A Kiss Before the Apocalypse (12 page)

And as he watched her lying there in the hold of sleep, he knew that it was only a matter of time before the illness claimed her.
It would be so easy,
he thought, his thumb lightly caressing the soft flesh of her hand. To ignore the Seraphims’ request—to do what his attackers had demanded of him—to lie down and do nothing.

To have more time with her would be wonderful, but at what cost?

Madeline groaned, the discomfort of her illness etched upon her face, even in sleep.

He couldn’t do that to her.

Remy let go of his wife’s hand, placing it beneath the covers, and got up. He put the chair back where he’d found it and returned to Madeline’s bedside, allowing himself just a minute more to stare before bending down and kissing her on the forehead.

He had to go. There were things he needed to do— people he needed to see—if he had any hopes of finding Israfil.

Though it pained him to do so, he had to speak to the Watchers.

Remy removed his bloodstained shirt and threw it on the bed.

“I’m fine,” he told the Labrador standing in the doorway, as he grabbed a clean shirt from his closet. “I got a little bit banged up, but I’ll be all right. Okay?”

He slipped the shirt on, ribs aching sharply as he moved.

“Hurt bad?”
Marlowe asked, tilting his head in curiosity.

“Little bad,” Remy answered, as he buttoned up the cream-colored dress shirt. “Some bad people were waiting for me when I got to work.”

“Yes, they did. Worked me over pretty good, I’m sorry to say,” he said, buttoning his cuffs.

“Marlowe bite them,”
the dog said, lowering his head and letting out a low, rumbling growl that actually managed to sound quite menacing.

“I’m sure you would have, but I’m glad you weren’t there. I wouldn’t have wanted you to get hurt.” He bent over in front of the dog and rubbed Marlowe’s ears. “And besides, I went to see Madeline, and Nurse Joan fixed me up.”

The dog’s tail wagged, hitting the doorjamb.
“Like Nurse Joan.”

“Yeah, she’s something special.” Remy walked over to his dresser mirror and checked his reflection. The cuts on his face were healing, and the bruises fading. Before long, no one would ever be able to tell that he’d had the crap kicked out of him by demonic entities.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that the Angel of Death was missing, now there were demons involved. This case just kept getting better and better, and he suddenly found himself longing for the simplicity of spousal infidelity.

Marlowe bounded up onto the bed and sat down. Remy watched him from the mirror.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“Go with?”
Marlowe asked, now resembling a sphinx as he lay fully alert upon the bedspread.

Remy turned to face the animal. “Nope, sorry, pal,” he said. “Wouldn’t wish where I’m going tonight on my worst enemy, let alone my best friend.”

He motioned for the dog to follow him and the two left the bedroom, heading downstairs to the first floor.

“Marlowe protect,”
the dog explained.

“I appreciate your concern,” Remy said, going into the kitchen. “But I’ll be fine.”

“Not long,” Remy answered, getting the dog’s supper together. “But until I get back, Ashlie is coming over to stay with you.”

He hated to leave Marlowe alone. It just wasn’t fair to the animal, after being by himself all afternoon, to be alone at night as well. And that was where Ashlie entered the picture.

The dog barked happily, tail wagging again.

“Yeah, I know all about you and Ashlie,” Remy said, putting the dog’s food down onto the place mat along with some fresh water. Marlowe went to his bowl and started to eat.

The weather had taken a turn for the worse that afternoon, the temperature plummeting, a cold, dismal rain falling.

Appropriate,
Remy thought, taking his raincoat from the hallway closet and slipping it on.

Marlowe had finished eating and was standing in the center of the kitchen, watching him with cautious eyes.

“Ashlie will be over in a little while,” he told the dog. “She’s going to take you for a walk and then play with you. I shouldn’t be too late.”

“Go with,”
Marlowe said, coming to stand beside him at the door.

“No, Marlow. I need to go alone. I’ll be fine. There’s no need to worry.”

The dog sniffed at Remy’s hand.
“Not smell fine,”
he whined.

He couldn’t fool Marlowe. The dog could read his moods with ease, and he had nailed it once again. Remy wasn’t crazy about going to see the Grigori, especially with all the weird stuff that had been going on lately.

It was anybody’s guess what he might be walking into.

“Okay, I’m a little nervous, but it should be okay,” Remy explained. “I’m just going to talk to some
special
people,” he said, using their code name for anybody of a supernatural nature. “Ask them some questions, that’s all.”

“Who?”
the dog asked.
“Special people? Who?”

“You don’t know them,” Remy replied. “The Grigori . . . they’re angels.”

He opened the door, then turned back, ready to remind Marlowe to be a good boy.

“Angels,”
the dog said, sitting attentively by the door, smiling as only a Labrador could.
“Like you.”

“No,” Remy said with a serious shake of his head. “Not like me at all.”

R
emiel drifted down from the star-filled night sky, his golden wings gently beating the chill desert air, slowing his descent.

He could sense them, others of his kind, and was drawn to their presence like a thirsty animal to water. He did not recall exactly how long it had been since he last communicated with others of his ilk, but he longed for the special rapport that only others of the Heavenly host could share.

The angel touched down upon coarse desert sand that mere hours before had burned like fire, but was now cool beneath his bare feet. He reveled in the sensation, enjoying the feeling of the damp granules between his toes, hiding the memories away with the many other experiences he had sampled since abandoning Heaven, and coming to the world of the Almighty’s most sacred creations.

Remiel remembered Heaven sadly, how it used to be before the war—before the fall of the Morningstar.

A howl of excitement, followed by the sounds of primitive music, drifted across the desert toward him, pushing away the memories of how things had been but would never be again.

Remiel gazed across the drifting sands toward what seemed to be a settlement of some kind; the multiple structures made from piled stone and bricks of mud and hay. The angel smiled at the simplicity of the buildings, seeing, perhaps, an attempt by man to duplicate some divine, barely accessible memory of Heaven’s glorious edifices.

Withdrawing his wings beneath his robes, the angel crossed the sands toward the encampment and the sounds of life, the music growing louder as he was drawn to the revelry.

His sense of others like himself grew stronger as well, and his curiosity was piqued. Since the Great War, angelic presence in this world had been frowned upon, and he wondered who of his kind would dare risk rousing the ire of the Lord.

A huge bonfire blazed in the center of the encampment, the inhabitants performing some kind of strange dance around the roaring fire. Remiel took note of the humans’ bodies, their exposed flesh—men and women—adorned with colorful markings, and upon their backs, the strangest of things, crude representations of wings woven from local vegetation.

Remiel continued to watch the strange ritual that seemed to depict the act of flying. He was mesmerized, moving closer to the performance, oblivious to everything except the bizarre ceremony.

Their feet pounded the dirt to the rhythmic beating of drums. Trilling flutes made from the hollowed bones of livestock added a voice to the primal cacophony.

And then the rite stopped abruptly—the world going to silence as the participants froze, glinting eyes locked upon the flames leaping skyward. One by one they tore the makeshift wings from their backs, tossing the mock appendages into the hungry fire. Then each and every one of them fell to their knees, crying out in a display of crippling despondency.

What does this mean?
the angel wondered, the intensity of his curiosity almost causing him to forget the niggling, angelic presence that had first brought him here.

Remiel looked across the writhing bodies of the desert settlers locked in the grip of hysteria, and saw them. They sat alone, away from the humans, and at once he knew their breed.

Remiel approached, stepping over the bodies of those who cried and writhed as if in the embrace of some invisible torment.

The eleven of his brethren stood as he drew closer, their solid black eyes shining in the firelight, faces distorted in such a way as to bare their teeth at him. A show of emotion, he knew, but was not sure which.
Happiness? Sadness? Anger?
There was still so much he did not know about this inhospitable place he had chosen above the kingdom of God.

“Welcome, brother,” the obvious leader of the eleven proclaimed, his voice booming above the cries of the humans still in the throes of emotion. They all bowed to him, and Remiel returned the gesture, shedding his human guise to reveal his true form to those who addressed him.

“Greetings, my brethren,” he stated, his wings of golden yellow unfurling majestically, their movement stirring the dust of the desert around his bare feet. “I am Remiel of the most holy host Seraphim.”

“Of course you are,” said the leader, his hands folded before him. “We’ve anxiously awaited your coming.”

Remiel looked upon the eleven with curious eyes. None had assumed their true forms, as was the proper response to his own revelation.

“I am Sariel,” the leader informed, motioning to the others who loomed attentively behind him. “And we are the host Grigori.”

Remiel’s wings spread wide, carrying him away, repelled by the accursed name of Sariel’s host. “Pariahs!” he spat, drawing a sword from a sheath hidden beneath his robes. “Defilers of God’s most holy trust!” He stared down the blade forged in the center of the sun, that glinted even in the darkness of night.

The Grigori were outcasts, defilers of the Almighty’s holy word. They had been charged with the guardian-ship of the human species, to watch over God’s flock and protect them from sin, but it was they—the Grigori— who had become seduced by the ways of mankind.

The human settlers began to scream at the sight of Remiel. The Grigori fell to their knees, bowing to an authority that he no longer possessed.

“Soldier of Heaven,” Sariel said, lifting eyes his toward him. “We knew that it would be only a matter of time before you returned, that our prayers for forgiveness would be heard.”

Assigned the task of protecting His prized creations from evil, it was, in fact, the Grigori that shared with the fledgling species secrets that God believed they were not yet ready to know. They were taught about the constellations and the resolving of enchantments, of agriculture and the refinement of metal, which led to the creation of weapons for war.

And for this wicked behavior they were banished to live among the young race, and to never lay eyes upon the glory that was Heaven again.

The humans had gathered around the Grigori, as if shielding the defilers of the Creator’s wishes from His wrath.

“They remember the first time. . . . When the Archangels came,” the Grigori leader explained, the humans now surrounding the eleven, pawing at their robes, pulling them down to expose the angels’ pale, almost translucent flesh.

“Our wings . . . our beautiful wings torn from our backs as punishment for our transgressions.”

The Grigori turned, showing him how they had been defiled by God’s wrath. The scars where wings had once sprung were red and angry, tears of yellow infection dribbling down their exposed backs. The humans swarmed around the Grigori’s wounds, using their own garments to wipe away the running discharge.

“Imprisoned in these fragile, human bodies of skin, blood, and bone.” Sariel gazed over his shoulder.“But now you have come. Our prayers have been answered, and we will at last be allowed to beg His forgiveness.”

Remiel descended, furling his wings as he touched down upon the earth. “You are mistaken, watchers of humanity,” the Seraphim said, sheathing his heavenly blade. “I have not the power to grant you absolution.”

Sariel appeared startled by this revelation. “Have you not been sent by the Almighty?”

The other Grigori began to murmur among themselves, angrily pushing away the inhabitants of the settlement who now groveled about them.

“I no longer represent Heaven or my host,” Remiel said sadly, feeling the distance between this world and the world that he had known before the war yawning ever wider. “I am alone now.”

The Grigori leader looked to his brothers and then back to Remiel. “Then why are you here?”

The Seraphim looked to the sky, hoping to find an answer there. But the night and the multitude of twinkling stars remained silent, keeping their secrets to themselves.

“I once believed that serving Heaven was all I needed for fulfillment,” Remiel said, his thoughts filled with the images of the Morningstar and those who followed him as they were cast down into the fires of the abyss. “But I learned that wasn’t true.”

Four human women clung to Sariel’s legs, gazing up at the angelic being with adoration in their eyes, their hands stroking his legs through his flowing robes.

“And you have come to this place . . . to this world, seeking answers?” the Grigori asked, looking about in disbelief. He turned to his followers and began to laugh. “Shall we attempt to provide him with what he seeks, brothers?” Sariel asked.