A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

Chapter eight

Western Asia, 9000 B.C.

Remiel drifted down from the star-filled night sky, his golden wings gently beating the chill desert air, slowing his descent.

He could sense them, others of his kind, and was drawn to their presence like a thirsty animal to water. He did not recall exactly how long it had been since he last communicated with others of his ilk, but he longed for the special rapport that only others of the Heavenly host could share.

The angel touched down upon coarse desert sand that mere hours before had burned like fire, but was now cool beneath his bare feet. He reveled in the sensation, enjoying the feeling of the damp granules between his toes, hiding the memories away with the many other experiences he had sampled since abandoning Heaven, and coming to the world of the Almighty's most sacred creations.

Remiel remembered Heaven sadly, how it used to be before the war — before the fall of the Morningstar.

A howl of excitement, followed by the sounds of primitive music, drifted across the desert toward him, pushing away the memories of how things had been but would never be again.

Remiel gazed across the drifting sands toward what seemed to be a settlement of some kind; the multiple structures made from piled stone and bricks of mud and hay. The angel smiled at the simplicity of the buildings, seeing, perhaps, an attempt by man to duplicate some divine, barely accessible memory of Heaven's glorious edifices.

Withdrawing his wings beneath his robes, the angel crossed the sands toward the encampment and the sounds of life, the music growing louder as he was drawn to the revelry.

His sense of others like himself grew stronger as well, and his curiosity was piqued. Since the Great War, angelic presence in this world had been frowned upon, and he wondered who of his kind would dare risk rousing the ire of the Lord.

A huge bonfire blazed in the center of the encampment, the inhabitants performing some kind of strange dance around the roaring fire. Remiel took note of the humans' bodies, their exposed flesh — men and women — adorned with colorful markings, and upon their backs, the strangest of things, crude representations of wings woven from local vegetation.

Remiel continued to watch the strange ritual that seemed to depict the act of flying. He was mesmerized, moving closer to the performance, oblivious to everything except the bizarre ceremony.

Their feet pounded the dirt to the rhythmic beating of drums. Trilling flutes made from the hollowed bones of livestock added a voice to the primal cacophony.

And then the rite stopped abruptly — the world going to silence as the participants froze, glinting eyes locked upon the flames leaping skyward. One by one they tore the makeshift wings from their backs, tossing the mock appendages into the hungry fire. Then each and every one of them fell to their knees, crying out in a display of crippling despondency.

What does this mean? the angel wondered, the intensity of his curiosity almost causing him to forget the niggling, angelic presence that had first brought him here.

Almost.

Remiel looked across the writhing bodies of the desert settlers locked in the grip of hysteria, and saw them. They sat alone, away from the humans, and at once he knew their breed.

Remiel approached, stepping over the bodies of those who cried and writhed as if in the embrace of some invisible torment.

The eleven of his brethren stood as he drew closer, their solid black eyes shining in the firelight, faces distorted in such a way as to bare their teeth at him. A show of emotion, he knew, but was not sure which. Happiness? Sadness? Anger? There was still so much he did not know about this inhospitable place he had chosen above the kingdom of God.

So much still to learn.

"Welcome, brother," the obvious leader of the eleven proclaimed, his voice booming above the cries of the humans still in the throes of emotion. They all bowed to him, and Remiel returned the gesture, shedding his human guise to reveal his true form to those who addressed him.

"Greetings, my brethren," he stated, his wings of golden yellow unfurling majestically, their movement stirring the dust of the desert around his bare feet. "I am Remiel of the most holy host Seraphim."

"Of course you are," said the leader, his hands folded before him. "We've anxiously awaited your coming."

Remiel looked upon the eleven with curious eyes. None had assumed their true forms, as was the proper response to his own revelation.

"I am Sariel," the leader informed, motioning to the others who loomed attentively behind him. "And we are the host Grigori."

Remiel's wings spread wide, carrying him away, repelled by the accursed name of Sariel's host. "Pariahs!" he spat, drawing a sword from a sheath hidden beneath his robes. "Defilers of God's most holy trust!" He stared down the blade forged in the center of the sun, that glinted even in the darkness of night.

The Grigori were outcasts, defilers of the Almighty's holy word. They had been charged with the guardianship of the human species, to watch over God's flock and protect them from sin, but it was they — the Grigori — who had become seduced by the ways of mankind.

The human settlers began to scream at the sight of Remiel. The Grigori fell to their knees, bowing to an authority that he no longer possessed.

"Soldier of Heaven," Sariel said, lifting eyes his toward him. "We knew that it would be only a matter of time before you returned, that our prayers for forgiveness would be heard."

Assigned the task of protecting His prized creations from evil, it was, in fact, the Grigori that shared with the fledgling species secrets that God believed they were not yet ready to know. They were taught about the constellations and the resolving of enchantments, of agriculture and the refinement of metal, which led to the creation of weapons for war.

And for this wicked behavior they were banished to live among the young race, and to never lay eyes upon the glory that was Heaven again.

The humans had gathered around the Grigori, as if shielding the defilers of the Creator's wishes from His wrath.

"They remember the first time… When the Archangels came," the Grigori leader explained, the humans now surrounding the eleven, pawing at their robes, pulling them down to expose the angels' pale, almost translucent flesh.

"Our wings… our beautiful wings torn from our backs as punishment for our transgressions."

The Grigori turned, showing him how they had been defiled by God's wrath. The scars where wings had once sprung were red and angry, tears of yellow infection dribbling down their exposed backs. The humans swarmed around the Grigori's wounds, using their own garments to wipe away the running discharge.

"Imprisoned in these fragile, human bodies of skin, blood, and bone." Sariel gazed over his shoulder."But now you have come. Our prayers have been answered, and we will at last be allowed to beg His forgiveness."

Remiel descended, furling his wings as he touched down upon the earth. "You are mistaken, watchers of humanity," the Seraphim said, sheathing his heavenly blade. "I have not the power to grant you absolution."

Sariel appeared startled by this revelation. "Have you not been sent by the Almighty?"

The other Grigori began to murmur among themselves, angrily pushing away the inhabitants of the settlement who now groveled about them.

"I no longer represent Heaven or my host," Remiel said sadly, feeling the distance between this world and the world that he had known before the war yawning ever wider. "I am alone now."

The Grigori leader looked to his brothers and then back to Remiel. "Then why are you here?"

The Seraphim looked to the sky, hoping to find an answer there. But the night and the multitude of twinkling stars remained silent, keeping their secrets to themselves.

"I once believed that serving Heaven was all I needed for fulfillment," Remiel said, his thoughts filled with the images of the Morningstar and those who followed him as they were cast down into the fires of the abyss. "But I learned that wasn't true."

Four human women clung to Sariel's legs, gazing up at the angelic being with adoration in their eyes, their hands stroking his legs through his flowing robes.

"And you have come to this place… to this world, seeking answers?" the Grigori asked, looking about in disbelief. He turned to his followers and began to laugh. "Shall we attempt to provide him with what he seeks, brothers?" Sariel asked.

The Grigori laughed, and Remiel could hear the madness there. Denied the light of Heaven and the glory of God, the angels had succumbed to insanity, he feared.

Sariel looked back to Remiel, eyes wild. "There are no answers here, brother Seraphim," he snarled. "This world of man is a cruel and harsh place, populated by beasts not much better than primates, but for some reason, they have been given the gift of His love."

The Grigori leader reached down to one of the women lying at his feet, holding her chin in his hand as he lifted her to stand beside him. Sariel gazed deeply into her eyes as if searching for something.

"He gave them something," Sariel purred. "A gift denied to us — His Heavenly servants — the first of His creations."

The woman squirmed in the leader's grasp, attempting to pull away, but it was for naught.

"Into each of them He put a bit of Himself… A divine spark that marked them as His chosen ones. Why, Seraphim? Why do you think He did that for them?"

Remiel knew not the answer to that question either.

"We thought we'd learn the answer — my brothers and I — by living amongst them… Living as them. But they can tell us nothing."

The woman began to cry as Sariel's grip on her face tightened. She struggled feverishly in his grasp as he pulled her face closer to his, and then she lashed out at him, clawing bloody furrows into the pale, delicate flesh of his wrists.

Sariel drew in a hissing breath, sounding like a serpent preparing to strike. Savagely, he twisted the female's head sharply to one side, breaking her neck with a muffled snap.

"So special, and yet so fragile," he said softly, letting the woman's broken body slump to the ground.

Immediately, it was picked up and carried away by others of the settlement.

"You come here seeking answers, Seraphim," the Grigori leader snarled again. "As you can see, we have none to give."

The cold drizzle turned into a downpour as Remy drove slowly down LaGrange Street in what was once lovingly known by the residents of Bean Town as the Combat Zone.

Centered on Washington Street between Boylston and Kneeland streets, extending up Stuart Street to Park Square, the Zone, so christened by a series of newspaper articles published in the 1960s, was once Boston's thriving adult-entertainment district. Of course they'd be here, Remy thought as he pulled into a metered space in front of an adult bookstore. The Grigori gravitated toward the old and abandoned — deconsecrated churches, closed-down movie palaces from days gone by, decrepit factory buildings.

He locked his car and headed up LaGrange in the hissing downpour. The streets were deserted, and he remembered a time when even the rain wouldn't have kept the perverts away.

The Zone had come about when city officials razed the West End and former red-light district at Scollay Square, near Faneuil Hall, to build the Government Center and revitalize the area. Urban renewal, they'd called it. Remy smiled as he pulled the collar of his raincoat up over his neck against the cold touch of the weather. Places such as this grew up like weeds; tear it down to the ground, and they'd just spring up somewhere else along the road.

The Combat Zone was dying now. It had been since the early eighties, as rising property values made the downtown locations all the more attractive to developers. Most of the strip clubs and adult bookstores had already been replaced by shiny new office buildings and hotels. It would be completely gone soon, and Remy had to wonder where it would turn up next.

But there were still some places, here and there, that belonged to the older time. Remy stood in front of one such place at the end of LaGrange Street, between Washington and Tremont. It used to be a factory of some kind, and it looked abandoned, but Remy knew better.

Even after all this time, he could still sense them. They were inside, the Grigori. The Watchers.

Remy pulled open the heavy metal door, the stink of urine wafting out to say hello. An old man wrapped in a filthy comforter stared up at him from the bottom step of stairs that climbed into shadow.

"Rainin' like a son of a bitch," the old-timer slurred, his glassy eyes blinking repeatedly, as if he were having a hard time focusing. A filthy hand appeared from inside the flowered cover holding a bottle of cheap whiskey. He leaned back his head, sucking on the bottle, the golden liquid contents sliding down his thirsty throat.

"Though I hear tomorrow is supposed to be nice," Remy responded.

The man belched wetly, and the bottle disappeared again beneath the comforter.

"Tha's good," the man slurred. "Got things to do tomorrow."

Remy moved toward the staircase, the old-timer's head following him jerkily. "You goin' up there?" he asked, his eyes flashing briefly toward the darkness at the top of the stairs.

"Yeah."

The whiskey bottle appeared again. "I wouldn't if I was you," he said, before having another drink.

"And why's that?" Remy asked.

The man shrugged. "Jus' doesn't feel right," he said. "Whole place don't feel right. If it wasn't so fuckin' wet I'd be out on the street instead'a in here."

"Thanks for the concern, but I've got some things I need to take care of," Remy said, taking the first two steps toward the pool of blackness.

"They know you're comin'?" the man asked, suddenly sounding more sober.

Remy turned on the second step to look down at him. "No, they don't," he said. "I thought I'd surprise them."

The drunk made a noise that Remy guessed was a laugh. "Yeah, tha's good," he gurgled, bringing the bottle up to his mouth once again. "They jus' love fuckin' surprises." The man held the whiskey in one hand while his other snaked out from beneath the cover, waving Remy on with a dismissive flourish.

Without further hesitation, Remy climbed the stairs into the darkness, holding on to the greasy metal banister. Floor after floor he ascended, feeling himself getting closer.

Closer to them.

His stomach roiled with the thought of being in their presence, and he would rather have been just about anywhere else at that moment, but he knew that this was necessary.

The Grigori knew things about the city and its more unique residents, and he was willing to bet that they could give him something that would start him on the road to finding Israfil and his scrolls before things got even more out of hand.

As he climbed, Remy's thoughts drifted to the strange dream he'd had the other night, the monstrous train coming down the track. Now, standing in front of a metal door, its surface painted a flat black, he had to wonder how close that train was.

How much closer are the Horsemen?

Steeling himself, he raised his fist and pounded upon the door. Remy could feel the corrupted presence of the Grigori emanating from the other side, and he had no doubt that they could feel him as well.

He didn't have long to wait before he could hear the sound of locks being turned and dead bolts sliding across the other side. The heavy metal door opened slowly, the shriek of the hinges giving the impression it had been quite some time since it was last opened. An older man dressed in a starched white shirt and black bow tie stood at attention, his milky, cataract-covered eyes gazing out at Remy, seeing nothing but at the same time seeing everything.

Blind.

"This is a private club, sir," the man said, his voice dripping with disdain. How dare Remy befoul their doorstep. "I suggest you leave before you arouse the ire of my masters."

He started to close the door, but Remy placed the palm of his hand firmly upon the cold black surface. "I'm here to see Sariel. Tell him that Remiel is here," he stated flatly, hand still pressed upon the door. "And that I'm still looking for some of those answers."

The blind man went away for a bit.

Remy had allowed him to close the door, leaving him in the darkness on the landing while the servant went off in search of his master.

It won't be long.

Despite the fact that they hated one another, there was still a connection between Remy and the Grigori — an unearthly bond, a brotherhood that could not be denied. They were all a part of something so much larger.

The sound of the dead bolt interrupted his thoughts, and the door creaked open again.

"This way, Master Remiel," the old, blind man said with a bow, motioning for Remy to enter.

He passed through the doorway from the dark factory landing that stank of dampness and age, into an opulent lobby that made the Four Seasons look like a Motel Six. Another man stood there, dressed in a crisp white shirt, black bow tie, and black slacks. This one was younger but also blind.

There was something about the handicapped. Almost as if to make up for their physical or mental deficiency, some were given another gift, the ability to recognize heavenly beings for what they actually were. The blind were the most sensitive of all, and the Grig-ori loved nothing more than to be recognized for what they used to be.

"Your coat, sir?" the young man asked, reaching out in Remy's general direction.

"No, thank you," he responded. "I'll hold on to it. I'm not planning to be here that long."

The doorman led him toward a dark mahogany door at the far end of the lobby. "This way, Master Remiel."

Remy bristled at the use of his true name, but knew if he wanted to talk with the Grigori leader, it had to be this way.

The doorman found the carved ivory handle and pushed it down, allowing the door to glide smoothly open, and for the sound of revelry from within to escape.

There was a party going on, and Remy wouldn't have been in the least bit surprised to see a bonfire with people wearing fake wings dancing around it.

But this appeared to be a much classier affair.

A full orchestra, all blind, performed a beautiful piece by Mozart from their station in the corner of the room, but those present really didn't seem to notice, or care. Booze flowed from two bars set up on either side of the room; the pungent aroma of marijuana wafted through the air; and on tiny side tables scattered about, Remy could see crystal dishes piled with what could only have been cocaine and various multicolored narcotics.

Grigori and a few chosen humans — both male and female — carried on as if this really was the night before the end of the world.

Remy felt suddenly sick at the thought that they might know something he did not.

Looking about the room at the decadence, he saw that even after all these years — thousands of years — the Grigori were exactly as they were the first time he'd met them, unchanged by the passage of time.

Poor bastards.

But he did have to give them points for consistency.

"Remiel!" a voice called out over the sounds of the festivities, and Remy turned to see a grinning Sariel heading toward him.

The Grigori leader was dressed impeccably in a suit that probably cost more than what Remy had made the previous year before taxes. The angel wore his white hair long and slicked back, and his skin had an odd orange color like that of an artificial tan.

Sariel strode across the room, snatching two flutes of champagne from the serving tray of a blind waiter as he moved.

"So nice to see you again," he said, leaning forward to kiss Remy on the side of the cheek.

Remy's senses were nearly overwhelmed by the aroma of expensive cologne, and something else just beneath the strong perfume — the scent of decay. He stepped back, resisting the urge to wipe at his face.

The Grigori leader offered him one of the two flutes he was holding.

"No, thank you," Remy said, shaking his head.

Unfazed, Sariel downed one and then the other. He smacked his lips noisily, and then tossed both of the empty champagne glasses over his shoulder. They shattered on the hardwood floor, and for a moment the silence in the room was deafening, but then the band resumed its play and the buzz of conversation began again.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Sariel asked, an unnatural smile creeping across his angular features. "Your aversion to mingling with our kind is quite well-known, and it's killing me to know what could be so pressing."

One of the blind waiters had appeared with a dustpan and brush, dropping to his knees, gingerly moving his hands across the floor in search of the razor-sharp slivers of Sariel's glasses. The Grigori watched the man with great interest, their eyes twinkling maliciously each time the man's groping hands encountered a piece of glass.

"Why are you here, Remiel?" Sariel asked again.

The waiter suddenly yelped in pain as he knelt on a jagged fragment of the flute. The Grigori burst out laughing, applauding the injured man as he pulled the bloody glass from his knee.

"Is there someplace where we can speak in private?" Remy asked, not able to keep the tone of distaste from his voice.

"Oh, my," Sariel said, bringing a hand to his mouth in mock horror. "This sounds serious." Remy said nothing, waiting.

"Very well." Sariel finally motioned for him to follow. "This way."

They started across the room, the Grigori and their human guests parting to let them through.

"Missed a piece," Sariel said, gently stroking the top of the waiter's head as the angel passed him. The man's body trembled, as if in the throes of ecstasy, at the touch of the Grigori leader's hand, and he continued his search for stray bits of glass with increased vigor.

Sariel led Remy to another wooden door at the far end of the ballroom, then stopped, turning to look out over the expansive room. "They hate you," he said as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.

Remy was a bit taken aback, but not surprised. "You'd think they'd be over it by now," he said, feeling their suspicious gazes on his back.

"They'll never be over it," Sariel replied, opening the door and gesturing for him to move through. Remy entered, the Grigori leader following, closing the door on the hate-filled eyes.

"You can go back any time," Sariel continued, crossing the room toward two overstuffed chairs in front of a marble-and-wood fireplace. A cozy fire burned within. "Back to the glory that is Heaven… back to Him, but you choose not to. You're actually here because you wish to be."

Remy chose a chair and sat down as Sariel did. It was warm and comfortable, the fire chasing away the chill that had resided in his bones since heading out into the rain tonight.

"They're jealous," Remy said, mesmerized by the flames.

"Perhaps they were once, but now they're simply angry," Sariel responded.

There was a knock on the door, and a waiter came into the room.

"May I bring you anything, master?" the man asked, his blind eyes rolling uselessly in their sockets.

"Remiel?" the Grigori leader asked him.

It was a moment of weakness, and he blamed it on the comforting effects of the fire. "Scotch on the rocks," he said, but regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

"Excellent idea," Sariel responded. He turned toward the waiter. "Two Scotches."

The waiter bowed and carefully left the room, closing the door behind him.

"I didn't come to make anybody angry," Remy said, still gazing into the fire. His felt his face flush, his eyes growing heavy as the fire worked its comforting magic upon him.

"I wouldn't concern yourself with that. They hate you all the time." The Grigori chuckled. "Your disregard for what they want most of all infuriates them… Infuriates me."

The waiter returned with their drinks, placing a silver tray down upon a small wooden table between the two chairs.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" the servant asked, standing at attention.

Sariel ignored the question.

"I think that's it," Remy told him, feeling uncomfortable with the man's attentive presence. The man didn't move. "Go," Sariel finally barked.

The waiter bowed again and left them alone in the study.

The Scotch was good. Steve would gladly give up his mother's soul for a bottle of this, Remy thought, savoring each sip.

"You actually respect them," Sariel said, shaking the tumbler in his hand and causing the ice within to tinkle merrily.

"Who? Them out there?" Remy pointed to the wall with his glass. "The people beyond these walls, out in the real world? You bet your ass I respect them." He took a large sip from his drink, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. "It's not easy being human," he added.

"And you would know," Sariel said, slowly bringing the glass to his mouth.

The fire snapped like the crack of a bullwhip, and one of the logs tumbled from its perch upon the burning stack, a plume of fire and burning embers momentarily flaring up into the flue.

"Why have you come here, Remiel?" Sariel asked, repressed anger obvious in his tone.

Remy had some more of the fine Scotch before answering.

"I had a visit from Nathanuel the other day," he finally said, looking into the dancing flames.

He could feel Sariel's eyes suddenly upon him. "Seems that the powers that be have lost track of Is- rafil." Slowly he turned his head, tearing his gaze away from the mesmerizing flames to meet the intensity of the Grigori's stare. "And they've asked me to find him."

It seemed to take Sariel a moment to process the information.

"The Angel of Death is… missing?"

Remy nodded, taking the last of his drink. He wiped his lips with his fingers and set the glass down on the table between them.

"And I was hoping that you might have some information to help me take care of this business and restore the balance before…"

"Nothing is feeling his touch?" Sariel interrupted.

"No," Remy answered. "So I'm sure you can see why the Seraphim are so interested in finding him as quickly as possible."

"And they haven't any idea as to where he has gone?" the Grigori asked.

"No."

And with those chilling words, Sariel started to laugh. It was an awful sound, like the excited cry of a hungry raptor as its eyes fell upon unsuspecting prey. "One of their most powerful has escaped their watchful eyes," he said shaking his head.

Then he dropped his empty glass onto the table and stood, moving to the fireplace, where he leaned against the mantle, staring down into the flames. At last he turned to look at Remy, his face shaded in the shifting shadows of the dancing flames.

"You spoke of restoring the balance. How bad is it out there?"

Remy thought of the past two days, his experience at the hospital, the stories on the news and in the daily papers.

It's bad.

And then there was the dream, the train pulling into the station, carrying the bringers of the Apocalypse. It's real bad.

"It's horrible, and it's only going to get worse." Remy leaned his head against the back of the chair, eyeing the angelic being standing at the fireplace across from him.

"The scrolls?" Sariel asked, black eyes twinkling inquisitively.

"They're missing too."

"Well, this is quite a predicament." The Grigori returned to his chair. "But it makes sense now."

Remy's ears perked up. "What does?" he asked, looking toward the angel. "Do you have something for me?"

"Perhaps," Sariel replied. "It happened some time ago."

"What happened?" Remy questioned, the potential for his first lead pulling him out of his seat to stand in front of the Grigori leader.

"I'm not sure how long ago, exactly," Sariel said, rubbing his brow as if attempting to stimulate his brain. "I have such difficulty with the passage of time. A week, a decade, they all seem to flow together. Do you find that as well, Remiel?"

Remy surged forward, grabbing hold of the arms of Sariel's chair, leaning into his face.

"What happened, Sariel, and what does it have to do with Israfil?"

The Grigori smiled at Remy's intensity.

"We were so excited to see him," he said. "Thinking that maybe… maybe he had been sent to tell us that we were at last going home.

"After all, why else would the Angel of Death come to visit?"