A Hundred Words for Hate (20 page)

A bolt of magickal force struck the metal of his chest plate and he cried out, almost dropping Jon back into the swamp. He quickly recovered, shrugging off the pain and flying toward the stilt house, where he released Jon and turned to face Izzy.

“Get away from my house,” she cried, more and more magickal energy leaking from her body. The sky had begun to rumble; the trees swayed with winds that had begun to pick up. “I’ll bring something worse than Katrina down on your heads,” she spat.

Remy looked at her intensely, furling his powerful wings.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he said.

“I tried to tell her,” Jon said between gasps, but Remy held up a hand, silencing him.

“Look at me,” Remy ordered Izzy. “Really look at me. . . . I know you can feel my intentions. I don’t want to hurt you.”

The magick continued to swirl around her. “I swore I would stop you,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Stop us from what?” Remy asked. “All we want to do is talk to you.”

Izzy held out her hands palms up, showing him the magickal power that swirled there.

“If you’re lying, I’ll make you eat this,” she said with a sneer.

“Deal.” Remy pulled back on his angelic essence with little difficulty, and returned to his very wet but human form.

Jon was looking down at his bare foot.

“I lost my shoe,” he said.

“Maybe one of the gators has it,” Remy said. “Want to go ask?”

This got a laugh from the woman, who was staring at Remy with a tilt of her head.

“There’s something about you,” she told him.

“I’ve heard that,” Remy joked.

“No,” she said seriously. “There’s something familiar about you . . . something that I trust.”

“And that’s a good thing,” Remy said.

“Yeah,” she agreed with a nod, pulling open the screen door and gesturing for them to follow her inside.

“If it wasn’t, the two of you would be dead right now.”

Steven Mulvehill tried to reach Remy again, and again he got nothing.

“Son of a bitch,” he hissed beneath his breath, sliding the phone back inside his jacket pocket.

“He did this,” Fernita said, waving a rubber-gloved finger at the writing upon the wall. “He did this to protect me.”

This whole situation was going from bad to worse. He thought it was crazy enough that angels were trying to kill her; now she was telling him that somebody wrote on her walls to keep her safe. God bless Remy and his weird shit.

“Who did, Fernita?” Mulvehill asked with a sigh.

“Pearly,” she screamed. “My husband . . . Pearly Gates.”

Her expression changed from one of anger to one of complete surprise, as she slowly raised a shaking hand to her gaping mouth.

“What is it?” Mulvehill asked. “Are you all right?”

“My husband,” she repeated. “He was my husband. . . . I forgot that too.”

She began to rock from side to side and Mulvehill moved to put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he said, his compassionate side making a surprise appearance. “I think you’re probably just a little confused right now,” he told her. “Why would your husband want to make you forget him?”

Mulvehill would have loved to forget his marriage and the subsequent divorce, but that was another story entirely.

“He didn’t do it to be mean,” she said, sniffling. “He did it to protect me. He did it to hide me away from it.”

“From the angel that was trying to kill you?”

“Yes,” she said. “If I couldn’t remember who I was, then it couldn’t find me.” She tentatively looked back to the wall she’d been cleaning. “I’m afraid,” she said.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” Mulvehill told her. “I’m here with you.”

“I’m afraid of what else I might’ve forgotten.”

At first Steven thought it was a plane he heard flying overhead, low and rumbling.

And getting louder.

Closer.

And then the air itself seemed suddenly charged. He felt as though bugs were crawling on the back of his neck, and he quickly reached up to make sure that wasn’t true. There were no bugs on his neck, but the hair was standing on end.

Every instinct he’d developed in his twenty years as a homicide cop was screaming.

Screaming for him to get the hell out of there.

The sound from outside was louder, and there was no mistaking that steady, rhythmic beating of the air.

Wings.

“Fernita, we need to get out of here,” he urged, gazing up at the patterns on the water-stained ceiling.

“I can’t go,” Fernita said, spinning around to return to her work. “I need to see what else I’ve forgotten. . . . I need to remember.”

Mulvehill’s senses were shrieking.

“No, we’re leaving.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her along as he headed toward the door.

She struggled for a moment, but then noticed the sound also.

“Oh, no,” she said, her voice a fear-filled whisper. “Is it him?”

“Let’s hope it’s not,” Mulvehill said, hauling her through the rubbish-strewn living room and down the the hallway. At the end, he quickly turned the knob, opening the front door.

“Miles,” she said.

“Who?” Mulvehill asked, and then he saw the large cat crouched in the doorway to the kitchen. Its eyes were huge as it looked all around. Then it suddenly bolted, disappearing with a snap of its bushy black tail.

“He’ll be fine,” Mulvehill told the old woman, pulling her out the door.

Roiling black clouds filled the sky above them as they hurried down the sidewalk to Mulvehill’s car.

“It’s cold out here,” Fernita complained. “I should probably have a coat.”

“I’ve got heat in the car,” Mulvehill told her.

She started to argue, but a sound behind them interrupted her, and they both turned to look back at the house.

Something large fell from the sky, punching an enormous hole through the roof and into the attic.

They could hear the racket of destruction, and Mulvehill knew they didn’t have much time before whatever had just made its grand entrance realized they were no longer in the house. He pulled open the door on the passenger side of his car and practically threw Fernita into the seat, slamming the door shut.

He raced around to the driver’s side, chancing a final look at the house before getting into the car. A piece of furniture—a love seat, or it could have been a couch—flew through the front window to land broken and burning upon the lawn.

Steven Mulvehill got inside his car, turned over the engine, and put it in drive.

Cursing the name of Remy Chandler as he screeched away from the curb.

Malachi had never cared for humanity.

There was just something about them that he despised; maybe it was their basic design. He saw flaws in just about every aspect—soft flesh, easily broken bones, internal workings that would eventually wear down and cease to function.

And the soul.

A spark of the Almighty present in each and every one of them.

Malachi had balked at the concept, but was overruled by a much higher authority.

God wished it, and so it was. He believed they would be His greatest creation, that this tiniest piece of His essence would enable them to do great things in His name.

Malachi remembered how Lucifer had laughed, telling the Lord God that these creatures . . . these newest creations of His . . . would only bring Him sorrow.

And the Almighty had said if that was what they wished to do, so be it. He would give them the ability to make decisions on their own; they would be the masters of their own existence.

Free will, a magnificent gift that Lucifer was certain would be squandered by these hairless monkeys that had so captured the Allfather’s eyes.

Malachi had been there when the first had been placed in the Garden created for them. The elder had felt his disdain grow as he watched the creature move through the lush jungle, asserting its mastery over the lesser life that already lived there.

And then there were two, male and female, with the ability to create more of their own kind, to propagate a species in their garden habitat.

Oh, how the Lord God had loved them, but Lucifer’s warnings had left their mark. The idea that these creatures would bring Him great sadness must have worried the Creator. And so to prove a point, He fashioned a test.

In the Garden the Almighty had grown a Tree; and in this Tree He had infused His knowledge, and He forbade His creations from feeding from this Tree, telling them that no other fruit would be forbidden them—except for the bounty of this Tree.

This Tree of Knowledge.

Malachi was amused; having observed the humans and their innate curiosity, he knew it was only a matter of time before they disobeyed their Creator. But they did not partake of the Tree’s fruit, choosing instead to avoid the tree that God had forbidden them to feast upon.

The elder angel wasn’t sure when the obsession had taken root, but he soon found himself thinking of the Tree, and the fruit that hung swollen and ripe from its branches. He could feel the power radiating from the Tree, and he could have sworn that it called out to him, tempting him with its ripened promise of forbidden knowledge.

Malachi knew that it was not only the humans who were forbidden to partake, but his kind as well.

But try as he might, he could not forget the Tree’s promise, and became consumed with the idea of partaking of the fruit.

Lucifer fit the plan that Malachi eventually formulated. Of course, he told the Son of the Morning about the Almighty’s test for His newest creations. Lucifer’s jealousy of God’s new humans made him desperate to have his prediction come true, and so, armed with Malachi’s tale of the Tree of Knowledge, the Morningstar walked the Garden in search of the humans. Clothed in his finest armor of Heaven-forged scale mail, the Morningstar found the pair—this Adam and Eve—and enticed them with a promise of godhood.

He drew them to the Tree, telling them that they could sit at the right hand of God—all they needed to do was ignore His command.

The humans were afraid of their God, and what might happen if they were to disobey Him, but the silver-tongued Lucifer reassured them that He would be unable to do anything, for they would be like Him.

They would be His equals.

Malachi remembered the joy he felt as he watched the female approach the Tree, reaching up with trembling hands to grab hold of one of the fruits, swollen with knowledge of God.

Will she do it?
he wondered. Had Lucifer managed to convince them to disobey their most Holy Father?

He had.

The fruit came away in her hands, and she stared at it with great longing before bringing it to her mouth. Adam was soon beside her, fear in his gaze, but her confidence won him over, so desperate was their desire to be like Him whom they loved so very much.

So Adam joined his mate, and both partook of the forbidden fruit.

The Lord God Almighty was not pleased.

The Garden of Eden was besieged by a terrible storm reflecting God’s anger with His rebellious creations.

The humans ran away in fear, chased by the fury of God’s wrath, dropping what remained of the special fruit.

And in all the excitement, while no one was watching, Malachi retrieved that piece of fruit from the storm-swept ground, holding what he believed to be his destiny in his hands.

As the humans were tempted, so was he. The elder angel brought the future to his mouth, and tasted it.

And he saw.

Hell

“I saw as He saw,” Malachi said aloud, twisting the blade of his scalpel ever so carefully within Francis’s brain.

The former Guardian cried out, straining against the straps that held him to the stone table.

“I gazed into a future of chaos, and the inevitable end of all things.”

Malachi stepped back, his surgical tool in hand.

“How could I allow something like that to occur, I ask you?” he said, seeming to confide in his captive. “The fall of the humans and their banishment from Eden was just the beginning . . . the catalyst for the nightmare to follow.”

Malachi stopped for a moment and listened to the sounds of a world changing outside the caves.

“It wasn’t long after that we were at war,” the elder continued.

“The humans’ failure proved that Lucifer was right—that humanity was not the answer—but the Allfather did not listen, still faithful to what He perceived to be His greatest creations.”

Malachi looked down at the suffering Guardian’s glazed and unfocused eyes. He wasn’t sure how much more the fallen angel could withstand, but he had to find it.

He had to find what had been so expertly hidden away for just this precise time.

“The war, as horrible as it was, provided me with the perfect cover,” Malachi said. “The perfect distraction to set my own plans for the future—
for my destiny
—in motion.”

He leaned in close again, tenderly stroking the Guardian’s sweatsoaked brow.

“I just want you to know how important you are to the coming future, and how much I appreciate all that you’ve done, and what you are about to sacrifice.”