A Hundred Words for Hate

CHAPTER EIGHT

Arkansas, 1932

Fraciel drove the blade of the Enochian dagger through the angel’s heart, closing his eyes as he listened to the final cries of the once-Heavenly creature.

The angel tried to escape him, spreading its powerful wings and flapping wildly in a futile attempt to take flight, but Fraciel held him tight as he twisted the blade, stealing away the angel’s last bit of strength.

“Nothing personal,” he said softly as he lowered the body of the angel to the wet ground of the alley—a soft Southern rain falling upon them.

The angel, who had taken the human name of Luke, looked up at him with wide dying eyes.

“F . . . Fra . . . Francis,” he said in a strangled voice as dark blood oozed up from somewhere inside him and ran from the corners of his gaping mouth. “Why?”

Fraciel—Francis—did not respond. Instead, he removed a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit coat and cleaned the angel’s black blood from his blade. But the question echoed inside his troubled mind.

Why? It was something he’d asked himself a lot recently.

Why? Because God said so. That was why.

Francis was a killer for the Allfather, ending the lives of those who ran afoul of Heaven, penance for his own terrible sin.

He watched as Luke died on the filthy ground, his last breath trailing off in a whistle as the light of life left his eyes.

He had found this particular angel in the tent of a traveling church revival on the outskirts of Oak Bluff, Arkansas, preaching to those who believed that the Lord God was actually watching them.

Francis had been amused; as far as he knew, the only ones being watched were those humans who posed some sort of threat to Heaven and angels who had escaped to Earth after the Great War to avoid punishment. But the country was in the grip of a depression, and people were desperate.

Desperate for God to notice them.

Francis had attended the revival meetings, participating in the fervent praise to God, waiting for the opportunity to carry out his mission. Finally, at the end of a particularly zealous meeting, he had approached Luke, and although he was able to mask his true identity, even to other angels, Luke must have sensed a kindred spirit.

For some reason, Francis had allowed friendship to blossom, breaking his own cardinal rule. Though it was painful to admit, he had enjoyed having a friend, and hated to see it end in such a way.

But there was no choice.

Francis could sense his Masters’ impatience, and knew it was time to finish the job. He and Luke had been passing out flyers announcing a special meeting dedicated to asking for God’s forgiveness, and were on their way back to the revival tents when Francis saw his opportunity, suggesting they take a shortcut through the alley.

Luke had been so happy, brimming with excitement at the chance to preach God’s mercy to such a large gathering. Francis could practically feel the energy radiating off of him.

God’s mercy indeed.

Briefly, Francis wished it didn’t have to end this way, but he had no choice. He too awaited forgiveness, and if that was ever to happen, he had to kill this angel, and any other deemed an enemy of God.

It was the price he had to pay.

The act itself had been quick, as merciful as Francis was able, but it didn’t stop the questions.

What had Luke done to deserve this?

Francis returned the dirty handkerchief and blade to his inside coat pocket and waited; it usually didn’t take them very long to respond after one of the divine had met his fate.

The Thrones appeared in a blinding flash, followed by a sound like all the keys on the world’s largest pipe organ being played at once. The Thrones resembled balls of fire . . . six balls of fire covered with eyes, spinning in the air before him.

“It’s done,” Francis said, glancing at the corpse at his feet.

The angelic beings remained silent, rolling in the air, sparks of divine fire spewing from their awesome forms to sizzle in the puddles that had formed on the alley floor.

Francis wanted nothing more than to get as far away from them, and what he had done, as possible. A couple of stiff drinks are in order, he thought. Even during Prohibition there was always a way to get good and drunk if one really wanted to; and after the night he’d had, Francis wanted to.

“What took you so long?” the Thrones asked as one, their powerful voices ringing inside his head like the bells of Notre Dame.

Francis was quiet, not sure how to answer. He didn’t want to tell them that he had actually grown fond of Luke, and had enjoyed having a friend. He could just imagine how that would have gone over.

“I was waiting for the right time,” he finally said, refusing to look into their many eyes. “It took longer than I expected.”

“Is that all?” the balls of roiling fire asked suspiciously.

“That’s all,” he answered, keeping his anger in check.

The Thrones watched him for what seemed like forever, then finally glided through the air to hover above the body of the angel. Tendrils of white flame trailed down from their revolving bodies, wrapping around the dead angel and drawing him up into their fire.

Francis had seen them do this so many times, and still didn’t know exactly what they were doing with the bodies. Maybe they were storing them for transport back to the City of Light, or maybe they were burning them—not a trace of anything to show that the angels had ever existed.

Or maybe they were just being eaten.

Whatever the case, they weren’t offering any explanations, and Francis wasn’t about to ask.

“Am I done here?” he questioned, eager for the taste of gin in his mouth.

“You will be done when we tell you,” the Thrones admonished as the last of the angel Luke was drawn up into their burning bodies.

Not a trace of anything to show that he had ever existed.

Francis felt his ire rise, but knew better than to let it show. He reached up, removed the fedora from his head, and slicked back his dark, thinning hair before putting the hat back on. He would wait; he had all the patience in the world.

Especially if that patience would someday lead him to redemption.

“This is done,” the Thrones said, and Francis turned to leave, until the words, “But there is another,” stopped him dead in his tracks.

Once again, he faced his Masters.

“Another? So soon? Usually there’s some time between them.”

“This time there is not.”

“Obviously.”

“Do you grow tired, servant?” the Thrones asked him. “Should we relieve you from your duties? Perhaps you’d prefer to serve out the remainder of your penance in a cell deep within Tartarus?”

Just the mention of the hellish prison, where angels were made to relive their sins over and over again, was enough to set him straight. Francis couldn’t think of a worse torture.

Worse even than dealing with the Thrones.

“Sorry, I meant no disrespect,” Francis said, averting his eyes. “I’m just surprised that—”

“Surprised that the Lord God has many enemies?” the Thrones interrupted, their color becoming darker—fiercer—with anger. “The Almighty cannot . . . will not rest until all who oppose His glory are a threat no more.”

Francis didn’t respond, knowing he was better off keeping his mouth shut.

“There is another,” the Thrones repeated.

“Where?” Francis sighed, the taint of death still lingering around him like a bad smell.

One of the fiery orbs was suddenly in his face, a thick tendril of burning matter emerging from its body to touch the center of his skull. It was excruciating at first, and he was certain that they enjoyed his pain immensely, a little payback for disrespecting them.

It was done before he could scream, the tentacle of flame disappearing back into the spinning ball, as it returned to hover with its brethren.

Francis’s head was now filled with images: images of where he would go, and whom he would kill in the name of the Lord.

“Go,” the Thrones ordered, as they disappeared with another searing flash and a sound that could have been mistaken for thunder; the puddles that had been beneath them bubbled and steamed.

Francis cleared his throat and spit into one of the boiling puddles. Then he lifted a hand and began to utter an incantation that would take him to his next assignment. It was a little bit of magick bestowed upon him by the Thrones, since he had lost his wings after siding with Lucifer during the Great War.

He moved his hand in the air before him, opening a tear in the fabric of time and space, a passage to where he’d find the next to die. The only consolation was that he’d be going to a speakeasy.

And he could finally get his drink.

Located on the edge of Beauchamp, Louisiana, the Pelican Club didn’t even have a sign.

For all intents and purposes, it was an abandoned general store, but that was only for folks who weren’t in the know.

The Thrones were in the know, and knew where the latest offender of Heaven could be found, and now Francis knew as well.

Strolling up the quiet, rain-swept street, he took note of the building, and the large black man sitting on the front porch, a meanlooking dog of many breeds seemingly asleep at his feet. But Francis knew otherwise. That dog would be up with fangs bared as soon as it sensed even the slightest inkling of a threat.

He observed mostly folks of color strolling up to the building.

He stood in the shadows and willed his flesh a darker shade, then fell in behind a group of four men as they drew near the club. One at a time they climbed the steps, greeting the big man with a nod and a “good evening,” then sticking out their hands for the monstrous beast to sniff. The brave ones went as far as to pat the animal on top of its large head.

It was his turn.

“Nice dog,” Francis said to the big man.

He grunted. “Huh. See if he thinks you’re nice.”

Francis held out a brown hand. The beast ignored the offered appendage, choosing instead to look up into the fallen angel’s eyes. A communication passed between them, a sharing of information about each other. Francis learned that the dog was a good dog, a faithful dog, but if he felt like it, he could do some serious damage. And the dog learned that Francis was a good person, a faithful person, but that he too could do some serious damage if he wanted.

In seconds they came to an understanding, and the dog extended his snout and licked Francis’s hand with a thick pink tongue.

“Thattaboy,” Francis said, scratching behind his ears. The dog rolled over onto his back, allowing Francis to rub his dark, fleshy belly.

He glanced up at the large man, noting the surprise on his face.

“Guess I am nice,” Francis said with a grin.

“Huh,” the man said as he hooked a thumb, gesturing for Francis to head inside.

It was dark in the Pelican Club, the room lit by a few bare bulbs on a wire that stretched across the wooden ceiling. It was more crowded than Francis expected, as folks were standing around in small groups and others sipped refreshments from jelly jars at tables positioned in pockets of shadow throughout the room. There was a makeshift bar—three two-by-fours laid across two cracker barrels—and it called to him.

Francis asked the barkeep if he had any gin, and the man just laughed, pouring him a jelly jar of something from a brown jug that he pulled up from the floor.

“This’ll do,” Francis said as he paid for his drink. He returned the man’s smile and brought the glass to his lips, taking a sip. The moonshine burned as it went down, and he let it. He liked the warm feel of the illegal whiskey. If he’d wanted to, he could have shut it all down, canceling out the effects of the alcohol with just a thought.

But where was the fun in that?

Francis leaned on the bar and scanned the room, looking for his target. He saw no one who matched the image the Thrones had placed in his brain, but if they said the target would be here, it would be. All Francis had to do was relax, have himself a drink or two, and wait.

He found an old stool against a wall and sat. It was a strange place for the Thrones to have sent him; there wasn’t a renegade angel or supernatural being to be found, just some poor folks looking to let off a little steam.

Francis finished his drink and slid off his stool to get another.

“Hit me again,” he told the barkeep, handing him the empty jelly jar.

“Still want that gin?” the man asked, pouring more of the whiskey from the jug into the glass.

“What’s gin?” Francis asked.

The barkeep got a big kick out of that, laughing up a storm.

Francis stayed by the bar this time, deciding that he’d like to share the company of the man tending the bar. He looked like a good egg, and good eggs were hard to come by these days.

“Never seen you in here before,” the barkeep commented as he poured a drink for a little old lady who looked as though she could be on her way to church services.

“That’s because I’ve never been here before,” Francis answered.

The barkeep nodded, and then held out his hand. “Name’s Melvin,” he said.

Francis stared at the hand for a moment before taking it firmly in his.

“Francis,” he said as the two shook.

“So, what do you think of the Pelican?” Melvin asked, taking some more jelly jars from a wooden crate and placing them on top of the bar.

“Nice,” Francis said as he took a short sip of the white lightning. “I imagine it helps people forget their problems for a while.”

“It certainly does that,” Melvin said. “And it puts some money in my pocket.”

Francis looked at the barkeep over the rim of his glass. “Is this place yours?”

“It is,” Melvin said. “I pay the man who used to own the general store here a slight fee for the use of his premises, but I maintain the place, keep the jugs full, and bring in the entertainment.”

“Entertainment?” Francis laughed. “You’ve got entertainment here?”

“I sure do,” Melvin said. “Don’t tell me you never heard of the Swamp Angel?” he asked incredulously.

Francis shook his head.

“Then you’re about to now,” Melvin said. “She’s comin’ on as soon as the band is ready.” The barkeep gestured with his chin to an area where a sheet had been strung like a curtain. Francis could see some men and their instruments taking their places on a makeshift stage.

The crowd gradually started to notice as well, clapping as the men sat down on old chairs and stools and began to tune up their musical instruments. There was a very thin fiddle player, a guy who easily could have tipped the scales at three hundred pounds with an old bowler hat on top of his big head and a beat-up guitar in his lap, and a third man at an old piano.

Instruments tuned, the musicians gave one another a look that said they were ready and the place became eerily quiet.

Then from behind the curtain she stepped, a striking woman wearing a simple white dress that smacked of being handmade. She wore no jewelry or makeup. Her skin was like mahogany, and Francis wasn’t sure whether he’d ever seen in the flesh a creature quite so beautiful. She stood on the small stage, looking out over the silent audience, and he was reminded of a scared little animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

For a moment, he thought she might take off, jumping from the stage and heading out the door in sheer terror, but he watched as she took a couple of deep breaths and looked at the smiles of the three men who were ready to accompany her. Slowly she nodded.

The men began to play, and she began to sing.

Francis had heard the celestial choirs of Heaven, but they couldn’t hold a candle to what he was hearing now. He stood statue still, whiskey in hand, with no urge to drink it. All he wanted to do was listen as the woman—the Swamp Angel—sang from the very depths of her soul and, in turn, touched every single soul in the room.

It was a shame he was going to have to kill her.

Francis left the memory of Louisiana and the sweet, sweet sound of the Swamp Angel’s voice, and returned to Hell.

Louisiana? he questioned as he slowly emerged from the mire of unconsciousness. I’ve never been to fucking Louisiana . . . especially not during the Depression.

But he had. He just hadn’t remembered until the crazy angel that had saved him stuck a knife into his brain.

The former Guardian opened his eyes with a pathetic yelp, recalling the feeling of the glowing blade as it violated his skull.

He was on his back facing the ceiling of the cave, stalagmites—or were they stalactites? He never could remember—hanging down. He tried to move, but couldn’t.

Again he heard the rumbling sounds of Hell changing somewhere off in the distance, and he knew he was still a guest in the Magick Kingdom.

Francis tried to move again, and this time realized that his wrists and ankles were bound by thick leather restraints.

“What the fuck?” he said aloud, his voice sounding weird as it bounced around the confines of the cave.

Fighting a wave of dizziness, he lifted his head for a better view of his surroundings. His stomach flipped, threatening to make him yak up his insides, but he really hadn’t eaten anything since . . . When was the last time he had eaten? How long had he been in Hell? Time moved differently here; it could have been days, or maybe even months.

What I wouldn’t give for a Hot Pocket about now.

Through bleary eyes he saw the angel. His back was to him, and he appeared to be working, standing in front of a slab of black rock that seemed to have grown up out of the floor. And there was somebody else . . . someone who looked to be in even worse shape than Francis lying atop the slab. The Hellion was curled in a tight ball of nastiness at the angel’s feet.

“Hey,” Francis squeaked, his throat tight and dry.

“You’re awake,” the angel commented, continuing to work.

The Hell beast lifted its obscene head and hissed.

“Let me just finish here and I’ll be right with you,” said the angel.

Then he dropped something wet and red. It plopped to the floor of the cave with a spatter, and the Hellion reacted immediately, snatching it up into its awful mouth, chewing eagerly.

“Glad you won’t be needing that anymore,” the angel said with a chuckle to the being laid out before him.

Then he turned to face Francis. The front of the angel’s robes, already filthy with the dirt and soot of Hell, were now spattered with blood. He held his glowing blade in a relaxed hand, and Francis again recalled the agony as it had entered his head.

Though the muscles in his neck were screaming, the former Guardian angel could not—would not—lower his head. He could see the other figure lying upon the slab now. It had once been an angel. Francis guessed he was likely one of the few who had managed to escape the tortures of Tartarus, reverting to barbarism on the plains of Hell. Now his stomach had been opened, the skin peeled back.

Something that could have been a mountain crumbling roared somewhere outside the cave, and the angel tilted his shaggy head slightly, listening to the sound.

“The changes are coming closer,” he said. “I wonder what it will be like when he’s finished?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Francis demanded. A while ago he had expected to be dead, but now? He had a front-row seat on the crazy bus and it didn’t show any sign of slowing down soon.

“It’s all about change, really,” the angel said. The glowing scalpel disappeared somewhere inside his robes. “Take this poor beast, for example.” He gestured toward the angel on the slab.

“You wouldn’t believe the changes his body has undergone, living the way he did . . . changes that I never foresaw, and I was partially responsible for his design.”

Responsible for his design? Who is this madman? The thought coursed through Francis’s fevered brain as he fought to keep his head up.

“His internal workings have evolved to survive the rigors of Hell,” the angel continued.

Francis had no idea what this lunatic was talking about, but as long as it kept him from using the light-saber scalpel to open him up, he could keep right on talking.

“To survive what is coming, we must all evolve. I learned that quite a long time ago, but I’ve only recently come to truly understand it.”

The angel approached Francis, and he squirmed on the slab, but to no avail. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“But I knew that things were finally about to come around when I found you out there. It was a surprise, but not really.”

The angel reached out with a bloody hand to stroke Francis’s bald head.

“I knew you would be coming; I just didn’t know when.”

The scalpel was in the angel’s hand again, and all Francis could do was stare in horror at the figure looming above him.

“I was always proud of the Guardian’s design,” he said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Francis growled.

“You don’t remember me . . . yet,” the angel said with a smile that would have given Charles Manson the creeps. “But you will.”

He leaned toward Francis, one blood-encrusted hand holding the former Guardian angel’s head steady as the scalpel once more slipped effortlessly into his skull.

Like a hot knife cutting through butter.