A Kiss Before the Apocalypse (13 page)

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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 Grigori 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.

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 dust-pan 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.