A Kiss Before the Apocalypse (11 page)

He still didn’t have any leads on the whereabouts of Israfil and the scrolls. He had hoped Lazarus might have heard something in his travels, but that hadn’t been the case so far, and now he was left with only one other option.

He turned the corner from Charles Street onto Beacon Street and felt his irritation prickle. He hated the Watchers with a passion; and they were none too crazy about him.

In Heaven, they had been called the Grigori. They were a host of Heavenly guardians charged with safeguarding the development of the Almighty’s most beloved creations—humanity—and preventing them from straying off the path of righteousness.

Remy reached his office building near the corner of Mass Ave., stepping through the door into the lobby. He took his keys from his pocket and opened up the mailbox, just in case the delivery had come early. It hadn’t, so he slammed closed the rectangular metal door and headed for the stairs.

Instead of protecting humanity from corruption, the Grigori themselves had become corrupted, seduced by the primitive human ways, going native, so to speak. They began teaching the fledgling human race things they were not yet mature enough to know. And it wasn’t long before humanity had mastered the art of making weapons: swords, knives, and shields—instruments of violence. But the Watchers didn’t stop there, the dumb sons of bitches had actually introduced the joys of jewelry and makeup to the early females.

Remy shook his head. A lot of guys would want to see the Grigori get their asses handed to them for those reasons alone.

Remy reached the top of the stairs, glancing at the keys in his hand, finding the one for his office.

The Almighty was not amused. He had lashed out at the Grigori, stripping away their wings. If they so badly wanted to be human, then let it be so. He banished them to Earth, and they had been here ever since.

Remy was just about to slip the key into the lock on his office door when he felt a sudden chill, the temperature in the hallway dropping by at least ten degrees. He glanced up, curious, and noticed that the lights at the end of the hall near Rolanda’s Beauty Supply had gone out, plunging the end of the corridor into total darkness.
Better give the super a call about replacing those fluorescents,
he thought.

And then the darkness began to spread, flowing toward him, swallowing the light as the wave of shadow picked up speed.

Remy didn’t even have chance to react before it was upon him.

Before
they
were upon him.

The first punch nearly broke his neck, dropping him to his knees, the taste of blood filling his mouth. The attackers were strong, inhumanly so, and their use of the darkness implied something demonic in nature. Totally blind in the sea of inky black that engulfed him, Remy couldn’t be sure how many there were; it could have been two or twenty. What he did know was that if he didn’t act fast, they would kill him.

He took a deep breath and surged to his feet, swinging his fists, hoping to hit something. And hit something he did, feeling his knuckles connect with dry, rough skin and listening to the satisfying grunts of pain as he lashed out again and again with strength far greater than the average human’s.

Suddenly, Remy could feel his angelic nature begin to stir. Locked away, deep inside, it was roused to the brink of wakefulness as his instinct for self-preservation kicked in. It had been a long time since last he’d felt that power, and immediately he pushed it back, allowing his attackers to gain the upper hand.

That was not him anymore, and he couldn’t imagine any amount of pain would ever force him to be that way again.

They were kicking him now, driving him back against the cool plaster wall. He struggled to block the blows, but he was sore and lost in the darkness, and it was becoming harder to stay focused.

And just when he thought he could take no more, the beating stopped; but within the sea of shadow, he could still hear them breathing.

“Had enough?” Remy asked, cracking wise, wiping a stinging trickle of blood from his eye.

One of them laughed, a high, wheezing sound that ended in a low, wet gurgle. “Look at you,” the voice rasped, echoing in the artificial shadow. “A soldier of the Heavenly host Seraphim, beaten and bloody, cowering in the darkness. Is this what you have abandoned so much to become?”

Remy shifted his back against the wall, every joint and muscle screaming in protest as he tried to stand. He could still feel it within him—stirring—deep in the hole where he kept his true nature locked away.

“Sorry to be such a disappointment,” he grunted, sliding up the plaster wall.

“We could kill you now,” the voice said coldly, and Remy could feel each word, a gentle movement against his battered cheek.

“Yeah, you probably could,” he agreed, staring in the direction he imagined his attackers would be. “But I think if you were really going to, you would’ve done it by now.”

His comment was met with a resounding silence.

“Thought so,” Remy said. “Why don’t you tell me what you want, so we can all get on with our day.” He straightened, keeping his back against the wall, its firmness providing an anchor in the ocean of black.

“Is this how you do penance, Remiel of the Seraphim?” the voice asked. “Is this how you pay for your sins?”

The words hurt more than any of their physical blows, but Remy gritted his teeth and stared defiantly into the shadows. “What the fuck do you want?” he demanded.

Again there was laughter, only this time much closer. The voice was right in front of him, close enough to reach out and strangle.

“We strongly advise that you cease your current investigation.”

“And which investigation would that be?” Remy asked, playing dumb. He knew exactly why they were here, and the implications were already filling his mind, threatening to burst his skull like an overripe melon.

“Stop it,” the voice snapped, so close now that Remy could smell the stink of corruption on its breath, like it had just finished a heaping bowl of murder for breakfast. “Continue to play your human games, moving amongst them, pretending to be one of them, but leave the Death Angel to us—after all, it would be in the best interests of those to whom you have grown close and hold so very dear.”

Those final words chilled Remy to the bone, and he found himself doing something all too stupid—all too human. He sprang off the wall, raising his fists to strike at his enemy, but they were ready. They avoided his blows with ease, and then they were hitting him again, knocking him back against the wall, pushing him down to the floor, the savagery of the blows bringing him close to the brink of oblivion.

And just as he was about to spiral down into the arms of unconsciousness, they stopped, and he felt the cold words of his attackers’ spokesman gently teasing the flesh of his ear, making it feel as though maggots were crawling inside it.

“Stay down, Seraphim,” it said, chased with a wet chuckle. “Think of this as just another form of penance.”

And then the darkness was gone, like thick smoke dispersed by the wind.

Remy pushed himself up on his elbows and, with his one good eye, gazed up at the buzzing fluorescents that now illuminated the hall outside Rolanda’s, as clear as day.

Guess he wouldn’t have to call the super after all.

He was driving down Huntington Avenue much faster than he should have been, the ominous words of his attacker echoing inside the hollowness of his skull.

Remy picked up the cell phone resting in his lap and tried Cresthaven again. He’d been calling every five minutes since he’d left his office, and he still couldn’t get through.

Speeding through a yellow light in front of the Museum of Fine Arts, he narrowly missed a group of tourists who had foolishly stepped out to catch the T across the street.

The phone continued to ring in his ear, but no one answered. Images of violence filled his mind—death and destruction hidden in an undulating fog of total darkness, falling upon the convalescent home, all the lives within threatened because of him, because of the life he had so selfishly chosen.

And because of the task with which Heaven had charged him.

“Damn it,” Remy hissed, tossing the useless piece of technology onto the passenger’s seat. He was almost there. His eyes scanned the horizon for smoke and flames, but everything appeared to be perfectly normal. He, of all people, knew that appearances could be deceiving.

Luck was with him, and he found a parking space easily. He was out of the car and running across South Huntington Ave. at full speed, distantly aware of parts of his body aching in protest.

He charged through the doors of Cresthaven and into the lobby. Everything seemed perfectly fine, except for the look on the receptionist’s face. Her eyes were wide, mouth hanging open, as she stared at him.

“Are . . . are you all right, Mr. Chandler?” she asked, her voice high and wavering, as she slowly began to stand.

And then he realized what he must look like. He glanced down at the front of his light blue button-down shirt, spattered with stains of drying blood. His knuckles were scuffed and bleeding, and he could only imagine how his face appeared after the beating his enemies had given him.

“Yes,” he said, not really sure how to continue. “I was trying to call, but . . .”

“The lines have been down since early this morning, ” the receptionist explained. “I called the phone company with my cell and they said they’re working on the problem. I guess there was a fire on Center Street this morning and . . .”

Remy felt his legs grow wobbly, and he thought he just might need to sit down.

“What the hell happened to you?” a familiar voice bellowed, and he looked to see Nurse Joan coming around the corner. She was wearing bright red scrub pants and a top decorated with the characters from
Looney Tunes
.

He felt himself begin to sag, but then Joan’s strong arm took hold of his, preventing him from falling.

“Do I need to call the police?” she asked in a hushed tone.

Remy shook his head and wished he hadn’t, as the lobby began to spin. His attackers had taken more out of him than he imagined, and the surge of adrenaline that had gotten him here was waning.

“No, I’m fine. Job hazard; had a little run-in with some folks who don’t appreciate a case I’m working on.” And before Joan could respond, he added, “Madeline, is she okay?”

Joan nodded, holding firmly onto his arm, escorting him out of the lobby. “She’s fine,” the woman explained. “Had a rough night, but she’s resting now. I was just down with her.”

Remy nodded. “Good. That’s good. As long as she’s all right. I need to see her.”

He started to pull away, but met with firm resistance.

“You go down there looking like that, your momma’s gonna get sicker than she already is,” Joan said, dragging him toward the nurses’ break room.

He was desperate to see his wife, but he knew Joan was right, so he allowed himself to be escorted through the doorway into the small room. There was a table in the center with chairs around it, a watercooler in the far corner, and a refrigerator on the other side. To his left was a sink with cabinets above it.

“Sit,” Joan ordered, and he did. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Remy didn’t argue, actually glad to be seated. He looked at his knuckles, at the torn skin, and flexed his hand. He was already starting to heal. In a day or so he’d be as good as new.

If only his pride would heal so quickly.

Joan came back into the room, arms loaded with medical supplies. “And I don’t want to hear any complaining from you,” she said, setting the stuff down on the tabletop. “This is probably gonna hurt like hell, but what did you expect?”

She started by cleaning the gash over his eye, and then moved on to the other cuts and abrasions. There was nothing she could do about the bruising.

“Tell me one thing,” she asked, stepping back to look at her handiwork. “Does the other guy look as bad?”

Remy laughed, his ribs hurting sharply with the movement.

“Don’t know,” he gasped. “It was too dark to see.”

“By the looks of these, you done all right,” Joan said, cleaning off his knuckles with an alcohol wipe.

She tossed the used supplies in the barrel, then, putting her hands on her broad hips, she gave him the once-over again.

“Well, you still look like hell, but at least you won’t be giving the poor old thing a heart attack.”

Remy stood. “Thanks, Joan,” he said, pushing his chair back beneath the table. “I owe you one.”

“One? Then you can’t count,” she said, gathering up the unused supplies and turning to leave the break room.

Remy followed her through the door, turning in the direction of his wife’s room.

“And don’t you go waking your mother up,” Joan called out. “If she’s still asleep, you leave her alone. She needs her rest.”

“Gotcha, and thanks again.” Remy waved over his shoulder and continued on to Madeline’s room. The nurse said nothing more, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking noisily as she went.

He passed the doorways of other residents, some asleep, others watching television from their beds, or simply sitting in chairs in their rooms. And from somewhere down the long hallway, a soul cried out for release.

Remy reached Madeline’s doorway and slowed as he entered the room, not wanting to startle her if she was awake. But he needn’t have worried. She was fast asleep, lying on her side, and he was reminded of the thousands of times he’d watched her sleep, sometimes for hours at a time. He used to find a certain peace in the act, a special solace, but now it only made him feel sad.

Careful not to make a sound, he moved a chair closer to the bed. He felt a certain amount of relief seeing her alive and unharmed by his mysterious foes, but there was also despair. She looked paler than usual, an expression of pain permanently present on her features. He reached out, moving a stray lock of gray hair from her sweat-dappled forehead, then reached beneath the covers to take her hand in his. It was cold, the chilling sensation worming its way to his heart.