A Kiss Before the Apocalypse (15 page)

And then Israfil turned his angry gaze toward the others. Sariel and his remaining brethren quickly averted their eyes so as not to further feed his anger. They waited for a sign that they were to die, or be spared the angel’s wrath, but it did not come.

Finally gathering up his courage, Sariel raised his head, only to find Israfil gone.

The reason he had come to them, and his behavior, a mystery.

The lingering stench of an angel’s death hanging heavy in the air, the only evidence that he had even been there at all.

Sariel’s account of Israfil’s visit replayed in Remy’s mind. Over and over again he heard the Grigori’s words, painting a picture that served only to intensify his growing sense of unease.

It was raining harder now in Boston, and he was having a difficult time concentrating on navigating the wet city streets. Thankfully, no one was about, as if the deluge had washed away anyone foolish enough to venture outside.

Remy hated to admit it, but the Seraphim’s suspicions might actually have meant something, that Israfil had somehow become enamored with humanity, thus making it difficult for him to do the job that the Almighty had assigned him.

But if what Sariel said was true, Israfil had come to the Grigori looking for some sort of affirmation that it was possible to be of both the Heavenly host and humanity.

It made Remy’s head hurt to think of it. The two states of being were polar opposites, which was why he himself had chosen to suppress his true nature . . . at least as much as he was able. He could only imagine the ferocity of the struggle as the two conflicting natures attempted to exist at the same time, which was probably why the world was in its current situation.

It was actually Sariel’s disturbing supposition as Remy had been preparing to leave the Grigori den that had left him chilled to the bone. He heard the leader’s words again, filled with a breathless anticipation.

Remy was so taken aback by the question he hadn’t known how to reply. He had simply left the building as quickly as he could.

He turned up Charles Street between the Public Garden and the Common and reached for his cell phone. Holding it up, keeping one eye on the road, he scrolled down his listing of most used numbers. He found the one he was looking for and dialed it.

“Yeah,” came Lazarus’ familiar voice on the other end.

“Just getting back from seeing our friends,” Remy said. “Israfil paid them a visit not too long ago . . . seemed a bit out of it. The implication being that he wanted to be human.”

“Ouch,” Lazarus said.

“Yeah, ouch as in ‘Ouch, this whole Apocalypse thing could really put a crimp in my day.’ Do you have anything for me?” Remy asked as he turned onto Derne Street and began the chore of looking for a parking space.

“Nothing, really. Everybody’s pretty quiet. It’s like they know something big is coming and they’re all holding their breath.”

“Have you seen anything of a demonic nature?”

“I try and stay clear of those types. Why?”

“Had a run-in outside my office with some individuals of definite demonic persuasion. They tried to convince me to give up on the case.”

“They kick the shit out of you?” the immortal asked.

Remy could hear the amusement in his voice.

“Pretty much. There had to be at least four of them, maybe even more.”

“Sure,” Lazarus chided.

“Yeah, go screw.” Remy had just about given up on finding a space when he remembered that he still had to give Ashlie a ride home anyway.

“So you think there are demons involved with this business now?” Lazarus asked.

“I think there are parties interested in seeing Israfil stay lost, and in conjunction, bringing about the end of the world. Isn’t that friggin’ cheerful?” Remy pulled up in front of his house, driving the car onto the sidewalk so as not to block the narrow street any more than he had to.

“Sounds it,” Lazarus agreed. “Well, I suppose the night’s still young. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

“Thanks,” Remy said, turning off the engine. “Call if you come across anything.”

The immortal broke the connection, and Remy returned his phone to his belt, taking a moment to collect his thoughts as the rain thrummed on the hood of his car.

Finally, he bit the bullet and exited the car.

Out into the storm.

Remy heard Marlowe bark as he slipped his key into the door. It was followed by the sounds of the jangling tags and clicking toenails as the dog raced to greet him.

The nails sounded long; he would have to cut them again soon.

“Hey, buddy,” Remy said, closing the door, the dog happily sniffing him up and down.

“You’re home! You’re home!”
Marlowe chanted, barely able to contain his excitement. Remy reached down to pet him, his movement causing the water that beaded on his coat to rain down upon the happy pup.

“Wet!”
he yelped, licking up some of the drops that spattered the hallway floor.

“Yep, it’s pouring. Where’s Ashlie?” he asked, looking for the teenager, guessing that she’d probably fallen asleep in front of the television.

“Ashlie gone,”
Marlowe said, turning and bounding down the hallway, back to the living room.

“What do you mean she’s gone?” Remy asked, following the animal. “Ashlie?” he called out. “Hey, Ash?”

Remy rounded the corner and stopped as he caught sight of the stranger sitting on his couch. He stared at the young woman, not sure of what to do next. It was obvious that he had woken her up. Her shoes were on the floor in front of the couch, a mug that looked as though it might have once contained tea resting on the coffee table in front of her. She looked at him with large, fear-filled brown eyes. She was attractive, a brunette with shoulder-length hair and fair skin.

Marlowe had hopped up onto the couch next to her, leaning back and waving a paw at Remy as he panted loudly.

“Who the hell are you?” Remy asked.

“Casey,”
Marlowe barked.

“I’m not asking you, I’m asking her,” he said, his eyes shifting from the dog to the woman.

“I’m Casey, Mr. Chandler. Casey Burke. I’m so sorry about this. I must’ve dozed off.”

“How did you get in here. . . . Where’s Ashlie?”

“Ashlie go home,”
Marlowe said, leaning back even farther so that both paws were now flapping in the air. It looked as though he was doing the wave at a football game.

“I told you to hush up,” Remy scolded the dog. “I want answers from you.” He pointed at the woman from the doorway. He didn’t sense any danger from her, but it still didn’t change the fact that she was a stranger sitting on his couch in his living room.

“I came by to see you, and Ashlie told me that you had gone out for the evening. I must’ve looked really pathetic because she asked if I wanted to come in and write you a note.”

Remy scowled, upset that the teenager could have been so foolish.

“Don’t be mad at her,” Casey said quickly, putting her feet down and slipping into her shoes. “I started explaining my situation a little and got kind of upset. She thought that maybe I should hang around until you got back.”

Remy sighed, exasperated, and leaned against the door frame. “Where is she now?”

“She wasn’t feeling too good,” Casey explained, making a sort of embarrassed face. “You know, female problems.”

“So she just left you here? A stranger, in my house with my dog?”

“No stranger. Casey,”
Marlowe informed him.

“I know it’s Casey,” he said, annoyed.

The woman started to laugh, abruptly stopping when she realized that Remy was staring at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that somebody I’m very close to used to do the same thing with our cat.”

Remy tilted his head, frowning quizzically.

“You know, the whole talking-to-the-animal thing, as if they know what you’re saying.”

He sensed her mood suddenly darken as she lowered her head, looking down at her hands. Marlowe moved closer, nuzzling her arm in hopes that petting him would cheer her up.

“That somebody is actually why I’m here, Mr. Chandler, ” Casey said, rubbing Marlowe’s ears. Remy could hear the dog rumbling with pleasure. “My fiancé . . . Jon Stall is missing . . . has been missing for the last few weeks.”

Feeling his ire start to subside, Remy shucked off his still-dripping coat. “Ms. Burke . . .”

“Casey,” she interrupted him. “Please call me Casey.”

Remy sighed. “Fine, Casey.” He quickly went out into the hallway, hung the coat on the closet doorknob, and came back into the living room.

“Casey, this type of thing is usually handled at my office,” he explained. “And even then . . .”

“I’ve been to the police and they had me fill out all the proper paperwork, but I really don’t think they took me all that seriously, and besides, he told me to come to you if anything happened to him.”

Remy was surprised by the revelation. “You said his name is Jon Stall?”

The pretty woman nodded. “Jon Philip Stall. He’s a professor at Mass Tech. . . . Biology.”

He repeated the name again. It didn’t ring any bells. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall the name,” he said as he walked through the living room toward the kitchen. “Listen, I’m going to make a pot of coffee, would you like some?” he asked her.

“I would love another cup of tea, if that would be all right,” she said, getting up from the couch and following, Marlowe close behind.

“Apple?”
the dog asked.

“I’ll get you an apple in a minute,” Remy told the dog as he filled the teakettle and placed it on the stove. He then started to prepare his coffee, deciding on a full pot. He suspected it was going to be one of those nights.

“The week before he . . .” Casey paused. It was obvious that she was taking her boyfriend’s disappearance quite hard. “The week before Jon went away, he talked about you a lot.”

She was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded across her chest.

“He talked about me?” Remy asked with surprise as he scooped freshly ground Dunkin’ Donuts coffee into a filter.

She nodded, pushing back a strand of dark hair that dangled in front of her pretty, oval face. “He talked about how much he admired you and what you had done with your life.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Remy shook his head, leaning against the counter as the coffeemaker began to hiss and gurgle. “I honestly don’t know who your boyfriend is.”

Marlowe barked once from his spot in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“Right, your apple,” Remy said, grabbing a Red Delicious from the fruit bowl and bringing it to the counter.

“Did Jon say anything specific, Casey? Anything as to how he knew me or where he knew me from?”

Remy finished cutting the apple into strips and brought them over to Marlowe’s bowl. The dog bolted up from the floor, pushing Remy’s hand out of the way to get at his treat.

“He said you two had come from similar backgrounds—the same town I think.”

And suddenly a recognizable image began to take shape in Remy’s mind.
Is it possible?
he wondered. Had something ridiculously fortuitous dropped into his lap. . . .
Or is there something else going on here?

The tea water had started to boil, screeching to be noticed. Casey made a move toward it, but Remy was already on the way.

“Sorry,” he said, taking the mug from her and placing a tea bag inside it. “Lost in thought there. So where was Jon from?” Remy asked, pouring the steaming water into the mug.

“Some little town north of here called Paradise.”

Remy’s arm twitched and he spilled hot water all over the countertop.

He grabbed a dishcloth and started to mop up the spill. “Sorry about that,” he apologized, handing the steaming mug to Casey.

“Is that where you’re from, Mr. Chandler?” she asked him, watching him intently. “Are you from Paradise?”

Images of a place that as far as he was concerned didn’t exist anymore began to take shape inside Remy’s head.

T
he sword in his hand grew heavier with each passing moment, the stench of burning flesh and blood almost palpable in the air.

Remiel looked about the battlefield. What had once been golden fields of high grass that sang with joy when the celestial breezes moved through them were now trampled flat, and everywhere he looked his eyes fell upon the fallen.

He knew them all, whether they be friend or foe, for not long ago they had been brothers under God. But that was before the Morningstar gathered his forces about him and challenged the will of the Almighty.

Before the war that turned Choir against Choir, brother against brother.

It was drawing to a close now, the followers of Lucifer Morningstar either vanquished or awaiting capture. But looking about the battlefield, at the twisted wings and broken bodies of those who had died fighting, Remiel knew it would never be the same again.

Standing there, in what had once been golden fields, he made up his mind, letting his weapon fall from his hand to lie uselessly upon the blood-soaked ground. Remiel closed his eyes, committing to his memory how it once had been.

Slowly, he removed his armor, shedding the raiment of warfare, letting that too fall useless to the ground beneath his feet.

“It is over, brother,” said a voice from nearby, and Remiel slowly turned to gaze upon the visage of the angel Israfil as he walked among the dead, their bodies disintegrating to dust, carried away upon the winds as he passed.