A Hundred Words for Hate (37 page)

And in doing so, keep the monstrous race known as the Shaitan from swarming out into the world of man. He could see the gateway up ahead, and pushed himself to fly faster. As he dropped to the ground just before the opening, so as to not overshoot his goal, excruciating pain exploded in his back as something raked its claws down his bare flesh.

Remiel fell to the ground, rolling over and lashing out with his sword.

A young Shaitan crouched there, licking his blood from its hooked claws, a malicious smile growing upon its monstrous face as it enjoyed its snack. He had to wonder if any more of the beasts had escaped Jon and Izzy, and gradually climbed to his feet. The wounds in his back throbbed in pain so sharp it was as if he were being stabbed over and over again.

He didn’t know whether it was his eyes playing tricks, his senses dulled by the incredible pain, but he could have sworn that the Shaitan was growing—maturing—before his eyes.

Finished with the blood on its claws, it obviously desired more, coming at him with a ferocious hiss. The flaming sword lashed out, but the beast was quick, ducking beneath the swing and darting forward to rake its claws along his side.

Remiel cried out.

It was all proving to be too much, his body shutting down a little at a time, not leaving him enough to work with.

The Shaitan seemed to sense this, moving in to attack again, tatters of Remiel’s flesh still dangling from its claws.

There was no mistaking the sound of gunfire.

The shot hit the beast in the chest, dead center, and tossed it backward into the jungle.

Remiel turned to see Francis, smoldering pistol in hand, standing in the gateway. Was that one of the Pitiless—weapons imbued with the power of Lucifer Morningstar? he asked himself briefly, before the sound of screaming drew his attention back to the jungle in front of him. Even with a bullet hole in its chest, the Shaitan was coming again. Remiel readied himself, sword in hand to fight.

But snaking tendrils of green shot out, vines wrapping themselves around the Shaitan’s thrashing limbs. The creature continued to squeal, struggling as it was dragged backward into the jungle.

A face that he recognized as Izzy’s took form in the bark of a tree nearby.

“Get out of here,” the face of wood commanded. “Close the gates behind you.”

Remiel passed through the gate to the world outside.

Francis was standing there, the body of Eliza Swan lying at his feet.

Remiel felt sadness come at the sight, but quickly pushed it aside to deal with the problem at hand.

“We have to close it,” he said to his friend.

Francis nodded, saying nothing as he went to one of the heavy metal gates, and Remiel went to the other.

There were noises coming from within the Garden, something that told him that more than one of the Shaitan had escaped his friends. They needed to do this, and to do this quickly.

“Ready?” Remiel asked him. “On the count of three.”

The sounds were louder now, multiple things fighting their way through the thick jungle growth.

“One,” Remiel said, taking the cold metal in his hands.

He looked across at his friend, feeling a strange combination of joy—to see him still alive—and revulsion.

He was concerned what that meant, and wondered whether it had anything to do with the weapon he’d seen in Francis’s hand.

“Two.”

“Three,” Francis grunted, pushing on his side, as Remiel joined him.

It was as if they did not wish to be closed again, but the gates eventually gave way, hinges crying out unhappily as they came together with a nearly deafening clatter.

The two stepped back, away from the locked gates as the Garden of Eden was again detached from a particular reality, gradually slipping in and out of focus as it resumed its journey behind the veil.

Cast adrift, and out into the sea of realities once more.

Jon thought he was going to die.

The power of Eden rushed through him like a raging river, threatening to pull him from the safety of shore out into deeper and far more dangerous waters.

“Got to hold ’em,” Izzy said, squeezing his hand all the tighter.

He didn’t answer, choosing instead to focus on the job at hand.

The Shaitan were trying to escape, newly acquired magickal energies shooting out at the Garden that tried to imprison them. A few had managed to escape the clutches of the jungle, but only a few. The majority still remained in their possession . . . the Garden of Eden’s possession.

Thanks to Jon and Izzy, Eden was stronger now, filled with a strength that she had not had for countless millennia.

The Garden told them how happy she was.

How happy she was to have her children back.

The gunmetal gray sky of the North Pole above their heads suddenly went to a weird kaleidoscope of colors before going completely to black . . . burning lights like stars igniting one by one, shedding their light down upon them, lending them some of their fiery strength.

“Remy did it,” Izzy said. “These nasty sons a’ bitches ain’t getting away from us.”

And Jon had to agree. He felt suddenly stronger, capable of getting the job done, now that the threat of the Shaitan’s escape out into the world had been averted.

“Let’s put them down,” he told Izzy . . . he told Eden.

And they obliged him, their combined strength pouring into the Garden. A wall of earth like a tidal wave rose up from the ground above the struggling Shaitan. The roots from the reinvigorated Tree of Knowledge had created a kind of jail, keeping them in one place, as the other aspects of the holy jungle worked at keeping the monsters from escaping.

The wave of dirt plunged down, burying the squirming beasts, as the Garden drew them deeper into herself.

“She’s going to create a place for them,” Izzy said, the sides of her head and neck stained crimson with blood. “A prison that she holds close to her heart.”

“And she’ll hold them there for as long as she is able,” Jon joined in, feeling Eden’s message to them. “For as long as she is strong.”

They stood there for a good long time, waiting for the Shaitan to reemerge, for the battle to continue, but they did not come.

For now, Eden was capable of holding them.

The Garden soon calmed: The ground beneath their feet ceased to tremble; the plants, trees, and animals returned to their natural states. It was a Garden of peace again.

A Garden of peace with a malignancy at its core.

Jon was so exhausted that he dropped to the ground, releasing the viselike grip that he had on Izzy’s hand. His head swam, and he dropped it between his legs, taking deep breaths, trying to keep from passing out. There was an annoying whine in his ear, and he reached up, plucking out the damaged hearing aid and dropping the squealing device on the ground. It was then that he realized that he didn’t need it anymore, that his hearing had completely returned to that ear.

The damage had been healed. As he had helped heal the Garden, the Garden had healed him.

“Where do you think we are?” Izzy asked him.

He looked up to see that she was staring at the strange sky above them. It was like no night sky that he had ever seen before. The stars all seemed so incredibly close.

“I haven’t any idea,” he said. “But as long as we’re away from Earth, it’s all good.”

She sat down on the ground beside him.

“Never would have seen this coming,” she said with a chuckle.

“You’re right there,” Jon answered. He picked a stick up from the ground and started to play with it. Healthy green buds began to grow upon the stick, blossoming into tiny pink flowers.

“Look at that,” Izzy said. “Looks like you’ve got a green thumb now.”

He let go of the branch and watched as it took root before his eyes. It had grown nearly twice its size before one of them spoke again.

“So, what now?” he asked, wondering if Izzy had any idea of their purpose. He glanced over to her, waiting for the answer.

Izzy shrugged. “We’re the gardeners now,” she said. “I guess we tend the Garden.”

“Makes sense,” he agreed.

“And when we’re not tending the Garden, who knows,” she added.

He looked and saw that she was staring at him, eyebrows going up and down lasciviously.

“You’re not so bad-looking . . . a little bit skinny for my taste, but . . .”

Jon couldn’t stop himself; after everything they’d gone through, this was just that last straw . . . the perfect release, and he laughed so hard that he fell over onto his side.

“What’s so damn funny?” Izzy asked, obviously annoyed.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, trying to control his laughter. “I’m not laughing at you; I’m laughing at the situation.”

“The situation?” she asked.

“It’s not that I’m not flattered, but . . .”

She looked at him for a moment, and then it dawned on her.

“You’re . . . ,” she started, but didn’t finish.

He nodded, trying to keep from laughing again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she cried.

Jon couldn’t hold it back, laughing hysterically, his laughter so contagious that Izzy soon started as well.

It had been a long time since laughter had been heard in Eden.

And the Garden liked the sound.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T
he Garden of Eden was gone.

The spot where she had rested was still warm, but cooling rapidly.

Remiel stood motionless in the wind and snow with his friend Francis.

Both were uncommonly quiet.

“She was an amazing woman,” Remiel said, staring at the body of the woman Francis held in his arms. A large flake of snow landed upon her cheek, where it rested without melting.

“I didn’t know about the two of you . . . ,” he began, but then wasn’t certain how to continue.

“Neither did I,” Francis answered, looking at his lover’s still, cold face. “Not until a little while ago.”

“What happened, Francis?” Remiel asked. “I thought you were dead.”

Francis did not look at him, continuing to look at Eliza’s face, as if searching for a sign of life. More snowflakes had collected there.

“Should be,” he said at last. “But I’m not.”

Remiel waited for Francis to say more, but he remained silent.

“Is that it? Is that all you’re going to tell me?”

“For now,” Francis replied.

The grass at their feet was dying as the intensifying snowfall gradually covered it.

“I need to bring her home,” Francis said finally, looking up at his friend.

Something’s missing from those eyes
, Remiel thought. But he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.

“There’s something different about you,” Francis commented, as if reading the angel’s thoughts.

Remiel looked down at his naked, angelic form. His wings slowly flapped, stirring the powdery snow at his bare feet. “Yeah, there’ve been some recent changes.”

“Looks good on you,” Francis said, with a barely perceptible nod. “Might want to get some pants, though.”

Remiel laughed. No matter what, it was good to have his friend back, alive.

Wasn’t it?

“Do you want me to take you somewhere?” Remiel asked him.

Francis shook his head. There came a strange crackling sound and the air behind him began to swirl like a whirlpool, sucking in all existence and leaving behind a spiral opening.

“I’m good,” he said, moving toward the portal.

Since when can he do that?
Remiel wondered, but keeping his question for another time. If there was another time.

“Be seeing you?” he asked instead.

Francis didn’t answer right away as he ducked his head into the portal.

“Yeah, I’ll be around,” he finally offered, giving Remiel a quick look over his shoulder as he disappeared into the passage, taking Eliza Swan home.

It was then that Remiel realized what was missing in his friend’s eyes.

Hope.

And for a moment, the Seraphim felt the awful bite of the northern wind, before wrapping himself in the embrace of his warm, feathered wings, leaving the cold and barren place behind.

Remy Chandler sat with his car running on the street in Brookline.

Yes, Remy was back, but this time the guise of the Seraphim warrior had been put aside gently. There was no struggle, as there used to be, only the painless replacement of the angelic with the human. And although the angelic nature floated just below the surface, Remy was all right with that. It was where it needed to be: side by side with his humanity.

He was a Seraphim, but he was also a man.

Returning to his apartment this last time had felt strangely wrong—not only because it was empty, but because he wasn’t the same as when he’d left.

Shedding his warrior guise had been easy. He’d showered, dressed his wounds, and made himself presentable. He’d then driven right over to Linda Somerset’s apartment, not even bothering to call first.

But here he sat.

“Aren’t you going in?” a sweet voice asked from the passenger seat.

Remy looked over and saw Madeline sitting there, as beautiful as she always was.

“Don’t rush me,” he said, and smiled.

She smiled back, but then grew serious. “What’s wrong, Remy?”

“I have to get used to this again,” he explained. “It feels like I’ve been gone from this sort of . . . normalcy for so long.”

“You need to get used to being human again? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I guess that’s it,” he said, looking through the windshield at Linda’s third-floor windows. There was a light on, casting a warm glow through a white curtain. It was inviting . . . comforting, and Remy focused on that.

“You weren’t gone so long, y’know,” Madeline commented.

“I know,” he said. “But it felt like forever . . . and the changes.”

“Sometimes changes are good.”

“Yeah, they are,” he said, and truly believed it.

“Go on,” Madeline encouraged. “The baby needs to see his father.”

Remy looked at his wife, terribly missing the reality of her.

“I think I might’ve screwed things up pretty good with Linda,” he said.