Now the Shaitan would wait, nestled in the soil of the Garden, biding their time until their arrival at the steps of Heaven.
S
imeon missed not having a magick user at his disposal; he so hated getting his hands dirty.
From a bowl made from the skull of one of the world’s most powerful clairvoyants, he took a pinch of the yellowish powder and sprinkled it into the foul-smelling contents of a cauldron bubbling nearby.
The powder was the ground bones of angels from the host, Grigori, also known as the Watchers. Their bones, mixed with a number of rare ingredients that he’d acquired over the countless centuries he had lived, would temporarily give him access to a talent necessary for his plan.
The pulverized bones reacted with the substances boiling within the cauldron almost immediately, creating a scarlet mist that writhed up before him. Simeon leaned into the red vapor, letting the thick steam coat his face, leaving his eyes wide-open so that the strange fog could cover them as well.
The pain was instantaneous, and he reared back, stifling a scream as he stumbled around his sanctum for a place to recover. Dropping heavily into a leather wingback chair, Simeon waited, allowing the spell to wash over him—change him. Again he wished that he still had a magick user in his employ.
The world had gone black, but he quite enjoyed the darkness. It reminded him of something similar and comforting on the day he had died, before the Son of God chose to wrench him back from the cusp of Paradise, to suffer the indignities of the mortal world forever.
The accumulated anger was always there for him, an endless reservoir of fuel that had propelled his engine of wrath to this very moment.
From the blackness there came vision.
At first he could barely comprehend what he was seeing, his all-too-human brain trying to understand what only the divine were meant to see.
Simeon was now looking through the eyes of the Archangel Michael as he performed his function in the process of Unification. It was the angel’s job to escort the newly cleansed Garden of Eden back to its original home—to reunite this piece of Paradise with Heaven. Through the archangel’s eyes Simeon saw the Garden’s journey and smiled with the thought of the surprise that it had in store for the Creator and His kingdom.
And the final act of vengeance that would follow.
He couldn’t wait to see it.
• • •
Remy appeared in the tunnel leading down to where his secret enemy hid. He furled his wings and adjusted his eyes to the darkness of the descending corridor. According to Lazarus, Simeon had these hidey-holes all over the world, workshops for the nefarious schemes that he’d been plotting for thousands of years.
He was surprised that he’d never encountered this forever man before, but then remembered that Simeon possessed the rings of Solomon. Perhaps he had met him before but was ordered to forget.
The memory of his alternate self’s past had started to grow less defined—more foggy—the longer he was back. But he would never forget the horror of his actions in that other universe. Those memories were still strong, like raised scars upon the surface of his brain.
He would see that those same actions never came to fruition here.
Remy entered the main chamber to find it lit by multiple jars stationed strategically about the underground room. Inside the jars were glowing spheres of ethereal energy that he at once recognized as souls. He could hear—
feel
—them screaming from within their traps, begging to be set free.
Rounding a thick circular pillar made from skulls stacked upon skulls, Remy saw his enemy. He reclined within the embrace of a chocolate-colored leather wingback. There was a look of absolute joy upon the pale-skinned man’s features, his red-tinted eyes unusually wide and unblinking.
And suddenly the anger that had pooled inside the Seraphim, collected as a seething, black miasma at the center of his being, seemed to develop a life of its own, taking control of the divine fire and causing it to surge forward. A fire fueled by the rage at this person—this soulless thing—for what another version of him had done to another world and what he intended to do to this one.
The anger was stupid and rash, and its actions alerted his foe to his presence. Simeon leapt up from his chair. Remy could see the rings upon each hand and knew that the words—the commands—were about to be uttered. Fearing what was to come, he had no qualms about unleashing the fires of divinity that churned angrily inside of him. The fire leapt hungrily upon the forever man, wrapping him in a seething blanket of reds and yellows, the flames so intense that the leather chair caught fire as well, filling the air of the underground chamber with a blinding, choking smoke.
Remy watched his enemy burn, feeling no sense of guilt or pity as Simeon collapsed to the floor, his body lost within the divine inferno. The flames burned savagely, and Remy knew that it was only a matter of time before there was nothing left to burn.
But a voice, ragged and raw, shrieked from within the conflagration. “Pull . . . back . . . the . . . fire!”
Remy felt the words upon him—the power of Solomon’s ring—and was compelled to obey, wrangling the living flames and returning the divine power to where it belonged, inside of him. His wings exploded from his back as he prepared to leap into action, but the burned man—the forever man—was quicker.
“Stop right there,” he hissed through blackened lips.
And Remy froze, his wings extended and ready.
Simeon chuckled as he and his leather chair, and a nearby table covered with books and scrolls, continued to burn.
“Is that who I think it is?” Simeon asked through a cracking voice seared by the fire.
The forever man blinked his oozing eyes, and Remy could see that despite the fire that still covered his body, he was healing: a blessing and a curse for those who have been touched by the power of Heaven.
“I do believe it is.” Simeon haltingly stepped closer, away from the flames that continued to spread behind him. The farther he removed himself from the hungry conflagration, the more quickly his flesh seemed to be returning to health.
“Remy Chandler,” the man hissed, and he attempted to smile, the charred skin cracking and oozing.
It reminded Remy of another man, a better man, who had aided him on a previous mission. A man who was gone now—gone like the reality in which he’d lived.
“I had plans for you, Seraphim,” Simeon said, his voice sounding stronger. Flakes of blackened flesh had begun to crumble from his face, exposing bloody new flesh beneath. “You were to be my final affront, the cherry on top of the sundae, the pièce de résistance.”
But that man had a counterpart, another version of himself, still very much alive and just as eager to make amends for his sins.
“I was going to make you God’s killer.” Simeon’s eyes twinkled wetly with the revelation. “Can you just imagine that? You would have been responsible for it all falling down.” Simeon’s ravaged face twisted with disgust. “But then you had to go and get yourself nearly killed and screw up all my plans.”
He paused for a moment, and Remy wanted to hurl himself upon the forever man and rip him limb from limb, but he was unable to act upon the violent impulse.
“But I didn’t let it get to me,” Simeon said slyly. “Oh no, I just acquired another pawn.”
He was standing no farther than three feet away, and Remy could easily have reached out and crushed his skull in his hands, but he did not. The magick of the ring prevented it.
“It’s a good thing that you have friends,” Simeon continued. “Ready to step up in a pinch.”
“Yes,” Remy agreed, and he couldn’t help but smile. “It is good to have friends.”
There was a flurry of movement behind the forever man. A single figure leapt out from the shadows, running through the smoke and flames, a glint of something metal—something deadly—in his hands. Simeon began to turn, and Remy could see the rings still on the blackened fingers of his hands, ready to be used.
Lazarus screamed and raised his sword as he lunged at Simeon. His clothing had caught fire as he’d come through the voracious flames, but that didn’t stop him.
“Stop!” Simeon cried, attempting to use the powers of the rings.
But they were useless against another forever man.
And Lazarus brought the blade down, cleanly severing both hands at Simeon’s wrists.
Remy roared with freedom, surging forward to grab hold of the stunned Simeon. “How dare you!” the Seraphim raged as divine fire once again took hold of the forever man.
Simeon tried to speak, lifting his trembling arms to look upon the bleeding stumps where his hands had once been. “What did you do?” he screeched.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Remy asked, letting go of him. “We’ve taken away your advantage.”
Simeon’s body had already begun to repair itself, and Remy knew it wouldn’t be long before two new hands replaced the old. But he would have none of that.
He willed a pool of Heavenly fire into the palm of each hand, and before the forever man had a chance to react, he firmly took hold of each stump. There came the sound of sizzling flesh, followed by the overwhelming aroma of cooking meat.
And Simeon screamed.
Remy roughly threw the man to the floor, wanting no more than to tear him apart, watch him heal, and then tear him apart all over again. For here was a man who wanted to kill God—who actually had in another, twisted reality. He was far too dangerous to live.
Remy reached down to the trembling Simeon with bloodlust in his eyes. Who knew what he would have done then, if it weren’t for the voice of Lazarus?
“Remy. Stop.”
Remy had lifted Simeon up by the front of his burned and tattered shirt, his feet dangling inches from the floor.
“If you could only have seen what he was responsible for,” Remy said, his mind filled with staccato images of a world where God had been murdered.
Lazarus had been badly burned by the fire and leaned heavily upon his sword. “I know,” he said wearily. “But this isn’t what
He
wants.”
The angel knew Lazarus was right. God didn’t want this man maimed for all eternity; He had other plans for the forever man. Reluctantly, Remy drew back upon his rage, but it was hard. Made even harder when Simeon began to laugh.
“What’s so damn funny?” Remy demanded, pulling the man closer so they were nose to nose. The stink of burned meat still lingered on the forever man’s body.
“All this fury.” Simeon giggled. “Such a waste of perfectly good anger.”
Remy shook the man. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s all for nothing,” Simeon said. “It’s all been put in place . . . all been set in motion.” He was laughing hysterically now, waving the blackened stumps at the ends of his arms as if conducting a silent orchestra. “It’s a done deal. Whether I’m around or not, it’s all coming down.”
Simeon smiled hideously. “Unification will fail, and Heaven is going to come crashing down around your ears.”
“
He
knows,” Remy said quietly, allowing a smile of his own to form, watching the madman’s eyes as an understanding of the words slowly began to sink in.
Simeon’s expression went from one of pleasure to surprise—blending into rage. “How? He can’t know. . . . That’s impossible! My plans—”
“Your plans will be stopped,” Remy interrupted the forever man, his voice booming in the underground chamber. It took all he had not to break the man in two and burn his remains to ash, but that wasn’t His way. God’s way.
God had a plan for Simeon.
“Give me the rings,” Remy said to Lazarus.
And his friend complied, pulling the rings from the fingers of the dismembered hands lying on the floor in a puddle of congealing blood.
“What are you going to do with them?” Simeon asked as Lazarus placed them in the palm of Remy’s hand.
“That would be telling,” Remy said, spreading his wings to their full span and then closing them around himself and his foe.
They had places to be if they were going to put a stop to the fall of Heaven and the end of the world.
• • •
Lazarus envied Simeon. To be allowed to see . . . to experience what he was about to.
The pain was incredible, stealing away his strength, and he fell to his knees, the sword that he’d been using as a support clattering away across the floor. But he didn’t mind; it was a good pain.
A constant pain.
A pain that told him he was no longer healing.
He smiled, and it was excruciating, but he could not hold back his happiness.
Is it possible?
he wondered.
Can this actually be it?
Can this really be the end?
He managed to drag himself across the chamber floor and propped himself against an ancient bookcase stuffed to the gills with all manner of books and swollen journals. For a brief moment he admired Simeon; he had done something incredible with his longevity—even if it was meant to cause the death of God and the fall of Heaven.
Lazarus slowly lifted his hand. It was burned, but the liver spots marking the passage of time—of age—were definitely there.
And they appeared to be multiplying.
He practically cried with joy, laying his head back and resting it upon a shelf.
The pain was worse, too, and that was good. Normally, he would have started to heal by now, the agony lessening as bones knitted and flesh filled in. But that wasn’t happening now. The pain just went on and on, growing more intense, like a symphony building to a crescendo.
What a wonderful song.
He, too, had lived a long life. He had done some good, but in retrospect, he should have done so much more. Although eternal life was hard, and sometimes a torture, and it twisted some in such subtle ways that they didn’t notice.
Lazarus was sure that Simeon was very aware of what he had become, but Lazarus, all he knew was that he was done with life and wanted to die.
And a desire such as that, a desire so strong, had made him selfish and susceptible to the wants of others—the promise of death making him do some awful things.
And for that, he had been punished, physically battered and broken and allowed to heal, mentally tormented with the memory of what he had done.