Mean Streets (37 page)

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Authors: Jim Butcher

BOOK: Mean Streets
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And they survived like that, hiding from those who wished them gone, sleeping through the passage of ages, waiting for a time—a
safe
time—to emerge.
Through a thick gauze of webbing Remy watched as a man clad in heavy winter garb, protected from the harshness of the elements, moved toward them.
Noah.
Sensing changes in the world, and in him, they had reached out, drawing him to their hiding place. And begging their forgiveness, he pulled them from their womb of shadow.
Noah at last finding his Chimerian orphans.
Remy felt the hold on him released, and he peered again into the limitless depths of the darkness, searching for the one who had called to him.
He got to his feet and moved farther into the nebulous embrace, the light of his hand nearly useless in the supernatural environment.
“Are you here?” he asked. “Show yourself to me.”
The Mother responded to Remy’s request; her form, as well as the forms of the other Chimerian survivors, gradually moved into focus.
It was as if they were lying in a great nest crafted from the stygian gloom, six of them, several still pregnant with the fruit of their union with the emissaries. They appeared to be asleep, but their minds were active.
Remy could feel them all reaching out to him, attempting to communicate, but one voice remained the loudest.
The Mother.
Remiel,
she spoke inside his mind.
He looked down into the nest, and for a moment he saw the love of his life as he had watched her so many times, fast asleep.
The picture of a sleeping Madeline quickly changed to that of the Chimerian Mother. She appeared smaller than the others, having already borne her young.
The children that he’d encountered.
I felt you out there,
the Mother whispered wearily.
A compassionate consciousness to hear our plea.
“What would you have me do?” Remy asked, kneeling down beside the nest.
Will you speak for us, warrior of Heaven?
she asked.
When we are at last gone, driven from existence, will you remember us?
“I’ll help Armaros,” Remy told her. “We’ll continue what Noah began and—”
Too late for that,
she said resignedly.
Our time draws near. Tell me that you will remember us for what we were, and not as some blight upon the early land.
“I’ll help you,” he said, the words leaving his mouth just as the Mother began to scream.
Remy didn’t know what to do. Reaching down, he took her hand in his. “What’s happening?” he asked.
It has begun. The end of us . . .
“What can I do?” he demanded. There had to be something.
The other women began to moan and writhe, as if held in the grip of some terrible nightmare. The smell of magick was suddenly in his nostrils, and Remy turned in the darkness.
Something was appearing behind him, a jagged, lightning-bolt tear was ripped in the shroud of shadow that had protected the Chimerian women. Remy sensed the danger at once, rising to his feet and allowing the warrior side of him to bubble to the surface.
The Grigori spilled from the open wound into the chamber, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
“No!” Remy screamed in the voice of the Messengers, his wings of feathered gold spreading from his back, forming a barrier between them and the Chimerian women.
And then he felt her touch again, pulling him back. Drawing him down.
The Mother had brought him into a vision.
They were at the Maine cottage, standing inside the extra room. Wearing the image of his wife, she attempted to console him.
“There’s nothing that you can do,”
she said, standing before the open window, the wind pulling at her clothes. It had become like night outside, the air electric with the coming storm.
“Don’t let them do this,” Remy said, unable to keep the tremor of emotion from his voice.
“We always suspected that it could end this way,”
the Mother, wearing the guise of Madeline, said. She reached out and cupped the side of his face.
“Remember.”
Then the storm was upon them, and the rain began to fall.
 
 
 
Remy awoke to the smell of blood. He could still feel the Mother’s touch, restraining him from the inevitable.
There is nothing you can do.
But Remy did not want to believe it, fighting the grip that held him. In the womb of darkness, he heard the sounds of their excitement, and looked to see the Grigori attackers, their fine Italian suits spattered black with blood as they murdered the defenseless survivors of the Great Deluge.
Something snapped inside Remy, and the power of Heaven rushed forward with a terrible fury. He let it come, letting it trample his humanity in its excitement to emerge.
The light thrown from his body burned like the heart of the sun, and he heard the Grigori squeal like frightened animals as they were driven back, away from their murderous acts.
But it appeared he was too late. The Chimerian women were dead, their defenseless bodies bearing the bloody wounds of the fallen angels’ shame.
“Remiel,” a voice called from behind him.
He turned to see Sariel coming toward him through the darkness, a pale hand raised to shield his eyes from the heavenly light.
“We feared for your safety.”
In his other hand the Grigori held a sword, an ancient blade that had been forged in the fires of the Lord God’s love, and had once glowed like a star, but now was only a thing of metal, tarnished and stained by needless violence.
“What have you done, Sariel?” Remy asked, barely able to contain his emotion as he looked upon the women savagely brutalized by the Grigori.
“We suspected you might be in danger,” Sariel spoke. “And came at once to your aid.”
The Seraphim laughed, a low, rumbling sound more like a growl.
“Your concern for my well-being . . . is touching,” Remy said.
And then he turned his cold gaze upon the Grigori leader.
“You used me, Sariel,” he said, repressed fury dripping from every word.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the Grigori leader responded indignantly.
“You made me part of this,” Remy hissed. The glow from his body had dwindled, the darkness of what had transpired draining away the intensity of his light.
“Don’t you see, Remiel?” Sariel asked. “You were part of our test.”
All Remy could do was stare at the sight of something once holy, now but a twisted reflection.
“The Almighty provided you for us to complete our penance,” the Grigori leader went on. His brothers stepped cautiously into the light to join their leader. “You were a tool of our redemption.”
“Redemption,” Remy said, the word like poison on his lips. “You actually believe that after all you’ve done . . .”
His eyes were pulled to the Chimerian bodies and he stopped.
“The Lord God provided us with a way to consummate a task that had remained incomplete for countless millennia,” Sariel continued to explain. “How could we not respond?”
“And Noah?” Remy asked.
“He has been avenged,” Sariel proclaimed, raising his sword as if in victory.
“You murdered him,” Remy raged. He turned his gaze back to the Grigori master; the fire of Heaven burned in his stare.
Sariel started to speak, but Remy did not want to hear it. He charged at the fallen angel, grabbing the lapel of his suit jacket and pulling him closer.
“You killed him in a fit of rage,” Remy accused, his teeth clenched in anger. “You beat a defenseless old man to death with your fists.”
“I lost my temper,” the Grigori admitted, followed by a sigh of exasperation. “He was just so damned stubborn. Wracked with guilt over what he believed he had done . . . you should have seen how excited he was when he thought that he’d found them.”
Remy felt himself becoming sick as the fallen angel attempted to justify his twisted actions.
“He didn’t see the danger no matter how hard I tried to explain it,” the Grigori said, his words fervent. “He told me that he was going to beg God to let them live . . . that because they had survived the flood He should allow them to exist. That they had earned the right to life.”
Sariel actually seemed to believe what he was saying, and that Remy found even more disturbing.
“Here was our chance, Remiel,” the Grigori leader emphasized. “Something to bring us that much closer to going home . . . to be allowed back to Heaven.”
“But you killed him,” Remy reminded the Grigori leader with a shake.
“Yes, I did,” Sariel admitted. “Not sure exactly how
that
will be received, but at least we’re finishing what the flood began. That has to count for something. I wasn’t about to allow anything to prevent me from completing what should have been finished ages ago.”
Sariel glanced at the hand still holding his lapel.
“It’s done, Remiel,” Sariel said. “This is how it was supposed to be. For us to finish what had already been put in motion; it was a test for us, penance for one of our greatest . . . misjudgments.”
“Misjudgments?” Remy asked, scorn in his words. “But the children . . .”
Sariel looked to the corpses, distaste upon his pale, perfect face.
“An error better left forgotten,” he snarled, removing Remy’s hand from his suit coat. “They were twisted things, Remiel, neither of Heaven nor Earth.”
“They were yours.”
He searched the fallen angel’s eyes, looking for even a small sign of mercy or compassion. It was like staring into a deep, dark hole. There was nothing there, and Remy knew that Sariel and his Grigori brothers were lost.
What they believed of the Chimerian was true of them—there was no place for the Grigori in Heaven, or on Earth.
Remy heard a sound, a howl of mourning from the throats of children born of Grigori and Chimerian women. He turned toward the song to see them, squatting at the edge of darkness, clinging to one another as they ached over the fate that had befallen their Mother.
The Chimerian lament filled the shadows, becoming louder, and their sadness became palpable. One by one, the Grigori dropped to their knees, supremely affected by the woeful song.
Perhaps I am wrong about them,
Remy thought.
All were affected except for Sariel.
The Grigori leader looked upon his brothers with horror. “Get up!” he screamed, but either they did not hear him over the sad song or they chose to ignore his words, for they continued to kneel upon the ground soaked with the blood of innocents.
“Listen to it,” Remy yelled over the forlorn sound. “Listen to the pain you’ve caused.”
Blood started to seep from Sariel’s ears. His body grew stiff, and began to tremble. Slowly his knees began to bend, bringing him closer and closer to the ground.
“I . . . ,” Sariel grunted, stabbing the blade of his sword into the ground to halt his progress.
“Hear . . .” He fought the gravity of sorrow pushing down upon him, to struggle to his feet.
“Nothing!” And he sprang across the floor, murder in his gaze as he raised his tarnished blade to strike at those who would keep him from achieving that which he most desired.
That which would keep him from the gates of Heaven.
Remy sprang into Sariel’s path, grappling with the fallen angel and driving him to the cold, hard ground. The Grigori flailed, lashing out with the pommel of his sword, striking Remy across the temple with a savage blow.
There was a searing flash of pain and color as Remy felt the Grigori squirm out from beneath him. He fought back the descending curtain of oblivion, flapping his powerful wings to rise to his feet.
The Chimerian babes had ceased their song as they watched the scene unfold with wide, frightened eyes. They hissed, baring razor-sharp teeth as Sariel loomed, sword raised above his head, ready to fall.
The Seraphim emerged with a roar, pushing aside the fragile shell of humanity Remy wore, burning it with the fire of Heaven. And Remy let it. He was tired of all the pain and death, tired of being manipulated in others’ pursuits of Heaven.
With hands burning white with divine heat, he grabbed the Grigori leader, pulling him back away from his objectives.
Away from his children.
Sariel struggled in the grasp of the Seraphim, and his fine suit and the flesh beneath it burned with the supernatural fire. He spun on Remy, swinging his sword with a cry of fury and pain.
But the Seraphim was not impressed, capturing the blade in midswing, causing the weapon to warp and bend, and finally to melt.
Sariel’s screams were entirely of pain now as his immortal flesh blackened and smoldered, but the Seraphim held him tight, refusing to set him free.
Allowing the power of God that seethed at his core to flow through him and into the fallen angel.
“You wanted to see Heaven again, brother?” the Seraphim spoke in the language of God’s first creations. “See it now.”
The Grigori leader still lived, but his body had begun to crumble, pieces of charred angel flesh breaking away to drift on the air like black snow.
“See it and burn.”
And soon the angel Sariel was no more, as the last of him was consumed by the voraciousness of Heaven’s fire.
The Seraphim flapped his powerful wings, dispersing his fallen enemy’s ashen remains, and turned his attention to the others. They had risen to their feet, weapons in hand, staring at him with intense hatred.
And the Seraphim’s mouth twisted in a cruel smile that told he was ready to share their master’s fate with them. None moved.
Having no fear of them, the Seraphim Remiel turned his back on the Grigori to face the children of the deluge. They looked away from him with a hiss, the intensity of his light searing their sensitive eyes.

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