A Kiss Before the Apocalypse (14 page)
Read A Kiss Before the Apocalypse Online
Authors: Thomas E. Sniegoski
Tags: #Private Investigators, #Contemporary, #General, #Fantasy, #Fiction, #Angels
“They’ll never be over it,” Sariel replied, opening the door and gesturing for him to move through. Remy entered, the Grigori leader following, closing the door on the hate-filled eyes.
“You can go back any time,” Sariel continued, crossing the room toward two overstuffed chairs in front of a marble-and-wood fireplace. A cozy fire burned within. “Back to the glory that is Heaven . . . back to
Him,
but you choose not to. You’re actually here because you wish to be.”
Him,
but you choose not to. You’re actually here because you wish to be.”
Remy chose a chair and sat down as Sariel did. It was warm and comfortable, the fire chasing away the chill that had resided in his bones since heading out into the rain tonight.
“They’re jealous,” Remy said, mesmerized by the flames.
“Perhaps they were once, but now they’re simply angry,” Sariel responded.
There was a knock on the door, and a waiter came into the room.
“May I bring you anything, master?” the man asked, his blind eyes rolling uselessly in their sockets.
“Remiel?” the Grigori leader asked him.
It was a moment of weakness, and he blamed it on the comforting effects of the fire. “Scotch on the rocks,” he said, but regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.
“Excellent idea,” Sariel responded. He turned toward the waiter. “Two Scotches.”
The waiter bowed and carefully left the room, closing the door behind him.
“I didn’t come to make anybody angry,” Remy said, still gazing into the fire. His felt his face flush, his eyes growing heavy as the fire worked its comforting magic upon him.
“I wouldn’t concern yourself with that. They hate you all the time.” The Grigori chuckled. “Your disregard for what they want most of all infuriates them. . . . Infuriates me.”
The waiter returned with their drinks, placing a silver tray down upon a small wooden table between the two chairs.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” the servant asked, standing at attention.
Sariel ignored the question.
“I think that’s it,” Remy told him, feeling uncomfortable with the man’s attentive presence.
The man didn’t move.
“Go,” Sariel finally barked.
The waiter bowed again and left them alone in the study.
The Scotch was good.
Steve would gladly give up his mother’s soul for a bottle of this,
Remy thought, savoring each sip.
Steve would gladly give up his mother’s soul for a bottle of this,
Remy thought, savoring each sip.
“You actually respect them,” Sariel said, shaking the tumbler in his hand and causing the ice within to tinkle merrily.
“Who? Them out there?” Remy pointed to the wall with his glass. “The people beyond these walls, out in the real world? You bet your ass I respect them.” He took a large sip from his drink, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. “It’s not easy being human,” he added.
“And you would know,” Sariel said, slowly bringing the glass to his mouth.
The fire snapped like the crack of a bullwhip, and one of the logs tumbled from its perch upon the burning stack, a plume of fire and burning embers momentarily flaring up into the flue.
“Why have you come here, Remiel?” Sariel asked, repressed anger obvious in his tone.
Remy had some more of the fine Scotch before answering.
“I had a visit from Nathanuel the other day,” he finally said, looking into the dancing flames.
He could feel Sariel’s eyes suddenly upon him.
“Seems that the powers that be have lost track of Israfil. ” Slowly he turned his head, tearing his gaze away from the mesmerizing flames to meet the intensity of the Grigori’s stare. “And they’ve asked me to find him.”
It seemed to take Sariel a moment to process the information.
“The Angel of Death is . . . missing?”
Remy nodded, taking the last of his drink. He wiped his lips with his fingers and set the glass down on the table between them.
“And I was hoping that you might have some information to help me take care of this business and restore the balance before . . .”
“Nothing is feeling his touch?” Sariel interrupted.
“No,” Remy answered. “So I’m sure you can see why the Seraphim are so interested in finding him as quickly as possible.”
“And they haven’t any idea as to where he has gone?” the Grigori asked.
“No.”
And with those chilling words, Sariel started to laugh. It was an awful sound, like the excited cry of a hungry raptor as its eyes fell upon unsuspecting prey. “One of their most powerful has escaped their watchful eyes,” he said shaking his head.
Then he dropped his empty glass onto the table and stood, moving to the fireplace, where he leaned against the mantle, staring down into the flames. At last he turned to look at Remy, his face shaded in the shifting shadows of the dancing flames.
“You spoke of restoring the balance. How bad is it out there?”
Remy thought of the past two days, his experience at the hospital, the stories on the news and in the daily papers.
It’s bad.
And then there was the dream, the train pulling into the station, carrying the bringers of the Apocalypse.
It’s real bad.
“It’s horrible, and it’s only going to get worse.” Remy leaned his head against the back of the chair, eyeing the angelic being standing at the fireplace across from him.
“The scrolls?” Sariel asked, black eyes twinkling inquisitively.
“They’re missing too.”
“Well, this
is
quite a predicament.” The Grigori returned to his chair. “But it makes sense now.”
is
quite a predicament.” The Grigori returned to his chair. “But it makes sense now.”
Remy’s ears perked up. “What does?” he asked, looking toward the angel. “Do you have something for me?”
“Perhaps,” Sariel replied. “It happened some time ago.”
“What happened?” Remy questioned, the potential for his first lead pulling him out of his seat to stand in front of the Grigori leader.
“I’m not sure how long ago, exactly,” Sariel said, rubbing his brow as if attempting to stimulate his brain. “I have such difficulty with the passage of time. A week, a decade, they all seem to flow together. Do you find that as well, Remiel?”
Remy surged forward, grabbing hold of the arms of Sariel’s chair, leaning into his face.
“What happened, Sariel, and what does it have to do with Israfil?”
The Grigori smiled at Remy’s intensity.
“We were so excited to see him,” he said. “Thinking that maybe . . . maybe he had been sent to tell us that we were at last going home.
“After all, why else would the Angel of Death come to visit?”
CHAPTER NINE
Between a week and ten years ago
T
hey were having a celebration.
hey were having a celebration.
Sariel did not remember exactly the reason for the festivities; perhaps it had something to do with the changing of the seasons, perhaps not.
Whatever it was, the leader of the Grigori did not feel the need to pursue it any further. They were celebrating.
It was better than slipping into madness.
The blind musicians were playing something lively. Sariel thought it was probably something by Beethoven. Of all the human composers,
he
was the one that actually came the closest to duplicating the music of the spheres, of the celestial choirs of Heaven.
he
was the one that actually came the closest to duplicating the music of the spheres, of the celestial choirs of Heaven.
The shrill sound of human laughter stirred him from his reverie.
The Grigori leader opened his eyes. From his seat in the corner of the recently renovated space, he saw that Araquiel had returned, and that he had brought along women.
Sariel smiled, overjoyed at the potential for distraction.
What’s a celebration without females?
he thought, pushing himself from his seat and crossing the room toward where his brothers had congregated around their visitors.
What’s a celebration without females?
he thought, pushing himself from his seat and crossing the room toward where his brothers had congregated around their visitors.
The Grigori had a weakness for the fairer sex—just one of the damning reasons they had ended up in the situation they were in, and had been in for countless millennia. What was it about humanity that had seduced them so, that continued to seduce them?
How many times had he and his brothers asked themselves that very question?
As many times as there are stars in the sky,
the leader thought, admiring the women.
As many times as there are stars in the sky,
the leader thought, admiring the women.
They were quite attractive . . . for humans. Dressed in gowns of the finest material, faces painted alluringly and adorned in jewelry of silver, diamonds, and gold, there was little that separated them from their primitive ancestors.
Harlots, each and every one, enticed here with the promise of payment.
They’ll earn their reward,
Sariel thought.
They’ll earn their reward,
Sariel thought.
“Welcome, ladies,” he said, as his brothers stepped away from the women so that he could view them unhindered.
They were just what the moment called for.
A distraction from the pain of exile.
And they served their purpose well, as did the alcohol, the drugs, and the food specially prepared for their distinctive palates. But in the end it was all so horribly fleeting.
Because of their angelic physiology, nothing remained with their systems for long. They tried to kill the pain of their tortured existences with excess, and in the end, it was never enough.
But it never stopped them from trying.
Sariel had his way with all of the women, the stink of their sexual acts hanging heavy in the air, reminding him again of how far he—how far
they
—had fallen. His brothers were still lost in their decadence, their indulgences, but he’d had more than enough for now.
they
—had fallen. His brothers were still lost in their decadence, their indulgences, but he’d had more than enough for now.
Leaving his brethren to their lustful antics, Sariel rose from the pillows on the floor and strolled naked across the space toward their renovated living quarters. Already he could feel the guilt of his wanton acts wearing on him, reminding him of the reason for their banishment.
He had reached the far end of the grand room turned den of inequity, when he realized that the sounds of revelry had ceased. He turned, curious, and saw him standing in the center of the room.
Instinctively, Sariel knew who it was. He could feel the power radiating from him.
“Brother Israfil!” he called, suddenly frustrated that he was unable to spread his wings and glide through the air to their powerful visitor’s side.
The Angel of Death appeared as human, but he was so much more than that. The power of Heaven throbbed beneath the masquerade of flesh and bone. Israfil remained eerily silent, his eyes riveted upon the Grigori in their various stages of immorality.
Sariel slowly approached the angel, head bowed in reverence. “Holy Israfil,” he said, painfully aware of his nakedness, the scars where his glorious wings had once sprung throbbing with pain. They had never stopped hurting—never fully healed. “This is indeed a great honor. May I ask the occasion?”
His thoughts raced with the possibilities as he waited for the angel to respond. But Israfil’s gaze remained upon his brothers and the examples of their debauchery.
Even those who served the needs of the Grigori were drawn to the heavenly power, the blind servants emerging from the back rooms, their useless eyes somehow able to perceive the divinity of the visitor.
Israfil finally turned his haunting gaze to Sariel, the intensity of the look dropping the leader to his knees.
“I wanted . . . wanted to see,” the Angel of Death said in a voice that seemed to tremble with emotion. “I needed to know if it really is possible.”
Sariel did not understand the angel’s words. “Excuse my ignorance, brother,” he began carefully. They did not need Israfil angry with them; that would be disastrous in so many ways. “But if what is possible?”
Israfil was looking at his Grigori brothers again. The human females, wallowing in the euphoric grip of the abundant narcotics, had no idea of what was truly transpiring here, no idea of the power this visitor held.
“To truly be with them . . .” he began, his voice little more than a whisper. “To be
like
them.”
like
them.”
Sariel still did not understand, and was about to attempt further discussion when one of his own, the Grigori Armaros, rose from his pillow on the floor, his eyes glazed, a twisted smile on his drug-addled features.
“You want to be with them?” Armaros slurred, reaching down to pull one of the prostitutes up from where she had started to doze. It was the redhead, and Sariel did not remember her name. He could never remember their names.
“Take this one,” the Grigori said, pushing the naked woman toward Israfil.
The woman stumbled, her large breasts flopping grotesquely as she fell to the ground in front of him.
And Armaros began to laugh, a high-pitched keening that filled the hall with its irritating sound.
Sariel felt it before it happened. The temperature in the room dropped dramatically, and he saw the strangely troubled expression on Israfil’s face turn to one of fury and revulsion.
The Angel of Death extended his arm toward the giggling Armaros, as the other Grigori seemed to become immediately lucid, scrambling away from their brother. The females appeared to sense trouble as well and crawled away to hide behind an overstuffed sofa.
“You think it’s funny?” Israfil asked, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.
Sariel reached out to Israfil in an attempt to calm his ire, and felt the flesh on his hand grow numb as his fingers entered a field of severe cold that surrounded the angel. With a hiss, he withdrew his nearly frozen limb, clutching it to his chest.
“You think you’re special?” Israfil asked Armaros.
The Grigori dropped to his knees, averting his gaze and begging for mercy. But Israfil’s anger had rendered him as blind as their servants.
And then Armaros began to scream, his naked body flopping to the ground, writhing in agony.
“It is they who are special . . . they who are the chosen of our Holy Lord.”
Armaros’ body began to wither and cracks appeared in his flesh. Still the Grigori screamed, his cries for mercy falling upon deaf ears.
There was a sudden flash of light as a sphere of pulsing energy exploded out from within Armaros’ desiccated body. The glowing orb drifted across the room to Israfil’s extended hand, and as it came close, the Angel of Death closed his fingers upon it, extinguishing the light.
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