A Kiss Before the Apocalypse (24 page)

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 unpainted, weathered shingles, a carved American eagle hanging above the front door, and lobster traps decoratively 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 himself 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.