A Kiss Before the Apocalypse (26 page)

Stunned by the Seraphim chief’s rantings, Remy watched as Israfil slowly turned toward Nathanuel. “There has to be another way,” he whispered.

From where he knelt in the sand, Remy could see the struggle within the cage of fragile flesh and bone, the two opposing natures—angelic and human—warring for control. It was a pathetic sight to see a being of Heaven, once so strong, reduced to this quivering mass.

Nathanuel saw it too and shot Remy a hate-filled glance. “You are the one to blame for this,” he said, gesturing toward the Angel of Death, contempt dripping from his words. “You who have chosen a path other than service to the Almighty. Living amongst these lowly animals, walking in the mud of this planet, it was never meant for those of us who have soared above the spires of Heaven.”

“The pain will just go on and on, brother,” Nathanuel said quietly, almost compassionately, to Israfil. “We will be doing them a favor.”

Israfil’s eyes turned to the scrolls and then quickly looked away.

With a sigh of exasperation, Nathanuel turned to Lazarus. “The female, bring her to me,” he ordered.

And Lazarus did as he was told, clearly so desperate to be free of his accursed life that there was nothing he wouldn’t do.

Nathanuel grabbed Casey, and Remy could see the amusement on his face as he studied her fear-filled eyes. The Seraphim chief removed the gag from her mouth and freed her hands. She sputtered and coughed, fluids leaking from her mouth and nose.

“Jon,” she gasped as she rushed to Israfil’s side. “What’s happening?” She wrapped her arms around him, the desperation obvious in her voice. “I . . . I don’t understand. Who are these people? Why are they doing this?”

“Everything is going to be all right,” Israfil promised in a gentle voice.

But Remy knew it was a lie.

Nathanuel suddenly reached down and grabbed a handful of Casey’s dark hair, yanking her away.

“It is not all right, brother,” he said, forcing her to look at Israfil before violently twisting her head to one side, breaking her neck with a muffled snap.

To Remy the sound seemed louder than any clap of thunder, and he watched with numbed horror as Nathanuel let Casey’s body drop to the ocean floor at Israfil’s feet, twitching and flopping about like the fish deprived of their watery habitat.

Deprived of death.

“No! No! No!” Remy screamed, his fingers digging deep into the wet sand, prying up a rock that he had noticed the last time his face had been pushed to the ground in subjugation.

He made an attempt to charge forward again, and when the growling Galgaliel grasped the back of his neck in a grip like iron, Remy spun around, smashing the rock into the angel’s face as hard as he could. Blood exploded from his pulverized nose as the angel released his hold, both hands going to his damaged face.

Remy didn’t hesitate, scrambling across the exposed ocean floor toward Israfil, who still knelt before the body of the woman he had loved.

“Listen to me!” Remy yelled as Zophiel descended from the sky with a birdlike cry. He dropped to his belly as the angel soared over his head, outstretched hands just missing him, as Remy continued to crawl closer.

“Think about what you’re doing. He’s asking you to end it all. . . . To bring about the Apocalypse. Don’t do it, no matter how bad you think it is. . . . It isn’t time for that.”

Israfil’s face was slack, gazing down on the quivering body of the woman who had helped him attain his humanity, and Remy had to wonder if he was even hearing him.

Nathanuel was suddenly there in front of him. He reached down, grabbing Remy by the throat, pulling him up from the ground.

“There will be none of that, Remiel,” Nathanuel said, holding him aloft as he turned his attention to the Angel of Death. “Israfil has a duty to fulfill.”

Remy tried to scream, tried to get the Death Angel’s attention, but all he could manage was a strangled gasp.

“Show me your human compassion,” Nathanuel urged Israfil. “Put a world filled with so much suffering out of its misery.”

The Angel of Death tore his gaze from Casey’s body, and Remy saw by his expression that any chance of reaching him was now gone. He turned to the scrolls lying before him in the sand, and without a moment’s hesitation, picked up the first.

“That’s it,” Nathanuel urged. Israfil held the scroll out before him and with one quick movement, broke the waxen seal with a deafening snap.

The foul weather immediately intensified, the thunder roaring and wind whipping, and the sky illuminated in an unearthly light.

Still held in Nathanuel’s grip, Remy managed to twist his head toward the horizon to see the enormous shapes of the Horsemen as their mounts moved inexorably closer.

The Seraphim chief pulled him close, forcing Remy to meet his gaze. “It has begun,” he said triumphantly over the sounds of the advancing Apocalypse, and then he tossed him aside like a piece of garbage.

Harmless.

Remy landed on his back in the sand, the winds raging about him. As he prepared to stand, his hand fell upon something warm; something that sang of the glory of battles to be won in the name of the Lord God.

He saw the sword that Francis had given him partially buried beneath the whipping sands, and picked it up. Searching the beach for his friend, he found the former Guardian curled in a ball upon the ground, Haniel and Zophiel looming over him like vultures.

It looked as though it was solely up to him.

Through the storm, Remy saw Israfil, another of the scrolls held aloft, Nathanuel by his side, urging him on. Struggling against the hurricane-force winds, Remy started toward them, only to have his progress stopped by a hand falling roughly upon his shoulder.

He was spun around, coming face to face with a grinning Galgaliel, his face spattered with blood from his broken nose. The Seraphim slowly shook his head from side to side, sporting an evil grin far too wide for his face.

Remy raised his sword, but the warrior of Heaven was faster, taking hold of his arm before he could carry through. Galgaliel pried the weapon from his grasp, nearly breaking his fingers in the process.

“What have we here?” the angel asked, his voice nasal from the injury to his nose. He hefted the weight of the blade in his own hand. “A weapon of Heaven in the hands of one who has forsaken it? For shame.”

Haniel and Zophiel had come to watch, their dark eyes glistening in anticipation of Remy’s impending doom.

Galgaliel pushed Remy to the ground and raised the sword above his head. Remy could do nothing but watch as the fiery blade began its descent, his mind filled with the painful thoughts of how he had failed everyone and everything that he had ever loved.

How he had failed the world.

At first he mistook the sound for thunder, but as one of Galgaliel’s black eyes suddenly erupted from his skull in an explosion of crimson, he realized that it was something far more deadly.

The angel lurched to one side, the swing of the heavy blade going wild and cutting into the wet ground, before his body pitched forward to land in a flailing pile.

Haniel and Zophiel looked around in complete dismay. Through the rain and blowing sand, Remy saw Francis, pistol in hand. The Guardian aimed, firing at the remaining Seraphim. Unfurling their wings, the two escaped into the air.

Francis limped over to where Remy still lay, reaching down to help him to his feet.

“Bullets forged from metals mined in Hell,” he yelled by way of explanation over the cries of the storm, and holding out the old-fashioned Colt pistol. “The metal travels through their blood like poison. It won’t kill them right now, due to the circumstances and all, but they’ll sure wish they were dead.”

“And you couldn’t have used that earlier?” Remy asked.

“Wanted to wait for them to get here first,” Francis said, leaning in close to Remy’s ear, trying to be heard above the din of the coming Apocalypse.

Remy pulled back, not sure what his friend was talking about, and saw that Francis was pointing up to what had once been the shore’s edge. Remy looked in that direction and saw that they were no longer alone. A line of armed individuals stood waiting for a sign.

“Who are they?” Remy asked his friend.

“Grigori,” Francis said, a sly smile snaking over his battered features. “Had a talk with them before I picked you up at the rest home. I suggested it might be in their best interest to give us a hand.”

A flash of lightning, as if the world were being split in half, again lit up the sky, the thunderclap that followed causing a shock wave that shook the ground beneath their feet. The Horsemen were closer; their mounts reared back, pawing at the sky with hooves that trailed fire.

The sky had started to glow with an eerie light, as if the lightning had somehow ignited the atmosphere. And with this new illumination, Remy witnessed yet another disturbing sight.

The two remaining Seraphim, Haniel and Zophiel, now stood with a newly risen Black Choir. The fallen angels’ bodies were little more than charred and blackened skeletons, the framework of their once-leathery wings jutting from their backs like spiny appendages. A thick, ebony aura radiated from what remained of their desiccated flesh, like steam rising from melting ice.

Beyond the Seraphim and their monstrous army, Remy could see that Israfil still knelt upon the beach, opening the scrolls one at a time. As near as Remy could tell, only two remained.

“Go,” Francis said. “Do what you have to. We’ll take care of these freaks.”

Remy pushed himself against the raging elements, rushing toward the kneeling figure. Israfil appeared deep in concentration, his mind set upon the most deadly of tasks.

Remy experienced a sudden wave of panic as he came to the disturbing realization that Nathanuel was no longer beside the Death Angel. He was hidden somewhere in the storm, but still Remy pushed on.

What choice did he have?

The remaining Seraphim made a move in Remy’s direction, but Francis would have none of that.

He opened fire with his pistol, using up bullets that cost him close to a thousand bucks apiece as if they were nothing more than dime-store caps. He thought about all the jobs that he’d taken, besides his responsibilities of guarding the gateway between Hell and Earth, all the creeps he had to put down for the count, in order to make that kind of money.

It was money that he’d been setting aside for a rainy day.

And Francis couldn’t imagine it raining any harder than this.

The bullets did their job, the projectiles tearing into the flesh of the divine beings with devastating results.

It stopped them from chasing Remy, turning their attention to Francis.

“If you were looking to capture their attention, I believe you’ve done it,” said a voice standing beside him.

Francis turned to see that the Grigori had left their places on the old shore to join him, each of them brandishing the guns, knives, and swords that he had provided, and which he hoped would be returned to his personal collection once everything had settled.

Sariel admired the ancient blade. It didn’t glow any more than Francis’ had, but would still hack off a limb if necessary.

“It’s been quite some time since I’ve participated in battle,” the Grigori leader said to the fallen Guardian, watching as the Black Choir began to stalk toward them.

“It’s just like riding a bike,” Francis said, charging to meet their enemies halfway. “Only a lot more bloody.”

And he felt the bloodlust upon him; his thoughts returning to the day that he had fought at the side of the Morningstar, for a cause that he was foolish enough to believe was right.

The Black Choir had retrieved their own weapons from the ground, lurching at him and the Grigori soldiers, the first line of defense between them, the Seraphim, and the end of the world.

Even more frantic than before, the Choir came at them, blackened abominations roaring in rage, their weapons raised to cut them down. Francis moved among them, firing his pistol and lashing out with his sword.

Cutting a Choir member in half that had attempted to brain him with a spiked mace, Francis chanced a quick glance around to see how the Grigori were faring. Their leader’s words about their inactivity in the combat area had worried him a bit at first, but seeing them in action now, Francis realized that his concerns were unfounded.

The Grigori were taking to violence like a ducks to water. But that didn’t mean the battle was won yet.

The Choir were frantic, sensing a threat to their absolution. Francis had to laugh as he fired his pistol into the face of one of the pathetic creatures, obliterating its head in an explosion of blackened skull. He found it a riot that they actually believed that God would look favorably upon them for their contributions to the end of the world.

Almost as amusing as the brief idea he’d had tickling his mind that maybe he’d make some points with the big guy upstairs for helping to avert this catastrophe of such enormous proportions.

Francis looked around him, through the storm and creeping black fog. It was like a scene plucked from the pits he was forced to police, a little slice of Hell here on Earth.

The Choir were locked in vicious combat with the Grigori; shrieks of rage and terror filled the air, mingling with the scent of angels’ blood.

Whether it be of the fallen or not, once it was spilled, it all smelled the same.

He loaded the last of his special bullets from his coat pocket into the revolver, just as three Choirs loped out from a cloud of black. Not to waste any more valuable ammunition, he stuck the gun in the waistband of his slacks and decided to deal with the abominations old school. He brought the blade down upon the shoulder of one, nearly cutting the former angel in two from collar to groin. Drawing back the weapon, he parried a blow by another of the beasts, and pulling the dagger from the inside coat pocket of his suit coat, plunged it deep between its charcoal-black eyes.