A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

Chapter twelve

It wasn't like Remy to doze off, but the dry warmth of Francis' basement abode worked its magic. Sitting in the beat-up leather recliner, Remy felt his eyes grow impossibly heavy.

And then they were closed.

He found himself at the desert train station again.

It was dark and a freezing-cold sleet sliced down from the bruise-colored sky. The sound of rain hitting the fragile wooden canopy that draped over the station was nearly deafening.

But Remy didn't know what deafening was until the locomotive suddenly appeared before him, like some great leviathan surging up from the depths, its whistle wailing like the death cries of a world not yet ready to pass from life.

The great train nestled into the station, its unnerving appearance causing him to stumble back against the station wall. It released a long, hissing exhalation of foul-smelling steam, the surface of its black metal body glistening wetly in the gloom.

Carefully, he walked to the edge of the platform and, turning his head to the left, gazed down the length of cars that made up the train's serpentine body. A sound

like the throb of a pulse emanated from the train, and Remy was compelled to walk along the platform, searching for signs of riders. He stood upon his toes, peering in through the dusty windows at the rows of seats, and saw that the cars were empty.

The throbbing pulse of the train quickened, and he began to wonder if the monstrous conveyance was about to move on when he heard the racket of movement coming from a freight car attached to the last of the passenger coaches.

Remy went closer, the thumping of activity intensifying. He approached the car, reaching for the latch, desperate to satisfy his curiosity. But before his hand could close upon it, the sliding wooden door began to shake. He could hear the clatter of hooves and the neighing of horses from inside.

He stepped back, just as the door exploded outward, the force of the blast sending him sprawling into a wooden bench. The air was filled with the stench of acrid smoke, and something else. A wild scent… an animal smell mingled with the reek of electricity.

Remy wiped dust and dirt from his eyes as he raised his head, and in the clearing haze he saw that he was no longer alone upon the platform. And he saw that the train had indeed been carrying passengers, though he wished with all his heart that it hadn't been the case.

The four figures sat astride their mounts, watching him through the whirling smoke and dust. He knew who they were, even though he'd never met them before.

War, clad in a black leather duster, a red scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, his eyes hidden in the shadows cast by a wide-brimmed Stetson, sat upon a steed the color of drying blood. To his left, sitting erect

in a pearl saddle upon a mount blacker than coal, was Famine. She was adorned in flowing robes of white, her face emotionless and cold, like that of a china doll. But her eyes, they were dark and deep and hungry for the life of the world. To the right of War stood a horse more dead than alive, raw, open sores covering its emaciated body. Its eyes were the color of pus, and a thick drool leaked from its lipless mouth. Pestilence slouched in the saddle, his nearly naked form cadaverous and pale, a swarm of blackflies forming a perverted halo around his skull-like head. And on the end was the most fearsome of the riders, this one's steed appearing healthy and strong, and its muscular flesh as white as winter mountains. The rider Death wore a suit of armor that looked as though it had been crafted from the bones of some great beast. Piercing eyes that blazed a fiery red peered out from inside the darkness of the horseman's horned helmet.

Remy slowly got to his feet, his gaze never leaving the riders clustered before him.

The white steed lifted its head, sniffing the rain-filled air, and brayed, its cries causing a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning so bright that it seemed to illuminate the world.

Remy shielded his eyes from the searing light, and when he dropped his hands, the monstrous train was gone, as if it had never been there at all. A broad expanse of empty desert spread out from the platform, and when he looked to his left he saw that the riders were now all pointed in that direction, gazing out over the flat, barren plain that seemed to go on forever.

Thunder rumbled again, and the rain continued to fall. One by one, the Horsemen guided their mounts from the platform, down onto the desert floor. They rode side

by side, a relaxed gait soon turning into a gallop, as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse headed across the desert.

The end of the world was their purpose.

The rattle of the ancient furnace kicking over woke Remy with a start, hands clawing on to the armrests of the leather recliner in a death grip.

"Oh, shit," he said, gulping air as the final vision of the Horsemen riding away across the desert slowly left his thoughts, like the last scene in a movie as it came to a close.

"Anyone ever tell you how cute you look when you're sleeping?" Francis asked, standing before him with two steaming mugs of coffee.

"How long was I out?" Remy asked, reaching for the offered cup.

"Not long," Francis stated, taking a sip from his drink. "Couple'a minutes, more or less."

"Where's Casey?" the angel asked, looking around.

"Over there in the beanbag chair," the man in the terry cloth robe said, hooking his thumb toward the corner of the room. Remy moved to the edge of his seat to look. The young woman seemed tiny, curled up in the center of the large, fluorescent green beanbag.

"She all right?" he asked, bringing the cup to his mouth, first inhaling the invigorating fumes and then taking an eager sip of the hot liquid. It had been too long since his last cup, and he felt as though he might be going through withdrawal.

The coffee was strong, some of the strongest in existence. But what would you expect from beans nurtured in the surprisingly fertile soils of Hell's southern re- gions. And Francis was always sure to brew a pot when Remy came around.

Francis wasn't at all what he appeared to be, a theme that had become pretty popular of late. At one time he had been one of the most honored angels in the Choir Virtues — a Guardian angel of the highest order — but he had been one of the many seduced by the words of Lucifer, joining the side of the Morningstar during the war in Heaven. Finally seeing the error of his misguided allegiance, the Guardian angel threw himself before the Almighty, demanding the harshest punishment for his sins.

Francis — then called Fraciel — expected death, but received much worse.

Taking advantage of the warrior's skills as Guardian, the Almighty assigned him the duty of watching over those angels banished to Hell after the war. It was his job to make certain that they stayed exactly where they had been sent. Occasionally a fallen angel — now a demon after its time in the infernal depths — would escape to earth. It was up to Francis to send them back.

The apartment building that he lived in and managed was built at a nexus where the barriers between the earthly planes and Hell were very thin. Those who lived in the apartments above were all former sinners, who, after countless millennia, had earned a chance to leave the infernal realm on a kind of parole, required to do a certain amount of good before being allowed to pass on to the next plane.

"She seems fine," Francis answered. He grabbed a wooden chair from beneath a tiny kitchen set and dragged it into the room, sitting down in front of Remy. "Now, would you mind telling me how the fuck you got involved with the Black Choir?"

Remy looked at him, perplexed. "Who?"

"The Black Choir… the Shunned. Angels denied a place in both Heaven and Hell for trying to play both sides during the Great War."

"The Black Choir," Remy said, a chill of unease racing up his spine as he recalled the sight of the former angels, twisted by their damnation. "Is that what they're calling themselves these days?"

"Yep," Francis said with a nod. "The Almighty didn't want them and neither did Lucifer. They're stuck in the middle, belonging to no one and perpetually pissed. I'm surprised you still look as good as you do."

Remy held out his injured hand, examining the blistered flesh. Despite the extent of the injury, he had already started to heal. "Would you believe I came up against them twice today?"

"Yeah, and I went to seven o'clock Mass this morning," Francis said, making a disbelieving face as he had another swig of coffee.

"How was the homily?" the angel asked.

"It was good, all about big fucking liars."

"I'm not lying."

"So tell me, then," Francis said. "How did you manage to piss off the Black Choir?"

Remy had some more coffee, the Hell-grown brew coursing through his veins, making his heart race like he'd just run the Boston Marathon. "Good coffee," he said, placing the nearly empty mug down on the floor beside the recliner.

Francis held out his mug, toasting him. "Got the beans fresh my last trip to Hell. Think it might be a little stronger than usual."

Remy glanced at Casey, then back to his friend. "Is-rafil is missing," he stated flatly.

"Missing?" Francis asked. "What, exactly, do you mean by missing?"

"You haven't felt it?" Remy asked. "That hint in the air that things aren't quite the way they're supposed to be?"

Francis thought a moment. "Didn't realize it was anything like this." He adjusted his black-rimmed glasses. "And you're looking for him?"

Remy nodded. "Hired by Nathanuel. He came to my office and everything."

"No shit," Francis said with wonder.

He continued to nod. "Started poking around a bit, getting wheels in motion, when the Black Choir shows up for the first time today — well, yesterday now, I guess — and tries to discourage me from continuing with the case."

Francis leaned back in the wooden chair, crossing his legs, letting one of his corduroy slippers dangle from his foot. "So what, you're guessing that somebody doesn't want Israfil to be found?"

"Right. Somebody wants to bring about the Apocalypse."

Francis whistled through his teeth, bringing his coffee cup up toward his mouth. "Man, you sure get involved in some interesting shit."

"Don't I, though?" Remy agreed.

"So where does Sleeping Beauty come into the picture?" Francis asked, motioning with his bald head to the corner of the room where Casey slept.

"It appears that Israfil became fascinated with the human species, wanted to experience it for himself, and melded with a guy who was dying of a brain tumor."

"You're kiddin'," Francis said, his voice a shocked whisper.

"Nope. He even went out and got himself a girlfriend." Remy looked over to the dozing Casey.

"Now I've heard friggin' everything. That's fucking nuts."

Remy went on. "But it didn't take long before there was trouble in paradise. Looks as though the two natures didn't mix so well — caused a little bit of a problem for our friend the Angel of Death when it came time to do his work."

Francis was quiet, soaking it all in as he gazed off into space.

"You've gotta find him," he finally said, focusing on his friend.

"No kidding," Remy said. "That's what I've been trying to do in between fallen-angel attacks."

Remy stood, his entire body thrumming. Francis' brew had certainly done the trick, giving him much more than a second wind. Even his hand was feeling better.

"What can I do?" Francis asked, standing as well.

"I'm going to need you to watch her," he said, both of them looking at Casey. "Somehow they found out her connection to Israfil. The Black Choir didn't know that I would be at her place. They came looking for the scrolls."

Remy approached the woman, who had started to stir. She came awake suddenly, eyes wide with fear as the memories of what she'd just gone through flooded her thoughts.

"Oh, my God," she said, eyes darting around the boiler room space.

"Shhhh, it's all right." Remy reached out, running his hand along her arm. "We're with a friend now." He moved so she could see Francis standing there. The man gave her a salute.

"Look, I know you probably have a lot of questions," Remy continued.

"What were those things?" she suddenly asked, struggling to sit up in the shapeless chair. The questions started to spill from her, the sense of anxiety growing. "What do they have to do with Jon… with you? I don't fucking understand any of this."

"Calm down," Remy said. "Take some deep breaths. I don't expect you to understand what's going on, but I need you to trust me. Something very bad is going to happen if I don't find Jon soon."

Casey listened, her breathing coming in trembling gasps.

"I need you to tell me everything about the night he left — every single detail, no matter how unimportant it might seem."

She repositioned herself in the chair, bringing her legs up underneath her. "I'll try," she said, running her fingers through her dark hair, mentally preparing herself. "Do you think I could have something to drink?"

"You want some coffee?" Francis asked.

Remy gave the man a stern look. "She cannot drink your coffee," he stated firmly. "Just bring her some water."

"No need to get snippy," Francis said, walking into the quaint kitchen area. "Sometimes it just doesn't pay to be sociable."

Shaking his head, Remy returned his attention to the girl. "He's getting you some water."

"Thanks," she said, struggling to find a smile. "That night was sort of like a lot of nights around that time. I'd come home from work and Jon would be locked in his study."

"Here ya go, sweetheart," Francis said, handing her a full glass of water.

She took it from him and had a large sip right away.

"And he was in the study that night when you got in?"

Casey wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Yes, I could hear him in there, talking to himself."

"Any idea what he was saying?"

"It was all muffled, but he sounded upset. I could hear him moving around, pacing… the desk drawers slamming," she said, her gaze distant as she relived the past.

She sipped some more water. "I was about to start making supper when I heard the door unlock and he came out. I was kind of shocked to see him… It had been days."

Francis tightened the belt on his bathrobe. "So you were okay with your boyfriend locking himself in a room for days on end?"

"Francis," Remy scolded.

"I'm just asking," he retorted defensively.

"It's all right," Casey said. "I sort of have a pattern when it comes to relationships. The weird ones with issues are always drawn to me."

"Hit the jackpot with the last one," Francis grumbled beneath his breath.

"I think it might be wise for you to go sit over there," Remy said, turning his gaze to the vacated recliner.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Francis said. "It's okay to save your ass from the Black Choir, but try and help you out with a case and it's a capital fucking offense."

Remy sighed, returning his full attention to Casey. "So, he finally left his study…."

"Yeah, he looked awful. I wanted to go to him… you know, to comfort him… but something prevented me."

"Were you afraid of him?" Remy asked in his calmest of voices.

At first she looked shocked, hurt, but then he saw the realization dawn upon her face. "Yes, yes I was. At that moment, I was afraid of him." Casey started to cry. "Isn't that awful? Going through whatever it was he was going through, and I was too afraid to comfort him."

Remy tried to keep her in the moment. "Did he say anything?"

Casey sniffed, bringing her hand up to wipe her running nose. "He just said he was going out, and he went."

"Did he take anything with him?" Remy asked. "Something to show that he maybe wasn't planning on coming back?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "He stared at me for a minute after telling me that he was going, and then he left." Casey paused, her gaze cloudy, and then Remy watched her expression change.

"What is it? Did you think of something?"

"His briefcase," she said, eyes focused back on him.

"What about his briefcase?"

"He had it with him, but the only time he carried that was when he was going to work… to school."

Remy was on his feet. "I think I'd like to check out Jon's office at Mass Tech."

The woman got off the beanbag chair. "I can take you," she said.

"No," Remy said firmly.

She looked as though she'd been struck. "Why?"

"You're just going to have to trust me," the angel explained. "It would be best if you stayed with Francis."

Francis waved from the recliner. "Don't worry, I don't bite."

"He's kind of… y'know, weird," she said speaking softly so that only Remy could hear.

"Yeah, you're right about that, but there isn't anybody that I'd trust your safety with more. Please do what I ask."

"I'm gonna cry if you keep this up," Francis yelled from his seat.

"We're all going to be crying if I don't find what I'm looking for," Remy said, fishing his car keys from his pocket.

"You might want to think about changing your location," Remy told his friend as he walked to the door. "The Black Choir knows we're here, remember."

"Good point." Francis opened the door for him. It was still raining hard outside. "Safe house?"

"Probably the best bet." Remy turned the collar of his jacket up as he prepared for his run to the car.

"I'll give you a call when we're settled," Francis told him.

Remy darted out into the downpour. "Hey, Chandler," Francis called to him.

Remy stopped at the car, opening the door as he waited to hear what Francis had to say.

"I know it's tough, but don't do anything stupid."

He wished he could've made that kind of promise, but those times had long passed.

Stupid may have been all that he had left.

The rain was coming down in a diagonal sheet now, but it was late enough — or was it early? — that traffic was still relatively light.

He wasn't far from the city campus of Massachusetts Technology and drove a little bit faster than he should, but time was of the essence, as his last dream of the Horsemen had shown him.

Remy found his phone and dialed Lazarus' number. The immortal answered on the third ring.

"You all right?" the man asked.

"It's all relative," Remy answered.

"What's up?" Lazarus wanted to know.

"I'm going to need you to back up Francis," he said.

"Something in motion?"

"Yeah, you could say that," Remy replied. "Somebody's out to start the Apocalypse, and they're looking for the scrolls," he said, speaking louder than normal to be heard over the steady deluge of water that was battering his car.

"Well, we're still here, so they haven't had any luck, I'd guess," Lazarus said.

"Yeah, but not for want of trying. Israfil's girlfriend and I were attacked by the Black Choir at her apartment. They were the same ones who roughed me up at the office. I don't think they're smart enough to be doing this on their own, so I'm guessing they're taking orders from somebody else."

"The Black Choir?" Lazarus sounded surprised. "You'd have to be wielding some serious power to keep them on a leash."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Remy said, as he drove over the Harvard Bridge into Cambridge. "I think somebody is very serious about ending the world, and I doubt there's anything they wouldn't do to accomplish their goals."

"What can I do?" the immortal asked.

"Go to the safe house, give Francis a hand with protecting the girl. I'm going to check out where Israfil's human aspect was working before he up and disappeared."

"Got it," Lazarus said, but before Remy could end the call, the man began speaking again. "It… it's close to happening, isn't it, Remy?" Lazarus said, a hint of something that could very well have been fear tainting his voice.

"Closest we've ever been, I think," Remy said. "And we're not out of the woods yet, by far."

"Thanks for sugarcoating things for me," Lazarus said, the two of them briefly laughing before wrapping up their conversation.

No matter how many times he tried to squelch it, Remy couldn't get the idea from his mind: It was the closest the world had ever come to ending. The Horsemen were already here, waiting for the seals on the scrolls to be broken. And even though they had yet to be given the official go-ahead, their influence upon the world could still be felt.

The intensity of the weather was only a minor exam- ple. He'd had the radio on earlier as he drove, but was forced to turn it off as stories of startling world events were reported. India and Pakistan were on the brink of a nuclear exchange, and North Korea had amassed troops and weaponry on the line of demarcation with South Korea. And then there was the spread of famine in Africa, reaching epidemic proportions with hundreds of thousands on the verge of death, and the outbreak of a mutated strain of flu in Los Angeles.

The Horsemen were most definitely here, and the only member of the dark riders not exuding his influence was Death. Remy hoped that he had enough time to keep it that way.

Remy finally reached Mass Tech and parked his car in front of the Dryfuss Library Building. He had taken Madeline here for some business seminars years ago, and knew that there was a system of tunnels beneath the college that connected just about all the buildings on campus. He figured he'd have the least amount of trouble getting in through the library, even at this late hour.

He was right, getting inside the library through a side door, and easily avoiding contact with a security guard by willing himself unseen. Finding a mounted wall map of the tunnel system and the buildings that it connected, Remy found the one that he was looking for and headed in that direction.

The Mahut Building was where the Department of Brain and Cognitive Sciences was located, and the offices of its teachers and professors were conveniently on the lower level.

He reached the building quickly and headed down a well-lit hallway, certain from what he recalled of the map that the faculty offices were just up ahead and around the corner.

There was a sudden crash, followed by what sounded like barking coming from behind a closed door on Re-my's right. His eyes darted around, searching for shadows, but he didn't see a thing. Cautiously, he walked up to the door and, cupping his hands over his eyes, peered through the window.

It was a large laboratory, the entire back of the room lined with cages, and inside the cages, monkeys. Rhesus monkeys, he believed they were called. They were often used in medical experimentation. Most of the animals were asleep, but he saw that one of them was awake, standing up as it clutched the thin metal bars of its cage. It was looking directly at him as he peered through the window glass.

Remy's heart had been racing, but now that he knew the source of the odd sounds, he found himself calming a bit. He moved on down the hall, turning the corner into a short corridor with offices on either side, and began looking for Professor Stall's name.

He found the office at the end of the hallway, beside a custodian's closet. It was locked. If time hadn't been in such short supply, he would have picked the lock, but this needed to be done quickly.

Remy placed the flat of his hand against the door, just above the knob, and started to push. There was a loud crack, and the door swung into the office, pieces of the jamb dropping down onto the carpeted floor. He quickly entered, closing the door the best he could behind him.

He had to make this fast. He didn't know how early the staff was required to show up, but since there were animals to feed, he figured it had to be relatively early. Pulling the chain on the desk lamp, Remy began his search. First he went through the drawers in the old-fashioned wooden desk, removing all the contents — files, books, lecture notes — but came up with nothing.

He stood, surveying the office, his eyes darting about, searching every corner. In a small space between an old file cabinet and the wall, Remy found a leather briefcase like the one Casey said Jon had taken with him that night.

He snatched it from the floor and laid it down upon the desk, rummaging through every pocket and compartment, but the briefcase was empty.

"Damn it," he swore beneath his breath. For a moment, he thought he'd been close.

A rumble like the sound of an oncoming train filled the cramped quarters, momentarily returning him to alert, but then he realized, as he felt the warm current of air on his legs from the heating duct in the wall behind the desk, that it was only the sound of the heat coming on.

There was something odd in the smell of the heat.

He doubted that anyone else would have noticed, but there was no mistaking the smell of dried papyrus, no matter how slight. He dropped down to the floor to peer into the heating duct, the forced warm air, drying the moisture of his eyes.

The spark of excitement he felt upon finding the briefcase was back again, and he quickly searched the desk for something that would enable him to investigate further. In a top drawer he found a letter opener. Kneeling down, he used the flat tip of the blade to unscrew the metal grate in the wall.

Pulling the black grate away, he tentatively put his hand inside the warm duct and began to feel around. At first all he found were large clumps of dust and grit, and he was about to give up when the side of his hand brushed up against something rough.

Remy got down on his belly, looking into the darkness, and extended his reach even farther into the duct; there was definitely something there. Carefully, he felt around with fingertips, and then one by one, he withdrew the ancient scrolls, five in total. A scroll for each Horseman, giving them permission to unleash their full fury; the fifth a final edict from the Almighty stating that it was time for it all to be brought to a close.

Without the fifth opened, hope still remained alive.

Th-th-that's all folks! Remy heard the voice of a cartoon pig stutter as he gazed upon the ancient documents laid out before him on the floor. He felt some of the enormous weight of responsibility resting upon his shoulders lighten, but not all.

He carried the scrolls to the desk and began to place them inside the empty briefcase. The fifth he put in the pocket in the lining of his coat. Buckling the straps of the leather satchel, his eyes scanned the office one last time, desperate for some little thing that could send him down the right path to finding Israfil before whomever was pulling the Black Choirs' strings found him first.

The heat blowing from the grate caused the papers tacked to a bulletin board above it to flutter in the warm currents of air, revealing a hint of something familiar beneath them. With nothing to lose, Remy approached the bulletin board, lifting one of the fluttering pieces of paper higher to see what was tacked there. It was an old photograph of a small beach house at dusk, the sun setting beautifully in the background.

It was a nice picture, and Remy wondered if Jon or Israfil had taken it.

He suddenly recalled the watercolor painting and the framed photograph hanging on the wall of Casey and Jon's living room. They too were of a beach house. Stepping closer to the board, Remy began to lift up more of the papers, finding even more photographs beneath. Sensing that he might be on to something, he removed the first layer of documents to reveal a sort of collage dedicated to the quaint piece of beach property. Across the top of the board was tacked a heading that read, a little piece of heaven.

It felt as if a trap door had been sprung and the floor was dropping out from beneath him.

"I know where you are," Remy said, feeling his pulse quicken and his heart begin to race. He removed one of the yellowed Polaroids and stared at it.

"I know."

He shoved the picture into his coat pocket, grabbed the briefcase from the desk, and left the office. He would first hook up with Francis and Lazarus to find a safe place to store the scrolls, and then they would…

Remy froze as he turned the corner to the long corridor that would lead him back to the tunnel.

Listening.

Where before he'd heard the cry of a single lab animal, now he was hearing the cries of what sounded like hundreds. He listened to their frenzied voices, trying to decipher the cause of their panic.

Slowly, he began to walk down the hall, toward the laboratory door. He was surprised to see that it was open, and that someone was standing in the center of the room.

Somebody he knew. Somebody he would not have expected to see here in a million years, but then again, a few days ago he would never have expected to see him in his office either.

The angel's name was Galgaliel, and once he was a brother to Remy.

"Why are you here, Seraphim?" Remy asked the angel, who was clad entirely in black, his pale complexion almost corpselike in its appearance.

Galgaliel had been staring at the caged animals, and he slowly turned his attention toward Remy. "I think you have found something that we've been looking for," the angel said, the look in his pitch-black eyes more chilling than the inhospitable fall weather outside, as more pieces of the enormous puzzle began to drop into place with foreboding precision.

Remy turned to head toward the tunnel system, clutching the satchel beneath his arm. If he could lose the Seraphim in the miles of passages beneath the college, he just might make it out in one piece.

The problem was getting that opportunity.

Galgaliel appeared in front of him, wings of speckled brown spread wide, blocking his way before he was even aware that the angel had left the laboratory. He lashed out, a savage blow hurling Remy backward.

"Give that to me!" the Seraphim demanded, pointing to the briefcase.

Head ringing, feeling the pulse of his heart in his swelling lip, Remy got to his feet, but Galgaliel was there before he could recover. The angel grabbed hold of the briefcase, attempting to wrest it from his hands, but Remy held on tightly.

"Do you truly understand what you're doing?" he asked, struggling to hold on to the case. "Whose wrath you will incur?"

Galgaliel hit him again, and he lost his grip on the briefcase as he was propelled back into the laboratory.

The animals were berserk, the sounds of their howls and screeches nearly deafening in the confined space, the stink of their fear nauseating.

Remy climbed to his feet as he watched the Seraphim bending down to pick something up from the ground where it had fallen.

The beach house photograph.

His hand quickly checked his pocket and found it empty.

Galgaliel stared at the frozen image, the corners of his mouth twitching in what could have been an attempt at a smile, before sliding the photograph into a side pocket on the briefcase.

Remy's thoughts hummed with the possibilities of what he could do to the Seraphim, and the likelihood of failure, when Galgaliel turned his attention toward the cages.

"This is the one who wishes you harm," the Seraphim said, speaking in the tongue of the wild so that all would understand. "The one that wishes to cut your flesh and open your bellies."

The cages rattled with the ferocity of the animals' panic.

"That is, unless you harm him first."

And with his final words, Galgaliel flapped his majestic wings, stirring a moaning wind as tendrils of crackling angelic energy coursed from his fingertips to caress the cages.

One after another, the doors exploded open and the animals once confined within bounded toward Remy.

Eyes blinded with madness and malice.