A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

Chapter sixteen

They took Francis' car, the black Land Rover barreling down Route 3 on the way to the Cape.

It was sort of eerie, Remy thought, looking out the windows; the roads were nearly empty, despite the time of morning. It was rush hour, and traffic should have been at the max, especially on the other side, leading toward Boston.

"It's almost as if they can sense something's going to happen," Francis suddenly said, picking up on his vibe. The Guardian looked across at him. "Like they're just waiting for the other shoe to drop."

They'd had the radio on when they first hit the road, turning it off less than ten minutes into the journey. They didn't need to know how close the world was to the end.

It was pressure that they could live without.

"There're some CD's in the glove compartment," the fallen angel said to him. "Take your pick."

Remy pushed the button and opened the compartment.

To say that Francis' taste in music was eclectic was an understatement. Remy found examples of rock, pop, soul, hip-hop, and even some country, each new CD case uncovered providing him with another surprise.

"Barry Manilow?" Remy said, holding it up.

The fallen angel shrugged. "He writes the songs that make the whole world sing."

Remy decided that some Sinatra would be just the thing to calm his nerves. He placed the disc into the car's player, the Rover's high-end stereo system immersing them in the songs of Old Blue Eyes, as they drove on to inevitable conflict.

They continued on Route 3, and the closer they got to the Cape, the harder it seemed to rain. It wasn't long before they were the only vehicle on the road.

"I know how you feel about guns," Francis suddenly said, interrupting Remy's rumination on the words to "I've Got You Under My Skin." "But I stopped off at my storage bin and picked up some items that might come in handy."

"What kind of items?" Remy asked.

Francis reached out and turned the volume down. "Items that will be beneficial in dealing with the Black Choir, not to mention the Seraphim."

Remy didn't like the idea of weapons, or violence, for that matter, but he knew that there wasn't likely to be any choice. Whoever was responsible for what was going on wasn't about to allow them to waltz in and break up their plans.

Violence was inevitable.

Gazing out through the rain-spattered windshield, Remy again saw another sign of the impending Apocalypse. The Sagamore Bridge was empty of traffic, and they passed over the Cape Cod Canal without ever slowing down.

"That doesn't happen too often," Francis said, in- creasing the speed of his wiper blades to keep up with the watery onslaught.

Remy recalled the hours sitting in the summer traffic leading up to the bridge; how Madeline swore, year after year, that it was the last time that they would do it. But every year they had returned, seduced by the beauty of the Cape.

It took his wife's illness, not the seemingly never-ending traffic, to finally stop their visits.

They continued off the bridge up Route 6 to Well-fleet. Remy could feel a knot of anxiety growing in the pit of his stomach.

For about five seconds, after his final words with Madeline, he'd seriously considered just calling it quits, returning to Beacon Hill, picking up Marlowe, and going home to wait it out.

Losing the one you love had the ability to make you think some really stupid things. It had taken four seconds to come to this conclusion, and another second to berate himself for wasting time.

"How we doing?" Francis interrupted Remy's thoughts. They were on a long stretch of road, undeveloped property that wasn't likely to remain that way on either side.

Remy unfolded the map he'd printed out from Map-Quest earlier and gave it a quick perusal. "Ravenbrook Lane should be coming up on our right," he said, and before too long, Francis pulled the car over and turned off the Land Rover's engine.

"We're here," he said, leaning his bald head against the driver's-side window, gazing out at the weather. "So much for it clearing up."

Remy observed that even though it was morning, it seemed as dark as night here. "Figures," he said. "You finally get to come to the Cape and it's raining."

"Isn't it always that way, though?" Francis asked.

"Isn't it?" Remy responded in kind.

They got out of the SUV, going around to the back of the vehicle. Francis used his key to open the hatchback and put down the gate. He reached inside the back, throwing aside a blanket and opening a storage compartment.

"Now, I want you to be nice to these," Francis said, pulling out the items that were wrapped in a navy blue blanket. "They're quite valuable."

He set the blanket down on the gate and carefully began to unwrap it.

Remy had sensed them as soon as Francis opened the hatchback, like a tiny, musical voice singing from somewhere far off in the distance.

The two swords appeared ancient; their once-resplendent surfaces tarnished nearly black by the passing of years. He found himself stepping back, away from the blades.

It wasn't often that swords forged in the fires of God's fury showed up minus their owners.

"How did you come by these?" he asked, not able to take his eyes from the weapons.

"They were part of a cache of Heavenly weapons that supposedly went missing during the war," Francis explained. "Haven't a clue what happened to the others. These two were found in an archeological dig in Lebanon fifty or so years ago." The fallen angel stared lovingly at the blades. "Do you know how many bad guys I had to kill in order to afford these babies?"

Remy scowled. He'd never appreciated Francis' extracurricular activities as a hired assassin.

"Take your pick," his friend told him.

It had been thousands of years since he'd last wielded a sword, and he had sworn that he'd never do it again.

The weapons whispered to him of what they could accomplish in his hand; the enemies that would fall before their righteous power.

"I don't mean to rush you," Francis said over the hissing whispers of the weaponry. "But there's this thing called the Apocalypse we're trying to avoid."

Francis was right, and he had no choice this time.

"I'll take this one," Remy said as he reached down to the blanket, taking a tarnished blade by the hilt.

And the sword began to sing.

In the hands of any other, the sword would have been just that, performing as such, but in the hands of a member of God's Heavenly host, it was so much more.

The blade vibrated in his grasp, the heavy accumulation of tarnish and grime burning away in a snaking trail of oily smoke. He could feel the weapon attempting to make contact with his true nature, and silenced the communication with his mind.

"I think it likes you," Francis said.

Remy stared at the weapon in his hand. It had started to glow, sparks of yellow flame leaping from the blade's edge as he passed it through the air.

Francis claimed his own weapon, but with little effect. The blade remained the same, its surface dark and stained. The sword did not react to him, for he had fallen from the grace of the Creator.

"Not as pretty as yours, but it'll do," he said, slicing the air with the weapon, trying it out. "Oh yeah, take one of these too."

There was a smaller package wrapped within the blanket, and Francis flipped it open to reveal two ornate daggers. "The two sort of go together," he explained, handing Remy a knife with similar markings to those on the hilt of his sword.

Not sure where he should put it, Remy slid the knife through his belt, looking down to make sure that it would stay. It did.

"All right, then," he said with a sigh. "Should we give this a shot?"

Francis adjusted his glasses and hefted his sword. He had put his knife in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "Yeah, what the fuck? Already made the drive."

They walked side by side — swords in hand — down the dirt driveway that led to a small cottage. They'd willed themselves invisible. If anyone had seen them, the police would have been called immediately, reporting that there were two crazy people walking down the street with swords.

It was a traditional-style Cape dwelling, with un-painted, weathered shingles, a carved American eagle hanging above the front door, and lobster traps deco-ratively placed against the house on either side of the steps.

"Quaint," Francis said, changing his sword from one hand to the other.

"Yeah, I'm sure it's what every angel dreams of having," Remy said, looking around for any sign that they might not have been alone. The smell of the ocean was heavy in the breeze, the wind whipping the rain nearly horizontal.

"We going in?" Francis asked. The lenses of his glasses covered with raindrops, and Remy had to wonder how he could possibly see.

"I was thinking we should," Remy said, moving toward the front steps.

Francis followed, reaching ahead of him to take hold of the doorknob. "Allow me," he said, and he gave it a quick twist, an expression of surprise blooming on his face as the door opened easily.

"Look at that," he said. "I think we're expected."

The fallen angel threw open the door and bounded inside, his sword at the ready.

Remy followed, eyes darting around the living room as he closed the door behind him. A leather couch, a love seat, and three chairs, along with a coffee table and two end tables with matching lamps, made up the furnishings. Nothing looked out of place.

The house smelled stale, as if it had already been closed up tightly for the season.

Francis lowered his sword and headed toward the kitchen.

Remy closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, searching for a scent — any hint — that a member of his kind was there.

He didn't have long to wait.

"Hey, Remy," Francis called from the other room.

He continued through the living room and down a short brick corridor to a spacious kitchen that seemed much larger than it should. Francis stood beside a marble-topped island, gazing out through the glass sliding door at a wooden patio deck, and the beach beyond it.

Something was wrong with the beach.

It appeared to be low tide, but it was the lowest tide he had ever seen.

Multiple figures were standing upon what had once been the ocean floor, their attention riveted to the house.

"You think they're waiting for us?" Francis asked.

Remy looked at the sword in his hand; it had started to glow brighter, the golden flames sparking higher.

"I think we should go down and ask," he said. Francis looked through the glass of the sliding door. He made a face and shrugged. "Works for me."

Remy pulled open the sliding glass door to the deck outside.

The wind howled off of what used to be the ocean, the intensity of the rain like tiny pinpricks upon their exposed flesh.

Francis removed his horn-rimmed glasses and put them inside his shirt pocket.

They walked across the deck, down some steps, and crossed a small yard. Francis opened a gate at the end of the property and then the two of them descended a short flight of wooden steps to the beach below.

The closer they got, the more disturbing it all became. The ground that had once been the ocean floor was revealed to the world; seaweed and rocks and refuse that had lain at the bottom of the sea for years, exposed, as well as thousands of examples of ocean life writhing and flopping about in their death throes.

But their suffering went on and on, for they could not die.

An ominous rumble of thunder reverberated along the coastline. A white flash that resembled more the blast of a nuclear weapon than lightning illuminated the distant horizon, and Remy gasped at what he saw. The Horsemen.

They were giants, sitting astride their equally enormous mounts, waiting for the signals to unleash their intent. And then they were gone, lost in the gloom of the never-ending storm.

But Remy knew that they were still there, patiently waiting for the festivities to begin.

"I won't ask if you saw that," Francis said, staring straight ahead as they made their way toward the group of figures waiting for them on the beach.

Remy was about to warn Francis to be on his guard when he saw it from the corner of his eye. A patch of what he thought to be part of the storm-blackened sky dropped down suddenly, flowing toward them.

"Watch it!" Remy managed, as the patch of darkness expanded, enveloping them both in its freezing embrace.

The shadow was all-encompassing, but the sword that Remy carried provided them with a small area of light.

He and Francis stood back to back, swords raised. They were silent, tensed, and ready, listening to the scuttling and rustling of their opponents beyond the small circle of light.

"Did I mention how much I hate these guys?" Francis asked, as the first of the Black Choir emerged from its hiding place within the concealing shadows.

It crawled along the ground, malformed wings folded upon its back. It saw Francis and stopped, a spark of fear in its jaundiced eyes. The Guardian between Pandemonium and Earth was not someone that anyone — fallen or exalted — truly cared to mess with.

Remy had always believed that it was a good thing that Francis was on his side.

The Choir member's flesh appeared injured, its body speckled with open wounds, exposing muscle and bone.

An aftereffect of Francis' special shotgun blasts from the previous night, Remy guessed, raising his sword and bringing it down upon the vile creature's back.

The demonic angel shrieked as the burning blade cut into its pale, loathsome flesh. It flipped onto its injury with an animalistic hiss, grabbing the sword blade with both hands before Remy could withdraw it.

"A blade of God in the hands of one who has shunned the glory of its master," the fallen angel screamed, the flesh of its fingers blackening as it tried to hold on to his sword.

Remy tugged on the blade.

Other members of the Choir emerged from the black, some flying, others charging. They had their own weapons as well, nasty blades and clubs that looked as though they had been formed from the shadows where they made their home.

Francis met their attack head-on, his tarnished blade not having as dire an effect, but the sharpness of its edge proving to be more than devastating. The screams of the injured Black Choir were deafening.

Using all his strength, Remy yanked on his weapon, watching the charred and blackened fingers of his opponent break away with a snapping-kindling sound. He spun around to assist his friend, the glow of the blade seeming to instill in the Choir a certain level of fear.

"Wish mine did that," Francis said, bringing his blade down upon the skull of a fallen angel that suddenly swooped from the darkness above, nearly cleaving it in two.

But the angel did not die, and neither did any of its brethren.

"You cannot stop us, deserter of the faith," one of the Choir moaned, charging from the shadows to rip at Remy's face. He turned his body around as it leapt upon his back. "The danger of what you have done will be shown, and humanity will pay the price."

Remy didn't understand what the abomination was going on about. He thrust back with his sword, feeling the glowing blade pass through the emaciated flesh of its stomach before biting into the spinal column. The Choir member cried out in pain, attempting to take flight from its perch upon his shoulders, but the blade was stuck firm, and all it could do was struggle to free itself.

"Let me help you with that," Francis said, coming to aid him, his own sword cutting deeply into the Choir member's chest, knocking it back.

Remy pulled his blade free with a grunt of thanks and turned his attention to the next wave of attack.

The Choir were burnt, cut, and mutilated, but still they came.

"Why?" Remy asked, his anger fueling his fury, causing him to remember — and embrace — the warrior's high that he had attempted to escape for so very long. "Why would you risk this? The end of all things would result in your deaths as well!"

The Choir halted their actions, clumping together to glare at him with pain-filled eyes from the shadows that shifted like thick smoke.

"We would risk anything to be forgiven," one of them said in a chilling whisper, as if merely saying the words could result in some form of punishment. "To again be allowed in His presence."

They all bowed their heads in reverence, praying for it to be so.

"Forgiven?" Remy asked.

Francis stood beside him, his friend's face spattered with the lifeblood of their enemies. "Somebody's been feeding them a lie," the Guardian said.

"Who told you this?" Remy demanded to know. "Who told you that God would forgive you if…"

There was a sudden, searing flash of white.

The Black Choir screamed in agony as their pale skin was burnt from their bodies, Remy's and Francis' own cries of pain joining with the creatures of shadow.

Remy fell to his knees, shielding his eyes from the pulsing emanations. He could barely make out the shape of someone within the white fire, searing light streaming from its outstretched hands like the rays of the sun.

It was the light of the divine; the power of God given to those who served His most holy cause. If Remy had been merely human, it would have burned his flesh and turned his bones to ash. It was another painful reminder of what he truly was, and could never hope to be.

The Choir's screams had ceased, but now Remy's ears were filled with the agonized moans of his friend.

The light of the divine burned him worse, for he had fallen from the grace of God.

"Stop it!" Remy screamed, feeling around until his hands found Francis' thrashing body. Remy threw him- self atop the Guardian, blocking his body from the destructive effects of the holy glow.

The power of Heaven roiled inside him, awakened by the purity of the light. Remy could feel it stirring, trying to push aside the humanity he had worked so hard to emulate. "Show yourself to me!" he demanded of their attacker.

And the light was extinguished as quickly as it was ignited, returning the world to darkness and gloom. The remains of what had been the Black Choir lay about Remy, the blackened bodies still twitching with life. He lifted himself from atop Francis, who was curled into a quivering ball on the dry ocean floor, his body smoldering from the touch of the divine emanations.

"Are you all right?" Remy asked, reaching out to grip his friend's shoulder. A portion of his jacket crumbled beneath his hand.

Francis shivered and lifted his head. "Fucking awesome," he managed, his teeth chattering as if painfully cold.

Remy squeezed his upper arm reassuringly, and climbed to his feet to face his foes.

The Seraphim stood together, and he was reminded of the last time he had seen them, when they had come to his office to ask for his help.

He should have known better.

"Hello, Remiel," Nathanuel said, the rain vaporizing as it touched him, forming a billowing mist about his human guise. "We've been waiting."

Remy felt his anger surge, the angelic fury that was at his core straining to be released, but he managed to hold it at bay.

But for how long?

Once these Seraphim — Nathanuel, Galgaliel, Han-iel, and Zophiel — had been his brothers, but now, as he looked at the mayhem around him, the distance between him and them grew even greater. He strode across the wet sand toward the gathering of angels, stopping briefly to let a crab skitter across his path as it searched for a place to hide until things returned to normal.

If they returned to normal.

"What are you doing?" he asked, spreading his arms out before him. He looked to the left of the Seraphim, his eyes falling upon the shrinking form of Lazarus, standing off to the side with Casey Burke, trying not to be noticed. Casey was bound and gagged, her eyes pleading with Remy to free her from this madness.

"Laz? So you are a part of this, too?" he asked the immortal who he had once thought of as his friend.

Lazarus squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head from side to side. "No!" he screamed, his body trembling with suppressed anger. "Don't you judge me," he growled, refusing to look at Remy. "Don't you dare judge me."

Casey whimpered and tried to pull away, but Lazarus viciously yanked her back, forcing her to her knees. Her eyes were on Remy, pleading, and he wished he knew what to do.

It was all so much bigger than he had imagined.

"You're responsible… for all of this," Remy said, turning his attention to Nathanuel, contempt oozing from his every word.

The Seraphim leader seemed taken aback. "Oh, no, Remiel," he said with a shake of his head. "It is you who are responsible, as is he."

Nathanuel and the Seraphim stepped to one side to reveal a lone figure dressed in a sopping wet Grateful Dead T-shirt and jeans, kneeling in the sand as if deep in prayer.

Remy had no doubts that this was Israfil, in the guise of Jon Stall.

"What did you do to him?" Remy asked, watching as the man muttered beneath his breath, rocking from side to side, so lost in his own place that he didn't seem aware of where he was and what was happening to him.

The Seraphim chief stared at the man, a snarl forming on his smooth, pale features. "He did it to himself," the angel said. "Seduced by the infection that is humanity." Nathanuel turned his attention back to Remy. "And it has nearly destroyed him."

He couldn't believe his ears. "And for that, you allow the world to be brought to the edge of the Apocalypse."

Nathanuel smiled, that same cold, predatory smile that had disturbed Remy so in his office.

"To the edge, and beyond," the angel said coolly. "The Almighty must be shown the danger of desiring humanity… of longing for what He has denied us, the first and most loving of His creations."

Remy laughed, a horrified sound lacking any trace of humor. "You're going to allow the world to end because you're jealous?" he asked, his voice growing louder with indignation. "Because the Almighty saw fit to give humanity a spark of His divinity… asoul?"

The Seraphim simply stared.

"You're out of your fucking mind," Remy snarled. "No," Nathanuel stated, his dark eyes sparking with anger. "This whole place is out of its… fucking mind, and the contagion must be quelled before it can spread any further."

"What are you so afraid of?" Remy asked, striding toward the angel, fists clenched. "Are you afraid that more of your kind… our kind will want to be like them? Are you afraid that you and your ideas about what it means to serve the Creator will become obsolete?"

Enormous wings of the purest white unfurled from Nathanuel's back, one of the feathered appendages extending to viciously swat Remy aside before he could get too close.

Remy fell the ground against the slime-covered rocks, the seaweeds, and the fish gasping for life — or death. His mouth filled with the taste of copper, blossoms of color exploding before his eyes.

"You dare speak to me of loyalty?" the Seraphim leader growled. "You, who deserted your duty to walk amongst the animals? You are no better than the Gri-gori filth."

Remy slowly rose, wiping scarlet from his mouth with the back of his hand. "At least the Grigori don't conspire with the enemy," he said as he spit a wad of blood in the direction of the still-twitching remains of the Black Choir.

"Desperate times require desperate measures," Na-thanuel proclaimed. "Is that not right, Lazarus? The Black Choir would have destroyed this world themselves if it meant getting back into His good graces. They yearn so desperately to be forgiven."

"Let me guess," Remy said, nodding toward Lazarus, who still refused to meet his gaze. "You promised him that he would finally get to die."

Nathanuel covered his mouth with a thin white hand, feigning surprise. "So devious… it's almost as if I were human."

Remy heard the sound of a labored laugh behind him and turned his head slightly to see that Francis had managed to rise to his feet, tarnished blade of Heaven still clutched in his blistered hand.

"I always said you were a prick, Nathanuel," the fallen angel spat. "And this just shows what an excellent judge of character I am."

The Guardian's exposed flesh was an angry red, covered in oozing sores, and he swayed a bit as if the ground beneath his feet was moving. Remy backed toward him, retrieving the dagger that Francis had given him earlier from his belt.

"Where's your sword?" Francis asked him.

"Dropped it somewhere back there," Remy replied, getting used to the feel of the knife in his hand.

"You just can't have anything nice, can you?"

Remy didn't have the opportunity to respond, for Nathanuel's voice rang out.

"Take them!"

And his three Seraphim soldiers were upon them, pulling swords from within the folds of their flowing coats. Francis threw himself into the fray with little hesitation, his blade thrust deflected by Zophiel's own. The Seraphim spread their wings, shrieking their excitement. It had been too long since these warriors of Heaven had seen conflict, since they had spilled the blood of their enemies.

From the corner of his eye, as he attempted to keep Galgaliel and Haniel away with his knife, Remy saw Francis fall. The flat of Zophiel's blade struck the Guardian with a vicious blow to the head that sent him sprawling. Distracted by the sight, his Seraphim foes attacked as one, driving Remy down to the cold, wet sand, tearing the knife from his grasp.

"So much less than you were," Nathanuel said, contempt dripping from every word as he stood over him.

Remy tried to climb to his feet, but Nathanuel slashed at him with his wings, driving him to his belly.

"Stay down, Remiel," the Seraphim ordered. "Things are too far along for you to prevent them now." The Seraphim chief arched his back, furling his wings, and they disappeared from sight as he paced before him. "I believe you still have something that we need," he said slyly, looking over his shoulder.

As Haniel roughly searched his clothing, Remy smiled, knowing that at last he had the upper hand.

But his superiority was all too short-lived.

"Master, we have it," Galgaliel called out, and Remy lifted his head to see Zophiel removing the fifth scroll of the Apocalypse from inside the jacket of a struggling Francis.

Remy watched in horror as Galgaliel handed the delicate piece of parchment to his master.

"We doubted you would be so foolish as to bring it with you," Nathanuel said, holding the potentially destructive document in his hand. "But we were obviously wrong."

Remy stared at Francis in disbelief. "You couldn't have left it in the car?"

Francis weakly swatted off Zophiel and Galgaliel, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. "Yeah, but I thought we'd be able to use it as a bargaining chip," he said, shaking his head to clear away the cob- webs. "I'll admit; it wasn't one of my better ideas." The Guardian made an attempt to stand, but the Seraphim shrieked their displeasure, beating him back down to the ground with their powerful wings.

Nathanuel held the final scroll in his pale, delicate hand, devouring it with his cold black eyes. In it he saw his plans come to fruition, and the pleasure that it brought to his face was most chilling.

"All right, then," Nathanuel said. "Let us commence."

It was the most human Remy had ever seen the Seraphim chief look.