A Hundred Words for Hate

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The sword burned in Remy’s hand.

The heat of the weapon radiated internally, amplifying the rage of the Seraphim, drawing it out like an infection from a wound.

Remy held on to his control, but didn’t know if he had the strength to continue. Wrapped within the constricting embrace of the thorny vines, he had let his defenses down, allowing the Seraphim to emerge without restraint.

There had been something horribly liberating about the experience, and yet terrifying. To think of the Seraphim—to think of this being of divine power filled with rage—unleashed upon this holy place . . . it scared his human side.

But their options were few, for he knew that he didn’t have the power to face the Shaitan without the unbridled fury of the Seraphim.

He could feel the scions of Adam and Eve staring at him. They were looking to him for guidance, unaware of the struggle going on inside him. It was taking everything he could muster to hold on to the leash. . . .

“What now?” Jon wanted to know, nervously looking about him. The jungle was moving, writhing as if in pain.

“We find the nest of the Shaitan, and kill them before they can be born,” Remy answered as the Seraphim howled for blood, testing his resolve at every turn.

“Then we’d better find them fast,” Izzy said. She was leaning against a nearby tree, her complexion wan—sickly. “I’m not feeling so good since hooking up to the Garden,” she explained. “Think I might be sharing how Eden is feeling . . . and it isn’t good. I don’t know how much time we have left.”

The flaming sword began to vibrate in Remy’s hand, and as if the blade had a life of its own, its tip suddenly pointed toward the earth.

Jon jumped back as Remy struggled with the unwieldy weapon.

“What’s happening?” he asked, afraid.

“I don’t know,” Remy answered, fighting the blade. The pull was incredible, his muscles straining to keep the sword from stabbing the ground.

“Let it do what it wants,” Izzy hollered. “It has a connection to this place. . . . I think it might be trying to help.”

Remy did, allowing the burning blade to drop, stabbing into the soil of Eden with a sibilant hiss. Images from the Garden began traveling through the sword and into his mind.

And what he saw filled him with horror.

The Tree of Knowledge, withered and dying, the ground beneath it churning with unholy life—as Malachi and the Shaitan looked on.

It was more than he could stand, and the Seraphim raged, charging forward to wrest away control.

Let me out, the divine power demanded.

And Remy knew he had no choice.

He let the Seraphim come.

The angel Remiel considered the humans before him.

And, finding them of no importance to the coming conflict, he stretched his golden wings and leapt into the sky.

There was evil to be vanquished.

Blood to be spilled.

Battles to be won.

All in the name of Heaven, and the Lord God.

The Tree was nearly dead.

“Master, what is wrong?” Taranushi asked with concern.

It’s been drained, Malachi thought, as he placed a hand against the dark, dry bark. The fetal Shaitan have feasted upon the knowledge of the Almighty.

They should never have been capable of such a task. They were never supposed to do something such as this.

They were not designed to do something like this.

All that knowledge, the elder thought, eyes turned to the soil around the base of the Tree. The ground bubbled as the Shaitan stirred.

And he began to wonder if perhaps he’d made a mistake.

He looked up as the fearsome form of Taranushi approached. Malachi recalled the ferocity of this first Shaitan, the violent acts he had mercilessly performed throughout the ages in Malachi’s name.

The knowledge of God contained within such a vessel . . . perhaps it wasn’t the best of his ideas.

He revisited his vision of a future plagued by a war that would bring about the end of all things. He saw the Shaitan in this vision, believing at one time that they were fighting under his command, but now . . .

“What is wrong?” Taransuhi asked again.

“Nothing,” Malachi lied. He looked to the writhing ground again and felt nothing but disgust.

“They’re not ready,” he stated flatly, turning his gaze back to his servant. “It is not yet time for them.”

Taranushi’s expression was one of confusion. “I do not understand. I can feel my brothers and sisters . . . desperate . . . wanting . . . ready to be born . . . unleashed into the world.”

Eden trembled angrily beneath them, and Malachi lost his footing, stumbling to one side. Taranushi caught his arm and their eyes locked.

“Finish what you have started with me,” the Shaitan pleaded. “I no longer wish to be alone.”

Malachi could hear the desperation in his creation’s voice, and considered what it would be like to be the only one of your kind. God had created him first, mere seconds before Lucifer, and he remembered that feeling.

The intimacy between creator and creation. It was something that could never be forgotten. Fleeting, but so powerful.

If only the Lord had stopped there, what a reality they could have shaped.

“Sometimes alone is best,” Malachi said, pulling his arm away, already considering alternatives to his future. A future that did not include the Shaitan. “There’s a cave nearby that I used for my work,” he began. “We’ll go there before we leave Eden and—”

“No,” Taranushi roared.

The symbols on his pale skin began to flow, like the warning of a snake’s hiss just before the strike.

Malachi reared back, startled—but not surprised by the creature’s insolence.

“You will do as I say,” he ordered, exerting his will over his creation.

The markings upon the Shaitan’s skin slowed, and the creature backed down beneath his gaze.

“Remember that there are even worse fates than being alone,” Malachi warned, a sudden niggling thought entering his mind as he looked upon the powerful beast. Am I strong enough to defeat the Shaitan?

And as if the beast could sense his sudden inkling of weakness, Taranushi’s body became like smoke as he emitted the most bloodcurdling scream.

“I have waited long enough!” the Shaitan proclaimed, swirling around the Tree of Knowledge, flowing past to reconstitute before the two humans.

“You will do as I command,” Malachi ordered.

But it was too late; the Shaitan was beyond all that.

“I hear them,” the creature said, breathing rapidly. “They are calling out to me . . . questioning why they are still beneath the cool, damp earth of this place, while there are kingdoms and worlds to conquer.

“Gods to usurp.”

Malachi knew he had to do something. Things were spinning rapidly out of control. Carefully, he approached his creation.

“Taranushi, please,” he pleaded in his calmest tone. “Trust me. Your species will be born; they are just not yet ready.”

“You lie!” the monster bellowed. “I can feel that they are ready.”

“A tragic miscalculation on my part,” Malachi said, closer now. He palmed his dagger from within the folds of his robes. “They need more time.”

He was closer now, and Taranushi seemed to be listening.

“If we were to complete the process now, they would be deficient. Imperfect.”

Malachi was close enough to strike. At least he’d been smart enough to build in a weakness for the Shaitan. He would strike at the monster’s heart; even though it wasn’t often in the same place as the beast shifted its shape, the elder could sense—could hear—where it was at that moment.

“And we wouldn’t want that.”

Malachi lunged, his burning blade plunging into the solid flesh of his creation’s chest, and into where its monstrous heart beat.

The elder’s eyes met Taranushi’s, and he expected to see the light of life failing, but the Shaitan only snarled.

“What you seek is no longer there,” Taranushi growled.

Malachi attempted to pull back, but it was too late. The Shaitan’s flesh bulged outward to engulf his hand, trapping him.

“Perhaps it is a cycle,” Taranushi said, his form shifting to resemble Malachi.

“You betray your Creator, and I betray mine,” the monster spoke with Malachi’s voice, a sinister smile appearing on his bearded face.

The Shaitan struck, dark energies flowing through his form and into the elder. Malachi screamed out in pain as the force of the energies ripped him from Taranushi’s clutches and sent him flying to land at the base of the Tree of Knowledge.

He lay for a moment, stunned, feeling the Shaitan in the ground below him moving toward the surface.

“You dare,” Malachi said with great indignation, as he slowly climbed to his feet. He summoned the remnants of his divinity, and even though he had been stripped of most of his angelic power when sentenced to Tartarus, he was an elder, and the power that still remained was awesome.

Heavenly energies flowed from his body; Malachi was ready.

Taranushi crouched at the edge of the jungle, the black markings upon his pale form flowing again, forming larger and bolder shapes, in his attempt to distract his opponent.

The Shaitan moved, but not in the way the elder expected.

Malachi had counted on a full-on attack, the servant versus the master, but the monster moved quickly to the left, toward the humans cowering on the ground.

“If you will not bring them forth, I will,” the Shaitan proclaimed, snatching up the cadaverous form of Adam and heading for the Tree. The old woman screamed, leaping to her feet, trying to drag the man from Taranushi’s muscular tentacle, but the monster was too fast.

Malachi tried to block his way to the Tree, but Taranushi was fury incarnate, moving with incredible speed, dodging the elder’s pathetic attempts to strike him down. Multiple limbs, flowing with their own arcane energies, lashed out, and the elder was tossed aside, tumbling from the base of the Tree to lie upon the trembling ground.

Taranushi stood beneath the Tree, Adam’s limp and naked form before him.

“A sacrifice,” the Shaitan cried to the Garden. “Let the blood of the first feed the hunger of a new beginning.”

And as Eliza Swan screamed, Malachi watched, helpless, as Taranushi brought Adam toward his mouth of razor-sharp teeth, biting into the old soul’s withered throat and letting his ancient blood ooze from the gaping wound onto the soil.

What have I done? The question reverberated through Malachi’s mind as he watched the horror unfold.

Adam’s blood rained down upon Eden’s flesh, the disease beneath her surface becoming more active as it fed upon the ancient life stuff. The ground began to tumble and roll as if in the grip of convulsions. And from the cold, dark womb of dirt, a new life started to emerge.

Taranushi let the limp and bleeding body of Adam fall to the ground, as pale, childlike hands shot up from the soil, like some perverse fungus. They attached themselves to the ancient one’s body, sinking tiny claws into the withered flesh and tearing pieces away.

The old woman wailed for the first of men, her sad tears running down her face to water the soil of Eden.

And from her tears the most beautiful of flowers began to grow.

Malachi was paralyzed by the sight, one part fascinated, the other filled with terror over what was to come. It’s too late, he realized, knowing that he did not have the strength to face off against Taranushi and the emerging brood. Slowly he rose to his feet, careful not to arouse the Shaitan’s attentions, and started for the cover of the thick jungle foliage. He would find his cave, and there he would begin to compose his escape.

Images of the Shaitan forces invading the Kingdom of Heaven oozed into his mind, followed by the presentation of total darkness, and he had to consider the fact that perhaps there would be no tomorrow.

The thought came upon him like a shroud draped over the face of the dead.

He was just about to turn away from the horrors unfolding at the base of the Tree, when a sound from above made him stop.

He had heard this sound before when last he’d stood in the Garden.

It was the sound of God’s terrible fury taken shape.

The war cry of the Seraphim.

Remiel dropped from the sky, burning blade in hand, a scream of furious indignation on his lips.

How dare this thing taint the Lord’s Garden with its presence, the Seraphim thought as it swooped down upon the Shaitan.

The blade arced as he dropped, seeking out the muscular flesh between the beast’s head and shoulders. Remiel watched the fiery sword, anticipating the sensation of its razor edge biting into thick muscle.

But it was as if the blade passed through water.

The Shaitan’s body shifted, flowing away from the descending soldier of Heaven, to reconstitute directly across from him.

The monster smiled, attacking with the speed of thought.

Multiple sets of limbs rose, fingers like worms writhing in the air as bolts of snapping blue energy leapt from their tips. Remiel spread his wings, lifting off from the ground and blocking most of the supernatural energies with his sword, but one of them got through. The dark magick pierced his shoulder, an electrical fire igniting in his veins, causing his wings to grow numb.

He fell through the withered limbs of the Tree of Knowledge, landing on the body of Adam, the stink of the first human’s blood flowing up into his flared nostrils. He could feel the sickness of the Garden, feel the evil bubbling up just below its surface, and was almost taken to the brink because of it.

The Seraphim began to rise as tiny, white hands with claws like hooks reached up from the ground, grabbing at his armored form. Remiel watched in horror as the claws pierced the Heaven-forged armor with little effort, holding him in place as more and more of the birthing Shaitan attempted to feed upon him. He furiously beat his wings, pulling away from some of their clutches, and was able to kneel upon the churning soil, raising the flaming sword that once belonged to the sentry of Eden, and stabbing it down into the ground.

There came a muffled explosion, followed by unnatural, high-pitched screams from beneath the dirt. Remiel could feel their pain, hear the psychic screams of the injured and the dying, as the hold they had upon him loosened, and he was able to free himself.

He withdrew his blade from the earth, which was hot and sizzling with the life juices of the unborn Shaitan. Eager to see them all dead, the Seraphim readied the sword to strike again at the base of the Tree, when the newest attack came.

The adult Shaitan exploded at him, running upon all fours like a bull and ramming its bony head into Remiel’s midsection, pinning him to the side of the Tree.

Remiel recovered quickly, bringing the pommel of the sword down on top of the Shaitan. Its head seemed to break apart, flowing up the Seraphim’s arm. The damnable creature’s entire body went to liquid, oozing over Remiel’s armored form, covering him in its malleable flesh.

The angel could feel what it was doing, seeking out the weaknesses in his protective covering. He could feel the thing squirming through the openings, writhing against his divine flesh beneath the armor. The sensation was sickening.

Remiel thrashed, dropping to the ground, beating his wings, but the flesh of the Shaitan had spread onto them as well, preventing him from taking flight. He tried to use the sword, poking and jabbing at the thick second skin that had engulfed his body, but the Shaitan endured the stabs of the flaming blade, squeezing him even tighter, while forcing the armor from his body.

Pain like he had never experienced before flowed through him. The angel attempted to cry out, but his mouth was filled with the oozing, liquid flesh of his shapeless attacker. His own flesh was burning as the Shaitan released its destructive, dark energies.

The Seraphim fought fitfully as his body was completely engulfed in the constricting mass of the forbidden life-form. From all around, he heard a rumbling chuckle, as the Shaitan continued its relentless assault. The creature knew it was winning.

The monster was whispering now, telling him to give up the fight, that there was no dishonor in this defeat, for it was all inevitable.

He could feel the Shaitan inside him now, forcing itself down his throat. Remiel called upon the fire that was his gift from God, and his body started to radiate a heat as hot as the fires of creation, but it wasn’t enough.

The fire could not burn bright enough to repel the darkness that now held him in its constricting embrace.

Stealing away his light.

Feeding upon his life.

Jon was holding Izzy up by the waist, helping her move across the twisted landscape as they tried to follow Remy.

“I can’t believe he left us,” Jon said, stumbling as the ground pushed up suddenly beneath their feet, sending them both falling to the ground.

“He’s doing what he needs to do,” Izzy said, breathing heavily. She looked even sicker now; her mahogany skin had taken on a grayish pallor. She didn’t even try to get up.

“But I thought we were part of that picture,” Jon said, trying to help her to rise.

“We are,” she said, pushing his hands away.

“You have to get up,” Jon told her. He was looking around. “I can’t imagine it’s much farther. . . . How big can this place be?”

“Very big,” Izzy said. “Much bigger than you could ever imagine, and she needs our help.”

“Which is exactly what we’re going to give her,” Jon said, bending down to wrap his hands around her waist and lift her to her feet.

“No,” Izzy said firmly, her dark eyes looking deeply into his. “She needs us.”

“Well, we can’t stay here.” Jon was really annoyed now. “Remy is over there somewhere and he—”

“She needs our help,” Izzy repeated firmly. “My help . . . and your help.”

He didn’t know what she was getting at as she sat upon the ground, one of her hands again buried beneath the soil.

“I don’t . . . ,” he started to say.

“Think about who we are.” She grabbed his pants leg, attempting to pull him down with her. “Whose blood courses through our veins.”

The moist ground dampened the knees of his slacks as he knelt with her.

“She’s going to die. . . . Eden will die if we don’t try . . . if we don’t lend her some of our strength.

“I can’t do it alone,” Izzy continued weakly. “Will you help me?”

Jon didn’t know what to say at first, even though it was obvious. This was what it must’ve been all about, the true reason he had been born into the Sons.

His purpose.

“Will you help her?” Izzy whispered pleadingly.

Tentatively he extended his hand above the soil, curious as to whether or not it would hurt, and then brought it down.

Knowing Nathan would have been proud of him as he plunged his fingers into the dampness of the earth.

“Why are you hiding?”

Remy Chandler opened his eyes at the sound of the familiar voice.

“Madeline?” he called into the sea of gloom surrounding him.

“Yeah,” she answered casually, her approach bringing a warm yellow glow to the nebulous surroundings. “Who else would it be?”

He pushed himself up into a sitting position. The aura around her was warm, and it felt good upon his naked skin as she drew closer.

“Are you going to answer my question?” she asked.

“I’m not hiding,” he said indignantly. “Why would I be hiding?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

Remy said nothing as he stared at the woman he loved, the woman who had given him so much.

“Do you know what’s happening out there?” she asked, hooking a finger toward the sea of black behind her.

He looked past her, squinting into the shadows.

“Not going well, is it?”

Madeline’s mouth opened in disbelief. “I can’t believe you,” she said.

“What?” Remy asked. “What can’t you believe?”

“You,” she said incredulously. “I can’t believe you. He’s dying out there, you know.”

Remy was still staring into the darkness behind her when he looked away.

“There’s nothing I can do,” he said, looking at his bare feet.

“Really?” She placed her hands on her shapely hips. God, she was beautiful. Just one look was enough to get his heart racing.

“The Seraphim is out there fighting for Eden . . . for Heaven, for Pete’s sake, and there’s nothing that you can do? What’s wrong with this picture?” she asked him.

“This is where I’m supposed to be,” he said. “There’s no room for humanity out there.” Remy shook his head.

“There’s not going to be room for much of anything once the Shaitan are born,” Madeline said. “I’m not going to ask you if you know how dangerous those creatures are, because of course you do—I’m nothing but a manifestation of your subconscious—and if I know, you certainly do too.”

“I’m here because I need to be,” Remy said. “I’m his weakness. . . . The matter of the Shaitan should be faced with a cold, divine efficiency.”

Madeline laughed, a delicate hand going up to her mouth to stifle the sound of her merriment.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “It’s just that that was really funny.”

Remy almost smiled, loving the sound of her laugh, even if it was at his own expense.

“Are you that big of a dummy?” Madeline asked.

Remy was a bit taken aback by the question.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“I asked if you were stupid.”

“No, I don’t think that—”

“The Seraphim has gone into battle incomplete,” Madeline stated.

“You’re wrong; the Seraphim is out there . . . complete, all fiery rage and righteous indignation,” Remy explained.

“Then what are you?” she wanted to know.

“I’m what isn’t needed right now,” he said. “Which is why I’m here.”

“Which is why you’re wrong,” Madeline corrected. “You’re his humanity . . . not some useless thing that was picked up at a yard sale a few years back. Whether he likes it or not, the Seraphim has evolved . . . his human aspect is just as important as his angelic one.”

Remy didn’t know how to respond to that one.

“He’s missing something,” Madeline explained. “Like going into battle without his armor . . . without his sword.”

The darkness began to swirl behind her, growing lighter as forms began taking shape—as images of a world appeared.

New York at night . . . Chicago . . . Japan . . . Australia . . . the Boston skyline.

Remy felt his mood lighten at the sight of his adopted home.

“This isn’t what he’s fighting for,” Madeline pointed out.

The backdrop quickly changed, melding to scenes of the past. Remy saw when their relationship was young—he and Madeline walking on a beach at Cape Cod, their love uncontrollable in its growth. It would grow so big . . . so powerful.

“This isn’t what he’s fighting for.”

The disheveled image of Steven Mulvehill appeared, and for some reason the sight of the man . . . his friend . . . it hurt, made him want to reach out and . . .

Marlowe running at the Boston Common, his black fur shiny in the afternoon sun as he chased a tennis ball thrown by . . .

Linda Somerset dressed in a heavy winter jacket and jeans, clapping her hands for Marlowe to return the ball to her. Remy smiled. She would probably have a long wait. Marlowe was a ball hog, preferring to tease, running around with the prize clutched proudly in his mouth before . . .

“This isn’t what he’s fighting for.”

The following scene made him gasp, not real but torn from the imagination.

The Earth was in ruin, infernos burning that permanently blackened the sky. The Shaitan swarmed upon the world like locusts, dismantling everything that He—the Lord God—was responsible for.

“Up there, in the Garden,” Madeline said, pointing off in the distance behind them. “He fights for his Creator, and the Kingdom of Light. . . .”

Remy saw the Garden and the battle going on within it. The Seraphim was covered in the flesh of the Shaitan, being crushed . . . suffocated. . . .

“And there’s so much more to fight for, Remy,” Madeline said. “Don’t you think?”

So much more, he thought as the images of the world, of people, places, and things, fired past in staccato blasts.

Madeline came to him, putting her arms around him and drawing him close.

“Glad you agree with me,” she said with her most seductive smile as she brought her lips to his. And they kissed.

And it was like he had been awakened from a very long slumber, like the sun rising powerfully in the sky to chase the darkness away.

So much more.