Gregson called out to warn Terrance, well in the lead, but he was too late. Terrance had stopped before the robed figure. Gregson could just about make out the scientist’s excited voice as he spoke to them.
The pale-skinned man—if he was a man at all—seemed to lose his shape, dropping the two figures that he carried and lunging at Terrance Long.
What happened next was indescribable.
The monster—there was no doubt in Gregson’s mind as to what he was now—pounced upon the scientist and, in a display of preternatural strength, began to rip the man to pieces, eating the body parts as if starving, as the leader of their expedition’s blood stained the snow.
Hiratsu screamed and started to run, but the white-fleshed monster simply reached out with an arm that grew incredibly long to coil around the Asian-American’s ankle and draw him toward the beast.
Gregson couldn’t move, watching as Hiratsu struggled to halt his progress, digging his fingers first into the grass, and then into the ice, but to no effect.
Finished with Long, the white-skinned thing pounced upon Hiratsu, its protean form flowing over the man as his screams intensified.
Gregson finally looked away as Hiratsu’s pathetic cries died away, to be replaced by the sounds of something hungrily eating.
He did not hear the approach of the robed man, but found him standing before him.
Gregson knew, could feel, that he was in the presence of someone—something—unearthly. He was going to speak, but could think of nothing to say.
The robed figure turned his attention toward the gate and the lush, steamy jungle behind it. “Your kind had its chance,” he said, his voice low and melodious. “But you tossed it all away.”
He looked back at Gregson, his eyes cold and mesmerizing in their intensity. “I could never understand His fascination,” he said. “I could have given Him something so much more . . . worthy.”
Gregson had no idea what the robed man was talking about, but continued to listen.
“And now it’s come to this.”
He stepped forward and leaned close to Gregson’s face. “Do you have even the slightest idea what I’m talking about, monkey?” he asked.
“No,” Gregson croaked, and began to cry.
The man’s intensity softened, and he put his arms around Gregson’s shoulders, drawing him into an embrace.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “It’s not your fault; it’s as if He wanted you to fail. Engineered it to be so.”
Gregson was sobbing now, his face buried in the collar of the filthy fabric of the man’s robes. It smelled strongly of blood, and of the air just before a storm.
“But I believe I can do better,” the robed figure said, suddenly pushing Gregson away. “I must do better if reality is to survive the coming cataclysm.”
Gregson’s brain was on fire, trying desperately to hold on to what little sanity he had left. “Who . . . who are you?” he managed to ask.
The robed man seemed genuinely pleased by the question, and his posture straightened as he spoke.
“I am Lord God,” he pronounced.
But that just made Gregson Paul laugh as the final strands of his hold on reality snapped, and he began a free fall into madness. First the Garden of Eden, now God.
Gregson didn’t think he’d ever heard anything funnier, but the robed man—God—didn’t appear to be the least bit amused.
Gregson tried to control himself, but the laughter of madness would not be contained. Stumbling back in a fit of giggling, he bumped against something, turning around to look up into the horrible, blood-covered face of the monster that had consumed his friends.
And Gregson kept laughing.
Even as the thing of nightmare reached for him, pulled him up into its many arms.
And into its mouth.
Malachi brought a hand close to the gate, feeling the energy radiating from the black metal, an energy that could destroy even him.
The gate had been closed by an edict from God. It could be opened again by neither the divine nor man.
Not unless one possessed the key.
The Lord God had given them the ability to see the error of their disobedient acts, and to someday return to the Garden from which they were banished. But there had to be penance; they would have to be truly sorry.
Then, and only then, would they be allowed to pass through these sealed gates.
The elder turned to look at the two pieces of the divine key that he had endured so much to obtain. The old woman had draped her body across the naked form of Adam, protecting him from the elements, her own fragile body shivering in the cold.
Again he questioned the Creator’s fascination with imperfection, wondering if he would understand once he himself assumed the role of Lord of Lords.
His eyes shifted as he watched his own creation finish its meal, blood glistening upon its face and muscular body. It saw that its master was watching, and came to attention, eager to please.
“Bring them to the gate,” Malachi commanded.
And the Shaitan obeyed.
Just as it should have.
Eliza tried to protect Adam from the harshness of the elements. It was in her blood, and at first she did not understand.
But now, in this cold, frozen place, with the warmth of the Garden before her—calling to her—Eliza Swan understood.
They had always said she was special, that there was something inside her that made her different from all the other Daughters. This was the reason they were so upset when she left them.
And yet, she had never realized how special she really was.
So special, in fact, that there would be folks in Heaven who would try to kill her.
The monster was before them again, pulling them up from the snow with its snaky arms, and hauling them closer.
Closer to the Garden.
She remembered now that she used to have dreams as a child: vivid dreams of this very place. And she used to tell her grandma, and her mother, and all the other Daughters, and they would look at her in that knowing way and smile.
The monster tossed them roughly onto the warm, green grass before the heavy metal gate.
“Keep treatin’ us like that and you’ll kill us,” Eliza said, her body aching in so many places she was surprised she could still move.
“Not yet,” Malachi said, staring hard through the thick metal bars at the Garden beyond.
Eliza felt the pull of the place, like a piece of metal being drawn to a magnet. She couldn’t fight it if she wanted to. Adam lay silently beside her, but now his eyes were open.
Malachi was watching her, his monster—all covered in blood—standing obediently beside him. She was reminded of the big man Leo, and his dog, Cleo, at the Pelican Club, only she had liked them.
“Do it,” Malachi said, eyes still locked on the lush green beyond the gate.
Eliza lay on the ground, pretending she hadn’t heard him, picking blades of grass from Adam’s pale, naked flesh.
“Did you hear me, monkey?” Malachi asked, his voice deceptively calm and pretty.
“I heard you,” she replied. “But I haven’t a clue as to what you’re going on about.” Even though deep in her heart, she did.
He looked at her then, his cold, icy stare so intense she could practically feel his eyes inside her. “You lie.”
“Guess you know me best,” she said, realizing that she was staring at the metal obstructions that barred their entry. Something stirred inside her, fighting to get out. It was the Garden pulling her, calling to her from the other side.
“Far better than you know yourself,” Malachi purred. He knelt down beside her, that horrible knife of fire appearing in his hand.
She gasped, remembering the feeling as he’d used it on her, cutting loose the pieces of her forgotten life. Cutting loose the location of Eden.
Malachi brought the blade down toward Adam. “He has so little life left. I would hate to see it wasted . . . out here . . . so close to home.”