But it was gone, leaving only the insanity and a berserker rage over what had been stolen from him.
The battle in the Garden with the Seraphim Remiel was fierce. He had wanted to tell the warrior angel that something wasn’t right, but he was unable to do so. The thoughts and the words that needed to follow would not come. There was only the anger . . . and the disease of madness that plagued him.
The Cherubim fled the realm of Heaven to the stars, hoping to escape the insanity, but it clung like burning oil, eating away at him and his most holy purpose. Soon, the sentry knew, there would be little left; only the fury and destruction that followed in his wake would define him.
But in the world of God’s man, there came a change.
He could hear it far in the back of his mind, something that spoke to memories that had been buried so deep beneath layers of smoldering ash.
He did not understand what it spoke of, but felt the emotion that it roused in him, and knew that if he found this source, this irritating cacophony of visions, sounds, and smells, and destroyed it, that maybe . . . maybe he would remember what it was all about.
There were countless millennia of searching, most of the time the source of what he hunted having grown eerily silent, leaving him with only the jabbering insanity that had come to personify him.
The Cherubim haunted the Earth, searching . . . hunting . . . for the thing that would clear his mind, and free him from the slavery of madness.
He’d even worn the guise of one of God’s humans, hoping that perhaps whatever it was that he stalked could be tricked into emerging into the light so that he might see.
And eventually he did in fact see, and slowly, little by little, it was returned to him.
Zophiel recalled the dire threat to Eden, Heaven, and all the Heavenly hosts, as well as the one who was responsible.
Just in time to die.
Remiel felt the death of Zophiel as if it were his own, the fire of Heaven that burned hot and powerful at the center of his being suddenly burning so brightly . . . so furiously . . . and then it was gone, leaving behind a cold, creeping darkness that eventually became . . .
Nothing.
The shock of oblivion was enough for Remy to take his humanity back, to suppress his angelic nature enough to resume control, but it wasn’t an easy task.
The Seraphim was enraged by the thought of something that dared to threaten his Lord God, His Kingdom, and the Garden that He loved.
Remy placated the angry creature that lived inside him, promising him he would be set free to deal with the offenders in the only way that the Seraphim knew how.
Through the rite of combat.
The Seraphim knew that this was a battle that would test him, that there was a chance that he would not survive—that he could be vanquished by the Shaitan—but that was something the divine being always knew was a possibility.
And it made him yearn for the taste of violence all the more.
“All those years with the Sons of Adam,” Remy said, holding the blade tight, lifting it to eye level. “It wasn’t Malachi at all.”
“What?” Jon asked, moving closer, but stopping just before the pile of ash that had once been the Cherubim Zophiel.
“It was a Shaitan,” Remy explained.
“Shaitan,” Jon repeated. “And what exactly is that?”
“Something that shouldn’t even exist,” Remy said, his eyes drawn to the beauty of the blade that he held. He could feel it bonding with him, and he with it.
The Seraphim was very happy about this, a hum like some sort of prehistoric cat’s purr vibrating at his core.
“The Shaitan were an idea—a concept—when the Lord God and Malachi were creating the beings that would serve Him.”
“The first angels?” Jon suggested, attempting to understand what Remy was saying.
“No, something far darker,” Remy said. “Rumor has it that they were going to be made from the cold darkness that existed before God brought forth His divine light. But the Lord didn’t trust the darkness, choosing instead to fashion His messengers from a portion of His own inner glow.”
Remy paused, considering what he now knew.
“They were never supposed to exist,” he said. “They were never created.”
“Well, at least one of them was,” Jon reminded him.
“Yeah,” Remy said, remembering what he had seen from Zophiel’s memory of Eden: that Malachi had left something in the Garden. He saw the rich, fertile soil as if he were there, sensing that something very wrong had been planted there.
Something that was growing . . . maturing.
“At least one . . . for now.”
“For now,” Jon repeated. “Are you suggesting that there might be more of these things . . . these Shaitan?”
“I believe as Zophiel did,” Remy said. “That Eden . . . and eventually Heaven itself, could be in great danger.”
Jon looked at him with eyes desperate for answers, the events unfolding traveling far outside what he was capable of comprehending.
The Seraphim knew what had to be done, and this time Remy did not seek to argue, or squelch his bourgeoning emotion.
If the Garden and Heaven itself were threatened, there could be only one response.
“We need to go to Eden and destroy the threat,” Remy said, gripping the sword all the tighter.
“Do we have a chance?” Jon asked nervously. “Do you think you can take on Malachi and the Shaitan?”
Remy did not answer his question, letting the silence of the moment say all that was necessary.
Izabelle Swan pulled her bare feet up underneath her and took a long swig from her third beer of the hour, and continued the conversation with her parents.
“How was I to know he was your friend?” Izzy said to her father as she held the photo of the nightclub in one hand, the bottle of beer in the other. “Alls you said was to watch out for an angel that wanted to do Mama harm, and that’s exactly what I was doin’.”
She took another drink from the bottle, feeling emotions swirl around inside her that she hadn’t felt in many, many years.
Izzy barely knew her parents, having been just a little girl when they left, but there was still some sort of connection. She felt them out there in the world somewhere, and wondered if there would ever be a day when . . .
Her anger flared, and she set her beer firmly down on the floor beside her, grabbing the wrinkled paper bag and shoving the photograph back inside.
Those were foolish thoughts. She used to have them when she was a little girl growing up alone. They hadn’t seemed quite so foolish then. Izzy had always hoped that they would come back for her, that they’d all be together someday.
Protecting one another against anything, and everything, that might try to harm them.
But a lot of years had gone by, and that hope had become pretty silly, and she had to wonder how she could even think about it with a straight face.
Must’ve been the beer, she thought, wrinkling the top of the paper bag closed and preparing to hide the photos away again.
She got up from her chair, heading toward her bedroom, when she felt it.
It was like somebody had taken a dull screwdriver to her soul, plunging it in and giving it a good twist. Izzy gasped, the paper bag of photos falling to the wood floor beneath her feet.
She stood perfectly still, waiting for the intense pain to pass, when her mind became filled with visions of green.
Visions of the Garden.
She’d been having dreams lately about this place, but never as vivid as this. Not only could she see it inside her head, but she could smell the heavy dampness, the rich soil.
But also the smell of rot.
And she could feel something growing . . . stirring. Something that didn’t belong. The perverse sensations stirred her elemental power, and the magick churned inside her.
Outside the wind picked up, and she could hear the rumble of a forming storm.