A Hundred Words for Hate

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Remy did not feel the bite of the severe cold, only the heat of Zophiel’s sword, and the pull of Eden upon it.

He opened his wings to the sight before him: a jungle, enshrouded in a roiling tropical fog, growing up from the bleak surroundings of ice and snow.

The blade flashed with an angry fire, and he felt it pull him toward the gates, which were yawning open.

Remy remembered the last time he and the Garden were together—it had been his duty to close those gates, severing its connection to Heaven.

The Garden called to him now, and Remy answered, trudging across the frozen landscape, burning sword clutched firmly in his hand. The Seraphim was with him; Remy could feel him inside, burning in his muscles, joined with his being, no longer struggling for supremacy.

For now.

The angel nature must have understood; he must have realized that for them to survive there must be unity.

At least, that was what Remy hoped.

“A little help here,” said a voice, barely audible over the polar winds.

At first it startled him; he had almost forgotten he hadn’t come here alone. He turned to see Jon supporting Izzy, who was bent over and vomiting onto the snow.

Remy returned to his friends, a sudden, burning spark of annoyance that he needed to do this confirming that the Seraphim was indeed with him in more than spirit.

“Feels like you turned me inside out,” Izzy slurred, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“If it means anything, the more you do it, the less awful it feels,” Jon offered.

They were shivering with the cold, and Remy held out his burning blade, letting the heat of the sword warm them slightly.

“We might want to get moving,” he said, his attention drifting back to the open gates. “Before the cold finishes you two off.”

He started to walk, and they followed, eager to stay close to the warmth of the blade.

“Do you think they’re here?” Jon asked through chattering teeth.

Remy noticed patches of blood on the snow, and what appeared to be a crumpled tent off in the distance. The scent of violence, though fading in the wind, still wafted heavily on the frigid air.

“They’re here,” he said, stopping at the gates. “The last time I saw this place I locked the gates behind me.”

“Looks like they found a key,” Izzy said, carefully stepping from the ice onto the thick green grass.

“That’s exactly what they did,” Remy answered, staring into the Garden. The Seraphim was ready for anything. . . . Remy was ready for anything.

“So, what’s the plan?” Jon asked. The man had already begun to sweat profusely in the stifling heat radiating from the jungle.

Remy considered the question.

“We go in and we kill the bad guys,” he answered, and then started through the opening, into the Garden of Eden.

“That’s it?” Izzy asked, following Jon, who followed behind Remy. “Sure am glad you guys worked this out so carefully,” she griped. “For a while there I’d almost convinced myself this whole business was suicide.”

Her face was numb.

Linda led Marlowe into the lobby of her apartment building, letting the door slam closed on the cold behind them.

“There,” she said to the dog, relieved to be out of the icy January cold. “Happy now?”

Marlowe’s thick black tail wagged as he looked at her with his deep brown eyes. She had never owned a dog before, but the last few days with Marlowe had been special.

“C’mon,” she said, holding on to his leash and leading him toward the stairs. “Let’s get back to the apartment and get you an apple. . . . You like apples, right?”

Marlowe barked, as if telling her yes, and galloped up the stairs, pulling her eagerly behind him.

Once inside the warm apartment, Linda kicked off her boots and settled on the couch, feet curled under her. She sipped a cup of chamomile tea, watching the black Lab happily eating his apple, and thought of his master.

Remy had been gone for more than three days, longer than he had expected, and had called only once, leaving a message apologizing for the inconvenience, and telling her that the job was proving more complicated than he’d thought.

Marlowe finished the apple, getting up from the floor and approaching the couch.

“Hey, there,” she said, smiling as his tail wagged.

He rested his chin on the sofa cushion beside her, gazing up at her with soulful eyes.

“You miss him, don’t you?” she asked. “You miss Remy.”

The dog let out a low moan, tail twitching ever so slightly.

And Linda had to admit that she missed him too. In all her years she’d never met a man like him, and she’d known quite a few.

There was something about this Remy Chandler.

“Want to come . . .,” she began, but never got a chance to finish as Marlowe leapt up onto the sofa, plopping heavily beside her, his butt pressed firmly against her hip.

“There you go,” she said with a laugh, leaning on him, hugging and scratching behind his ears. “How’s that?”

Marlowe sighed, closing his eyes to begin another nap.

She continued to think about Marlowe’s master, and what it was that attracted her so. She had noticed it the first time they’d met, out in front of the brownstone on Newbury. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but he seemed to give off a strange kind of vibe, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

A weight that she would be perfectly willing to share, if he’d let her.

“Oh, my God,” she muttered aloud, horrified that she had thought of such a thing.

Marlowe lifted his head wearily and looked at her, wanting to be sure that she was all right.

“Can you believe it?” she asked the black dog, reaching out to pet his square head. She loved the feel of his fur, his velvety soft ears. “I’ve got a crush on your master, and we’ve only been on two dates. Can you say ‘mucho desperate’?”

She bent down and gave him a loud smooch on the top of his head as she got up from the couch. “Promise me you won’t tell him?”

Marlowe’s tail thumped on the cushion.

“It’ll be our little secret, okay?”

He barked softly as if to say, Your secret’s safe with me, and Linda laughed.

She loved it when Marlowe answered her.

It was almost as if he understood exactly what she was saying.

Steven Mulvehill was in a half-awake, half-asleep limbo in the emergency room of Brockton Hospital, waiting for the doctor to either discharge him or admit him.

Machines beeped and chimed on the outskirts of his consciousness, along with the chattering of voices and the tormented moans of the injured.

He was hurting, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony inside his head.

Mulvehill had gotten a glimpse behind the curtain—a peek inside Pandora’s box, so to speak—and knew that no matter how hard he tried, life would never be the same again.

Drifting down deeper into sleep, he saw his friend waiting for him, ready to tell him that everything would be just fine. And wanting to believe, Mulvehill let his guard drop.

Remy tore the flesh from his own face, revealing something pale and tattooed, with teeth like needles. Something horrible, and hungry to eat the world.

Mulvehill screamed, thrashing upon the hospital bed. The machines beeped loudly, and he guessed a nurse would soon be in to check on him.

Good, he thought as his heart raced painfully in his chest. And after she had checked him out and hooked him back up, he would ask her to turn on some more lights.

It was too damn dark in the room.

Marlowe waited outside the bathroom door as Linda showered.

He could have stayed on the sofa, but decided to accompany the female instead, preferring not to be alone.

He lay on his side on the rug in the hallway, closing his eyes, and in a matter of minutes he was dreaming.

He traveled to the place where his master was, a place of many trees and grass, surrounded by ice and snow.

A place filled with danger. Even in his dream, Marlowe could smell it, heavy in the air, drifting up from the ground, and from the leaves on the trees.

He began to bark, warning his master of the impending danger, but Remy did not hear, so Marlowe barked some more.

And would continue to bark until Remy heard him.