But he would wait, see what the creature of the divine wanted first. Who knew, maybe he just stopped by for a drink, saw Francis, and was coming over to say hi.
And maybe pigs had suddenly learned to fly.
Eliza was wailing beautifully upon the stage, this time accompanied only by the fat man—Big James—on his guitar.
Francis watched her, but was totally aware of the angel now standing before him. “Can I help you with something?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the woman onstage.
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” the angel said, his voice oozing authority.
Francis glanced quickly at the angel and was surprised to see that he too was staring at Eliza.
“I believe we’ve both found what we’re looking for,” the angel said.
“Maybe you should start by telling me who you are and what you want,” Francis said, feeling what could only have been sharp pangs of jealousy.
The angel slowly turned his gaze to meet Francis’s.
“I am Malachi,” he said in a way that made Francis think it should have meant something to him.
“Am I supposed to know you?” he asked, retrieving his whiskey from where he’d placed it on the floor beside his stool. “Because I’m sorry to say I have no idea who you are . . . other than you’re obviously from that grand ballroom upstairs.”
“Grand ballroom?” Malachi questioned, before it eventually dawned on him. “I see, you make light of the Kingdom.” He nodded ever so slowly to show he understood, but Francis doubted that he really did. “You’re trying to be like them—the humans. I could never understand the need for this sense of humor. It was a trait I would have deemed worthless in the initial design, but the Allfather saw things differently.”
Malachi’s words were like a jab with a sharp stick. This talk of design and the Allfather piqued the former Guardian angel’s curiosity to the extreme.
“Now do you know who I am?” Malachi asked.
Francis knew of a powerful angel, one of the first to be created. It was he and the Morningstar who had stood by the Lord God’s side as He created the Heavens and the Earth below.
And yes, he had been called Malachi, but why would an angel of such power be here?
“You’re that Malachi?” Francis asked, hoping that he was mistaken.
“I am,” the angel said.
“But why are you here?”
“I am here for the same reason you are,” Malachi said, staring at the stage where Eliza and her band were deciding what song they would do next.
Francis’s hand drifted down toward his pocket. “You’re here to kill her.”
“No.” Malachi looked at him. “To save her.”
Francis’s head was spinning, and he was about to ask the angel to step outside so they could talk freely when there came a horrible commotion—the sound of smashing glass and splintering wood, followed by the screams of the Pelican Club patrons.
Francis jumped from his stool, removing the deadly blade from his pocket. The screams intensified as the air became rank with the smell of burning flesh and something else.
Something divine.
The smell of angel.
The cries of the fearful and the dying replaced Eliza’s songs. Francis watched in growing horror as the club’s patrons, engulfed in fire, ran to escape, too terrified to realize that they were already dead as the hungry flames burned them to nothing.
A Cherubim emerged from the smoke with a discordant roar. It had been a very long time since Francis had last seen one of the more beastly of the Heavenly hosts. The Cherubim were the Lord’s guard dogs, and he briefly considered the fate of Leo and Cleo on the front porch of the establishment.
What is something like that doing here? Francis wanted to know.
He watched as Melvin stood bravely before the forbidding angel, grabbing hold of a chair and swinging it wildly at its multiple faces in an attempt to drive it back.
It was the face of the lion that decided the club owner’s fate, its ravenous jaws opening to ridiculous proportions, snatching the man up, and biting him in half.
Francis had seen enough.
He was moving toward the Cherubim, knife poised and ready. But something grabbed hold of his arm with a steely grip.
Francis spun around and looked into the face of the angel Malachi.
“You won’t do much damage with the likes of that,” the elder angel said, making reference to Francis’s Enochian blade.
The Cherubim lifted its trifaced head, and its multiple eyes locked upon the angels. He spread his wings, fanning the smokefilled air eagerly before he started to charge.
“He’s looking for her,” Malachi said, taking his eyes briefly from the monstrosity coming at them to look at Eliza frozen upon the stage.
“Eliza!” Francis cried out, noticing for the first time that she was still inside.
But the Cherubim had noticed her too, changing his course and barreling across the club floor, tossing tables and chairs aside as if they were nothing.
“Get her to safety,” Malachi ordered. “You have to protect her for me.”
Then Francis saw that the angel held his own weapon in hand, a blade, long and narrow, that seemed to have appeared from nowhere, and looked as though it might have been made from a piece of the sun.
And for a brief moment, Francis actually believed that the two of them had a chance against the rampaging Cherubim.
Right before Malachi plunged the burning dagger into Francis’s eye.
Hell
Francis screamed at the top of his lungs, struggling against the restraints that held him upon the stone table.
Malachi withdrew his blade, the smell of burning angel flesh trailing behind it like a tail.
“There,” the angel lord said, placing a cold, dirty hand against Francis’s hot, sweating brow.
“What did you do to me?” Francis asked, his voice nothing more than a strained whisper.
“I made you forget,” Malachi replied with a knowing smile. Hell rumbled outside the caves, sending shock waves through the mountains. Dust and dirt rained down from the ceiling upon them. “But I left you with enough to do what needed to be done.”
Malachi turned and picked up a bucket nearby.
“She had to be protected,” he said, pulling a ladle of water from the bucket and bringing it to Francis’s lips. “And I could think of no one better to do that than a member of the Guardian host.”
Francis did not want the water; he wanted answers, but as the ladle touched his lips he slurped greedily until Malachi took it away.
“I don’t fucking understand,” Francis said as the angel tossed the ladle back into the bucket.
“And you shouldn’t,” Malachi said. “But it will all become clear as we progress.”
The scalpel was in his hand again, and Francis began to thrash in anticipation of what he knew was to follow.
“Let us continue,” Malachi said with cold efficiency.
And Francis steeled himself against the incredible agony, eager to know what this was all about.
Desperate to remember.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The swamp is trying to kill us, Remy thought as he was dragged deeper and deeper beneath the thick, muddy water.
But Remy was having none of that, thank you.
He called upon the Seraphim, but the essence of Heaven that resided inside him did not respond.
Swamp grass reached up from the silt-covered floor, wrapping around his ankles and drawing him down to the bottom of the swamp. Remy struggled in its grip as supernaturally invigorated currents swirled about his face, trying to force him to breathe.
Just take a deep breath, he imagined the swamp water saying in a thick Louisiana accent. Suck it in deep, boy, and all your troubles will be over.