A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Sariel smiled, overjoyed at the potential for distraction. What's a celebration without females? he thought, pushing himself from his seat and crossing the room toward where his brothers had congregated around their visitors.

  The Grigori had a weakness for the fairer sex – just one of the damning reasons they had ended up in the situation they were in, and had been in for countless millennia. What was it about humanity that had seduced them so, that continued to seduce them?

  How many times had he and his brothers asked themselves that very question? As many times as there are stars in the sky, the leader thought, admiring the women.

  They were quite attractive . . . for humans. Dressed in gowns of the finest material, faces painted alluringly and adorned in jewelry of silver, diamonds, and gold, there was little that separated them from their primitive ancestors.

  Harlots, each and every one, enticed here with the promise of payment. They'll earn their reward, Sariel thought.

  “Welcome, ladies,” he said, as his brothers stepped away from the women so that he could view them unhindered.

  They were just what the moment called for.

  A distraction from the pain of exile.

  And they served their purpose well, as did the alcohol, the drugs, and the food specially prepared for their distinctive palates. But in the end it was all so horribly fleeting.

  Because of their angelic physiology, nothing remained with their systems for long. They tried to kill the pain of their tortured existences with excess, and in the end, it was never enough.

  But it never stopped them from trying.

  Sariel had his way with all of the women, the stink of their sexual acts hanging heavy in the air, reminding him again of how far he – how far they – had fallen. His brothers were still lost in their decadence, their indulgences, but he'd had more than enough for now.

  Leaving his brethren to their lustful antics, Sariel rose from the pillows on the floor and strolled naked across the space toward their renovated living quarters. Already he could feel the guilt of his wanton acts wearing on him, reminding him of the reason for their banishment.

  He had reached the far end of the grand room turned den of inequity, when he realized that the sounds of revelry had ceased. He turned, curious, and saw him standing in the center of the room.

  Instinctively, Sariel knew who it was. He could feel the power radiating from him.

  “Brother Israfil!” he called, suddenly frustrated that he was unable to spread his wings and glide through the air to their powerful visitor's side.

  The Angel of Death appeared as human, but he was so much more than that. The power of Heaven throbbed beneath the masquerade of flesh and bone. Israfil remained eerily silent, his eyes riveted upon the Grigori in their various stages of immorality.

  Sariel slowly approached the angel, head bowed in reverence. “Holy Israfil,” he said, painfully aware of his nakedness, the scars where his glorious wings had once sprung throbbing with pain. They had never stopped hurting – never fully healed. “This is indeed a great honor. May I ask the occasion?”

  His thoughts raced with the possibilities as he waited for the angel to respond. But Israfil's gaze remained upon his brothers and the examples of their debauchery.

  Even those who served the needs of the Grigori were drawn to the heavenly power, the blind servants emerging from the back rooms, their useless eyes somehow able to perceive the divinity of the visitor.

  Israfil finally turned his haunting gaze to Sariel, the intensity of the look dropping the leader to his knees.

  “I wanted... wanted to see,” the Angel of Death said in a voice that seemed to tremble with emotion. “I needed to know if it really is possible.”

  Sariel did not understand the angel's words. “Excuse my ignorance, brother,” he began carefully. They did not need Israfil angry with them; that would be disastrous in so many ways. “But if what is possible?”

  Israfil was looking at his Grigori brothers again. The human females, wallowing in the euphoric grip of the abundant narcotics, had no idea of what was truly transpiring here, no idea of the power this visitor held.

  “To truly be with them . . .” he began, his voice little more than a whisper. “To be like them.”

  Sariel still did not understand, and was about to attempt further discussion when one of his own, the Grig-ori Armaros, rose from his pillow on the floor, his eyes glazed, a twisted smile on his drug-addled features.

  “You want to be with them?” Armaros slurred, reaching down to pull one of the prostitutes up from where she had started to doze. It was the redhead, and Sariel did not remember her name. He could never remember their names.

  “Take this one,” the Grigori said, pushing the naked woman toward Israfil.

  The woman stumbled, her large breasts flopping grotesquely as she fell to the ground in front of him.

  And Armaros began to laugh, a high-pitched keening that filled the hall with its irritating sound.

  Sariel felt it before it happened. The temperature in the room dropped dramatically, and he saw the strangely troubled expression on Israfil's face turn to one of fury and revulsion.

  The Angel of Death extended his arm toward the giggling Armaros, as the other Grigori seemed to become immediately lucid, scrambling away from their brother. The females appeared to sense trouble as well and crawled away to hide behind an overstuffed sofa.

  “You think it's funny?” Israfil asked, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

  Sariel reached out to Israfil in an attempt to calm his ire, and felt the flesh on his hand grow numb as his fingers entered a field of severe cold that surrounded the angel. With a hiss, he withdrew his nearly frozen limb, clutching it to his chest.

  “You think you're special?” Israfil asked Armaros.

  The Grigori dropped to his knees, averting his gaze and begging for mercy. But Israfil's anger had rendered him as blind as their servants.

  And then Armaros began to scream, his naked body flopping to the ground, writhing in agony.

  “It is they who are special . . . they who are the chosen of our Holy Lord.”

  Armaros' body began to wither and cracks appeared in his flesh. Still the Grigori screamed, his cries for mercy falling upon deaf ears.

  There was a sudden flash of light as a sphere of pulsing energy exploded out from within Armaros' desiccated body. The glowing orb drifted across the room to Israfil's extended hand, and as it came close, the Angel of Death closed his fingers upon it, extinguishing the light.

  And then Israfil turned his angry gaze toward the others. Sariel and his remaining brethren quickly averted their eyes so as not to further feed his anger. They waited for a sign that they were to die, or be spared the angel's wrath, but it did not come.

  Finally gathering up his courage, Sariel raised his head, only to find Israfil gone.

  The reason he had come to them, and his behavior, a mystery.

  The lingering stench of an angel's death hanging heavy in the air, the only evidence that he had even been there at all.

  To truly be with them . . . to be like them.

  Sariel's account of Israfil's visit replayed in Remy's mind. Over and over again he heard the Grigori's words, painting a picture that served only to intensify his growing sense of unease.

  It was raining harder now in Boston, and he was having a difficult time concentrating on navigating the wet city streets. Thankfully, no one was about, as if the deluge had washed away anyone foolish enough to venture outside.

  Remy hated to admit it, but the Seraphim's suspicions might actually have meant something, that Israfil had somehow become enamored with humanity, thus making it difficult for him to do the job that the Almighty had assigned him.

  It's crazy; this is the freakin' Angel of Death, for Pete's sake.

  But if what Sariel said was true, Israfil had come to the Grigori looking for some sort of affirmation that it was possible to be of both the Heavenly host and humanity.


  It made Remy's head hurt to think of it. The two states of being were polar opposites, which was why he himself had chosen to suppress his true nature . . . at least as much as he was able. He could only imagine the ferocity of the struggle as the two conflicting natures attempted to exist at the same time, which was probably why the world was in its current situation.

  It was actually Sariel's disturbing supposition as Remy had been preparing to leave the Grigori den that had left him chilled to the bone. He heard the leader's words again, filled with a breathless anticipation.

  “Do you suppose that if the Apocalypse is called down – that if all is laid to waste – the Heavenly father will finally allow us to return home?”

  Remy was so taken aback by the question he hadn't known how to reply. He had simply left the building as quickly as he could.

  He turned up Charles Street between the Public Garden and the Common and reached for his cell phone. Holding it up, keeping one eye on the road, he scrolled down his listing of most used numbers. He found the one he was looking for and dialed it.

  “Yeah,” came Lazarus' familiar voice on the other end.

  “Just getting back from seeing our friends,” Remy said. “Israfil paid them a visit not too long ago . . . seemed a bit out of it. The implication being that he wanted to be human.”

  “Ouch,” Lazarus said.

  “Yeah, ouch as in 'Ouch, this whole Apocalypse thing could really put a crimp in my day.' Do you have anything for me?” Remy asked as he turned onto Derne Street and began the chore of looking for a parking space.

  “Nothing, really. Everybody's pretty quiet. It's like they know something big is coming and they're all holding their breath.”

  “Have you seen anything of a demonic nature?”

  “I try and stay clear of those types. Why?”

  “Had a run-in outside my office with some individuals of definite demonic persuasion. They tried to convince me to give up on the case.”

  “They kick the shit out of you?” the immortal asked.

  Remy could hear the amusement in his voice. “Pretty much. There had to be at least four of them, maybe even more.”

  “Sure,” Lazarus chided.

  “Yeah, go screw.” Remy had just about given up on finding a space when he remembered that he still had to give Ashlie a ride home anyway.

  “So you think there are demons involved with this business now?” Lazarus asked.

  “I think there are parties interested in seeing Israfil stay lost, and in conjunction, bringing about the end of the world. Isn't that friggin' cheerful?” Remy pulled up in front of his house, driving the car onto the sidewalk so as not to block the narrow street any more than he had to.

  “Sounds it,” Lazarus agreed. “Well, I suppose the night's still young. I'll see what I can dig up.”

  “Thanks,” Remy said, turning off the engine. “Call if you come across anything.”

  The immortal broke the connection, and Remy returned his phone to his belt, taking a moment to collect his thoughts as the rain thrummed on the hood of his car.

  Finally, he bit the bullet and exited the car. Out into the storm.

  Remy heard Marlowe bark as he slipped his key into the door. It was followed by the sounds of the jangling tags and clicking toenails as the dog raced to greet him.

  The nails sounded long; he would have to cut them again soon.

  “Hey, buddy,” Remy said, closing the door, the dog happily sniffing him up and down.

  “You're home! You're home!” Marlowe chanted, barely able to contain his excitement. Remy reached down to pet him, his movement causing the water that beaded on his coat to rain down upon the happy pup.

  “Wet!” he yelped, licking up some of the drops that spattered the hallway floor.

  “Yep, it's pouring. Where's Ashlie?” he asked, looking for the teenager, guessing that she'd probably fallen asleep in front of the television.

  “Ashlie gone,” Marlowe said, turning and bounding down the hallway, back to the living room.

  “What do you mean she's gone?” Remy asked, following the animal. “Ashlie?” he called out. “Hey, Ash?”

  Remy rounded the corner and stopped as he caught sight of the stranger sitting on his couch. He stared at the young woman, not sure of what to do next. It was obvious that he had woken her up. Her shoes were on the floor in front of the couch, a mug that looked as though it might have once contained tea resting on the coffee table in front of her. She looked at him with large, fear-filled brown eyes. She was attractive, a brunette with shoulder-length hair and fair skin.

  Marlowe had hopped up onto the couch next to her, leaning back and waving a paw at Remy as he panted loudly.

  “Who the hell are you?” Remy asked. “Casey,” Marlowe barked.

  “I'm not asking you, I'm asking her,” he said, his eyes shifting from the dog to the woman.

  “I'm Casey, Mr. Chandler. Casey Burke. I'm so sorry about this. I must've dozed off.”

  “How did you get in here. . . . Where's Ashlie?”

  “Ashlie go home,” Marlowe said, leaning back even farther so that both paws were now flapping in the air. It looked as though he was doing the wave at a football game.

  “I told you to hush up,” Remy scolded the dog. “I want answers from you.” He pointed at the woman from the doorway. He didn't sense any danger from her, but it still didn't change the fact that she was a stranger sitting on his couch in his living room.

  “I came by to see you, and Ashlie told me that you had gone out for the evening. I must've looked really pathetic because she asked if I wanted to come in and write you a note.”

  Remy scowled, upset that the teenager could have been so foolish.

  “Don't be mad at her,” Casey said quickly, putting her feet down and slipping into her shoes. “I started explaining my situation a little and got kind of upset. She thought that maybe I should hang around until you got back.”

  Remy sighed, exasperated, and leaned against the door frame. “Where is she now?”

  “She wasn't feeling too good,” Casey explained, making a sort of embarrassed face. “You know, female problems.”

  “So she just left you here? A stranger, in my house with my dog?”

  “No stranger. Casey,” Marlowe informed him.

  “I know it's Casey,” he said, annoyed.

  The woman started to laugh, abruptly stopping when she realized that Remy was staring at her.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's just that somebody I'm very close to used to do the same thing with our cat.”

  Remy tilted his head, frowning quizzically.

  “You know, the whole talking-to-the-animal thing, as if they know what you're saying.”

  He sensed her mood suddenly darken as she lowered her head, looking down at her hands. Marlowe moved closer, nuzzling her arm in hopes that petting him would cheer her up.

  “That somebody is actually why I'm here, Mr. Chandler,” Casey said, rubbing Marlowe's ears. Remy could hear the dog rumbling with pleasure. “My fiance . . . Jon Stall is missing . . . has been missing for the last few weeks.”

  Feeling his ire start to subside, Remy shucked off his still-dripping coat. “Ms. Burke . . .”