A Hundred Words for Hate (15 page)

Francis had seen them do this so many times, and still didn’t know exactly what they were doing with the bodies. Maybe they were storing them for transport back to the City of Light, or maybe they were burning them—not a trace of anything to show that the angels had ever existed.

Or maybe they were just being eaten.

Whatever the case,
they
weren’t offering any explanations, and Francis wasn’t about to ask.

“Am I done here?” he questioned, eager for the taste of gin in his mouth.

“You will be done when we tell you,” the Thrones admonished as the last of the angel Luke was drawn up into their burning bodies.

Not a trace of anything to show that he had ever existed.

Francis felt his ire rise, but knew better than to let it show. He reached up, removed the fedora from his head, and slicked back his dark, thinning hair before putting the hat back on. He would wait; he had all the patience in the world.

Especially if that patience would someday lead him to redemption.

“This is done,” the Thrones said, and Francis turned to leave, until the words, “But there is another,” stopped him dead in his tracks.

Once again, he faced his Masters.

“Another? So soon? Usually there’s some time between them.”

“This time there is not.”

“Obviously.”

“Do you grow tired, servant?” the Thrones asked him. “Should we relieve you from your duties? Perhaps you’d prefer to serve out the remainder of your penance in a cell deep within Tartarus?”

Just the mention of the hellish prison, where angels were made to relive their sins over and over again, was enough to set him straight. Francis couldn’t think of a worse torture.

Worse even than dealing with the Thrones.

“Sorry, I meant no disrespect,” Francis said, averting his eyes. “I’m just surprised that—”

“Surprised that the Lord God has many enemies?” the Thrones interrupted, their color becoming darker—
fiercer
—with anger. “The Almighty cannot
. . .
will not rest until
all
who oppose His glory are a threat no more.”

Francis didn’t respond, knowing he was better off keeping his mouth shut.

“There is another,” the Thrones repeated.

“Where?” Francis sighed, the taint of death still lingering around him like a bad smell.

One of the fiery orbs was suddenly in his face, a thick tendril of burning matter emerging from its body to touch the center of his skull. It was excruciating at first, and he was certain that they enjoyed his pain immensely, a little payback for disrespecting them.

It was done before he could scream, the tentacle of flame disappearing back into the spinning ball, as it returned to hover with its brethren.

Francis’s head was now filled with images: images of where he would go, and whom he would kill in the name of the Lord.

“Go,” the Thrones ordered, as they disappeared with another searing flash and a sound that could have been mistaken for thunder; the puddles that had been beneath them bubbled and steamed.

Francis cleared his throat and spit into one of the boiling puddles. Then he lifted a hand and began to utter an incantation that would take him to his next assignment. It was a little bit of magick bestowed upon him by the Thrones, since he had lost his wings after siding with Lucifer during the Great War.

He moved his hand in the air before him, opening a tear in the fabric of time and space, a passage to where he’d find the next to die. The only consolation was that he’d be going to a speakeasy.

And he could finally get his drink.

Located on the edge of Beauchamp, Louisiana, the Pelican Club didn’t even have a sign.

For all intents and purposes, it was an abandoned general store, but that was only for folks who weren’t in the know.

The Thrones were in the know, and knew where the latest offender of Heaven could be found, and now Francis knew as well.

Strolling up the quiet, rain-swept street, he took note of the building, and the large black man sitting on the front porch, a meanlooking dog of many breeds seemingly asleep at his feet. But Francis knew otherwise. That dog would be up with fangs bared as soon as it sensed even the slightest inkling of a threat.

He observed mostly folks of color strolling up to the building.

He stood in the shadows and willed his flesh a darker shade, then fell in behind a group of four men as they drew near the club. One at a time they climbed the steps, greeting the big man with a nod and a “good evening,” then sticking out their hands for the monstrous beast to sniff. The brave ones went as far as to pat the animal on top of its large head.

It was his turn.

“Nice dog,” Francis said to the big man.

He grunted. “Huh. See if he thinks you’re nice.”

Francis held out a brown hand. The beast ignored the offered appendage, choosing instead to look up into the fallen angel’s eyes. A communication passed between them, a sharing of information about each other. Francis learned that the dog was a good dog, a faithful dog, but if he felt like it, he could do some serious damage. And the dog learned that Francis was a good person, a faithful person, but that he too could do some serious damage if he wanted.

In seconds they came to an understanding, and the dog extended his snout and licked Francis’s hand with a thick pink tongue.

“Thattaboy,” Francis said, scratching behind his ears. The dog rolled over onto his back, allowing Francis to rub his dark, fleshy belly.

He glanced up at the large man, noting the surprise on his face.

“Guess I am nice,” Francis said with a grin.

“Huh,” the man said as he hooked a thumb, gesturing for Francis to head inside.

It was dark in the Pelican Club, the room lit by a few bare bulbs on a wire that stretched across the wooden ceiling. It was more crowded than Francis expected, as folks were standing around in small groups and others sipped refreshments from jelly jars at tables positioned in pockets of shadow throughout the room. There was a makeshift bar—three two-by-fours laid across two cracker barrels—and it called to him.

Francis asked the barkeep if he had any gin, and the man just laughed, pouring him a jelly jar of something from a brown jug that he pulled up from the floor.

“This’ll do,” Francis said as he paid for his drink. He returned the man’s smile and brought the glass to his lips, taking a sip. The moonshine burned as it went down, and he let it. He liked the warm feel of the illegal whiskey. If he’d wanted to, he could have shut it all down, canceling out the effects of the alcohol with just a thought.

But where was the fun in that?

Francis leaned on the bar and scanned the room, looking for his target. He saw no one who matched the image the Thrones had placed in his brain, but if they said the target would be here, it would be. All Francis had to do was relax, have himself a drink or two, and wait.

He found an old stool against a wall and sat. It was a strange place for the Thrones to have sent him; there wasn’t a renegade angel or supernatural being to be found, just some poor folks looking to let off a little steam.

Francis finished his drink and slid off his stool to get another.

“Hit me again,” he told the barkeep, handing him the empty jelly jar.

“Still want that gin?” the man asked, pouring more of the whiskey from the jug into the glass.

“What’s gin?” Francis asked.

The barkeep got a big kick out of that, laughing up a storm.

Francis stayed by the bar this time, deciding that he’d like to share the company of the man tending the bar. He looked like a good egg, and good eggs were hard to come by these days.

“Never seen you in here before,” the barkeep commented as he poured a drink for a little old lady who looked as though she could be on her way to church services.

“That’s because I’ve never been here before,” Francis answered.

The barkeep nodded, and then held out his hand. “Name’s Melvin,” he said.

Francis stared at the hand for a moment before taking it firmly in his.

“Francis,” he said as the two shook.

“So, what do you think of the Pelican?” Melvin asked, taking some more jelly jars from a wooden crate and placing them on top of the bar.

“Nice,” Francis said as he took a short sip of the white lightning. “I imagine it helps people forget their problems for a while.”

“It certainly does that,” Melvin said. “And it puts some money in my pocket.”

Francis looked at the barkeep over the rim of his glass. “Is this place yours?”

“It is,” Melvin said. “I pay the man who used to own the general store here a slight fee for the use of his premises, but I maintain the place, keep the jugs full, and bring in the entertainment.”

“Entertainment?” Francis laughed. “You’ve got entertainment here?”

“I sure do,” Melvin said. “Don’t tell me you never heard of the Swamp Angel?” he asked incredulously.

Francis shook his head.

“Then you’re about to now,” Melvin said. “She’s comin’ on as soon as the band is ready.” The barkeep gestured with his chin to an area where a sheet had been strung like a curtain. Francis could see some men and their instruments taking their places on a makeshift stage.

The crowd gradually started to notice as well, clapping as the men sat down on old chairs and stools and began to tune up their musical instruments. There was a very thin fiddle player, a guy who easily could have tipped the scales at three hundred pounds with an old bowler hat on top of his big head and a beat-up guitar in his lap, and a third man at an old piano.

Instruments tuned, the musicians gave one another a look that said they were ready and the place became eerily quiet.

Then from behind the curtain she stepped, a striking woman wearing a simple white dress that smacked of being handmade. She wore no jewelry or makeup. Her skin was like mahogany, and Francis wasn’t sure whether he’d ever seen in the flesh a creature quite so beautiful. She stood on the small stage, looking out over the silent audience, and he was reminded of a scared little animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

For a moment, he thought she might take off, jumping from the stage and heading out the door in sheer terror, but he watched as she took a couple of deep breaths and looked at the smiles of the three men who were ready to accompany her. Slowly she nodded.

The men began to play, and she began to sing.

Francis had heard the celestial choirs of Heaven, but they couldn’t hold a candle to what he was hearing now. He stood statue still, whiskey in hand, with no urge to drink it. All he wanted to do was listen as the woman—the Swamp Angel—sang from the very depths of her soul and, in turn, touched every single soul in the room.

It was a shame he was going to have to kill her.

Francis left the memory of Louisiana and the sweet, sweet sound of the Swamp Angel’s voice, and returned to Hell.

Louisiana?
he questioned as he slowly emerged from the mire of unconsciousness.
I’ve never been to fucking Louisiana . . . especially not during the Depression.

But he had. He just hadn’t remembered until the crazy angel that had saved him stuck a knife into his brain.

The former Guardian opened his eyes with a pathetic yelp, recalling the feeling of the glowing blade as it violated his skull.

He was on his back facing the ceiling of the cave, stalagmites—or were they stalactites? He never could remember—hanging down. He tried to move, but couldn’t.

Again he heard the rumbling sounds of Hell changing somewhere off in the distance, and he knew he was still a guest in the Magick Kingdom.

Francis tried to move again, and this time realized that his wrists and ankles were bound by thick leather restraints.

“What the fuck?” he said aloud, his voice sounding weird as it bounced around the confines of the cave.

Fighting a wave of dizziness, he lifted his head for a better view of his surroundings. His stomach flipped, threatening to make him yak up his insides, but he really hadn’t eaten anything since . . . When was the last time he had eaten? How long had he been in Hell? Time moved differently here; it could have been days, or maybe even months.