He was dressed in filthy, bloodstained robes, and as he opened his eyes, his gaze fell upon the monster. A smile formed upon his bearded face at the sight.
“Taranushi,” he whispered.
“Yes, my master.”
Suddenly there was a blinding flash, and when her eyes cleared Eliza was shocked to see the robed man standing directly before her, that strange smile still on his face.
“Hello, Eliza,” he said, his voice as smooth as velvet.
All of a sudden she remembered this man. He had come to Pearly’s aid when that thing pretending to be an angel had attacked the club.
“I . . . I know you,” she said from where she lay upon the floor.
And for a moment, she almost believed that things were going to be all right. But the bearded man reached down and yanked her up from the floor by the front of her apron.
“So sorry, but the time for pleasantries is at an end.”
She struggled in his grasp, as he pulled something that glowed as if it were red-hot from within his disgusting robes.
“You have something I need,” he said, his velvety voice now more of a growl, and jabbed that burning something into the middle of her forehead.
To think she had almost believed that things were going to be all right.
Her mama and daddy always said she was a damn fool.
Remy knew this place.
He was standing naked atop one of the many spires surging up from the Kingdom of Heaven, staring out over the resplendent City of Light.
He had buried the memory of how beautiful it was—before the war—but the Seraphim had found it.
Saved it.
Cherished it.
This was where he wished to return.
This was what he had been denied.
Something passed overhead, momentarily covering Remy in a blanket of cold shadow. He turned his gaze skyward, at the awesome form gliding above him on wings of gold.
“I think we need to talk,” he called out, and the figure banked to the right, then dropped from the sky, hurtling straight for Remy.
Remy dropped to the base of the spire, dangerously close to the edge. Carefully he pulled himself away, eyes locked on the towers below, wondering about his fate should he fall from such a great height in this strange, dreamlike state.
From behind him, the Seraphim laughed, a joyless sound, bitter and angry.
Remy rose to his feet and turned to address his angelic nature. “All right, you’re pissed; I get it,” he said.
The Seraphim studied him with cold, emotionless eyes. The angel was wearing his armor of war, shined to a glistening brilliance, looking as though it were forged from the sun itself.
Remy remembered that armor, before its radiance was dulled by the blood of his brothers.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the Seraphim growled menacingly.
“You’re probably right,” Remy replied. “So you can probably guess how bad the situation is.”
The angel tilted his head to one side, a smile cutting across his perfect features.
“You fear the Shaitan,” he stated.
“We should all fear the Shaitan,” Remy retorted. “Born from the darkness that was everything before His light chased it away. They were too monstrous . . . too dangerous to even be considered.”
“There is only one,” the Seraphim spoke.
“For now.”
“Kill it,” the Seraphim said with a smile.
“You know that isn’t possible,” Remy said, making the angel smile all the wider. His teeth were incredibly white, and appeared sharp.
Did I really look like that once? he wondered, transfixed by the sight of his angelic persona, absent of any humanity.
“Weak and pathetic,” the Seraphim stated.
“Yeah,” Remy agreed. “You’re probably right . . . but I’m not sure how even you’d do against the Shaitan.”
“Why are you here?” he asked.
Remy considered his answer a moment, then decided to be as honest as he could. “I’m afraid.”
The Seraphim laughed. “Of course you are.”
“I’m afraid of what Malachi has up his sleeve. I’m afraid that once the Shaitan are born, we won’t be able to put them back in the bottle . . . and everybody . . . everybody . . . will be forced to pay the price.”
“What makes this threat so different from all the others?” the Seraphim asked with genuine curiosity. His wings slowly unfurled, stretched out, and then folded back. “Why don’t you just force me . . . bend me to your will as you always have. Give me a taste of freedom, and then lock me away, deep in the darkness until you need me again.”
“This is different,” Remy said. “We have to be together on this . . . need to be. . . .”
Remy hated to have to admit this, especially to his angelic nature, but it was true. Humanity would not be an asset in dealing with the Shaitan. He remembered what it had done to Zophiel, and it frightened him more than anything.
“We have to be more like we once were.”
The Seraphim’s eyes widened. “How we once were?”
Remy nodded. “It has to be if we are to survive this.”
“And what of your precious humanity?”
“It’ll still be here, but . . .”
“Pushed down in the darkness,” the Seraphim growled, enjoying the words.
“Until—”
“Do you even remember what you were?” the Seraphim interrupted.
He moved fast, dropping directly in front of Remy with a single thrust of his powerful wings. The Seraphim stood before him, studying him, but Remy did not flinch. The angel tore the metal gauntlet from one hand, exposing pale, alabaster flesh and long, delicate fingers.
“I remember,” Remy said, not quite sure what the Seraphim was about to do.
“Do you?” the Seraphim hissed, as he placed his cold fingertips upon Remy’s brow.
And then Remy did remember. But this time, he saw the reality of it all, the true memory no longer dulled by the passage of millennia, no longer softened by the fabrication of his humanity.
He saw.
He saw that he was an instrument of God, an extension of the Creator’s love and rage. He was an extension of the Almighty, as were his brethren. And all was right in the mechanism of the universe . . . until the birth of humanity.
When they were placed within the Garden, things went horribly awry.
The war came not long after that, and his full potential became tapped. No longer was he just a messenger of God; he was transformed by battle into a thing of violence, a thing that channeled the wrath of the Almighty.
And he reveled in it, smiting all who would raise their weapons against his—their—Creator.
How dare they do this? How dare they question His most holy word?
Those he had known as brothers fell beneath his hungry sword, and as each died, a little bit of him died with them.
Stained with the blood of his family, he found that he could no longer be there—no longer bathe in the light of his Lord God.
For the light had dimmed.
Bitter and confused, he left Heaven, hoping to make sense of it—to find some meaning—upon the world that God had fashioned for His favorite, yet disobedient, creations.
It was there that he lost himself, where the separation of what he was and what he would become began.
Yet he still carried all that anger, buried away, festering.
Seething.
Infected and pustulated, covered with a thin bandage of humanity.
He saw.
The Seraphim stepped back, studying him as he pulled the gauntlet back onto his hand.
Remy was shaken; the powerfully raw emotion of what his angelic nature had experienced—was still experiencing—was stunning.
“What do you want me to say?” he gasped, as the Seraphim walked away. “That I can give you answers to your questions? That I can somehow make it like it used to be? I can’t do that . . . it will never be the same.”