From the air he looked down at multiple fire engines as they doused a car that had gone off the road into the woods and hit a tree.
A very familiar car.
“Son of a bitch,” Remy hissed, dropping out of the sky toward an ambulance parked a way up the back road. He willed himself unseen, touching down beside the open doors as a paramedic hopped out, calling to his partner, who was speaking with one of the firemen.
Remy withdrew his wings and angelic essence, assuming his human guise as he looked into the back of the emergency response vehicle to see a battered Steven Mulvehill strapped to a stretcher.
Silently he hopped in.
“Hey,” he said, feeling almost giddy that he’d found his friend alive.
Mulvehill’s neck was immobilized by a white plastic brace, and for a moment Remy thought he might have been unconscious.
He reached out, taking his friend’s hand in his.
And Mulvehill’s swollen eyes shot open, bulging wide as they looked upon Remy.
“It’s only me,” Remy said, smiling warmly at his friend.
“I know it’s you,” Mulvehill answered, alarm in his tone.
Remy checked Steven out. He was banged up pretty badly, but nothing looked to be too serious.
“What happened?” he asked, the guilt already beginning to grow.
“What happened,” Mulvehill repeated. “What the fuck happened?” Steven’s voice was growing louder, more intense. “You fucking happened is what happened. . . . You, Remy fucking Chandler.”
The words were like physical blows, but Remy could understand his friend’s anger.
“I’m sorry,” he said truthfully. “I had no idea. . . . I didn’t know.” He didn’t know what else to say; no amount of Scotch or steak dinners would make things right at the moment.
“Leave me alone,” Mulvehill said, closing his eyes.
“Where’s Eliza?” Remy asked.
Mulvehill looked at him strangely.
“Fernita,” Remy corrected himself. “Where’s Fernita?”
“She’s gone,” the homicide cop said. “Taken by some fucking monstrosity . . . a Shaitan or something; I don’t fucking know.” He moaned and closed his eyes again.
Hearing the word was like taking hold of a live wire. There had to be some kind of mistake.
“Shaitan?” Remy repeated. “Where did you hear that?”
“It’s what the angel with the three faces called it,” Mulvehill said, opening his eyes and scowling. “Now will you please get the fuck out of here and leave me alone.”
“Steven . . . ,” Remy began again, desperate for his friend to know how badly he felt. How sorry he was.
“Just get away from me,” Steven said, the fight going out of him as he finally succumbed to whatever drugs he had been given. “Please go away.”
Remy wanted to say more, but it wasn’t the time. Steven needed a chance to heal, time to wrap his brain around what he had experienced and survived.
Willing himself unseen, Remy jumped from the back of the ambulance as the two EMTs approached, one getting in the back with Steven while the other closed the doors and climbed into the driver’s seat.
Remy stood watching with a heavy heart as the ambulance was driven away, lights flashing and siren wailing.
For better or worse, his friend would never be the same again.
And for that, Remy was truly sorry.
Jon approached a portion of wall once hidden by stacks of boxes, his eyes focused on a block of sigils now exposed to the room.
It’s there to make you forget, Remy had said. He ran a finger over the strange shape, wondering whether it could have an influence over him, or if the spell was specific to this Eliza Swan.
There was part of him that would have liked to forget what he’d been through over the last twenty-four hours.
The image of Nathan strapped to the chair in the biodome, his body under the influence of the fruit from the tree, came to mind. He would have liked to forget that, to forget the screams of pain from the man he loved.
His vision started to blur, his eyes were so fixed upon the black shapes, but nothing changed. The horrible memories of the last day remained, still painful and raw, at the forefront of his thoughts. The magick had been only for Eliza.
But why? What did she have to forget that was so bad?
He guessed that it would all come to light once—and if—the woman was found, and the three of them were reunited with Malachi and Adam when the Garden returned.
A chill of excitement passed through him at the thought of Eden. How long had his people dreamed of that wonderful place denied to them? The Sons of Adam always had plans for the Garden; it had been the core of their mission since the order’s inception. They believed that once Adam was forgiven, Eden would return for him, and those who had cared for the first father’s needs would be allowed to live in Paradise forever.
He had never really believed that any of it was possible, but here it was on the verge of being true.
Jon made out the familiar sound of flapping wings from the kitchen, and knew that Remy had returned.
“Any luck?” he asked, tugging at his ear as he rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a living nightmare.
He let out an unmanly scream, stumbling backward into the hall.
Zophiel slowly approached, and Jon realized the Cherubim was injured.
Steady drips of angelic blood leaked from horrible wounds and from beneath sections of its filthy, and damaged, armor. The three faces that made up its fearsome visage appeared slack, unfocused, experiencing the effects of its injuries.
“You’re hurt,” Jon said, stating the obvious.
The creature of Heaven stopped, tilting its large head to one side, as if noticing him for the first time.
The face of the lion twitched, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air.
“There is danger in the Garden, Adam-son,” the Cherubim said, the voice coming from all three of its mouths, and loud enough that he could hear perfectly well. It lurched toward him, crashing to its armored knees as the blood continued to weep from its wounds. “Danger to us all.”
The Cherubim knelt there, its massive head bobbing as it struggled to remain conscious.
Jon surveyed the damage to the being. Huge pieces of its armored body had been ravaged, torn. . . . Are those bite marks? he wondered, seeing large areas of pale, bleeding flesh.
“What did this to you?” he asked in awe.
“The emerging danger,” Zophiel answered. “The first of the Shaitan to be born . . .” The Cherubim shook its head from side to side. “But not the last if Malachi returns to the Garden.”
The great angelic beast lurched, rising to one knee.
“The Garden must remain closed,” the Cherubim said. It reached toward its side, and pulled an enormous flaming sword seemingly from out of thin air. “If you must be slain to make this a reality”—the monstrous angel had risen to its full height, raising the burning blade to strike at him—“then so be it.”
Jon tensed, watching as the giant swayed on shaky legs, preparing to strike him dead. The sword descended in a hissing arc, cutting into and through the wood floor as he managed to evade the blazing strike.
He darted toward the angel, hoping to get around it and into the kitchen, where he could escape through the back door.
The angel roared, lashing out with its armored wings and tearing huge chunks of plaster from the wall as it spun to follow. Jon dropped to the floor, crawling on all fours as fast as he was able as the Cherubim pursued him.
“Do not make this harder than it has to be, Adam-son,” Zophiel said, two huge strides of his powerful legs allowing him to catch up to the fleeing man in an instant.
Jon flipped onto his back just in time to see the Cherubim again raise his sword. He continued to backpedal, sliding across the debriscovered floor until his back hit up against the lower kitchen cabinets.
“It is for the good of us all,” Zophiel roared as the blade started its descent.