair and sat down as Sariel did. It was warm and comfortable, the fire chasing away the chill that had resided in his bones
since heading out into the rain tonight.

  “They're jealous,” Remy said, mesmerized by the flames.

  “Perhaps they were once, but now they're simply angry,” Sariel responded.

  There was a knock on the door, and a waiter came into the room.

  “May I bring you anything, master?” the man asked, his blind eyes rolling uselessly in their sockets.

  “Remiel?” the Grigori leader asked him.

  It was a moment of weakness, and he blamed it on the comforting effects of the fire. “Scotch on the rocks,” he said, but regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

  “Excellent idea,” Sariel responded. He turned toward the waiter. “Two Scotches.”

  The waiter bowed and carefully left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “I didn't come to make anybody angry,” Remy said, still gazing into the fire. His felt his face flush, his eyes growing heavy as the fire worked its comforting magic upon him.

  “I wouldn't concern yourself with that. They hate you all the time.” The Grigori chuckled. “Your disregard for what they want most of all infuriates them. . . . Infuriates me.”

  The waiter returned with their drinks, placing a silver tray down upon a small wooden table between the two chairs.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” the servant asked, standing at attention.

  Sariel ignored the question.

  “I think that's it,” Remy told him, feeling uncomfortable with the man's attentive presence. The man didn't move. “Go,” Sariel finally barked.

  The waiter bowed again and left them alone in the study.

  The Scotch was good. Steve would gladly give up his mother's soul for a bottle of this, Remy thought, savoring each sip.

  “You actually respect them,” Sariel said, shaking the tumbler in his hand and causing the ice within to tinkle merrily.

  “Who? Them out there?” Remy pointed to the wall with his glass. “The people beyond these walls, out in the real world? You bet your ass I respect them.” He took a large sip from his drink, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. “It's not easy being human,” he added.

  “And you would know,” Sariel said, slowly bringing the glass to his mouth.

  The fire snapped like the crack of a bullwhip, and one of the logs tumbled from its perch upon the burning stack, a plume of fire and burning embers momentarily flaring up into the flue.

  “Why have you come here, Remiel?” Sariel asked, repressed anger obvious in his tone.

  Remy had some more of the fine Scotch before answering.

  “I had a visit from Nathanuel the other day,” he finally said, looking into the dancing flames.

  He could feel Sariel's eyes suddenly upon him. “Seems that the powers that be have lost track of Is- rafil.” Slowly he turned his head, tearing his gaze away from the mesmerizing flames to meet the intensity of the Grigori's stare. “And they've asked me to find him.”

  It seemed to take Sariel a moment to process the information.

  “The Angel of Death is . . . missing?”

  Remy nodded, taking the last of his drink. He wiped his lips with his fingers and set the glass down on the table between them.

  “And I was hoping that you might have some information to help me take care of this business and restore the balance before . . .”

  “Nothing is feeling his touch?” Sariel interrupted.

  “No,” Remy answered. “So I'm sure you can see why the Seraphim are so interested in finding him as quickly as possible.”

  “And they haven't any idea as to where he has gone?” the Grigori asked.

  “No.”

  And with those chilling words, Sariel started to laugh. It was an awful sound, like the excited cry of a hungry raptor as its eyes fell upon unsuspecting prey. “One of their most powerful has escaped their watchful eyes,” he said shaking his head.

  Then he dropped his empty glass onto the table and stood, moving to the fireplace, where he leaned against the mantle, staring down into the flames. At last he turned to look at Remy, his face shaded in the shifting shadows of the dancing flames.

  “You spoke of restoring the balance. How bad is it out there?”

  Remy thought of the past two days, his experience at the hospital, the stories on the news and in the daily papers.

  It's bad.

  And then there was the dream, the train pulling into the station, carrying the bringers of the Apocalypse. It's real bad.

  “It's horrible, and it's only going to get worse.” Remy leaned his head against the back of the chair, eyeing the angelic being standing at the fireplace across from him.

  “The scrolls?” Sariel asked, black eyes twinkling inquisitively.

  “They're missing too.”

  “Well, this is quite a predicament.” The Grigori returned to his chair. “But it makes sense now.”

  Remy's ears perked up. “What does?” he asked, looking toward the angel. “Do you have something for me?”

  “Perhaps,” Sariel replied. “It happened some time ago.”

  “What happened?” Remy questioned, the potential for his first lead pulling him out of his seat to stand in front of the Grigori leader.

  “I'm not sure how long ago, exactly,” Sariel said, rubbing his brow as if attempting to stimulate his brain. “I have such difficulty with the passage of time. A week, a decade, they all seem to flow together. Do you find that as well, Remiel?”

  Remy surged forward, grabbing hold of the arms of Sariel's chair, leaning into his face.

  “What happened, Sariel, and what does it have to do with Israfil?”

  The Grigori smiled at Remy's intensity.

  “We were so excited to see him,” he said. “Thinking that maybe . . . maybe he had been sent to tell us that we were at last going home.

  “After all, why else would the Angel of Death come to visit?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Between a week and ten years ago

  They were having a celebration.

  Sariel did not remember exactly the reason for the festivities; perhaps it had something to do with the changing of the seasons, perhaps not.

  Whatever it was, the leader of the Grigori did not feel the need to pursue it any further. They were celebrating.

  It was better than slipping into madness.

  The blind musicians were playing something lively. Sariel thought it was probably something by Beethoven. Of all the human composers, he was the one that actually came the closest to duplicating the music of the spheres, of the celestial choirs of Heaven.

  The shrill sound of human laughter stirred him from his reverie.

  The Grigori leader opened his eyes. From his seat in the corner of the recently renovated space, he saw that Araquiel had returned, and that he had brought along women.