A Hundred Words for Hate

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Eliza stroked the face of the man who appeared dead, sensing through the tips of her fingers that there was still some life left inside him.

He was holding on for something, and she seemed to know that.

The far corner of the room lit up as if in the midst of a lightning storm, and she looked up to find the monster who had taken her standing in front of an open closet door. The flashes of blue light were coming from inside it.

Memories that had been denied her for so very long suddenly rushed in to fill their places.

This was what Pearly had wanted to save her from—why Pearly had left her, and taken her memories. And now she understood how much he really did care for her.

The light from the closet grew even brighter, more violent, as crackling bolts of electricity shot from the doorway, their intensity driving the monster back.

Eliza thought briefly about running, but then looked at the man lying on the couch. The man called Adam. How could she leave him there, alone with the monster? And she most certainly couldn’t manage to take him with her. So she resigned herself to staying.

“Don’t you worry,” she told him again. “I won’t leave you.”

She knew exactly who he was, and could feel the pain of the life he’d led.

Her own family carried a similar guilt, descendants from Adam’s bride—Eve. But the Daughters of Eve had chosen instead to accept the first mother’s sin and her punishment, and channel their guilt into efforts to do good upon the world. Eliza’s mother, and grandmother, and great-grandmother before her had always believed that God accepted this, and gave them the special gift of longevity so they could continue their work for as long as possible. Even Eliza believed this as she left the protection of her family to spread happiness through her music.

But there were forces that wanted to silence her songs, and others that wanted her—needed her—for something that still remained a mystery.

The lightning was abruptly replaced by complete darkness, as if the storm had passed, and the closet was filled with liquid night.

Eliza watched as the monster crouched at the threshold, peering into the solid shadow, cautiously moving closer, then plunging its many arms into the undulating wall of black. Her captor screamed, tossing back his head in agony, but it did not stop its search.

“I have you!” the creature finally bellowed, and Eliza saw the muscles tense on the monster’s pale back as it yanked something from the thick pool of shadow, something covered in layers of ice and frost.

Eliza was fascinated by the frozen shape lying on the floor of the apartment, and although she couldn’t ever remember feeling so frightened, she found herself cautiously moving toward it.

“I thought I told you to stay put,” the monster snarled, extending one of its frostbitten arms toward her. A surge of invisible force erupted from its fingers, hurling her backward, where she hit the couch and rolled to the floor, her old glasses knocked from her face.

Stunned, she lay there, watching as the monster knelt beside the shape. The ice was beginning to melt in an expanding puddle on the hardwood floor.

“Master,” the monster spoke softly. “I have you.” It was running its hands over the object, and where it touched, the ice fell away in clumps to reveal a man.

He was dressed in filthy, bloodstained robes, and as he opened his eyes, his gaze fell upon the monster. A smile formed upon his bearded face at the sight.

“Taranushi,” he whispered.

“Yes, my master.”

Suddenly there was a blinding flash, and when her eyes cleared Eliza was shocked to see the robed man standing directly before her, that strange smile still on his face.

“Hello, Eliza,” he said, his voice as smooth as velvet.

All of a sudden she remembered this man. He had come to Pearly’s aid when that thing pretending to be an angel had attacked the club.

“I . . . I know you,” she said from where she lay upon the floor.

And for a moment, she almost believed that things were going to be all right. But the bearded man reached down and yanked her up from the floor by the front of her apron.

“So sorry, but the time for pleasantries is at an end.”

She struggled in his grasp, as he pulled something that glowed as if it were red-hot from within his disgusting robes.

“You have something I need,” he said, his velvety voice now more of a growl, and jabbed that burning something into the middle of her forehead.

To think she had almost believed that things were going to be all right.

Her mama and daddy always said she was a damn fool.

Remy knew this place.

He was standing naked atop one of the many spires surging up from the Kingdom of Heaven, staring out over the resplendent City of Light.

He had buried the memory of how beautiful it was—before the war—but the Seraphim had found it.

Saved it.

Cherished it.

This was where he wished to return.

This was what he had been denied.

Something passed overhead, momentarily covering Remy in a blanket of cold shadow. He turned his gaze skyward, at the awesome form gliding above him on wings of gold.

“I think we need to talk,” he called out, and the figure banked to the right, then dropped from the sky, hurtling straight for Remy.

Remy dropped to the base of the spire, dangerously close to the edge. Carefully he pulled himself away, eyes locked on the towers below, wondering about his fate should he fall from such a great height in this strange, dreamlike state.

From behind him, the Seraphim laughed, a joyless sound, bitter and angry.

Remy rose to his feet and turned to address his angelic nature. “All right, you’re pissed; I get it,” he said.

The Seraphim studied him with cold, emotionless eyes. The angel was wearing his armor of war, shined to a glistening brilliance, looking as though it were forged from the sun itself.

Remy remembered that armor, before its radiance was dulled by the blood of his brothers.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the Seraphim growled menacingly.

“You’re probably right,” Remy replied. “So you can probably guess how bad the situation is.”

The angel tilted his head to one side, a smile cutting across his perfect features.

“You fear the Shaitan,” he stated.

“We should all fear the Shaitan,” Remy retorted. “Born from the darkness that was everything before His light chased it away. They were too monstrous . . . too dangerous to even be considered.”

“There is only one,” the Seraphim spoke.

“For now.”

“Kill it,” the Seraphim said with a smile.

“You know that isn’t possible,” Remy said, making the angel smile all the wider. His teeth were incredibly white, and appeared sharp.

Did I really look like that once? he wondered, transfixed by the sight of his angelic persona, absent of any humanity.

“Weak and pathetic,” the Seraphim stated.

“Yeah,” Remy agreed. “You’re probably right . . . but I’m not sure how even you’d do against the Shaitan.”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

Remy considered his answer a moment, then decided to be as honest as he could. “I’m afraid.”

The Seraphim laughed. “Of course you are.”

“I’m afraid of what Malachi has up his sleeve. I’m afraid that once the Shaitan are born, we won’t be able to put them back in the bottle . . . and everybody . . . everybody . . . will be forced to pay the price.”

“What makes this threat so different from all the others?” the Seraphim asked with genuine curiosity. His wings slowly unfurled, stretched out, and then folded back. “Why don’t you just force me . . . bend me to your will as you always have. Give me a taste of freedom, and then lock me away, deep in the darkness until you need me again.”

“This is different,” Remy said. “We have to be together on this . . . need to be. . . .”

Remy hated to have to admit this, especially to his angelic nature, but it was true. Humanity would not be an asset in dealing with the Shaitan. He remembered what it had done to Zophiel, and it frightened him more than anything.

“We have to be more like we once were.”

The Seraphim’s eyes widened. “How we once were?”

Remy nodded. “It has to be if we are to survive this.”

“And what of your precious humanity?”

“It’ll still be here, but . . .”

“Pushed down in the darkness,” the Seraphim growled, enjoying the words.

“Until—”

“Do you even remember what you were?” the Seraphim interrupted.

He moved fast, dropping directly in front of Remy with a single thrust of his powerful wings. The Seraphim stood before him, studying him, but Remy did not flinch. The angel tore the metal gauntlet from one hand, exposing pale, alabaster flesh and long, delicate fingers.

“I remember,” Remy said, not quite sure what the Seraphim was about to do.

“Do you?” the Seraphim hissed, as he placed his cold fingertips upon Remy’s brow.

And then Remy did remember. But this time, he saw the reality of it all, the true memory no longer dulled by the passage of millennia, no longer softened by the fabrication of his humanity.

He saw.

He saw that he was an instrument of God, an extension of the Creator’s love and rage. He was an extension of the Almighty, as were his brethren. And all was right in the mechanism of the universe . . . until the birth of humanity.

When they were placed within the Garden, things went horribly awry.

The war came not long after that, and his full potential became tapped. No longer was he just a messenger of God; he was transformed by battle into a thing of violence, a thing that channeled the wrath of the Almighty.

And he reveled in it, smiting all who would raise their weapons against his—their—Creator.

How dare they do this? How dare they question His most holy word?

Those he had known as brothers fell beneath his hungry sword, and as each died, a little bit of him died with them.

Stained with the blood of his family, he found that he could no longer be there—no longer bathe in the light of his Lord God.

For the light had dimmed.

Bitter and confused, he left Heaven, hoping to make sense of it—to find some meaning—upon the world that God had fashioned for His favorite, yet disobedient, creations.

It was there that he lost himself, where the separation of what he was and what he would become began.

Yet he still carried all that anger, buried away, festering.

Seething.

Infected and pustulated, covered with a thin bandage of humanity.

He saw.

The Seraphim stepped back, studying him as he pulled the gauntlet back onto his hand.

Remy was shaken; the powerfully raw emotion of what his angelic nature had experienced—was still experiencing—was stunning.

“What do you want me to say?” he gasped, as the Seraphim walked away. “That I can give you answers to your questions? That I can somehow make it like it used to be? I can’t do that . . . it will never be the same.”

Remy paused, feeling the rage as he once had. “There are no answers; it’s just how it is. Everything had lost its meaning until I started to watch them.”

“To become like them,” the Seraphim said with a sneer.

“Yeah,” Remy agreed. “And was that so bad?”

“It is not what you are.”

“No, but it’s what I’ve become.”

The Seraphim stared with an intensity that was nearly palpable. But Remy stared back, refusing to back down.

And suddenly the angel spread his wings, a sword of fire—Zophiel’s flaming sword—appearing in his hand. The armor that adorned it was suddenly dirty, stained maroon with the blood of his memory.

“Look upon me,” the angel commanded, his voice booming like thunder. “Look at what I’ve become.”

The Seraphim was a fearsome sight indeed.

“Right now, this is what I need you to be,” Remy said, walking across the top of the spire toward the Seraphim, and offering his hand.

“You,” the Seraphim snarled, staring at Remy’s hand as if it were covered in filth. “What Eden . . . the Earth . . . and the Creator need you to be . . . What I need to be.”

And with those words the Seraphim turned swiftly, unfurled its wings, and leapt from the spire, gliding down to disappear amid the elaborate structures of the holy City of Light twinkling below.

“Are we ready?”

Remy blinked repeatedly, first seeing the multiple boats and those who manned them in the water below where he stood, before turning his gaze to Jon and Izzy, who stared wide-eyed at him.

“Are you all right?” Jon asked. “You got kind of quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Remy said, remembering—experiencing—the rage of the Seraphim. “We should get going.”

They were standing close together on the porch outside of Izzy’s house, having decided that they were going to Eden.

“We was waitin’ for you,” Izzy said. “You was goin’ to tell me how to get to the Garden when you went all strong-silent-type on us.”

“Sorry,” Remy apologized. “I was just thinking.”

“Well, how about you think me an explanation as to how we’re going to find that place.”

“We need some blood,” Jon said before Remy could reply.

Izzy looked at him as if he had three heads. “I’ll give you blood,” she said, making a fist that crackled with repressed supernatural energy.

“He needs it to track the location,” Jon explained, throwing up his hands in surrender. “If you can sense where Eden is, then he can track it through the magick in your blood.”

She looked at Remy.

“I’m afraid he’s telling the truth.”

“How much blood?” Izzy asked.

“Enough that I can catch a strong scent,” Remy explained.

Izzy shook her head in disgust, reached into the pocket of her jacket—she’d put it on because she could sense that Eden was resting someplace cold—and removed a penknife.

She unsnapped the small blade and let it hover over the index finger of her left hand. “This all right?”

“Should be fine,” Remy answered with nod.

She dug the blade into the center of the finger’s pad, the blood welling up on either side of the blade. “Shit,” she hissed. “Now what?”

“I need to smell it.”

She raised her finger toward Remy’s nose. He closed his eyes and inhaled, taking the scent of her magickally tainted blood into his nose.

Images exploded in his mind, pictures so vivid it was as if he were already there.

“Got it?” Izzy asked.

He opened his eyes and nodded, then spread his wings wide.

“Come closer,” he told them. They shuffled toward him, and his wings began to close around them as if in a hug.

“This isn’t gonna hurt, is it?” Izzy asked.

“When was the last time that you ate?” Jon asked, as their reality began to shift.

And they were gone.

Gregson Paul had been raised a good Catholic boy.

Church every Sunday for most of his life, followed by an hour of Sunday school, where he’d learned the wonders of the Holy Bible.

He’d always thought of the stories inside the Good Book as that—just stories, parables that sought to teach the reader something about how to live life as a good Christian.

He never thought of any of it as true: Noah’s ark, Lot, Sodom and Gomorrah, Moses and his commandments.

But here—at the North Pole—right before his eyes, one of those stories had come to life.

“It’s Eden,” he said to Marjorie Halt as he gazed through the metal of the gate at the thick greenery beyond.

“You’re fucking crazy,” she said, hands on an impressive hip as she studied the gated jungle that had appeared amid the ice and snow.

“Then explain it,” he said. “Look at us.”

They were in their T-shirts and underwear, the heat from the mysterious jungle overwhelmingly tropical.

“There has to be an answer,” she said, pacing back and forth in front of the gate.

Daniel Hiratsu knelt silently in the grass, his scientific instruments scattered uselessly about him. All he could do was stare. Terrance Long stayed back on the ice and snow, clothed in his heavy gear. He was attempting to communicate with anyone who would listen, but was met with a wall of interference. It appeared that Eden would not let him.

Gregson knew that it was Eden before them, as crazy as that sounded. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. It was as if the jungle were broadcasting something directly into his mind, telling him that this was true.

“I want to go in,” Marjorie said as she wiped trickles of sweat from her brow. She was standing before the gate, a look of determination on her pretty face.

An uncomfortable feeling suddenly twisted in Gregson’s gut.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.

“Why?” she asked. “Why isn’t it?”

“Because we’re not allowed,” he said, having no idea where his answer had come from but knowing it to be true.

“Yeah, right,” Marjorie said. She turned, rushing the gate and grabbing hold of its metal bars.

She didn’t even have a chance to scream.

The lightning arced from the sky, striking the top of her pretty head, disintegrating her in a flash of brilliance that caused small, colorful blobs to dance before Gregson’s rapidly blinking eyes.

All he could do was stare at where the girl whose remarkable ass had brought him to the North Pole had been standing, now nothing more than a smoldering mark upon the ground before the gate.

After a moment, the sound of sobbing distracted him and he turned to see Hiratsu rocking back and forth, his face stained with tears. Long was standing nearby, having ventured onto the grass, the hissing walkie-talkie he’d been using resting by his boot, where he had dropped it.

“I told her,” Gregson said, his voice cracking. He could feel his sanity slip just a little bit more. “I told her not to do it.”

“We should go,” Long said, his voice cold and emotionless. “We should get out of here before . . .”

Before we’re all struck down by lightning . . . by the wrath of God? Gregson wondered.

He slowly turned from the Garden on wobbly legs and caught sight of figures in the distance near their tent. He hadn’t noticed their approach; they just suddenly seemed to be there.

“Who . . . ?” Gregson began.

The others turned to follow his gaze; then almost as one they began to move toward the strangers.

But the closer they got, the more wrong they appeared.

The lead figure was dressed in long, tattered robes, like some sort of twisted monk. The other appeared naked, his flesh as white as the snow they trod across, but covered in strange, angular black markings. An even odder observation was that he appeared to be carrying two people beneath his arms, an older black woman, and . . .

A mummified body.

Alarms went off in Gregson’s brain and he felt the grip of madness embrace him that much closer; first the Garden of Eden, and now this.

Gregson called out to warn Terrance, well in the lead, but he was too late. Terrance had stopped before the robed figure. Gregson could just about make out the scientist’s excited voice as he spoke to them.

The pale-skinned man—if he was a man at all—seemed to lose his shape, dropping the two figures that he carried and lunging at Terrance Long.

What happened next was indescribable.

The monster—there was no doubt in Gregson’s mind as to what he was now—pounced upon the scientist and, in a display of preternatural strength, began to rip the man to pieces, eating the body parts as if starving, as the leader of their expedition’s blood stained the snow.

Hiratsu screamed and started to run, but the white-fleshed monster simply reached out with an arm that grew incredibly long to coil around the Asian-American’s ankle and draw him toward the beast.

Gregson couldn’t move, watching as Hiratsu struggled to halt his progress, digging his fingers first into the grass, and then into the ice, but to no effect.

Finished with Long, the white-skinned thing pounced upon Hiratsu, its protean form flowing over the man as his screams intensified.

Gregson finally looked away as Hiratsu’s pathetic cries died away, to be replaced by the sounds of something hungrily eating.

He did not hear the approach of the robed man, but found him standing before him.

Gregson knew, could feel, that he was in the presence of someone—something—unearthly. He was going to speak, but could think of nothing to say.

The robed figure turned his attention toward the gate and the lush, steamy jungle behind it. “Your kind had its chance,” he said, his voice low and melodious. “But you tossed it all away.”

He looked back at Gregson, his eyes cold and mesmerizing in their intensity. “I could never understand His fascination,” he said. “I could have given Him something so much more . . . worthy.”

Gregson had no idea what the robed man was talking about, but continued to listen.

“And now it’s come to this.”

He stepped forward and leaned close to Gregson’s face. “Do you have even the slightest idea what I’m talking about, monkey?” he asked.

“No,” Gregson croaked, and began to cry.

The man’s intensity softened, and he put his arms around Gregson’s shoulders, drawing him into an embrace.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “It’s not your fault; it’s as if He wanted you to fail. Engineered it to be so.”

Gregson was sobbing now, his face buried in the collar of the filthy fabric of the man’s robes. It smelled strongly of blood, and of the air just before a storm.

“But I believe I can do better,” the robed figure said, suddenly pushing Gregson away. “I must do better if reality is to survive the coming cataclysm.”

Gregson’s brain was on fire, trying desperately to hold on to what little sanity he had left. “Who . . . who are you?” he managed to ask.

The robed man seemed genuinely pleased by the question, and his posture straightened as he spoke.

“I am Lord God,” he pronounced.

But that just made Gregson Paul laugh as the final strands of his hold on reality snapped, and he began a free fall into madness. First the Garden of Eden, now God.

Gregson didn’t think he’d ever heard anything funnier, but the robed man—God—didn’t appear to be the least bit amused.

Gregson tried to control himself, but the laughter of madness would not be contained. Stumbling back in a fit of giggling, he bumped against something, turning around to look up into the horrible, blood-covered face of the monster that had consumed his friends.

And Gregson kept laughing.

Even as the thing of nightmare reached for him, pulled him up into its many arms.

And into its mouth.

Malachi brought a hand close to the gate, feeling the energy radiating from the black metal, an energy that could destroy even him.

The gate had been closed by an edict from God. It could be opened again by neither the divine nor man.

Not unless one possessed the key.

The Lord God had given them the ability to see the error of their disobedient acts, and to someday return to the Garden from which they were banished. But there had to be penance; they would have to be truly sorry.

Then, and only then, would they be allowed to pass through these sealed gates.

The elder turned to look at the two pieces of the divine key that he had endured so much to obtain. The old woman had draped her body across the naked form of Adam, protecting him from the elements, her own fragile body shivering in the cold.

Again he questioned the Creator’s fascination with imperfection, wondering if he would understand once he himself assumed the role of Lord of Lords.

His eyes shifted as he watched his own creation finish its meal, blood glistening upon its face and muscular body. It saw that its master was watching, and came to attention, eager to please.

“Bring them to the gate,” Malachi commanded.

And the Shaitan obeyed.

Just as it should have.

Eliza tried to protect Adam from the harshness of the elements. It was in her blood, and at first she did not understand.

But now, in this cold, frozen place, with the warmth of the Garden before her—calling to her—Eliza Swan understood.

They had always said she was special, that there was something inside her that made her different from all the other Daughters. This was the reason they were so upset when she left them.

And yet, she had never realized how special she really was.

So special, in fact, that there would be folks in Heaven who would try to kill her.

The monster was before them again, pulling them up from the snow with its snaky arms, and hauling them closer.

Closer to the Garden.

She remembered now that she used to have dreams as a child: vivid dreams of this very place. And she used to tell her grandma, and her mother, and all the other Daughters, and they would look at her in that knowing way and smile.

The monster tossed them roughly onto the warm, green grass before the heavy metal gate.

“Keep treatin’ us like that and you’ll kill us,” Eliza said, her body aching in so many places she was surprised she could still move.

“Not yet,” Malachi said, staring hard through the thick metal bars at the Garden beyond.

Eliza felt the pull of the place, like a piece of metal being drawn to a magnet. She couldn’t fight it if she wanted to. Adam lay silently beside her, but now his eyes were open.

Malachi was watching her, his monster—all covered in blood—standing obediently beside him. She was reminded of the big man Leo, and his dog, Cleo, at the Pelican Club, only she had liked them.

“Do it,” Malachi said, eyes still locked on the lush green beyond the gate.

Eliza lay on the ground, pretending she hadn’t heard him, picking blades of grass from Adam’s pale, naked flesh.

“Did you hear me, monkey?” Malachi asked, his voice deceptively calm and pretty.

“I heard you,” she replied. “But I haven’t a clue as to what you’re going on about.” Even though deep in her heart, she did.

He looked at her then, his cold, icy stare so intense she could practically feel his eyes inside her. “You lie.”

“Guess you know me best,” she said, realizing that she was staring at the metal obstructions that barred their entry. Something stirred inside her, fighting to get out. It was the Garden pulling her, calling to her from the other side.

“Far better than you know yourself,” Malachi purred. He knelt down beside her, that horrible knife of fire appearing in his hand.

She gasped, remembering the feeling as he’d used it on her, cutting loose the pieces of her forgotten life. Cutting loose the location of Eden.

Malachi brought the blade down toward Adam. “He has so little life left. I would hate to see it wasted . . . out here . . . so close to home.”

Eliza shielded the man with her own body, the instinct to protect him strong. Almost as strong as the instinct that pulled at her from beyond the gates.

“You leave him alone,” she cried. “The poor man’s been through enough.”

“And now it’s time for him to rest,” Malachi said with a nod.

“Yes,” Eliza agreed.

“Then do as you’re told. Open the gates.”

Holding Adam in her arms, Eliza felt suddenly whole, complete. The feeling in her chest had grown to bursting, and she wondered if her old heart was about to give out.

“Open the gates,” Malachi said again, his attack dog looming behind him.

She looked down at the ancient man in her arms and saw that he was looking at her. Malachi had been so right: he didn’t have much life left, and it was only a matter of time before it would all run out.

She saw the corners of his mouth twitch first, and she was surprised by the movement on his sunken features; then she realized he was trying to open his mouth.

“What is it?” she asked, pulling him closer. “What are you trying to . . . ?”

But she knew the answer, the feeling in her own chest bubbling up, threatening to explode from her.

They were both feeling it. Together.

Adam’s ancient mouth slowly opened, releasing a soft, whispery sound.

And Eliza could not help herself. She found herself doing something she hadn’t done in so very long—not done since Pearly Gates had used his magick to take away her memories.

She was doing what she loved to do.

What she had been born to do.

Eliza Swan let it out, the sound of her voice joining with the weak sound from Adam to form the most beautiful of songs.

Eliza and Adam were singing a song of absolution.

And the gates swung wide to welcome them home.