A Kiss Before the Apocalypse (25 page)

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.

Once these Seraphim—Nathanuel, Galgaliel, Haniel, 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 . . . a soul?”

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 Grigori 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,” Nathanuel 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 cobwebs. “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.

T
he Seraphim loomed over Remy and Francis, attack dogs from Heaven, making sure that they stayed on their knees in the sand, as Nathanuel approached Jon Stall with the scroll.

The rains continued to fall, the nearly black sky slashed with glowing jags of lightning, followed by roars of rolling thunder.

The Horsemen are growing impatient,
Remy thought, watching as the Seraphim chief stood over the pathetic wreck of a man who was once one of the most powerful angelic beings in all the Choirs.

Nathanuel lifted a beckoning hand, and Galgaliel moved toward him. From within his flowing black coat, he produced the leather briefcase. He reached inside, gingerly removing the other four scrolls, and carefully laid them down upon the sand in front of Israfil.

Remy could feel it churning in the air, the impending end of all things. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to do something, but no, he had to wait.

Wait for an opportunity.

He only hoped it wouldn’t be too long in coming, for there didn’t seem to be much time left for the world. He looked to the Heavens, searching for a sign from God, anything that indicated He would step in and make things right. But he could see nothing, and it didn’t surprise him in the least.

God is funny that way,
Remy mused,
that whole working-in-mysterious-ways business defined in moments like this.
He could picture the Almighty watching this whole scene unfolding, a big bowl of popcorn—or the Heavenly equivalent—on His lap, dying to know how it would all turn out.

“It’s time, Israfil,” Remy heard Nathanuel say, his statement punctuated with a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. The Seraphim leader still held the last scroll, the final message from God, in his thin, pale hand.

Israfil didn’t seem to hear the angel. He continued to rock from side to side, whispering beneath his breath.

Nathanuel stepped closer and poked him with the toe of his black shoe. “Do you hear me, Israfil? It is time to slough off your masquerade of flesh and bring closure to this failed experiment.”

Israfil rocked all the faster, his voice growing louder, and finally Remy could understand his words. He was apologizing, saying over and over again how sorry he was to have caused so much pain and suffering.

“You can end the pain.” Nathanuel squatted beside him and spoke into his ear. “All you need do is open the scrolls.”

The Seraphim chief touched the final scroll to Israfil’s chest, urging him on. “The constant barrage of sadness, pain, and suffering—I don’t know how you can stand it, especially now.”

Israfil’s prayers for forgiveness intensified, as if attempting to drown out the angel’s words.

“Take it,” Nathanuel ordered, poking him with the scroll. “Take it and fulfill your final purpose. End the experiment. Do the humane thing and free them all from their misery.”

The man’s swaying movements began to cease, and Remy felt the pounding of his own heart intensify. Slowly, Israfil turned his haunted features toward the angel kneeling beside him.

“I wanted to know what it was like,” he said, voice trembling. “I just wanted to know, but I never expected . . .” He shook his head, teary eyes wide in disbelief. “So much beauty and happiness . . . but also so much ugliness and pain.”

Nathanuel reached out a tender hand, cupping the side of Israfil’s face. “It’s chaos, my brother, unrelenting chaos, and it is up to you to bring order to it.”

There was a look in the eyes of the Angel of Death, as if the Seraphim’s words had somehow permeated a thick fog that surrounded his thoughts. He took the scroll from Nathanuel in a trembling hand.

“Israfil, no!” Remy screamed, lunging toward him. “It doesn’t have to end. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

Galgaliel pounced upon Remy, forcing him back down to his knees, driving his face toward the sand.

Scroll in hand, Israfil looked at Remy. . . . No, it was Jon Stall who looked out through bleary eyes, and for a moment, Remy thought that there might be hope.

But the moment was fleeting.

And as if on cue, Nathanuel lunged at Remy. “Silence! ” he thundered, grabbing Remy’s face roughly in his hands, forcing him to meet the Seraphim’s scowling gaze. “I despise this world, this miserable ball of dirt with its ragged emotions and savagery,” he said. “How the Creator can muster such affection for mankind, I cannot even begin to understand. These are the creations that followed us, the Heavenly Choirs?
This
is how the Almighty intended to improve upon
us
? It’s enough to make me doubt His sanity.

“Lucifer Morningstar was right, but he let his righteous indignation get in his way. Now it’s my turn. Now
I
can prove our supreme worth to Him.” He shoved Remy aside and turned back to the Angel of Death. “Proceed, Israfil,” he urged. “It is for the best.”